Page 47 of Call Out
Stepping into his jeans, he glances over his shoulder at me with dejection altering his handsome features. That lost boy look takes my breath away and replaces it with winded worry. “I have to tell you so we can move forward, either together or separately. I hope you’ll understand because I care about you so much.” He buttons up his shirt and grabs his jacket from the dresser. “I’ll let myself in later. Don’t wait up.”
And with that display of guilt, fear or reservation, he smiles. “Take it easy today.” He marches out of the room and gallops down the stairs. The door clicks. My heart crashes against my ribs.
When I jotted down the final question on my list, I was thinking about weird secrets, like when he’s cooking alone does he pretend to be a chef in a cooking show and talks to the audience, or does he eat Fruit Loops in the order of the rainbow. Yet instinct tells me he’s about to reveal a secret that could blow up my world.
I’ve finished a gallon of icy water, and now it needs to leave my body. Padding to the bathroom, I plonk down on the toilet and hold my head in my hands. Do I really want to know if it’s going to pull us apart? Maybe some things are better left in the past. Then again, it’s important to understand the events that have shaped the man I love.
While I mull it all over, the front door closes softly. I’d know that familiar clunk click anywhere. “Danny?” I shout, swaddling toilet paper in my hand.
There are no manly stomps or reticent responses. In a rush, I finish up and dip my hands under the running faucet.
A creepy stillness crawls down my spine. I definitely heard someone come in, which means they’re still here. I’m not alone and have no idea where I left my cell phone in last night's inebriated condition.
I drop to my hands and knees, then crawl out of the bathroom. Peering down the stairs, I strain to hear. The more I concentrate, the louder the silence becomes.
Perhaps Danny didn’t shut the door properly, and it finally connected. That must be it. Thieves search and pillage. They make a certain level of noise.
Nothing.
Reminder to self: do not watch scary movies.Ever. They mess with your head. Everyone becomes untrustworthy and everything turns sinister.
After lingering for a good five minutes in an unthreatening hush, I bump down each step on my ass. I’ve no idea why, but I imagine it camouflages my stealth descent. As suspected, the living room is just as it always is. Until my gaze settles on Nonna’s navy armchair by the window. The same book, Little Red Riding Hood, rests on the folded blanket.
My heartbeat flat lines. I creep over to the sideboard and press my shoulder into the wall. Whoever entered the house hasn’t left. Every breath makes a noise. I suck in, trapping air into my lungs. If I don’t exhale, I’ll faint. Cautiously, I blow out and watch black blobs trace my vision. Adrenaline charges through me.
In one swoop, I grab hold of Nonna’s crystal paperweight, preparing myself for combat. With quick steps, I dart into the hallway and tiptoe towards the kitchen. On this occasion, my brain thinks it’s prudent to opt for scare tactics. Terrify the enemy. Seek the upper hand. Make garbled noises like a bloodthirsty Viking wielding an axe—or a lump of crystal the size of a plum.
The high-pitched squeal breaking out of my throat panics me even more. So when I burst into the room to find it empty, with the back door ajar, I continue to make the horrifying sound until my lungs run out of air.
I’m shaking, brandishing a nugget of glass and panting like GG after playtime in the park. Dashing towards the door, I kick it shut and turn the latch.
I know I should go back into the living room and study the book. I really should, however my heart is slamming, and my feet are numb. Someone was in my house. A stranger. And, to add more fear to the towering stack of fright, they’ve been here before.
What would I say if I called the police? The intruder waltzed in through the front entrance, repositioned a novel and vanished out the back.
With the paperweight still clasped in my clammy palm, I return to the living room. Little Red Riding Hood is right where my visitor left it.
This time a bookmark pokes free of the pages. At first glance it looks like a postcard. On closer inspection, it’s a photograph of a younger Danny and a stunning blonde woman.
His past collides with my present. The anonymous girl gazes up at Danny’s serious, stony expression. The intruder has underlined another passage in the book with the same inky score.
‘As you’re pretty, so be wise; for wolves may lurk in every guise.’
I shudder, unsure what all of this means. Seconds tick by. My eyes glaze over as I stare at the snapshot.
‘I grew up in Richmond and went to college on a football scholarship with my best friend from kindergarten, Jeff.’
Did Danny tell me that, or did I dream it? I’m confused and regretfully hungover. Whoever this person is, they’re trying to warn me—about Danny and what he’s capable of.
A sticky sludge of worry seeps over the fantasy of a good man. Perhaps my intuition dial is well and truly broken. Nonna must have known it. She guessed I would be incapable of making well rounded judgment calls. Which is why she was adamant that I knew her lists by heart.
How egotistical of me to think the wise old woman was wrong, and I knew better. Panic flurries through my veins. I’m breathless, imagining the dark secrets Danny could be hiding. Perhaps the smiley woman is his wife, girlfriend or sex slave. Men have those fanciful ideas of non-committed sexual alliances. He damn well said it himself when we first hooked up. How ironic, the guy basically outed himself, and I didn’t pay attention.
What if he has a child? I guess I could deal with that scenario, it’s more of a blessing than a burden.
My hands tremble with rampant speculation. The image of Danny Rocco quivers. Unhealthy purplish crescents hang below dull eyes. An unusual complexity of color is faded and opaque. They don’t sparkle or glow like eyes I’m used to. His lips hold an impenetrable pout. No hint of happiness, and if I'm not mistaken, the depth of his stare holds only bane.
Rather than hating the unknown, I find myself worrying for his struggle. I’m in too deep. What woman ignores the warning signs?
