Harper Apple
My head is pounding. I blink into the long rays of warm summer sun and sit up, grabbing onto the chaise lounge when a wave of dizziness hits. It takes me a second to get my bearings, to take in the red jalapeños dangling from their plants and the towering sunflowers overhead. I wince at the incessant noise of cicada song, sawing into my brain instead of soothing me with its familiarity, and the constant, hot wind that blows steadily from the south. My heart races erratically, and I stumble to my feet, gasping for breath past the ache inside me.
I want to—need to—step off the edge, to make it happen this time.
Last time, the thought felt like a question, something to ponder absently, the consequences being equal either way. This time, it feels like an answer, the only possible solution.
It only takes a moment to cross the roof. I’m almost at the edge when Mr. D grabs my arm and spins me around. He’s not gentle this time. His lips are set in a tight line, and he keeps his grip on my arm and marches me back to the chair. He pushes me down into it, the plush outdoor furniture he bought for me to sit on that probably cost more than the furniture in my house. My head throbs when my ass hits the cushion.
He sits beside my knees and just looks at me, his good eye piercing into me until I have to look away.
“What happened?” I ask.
“You led Royal here,” he says flatly.
My voice comes out as barely more than a breath, almost stolen by the wind. “What?”
He rakes his hand through his blonde hair, which he’s cut since I saw him last, when I left him. “I just… Why here, Harper?”
I close my eyes. My fingers shake, and I have to ball them into fists to steady myself. “I was bringing back your truck,” I whisper.
“And you don’t have a garage.”
His words are uninflected. It’s not a question.
I don’t argue. I remember coming back, parking the truck, closing the garage to put one more wall between me and Royal. But he found me, anyway. And now he found Mr. D, and I’m not safe here, either. There’s nowhere safe.
Even worse, I exposed Mr. D. Will he have to give up his beautiful home? His plants? His life?
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, tears brimming in my eyes.
Words aren’t enough to fix what I’ve done.
“Maybe I should have gotten you help,” he says with a weary sigh. “Instead of thinking you’d heal here if I gave it time.”
“No,” I say, sitting up and pulling my knees up to my chest. “It’s not your fault.”
He turns to me, swallowing and searching my eyes. “Do you need to be under surveillance? I can’t change what I did, but I can take you now, if you need it.”
I shake my head. “I don’t need that.”
He takes my hand between both of his, slowly threading his tattooed fingers through mine. “What do you need, Harper?”
I remember all the times he told me he needed more, that my information wasn’t good enough. Maybe it wasn’t enough because he couldn’t ask for what he really needed. He seemed so cold, so heartless. But he’s not the same in person. He’s just as broken as the rest of us.
I remember how it felt to be needed by Royal, how much I needed that. Maybe that’s all Mr. D ever needed, too, even if he didn’t know it. Maybe that’s all any of us need, at least once in our lives. I don’t know what I need anymore, but I still remember how to give. So I swallow past the ache in my throat and give him the answer he deserves.
“You,” I whisper. “I need you, Mr. D.”
*
Later, I sit at the island where I sat so many days. I fill out the paperwork from school while Mr. D cooks andLocal News with Jackieputs up a map showing the hotspots where the new designer drug has popped up. I look up every now and then, checking the TV or thinking how strange it is that I never took the time to admire Mr. D the way he admires me. I was always an object to him, something to dress and decorate and compliment, something to consume the way he consumes his fancy meals, drink in with his eyes the way he drinks his one glass of fine wine with dinner each night.
And he was the opposite to me, an idea with no substance. I was happy to let him hide behind his mask, to call him the Phantom, to ask no questions. I rarely admired the beautiful, long lines of his trim physique, the impeccable wardrobe, the skill it takes to sear pork chops and roast green beans and frizzle leeks at the same time.
“Where did you learn to cook like that?” I ask.
He glances back at me from where he’s arranging the plates, sprinkling crispy leeks in a neat line over a heap of real mashed potatoes, not the powdered kind from the box. “I’m a recluse,” he says. “With energy to burn and even more time to kill.”