Page 106 of Middle Ground
I take a step closer. “Ilsa, are you alright?”
She looks like she has seen a ghost. I thought I understood the expression before, but seeing her now tells me I hadn’t.
She holds a hand out in front of her, as if to ward someone off. “You need to leave,” she says, her voice shaking.
But she isn’t talking tome.
My head swings to the right, finally taking notice of the man standing just inside the shop. He looks to be in his early forties, roughly Ilsa’s age. Nothing about his outward appearance—jeans and a plain black t-shirt, hair going a little grey at the sides—raises any red flags, except for the wired look in his eyes.
Something about him seems familiar, but I can’t quite put my finger on it.
His head cocks to the side. “You don’t recognize me?” he asks. “It’s me, Ilsa. You remember.”
She nods. “I remember, Felix. And that’s why you need to leave.”
To her credit, her voice doesn’t waver this time. But I can see her hands begin to shake. I inch closer to her as I keep an eye on the man.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he replies. He means it, too.
“Hey, man,” I interject, stepping forward, “I think it’s best if you head out. Ilsa asked you to leave.”
He flat-out ignores me, his eyes never straying from their target. “I’m not leaving,” he grinds out.
“You have to. You’re— You’re trespassing.” Despite the small stumble in Ilsa’s words, her voice remains strong. Her eyes flick to me quickly. “Jackson, call the police.”
I have no idea what is going on, but a sinking feeling has begun to grow in my gut. I don’t question Ilsa—I reach for my phone, but that simple action sends Felix into a rage. With a yell, he sweeps an entire table of flower arrangements to the floor. Glass and soil and broken blooms litter the concrete at his feet.
“No.” His voice has sharpened. “Don’t fucking move.”
Then he lifts his other arm, producing a gun. It was concealed at his side before, hidden by his leg and the table he stands behind, but now I’ve made him angry enough to brandish it.
“Felix.” Ilsa’s voice is little more than a whisper now. Tears have gathered in her eyes, but she doesn’t let them fall. “Please. What are you doing?”
His hard glare lands on me. “Taking back what’s mine.”
My brain spins as I try to connect the dots, but I have no idea what he means. I don’t have time to mull it over before he’s gesturing with the gun, telling me to stand beside Ilsa.
I keep my eyes on him, my hands in plain sight, as I move. He watches me, too. When he’s satisfied that I’m corralled, he walks back toward the front door and flicks the lock. Then he shuts off the fluorescent Open sign in the window.
“Who the hell is he?” I whisper.
Ilsa seems to shrink in on herself, looking both scared and ashamed. “My high school boyfriend,” she replies.
Her thumb rubs absentmindedly over a scar on her wrist. My eyes flit to Felix, who is looking through the window to the sidewalk out front. When I’m sure he’s still far enough away to not overhear, I turn back to Ilsa.
“Did he hurt you?”
Her eyes snap to mine. “What?”
“You’re rubbing your wrist while you talk about him.” I grab it gently, eyeing the scar. It’s faded now, but it’s still visible. “Did he hurt you? Is that why you’re so scared?”
“Yes,” she says on an exhale. “I haven’t seen him in so long. His family moved while we were still in school. I thought I was rid of him for good.”
I nod. “You will be. We’re going to get out of this,” I vow. “Everything is going to be okay.”
Somehow. I have to believe this won’t end in tragedy. I have too much to live for. I’m not dying before I get the chance to tell Meyer that I love her.
Tears fill her eyes once more. “I am so sorry, Jackson. This is the last thing I wanted to happen. You don’t deserve to be caught up in this.”
