Interim (13 page)

Her own neck along with her cheeks were screaming in pain, too, and she couldn’t stand it any longer. “I figured you wouldn’t tell me, okay?”

“About my tattoo?”

“I thought it’d be weird to ask.”

“And typing it in your phone wasn’t?”

She scowled. “I didn’t want you thinking I was staring at it or something.”

“Were you?”

“Oh my God. You seriously asked me that?”

Jeremy jerked his face, forcing the hair out of his eyes. “Yes. I mean, how should I know what you were doing back there? How long have you been here, anyway?”

“Two seconds,” Regan lied.

He raised his eyebrow.

“Get over yourself,” she said, and he snorted. “And I don’t like the way you just tossed my cupcakes on the counter like they don’t matter. You’re the one who told me to bring them.”

“I’m sorry,” he replied. “And thank you.”

“Furthermore, I’m not a weirdo for typing your tattoo. I’m a curious person, and seeing as how it’s a different language, I’d like to know what it means . . . and thought I’d discover it for myself.”

Jeremy smiled. “Okay. Creepy, but okay.”

“And one more thing,” Regan continued, ignoring him. “You have a lot of nerve making me feel unwelcome when you said I could drop by whenever I wanted.”

“I didn’t actually think you would,” Jeremy admitted.

“Well, that just goes to show that you know absolutely nothing about me,” Regan said.

“And you know everything about me,” Jeremy replied, “including my tat! God, that was
the
last thing, Regan. The last thing you didn’t know.” He threw up his hands. “Well, that’s everything. Congratulations. You’re the winner.”

Regan opened her mouth and then promptly closed it.

They stood shuffling their feet and avoiding each other’s eyes until Regan spoke up.

“I didn’t mean to bother you,” she whispered. “I’ll just go.”

Man, she was good. The faltering voice. The pathetic fade-out. He barely heard the word “go” at the end of her sentence. How vexing—her ability to be strategic and manipulative with her words. Was that a girl thing? Was it innate in them? He didn’t think guys pulled that kind of bullshit, so yeah, it must be a girl thing. And she was really freaking good at it! She forced his unwilling response.

“Don’t go.” He heard himself say it, like he was standing outside of his body, watching a weaker, lust-filled version of himself utter the feeble words. There was nothing for it. She controlled him.

Regan’s face brightened. “Really?”

Jeremy nodded. He walked back to the counter and opened the box: two red velvet cupcakes with a thick dollop of cream cheese icing topping each.

“I didn’t know what you liked,” Regan said, watching his face. “See? I don’t know everything.”

Jeremy smiled and picked up one of the cupcakes. He extended his hand, and Regan walked over to him, taking the treat. She didn’t necessarily want to eat a cupcake in front of him. Cupcake eating was messy and absolutely not sexy, but she relaxed as she watched him take a healthy bite, cream cheese spreading over his lips and dotting the tip of his nose.

“Good,” he mumbled with his mouth full.

Regan tried to match his bite. Icing everywhere, but since it decorated his face, she left hers alone, too.

They ate half of their cupcakes in silence. She clenched her thighs when Jeremy’s tongue darted out to swipe the icing off his lip ring. The silver glistened with his spit, electrifying the secret parts of her body. She racked her brain for a distraction.

“Do you work a lot?”

He nodded.

“Do you like it?”

“Mostly.”

He finished the cupcake and licked his fingers. Icing remained on the tip of his nose.

Regan chuckled.

“What?”

She pointed.

He brought his large, calloused hand to his face, feeling about for what he could only presume was icing. Found it, and he scrubbed his nose with his forefinger. He pointed at her next.

“You have it everywhere,” he said.

“I know,” she replied. “Tell me about your tattoo.”

“No.”

She laughed. “Figured.”

He dumped the cupcake box and walked back to the Camaro.

“It’s, like, my motto, or whatever,” he said softly.

“Then why won’t you tell me?” Regan asked. “Usually people are proud of their mottos.”

“It’s . . . complicated.”

“And I’m a smart person,” Regan replied.

Jeremy tinkered about the engine, unwilling to look at her. Unwilling to elaborate further on a decision he made a year ago that sealed his plan. He knew he’d forever be a coward if he didn’t brand himself with the words. The tattoo forced him into the next and final phase—gave him the courage to fight. There was no going back now. Decision made. The inked words a prayer for deliverance.

“It’s an Old Testament verse,” he said finally. Maybe that would be enough.

“About?”

Okay. Maybe not.

He thought a moment. “Mercy.”

Fucking. Lie. Nothing in the Old Testament was about mercy. Try revenge and justice instead. Lucky for him she had no idea.

“Oh,” was her reply. Like, “Oh, I didn’t understand a thing you just said.”

He was satisfied.

“Will you, at least, tell me what language it’s written in?”

“Latin.”

She thought so. “Why Latin? I mean, isn’t the Old Testament in Hebrew?”

“I prefer Latin.”

“Why?”

He sighed patiently. “I like the way it looks better.”

“Oh.” And there it was again—that I-don’t-understand-you-at-all “Oh.”

“Did you finish your English essay?” she asked, and he jumped.

She stood close beside him, watching his greasy fingers move about the engine, pulling on wires and adjusting bolts. How did he not hear her sidle up to him?

“No,” he replied, and looked down at her.

“I chose the second essay question. The one about defining satire,” she went on.

He noticed she’d finally cleaned her face, but a stray swipe of icing hung back on her cheekbone, and he was tempted to dab it. He glanced at his filthy hands. Perhaps not.

“I’m doing that one, too,” he said, though he hadn’t bothered to read over the question options yet.

“Cool. Maybe we can compare notes,” Regan offered.

“Maybe.”

And that was her cue to leave. Her face went hot with embarrassment at his blatant rejection. He didn’t want to compare notes with her. Shit. He probably didn’t want her in his garage in the first place. What was she thinking coming here? This was his personal space—his place away from school and all the jerks in it. She probably stood as an annoying reminder of all the things he hated.

“I better go,” she said quickly. “I have tons of homework.”

He couldn’t understand her abrupt change in attitude. Weren’t they having a nice conversation? Did he say or do something wrong? That wouldn’t surprise him. She made him nervous, and he couldn’t be sure he didn’t accidentally pass gas in front of her. Oh God, did he fart in front of Regan Walters and not realize it?

“Jeremy?”

He whipped his head to the side, looking at her standing in the garage doorway.

“I said bye, like, ten times,” she said.

“Oh,” he replied. “Sorry. I was just thinking.”

“Um, okaaaay.”

“I was wondering why you want to leave,” he explained. He lifted the front of his shirt to his nose. “Do I smell or something?”

She smiled and shook her head.

“Did I say something wrong?”

She continued shaking her head.

“I’ll take you up on your offer. Comparing our essays? If you have time, anyway. I know it’s due at the end of the week.”

Wow. That was a total misread. She relaxed.

“Okay,” she replied. “How about tomorrow?”

He nodded.

“Here?”

He nodded again.

His heart continued to beat loud and painfully inside his chest long after she’d left. The fantasy of kissing her flashed inside his brain once more, but this time, he wasn’t holding a gun to her head.

***

Fiant sicut paleae ante faciem venti.

Regan typed the English translation into Google:
Let them be like chaff before the wind.
A list of Bible resource websites popped up, and she randomly chose the fourth. She read to herself. It was a verse from the book of Psalm: “Let them be like chaff before the wind, with the angel of the Lord scattering them.” She had no idea what that meant, and there wasn’t an explanation accompanying the verse.

She started at the beginning.

What is chaff in the Bible?
she typed into the search bar. She learned it was the outer casing of grain seeds—useless for human consumption. A waste material.

Well, that makes sense
, she thought. “Them” must refer to Jeremy’s tormentors, and he saw them as chaff. Useless. A waste. Waste of space. Waste of air. She might have agreed if she didn’t believe that every person had at least one redeemable quality.

She reread the verse. Who’s speaking? Who’s upset? Who wants vengeance, and why? She thought these questions would help her better understand Jeremy, so she specified her search:
What is “let them be like chaff before the wind” about?
Not the best search phrase, but it landed her more information.

She learned that the psalms were divided into categories based on praises of thanksgiving, songs of love, and petitions. Some Bible scholars believed the “petition” psalms seeking retribution were written by King David after he fled Jerusalem upon his third son, Absalom’s betrayal. Jeremy’s tattoo was definitely a petition, so she researched David.

Why did King David flee Jerusalem?
Answer: Absalom decided to declare himself king over David. Why? Because he was pissed off. Why? Because his sister was raped, and David did nothing about it. Bitterness. Resentment. The stuff that fuels hatred. And revenge.

“Whoa,” Regan said, sitting back in her chair. “This mess is heavy.”

She superimposed her very basic, limited picture of King David onto Jeremy. The two didn’t match. Jeremy wasn’t the bad guy here. He didn’t wrong his bullies in the past. He did nothing to invite abuse. She believed Absalom had a legitimate reason to rebel against his father, so his father’s cries for vengeance made no sense to her.

She sighed in frustration and tossed David’s story altogether. It didn’t make sense for why Jeremy chose to brand himself with that verse. No, she decided David wasn’t the author of Psalm 35 after all. Just like that—like she’d been studying theology for decades when in actuality she’d never held a Bible in her hands.

Psalm 35
, she typed into Google. She read the entire passage. And then again. And again. They were words of a broken man. A man crying out for mercy. A man pleading to God for help. A man who couldn’t contend against his enemies alone. A man seeking justice from a righteous deity—someone who could do what he could not: annihilate the wicked.

She cried. She thought of the boy who endured years of abuse from kids who had nothing better to do—kids who got away with it every time. She thought of her one attempt at helping him. It seemed pathetic and small now. She should have done more. She couldn’t do it on God’s level, but she could have done something. She thought maybe God used people to help others, and he wanted her to help Jeremy. She didn’t obey, and she was the cause of his continued distress. His years of loneliness. His heartbreak.

And then she understood. It didn’t matter who wrote the psalm. That wasn’t the point. The point was to illustrate brokenness and a prayer for justice—that virtue sought by righteous people. Balance, with the scale tipped slightly in favor of goodness.

She thought of Jeremy in the tattoo parlor, head bent in reverence as the words were etched across his back. His prayer for deliverance: “Let them be like chaff before the wind.”
Punish them. Make them pay. Protect me. Avenge me.
She thought of his words earlier today: “It’s, like, my motto, or whatever.”

The tears froze halfway down her cheeks. She stared at the verse, her brain screaming at her to make the connection that had, thus far, eluded her. And then the chill twisted up her spine like an icy snake. Realization dawned in a flash—something she overlooked from the beginning. His tattoo was a partial verse.
Partial
. The second half suggested someone else would deliver the justice. But that was left out. On purpose. Because Jeremy had no intention of waiting for the angel of the Lord to deliver him.

~

I shot a 9 mm at nine years old. Dad taught me because he wanted me to understand and respect the power of guns at an early age. He took me nearly every weekend. It was a break from our otherwise strained relationship. When we went to the firing range, we were like buddies. Well, almost.

He made me load the bullets. You know how fucking hard it is to load a clip? You have to press down and in with each bullet. The more you load, the stiffer the stack, making each new bullet resistant to sliding in. Imagine doing that at nine years old.

He showed me how to slip the clip into the gun handle—smack it with the heel of my hand to secure it in place. It took several tries to pull back on the slide to load the first bullet. I just wasn’t strong enough. But Dad waited patiently. If I wanted to fire that gun, I had to prep it.

I think it was my tenth try when the slide finally clicked into place, signaling a loaded gun.

“Locked and loaded,” Dad said.

“Locked and loaded,” I echoed, eyes wide at the prospect of actually firing a gun.

He moved me into position in front of the hanging target and showed me how to raise my arms, left hand cradling my right for more stability and control.

“You’re too stiff,” he said. “Relax your elbows. Don’t copy what you see on TV. That shit’s not real. This is.”

I bent my elbows. It felt awkward. That’s not how the TV police did it. Their arms stuck straight out like arrows.

“I can’t prepare you for what you’re about to feel,” Dad said. “If something hits your face, don’t freak out.”

“What?” I cried.

“It won’t be the bullet,” he said patiently. “Unless you turn the gun the wrong way.”

He chuckled. I did, too, even though I thought it was a lousy joke.

“Line it up. See those markers on the top of the gun? That’s your center. Center it. You’re going for the chest. Drop the nose a little. You’re aiming too high.”

I listened and adjusted accordingly until Dad was satisfied.

“You ready?” he asked.

I nodded.

“One shot,” he said. “Only one.”

My sweaty hands gripped the slick, black metal. Forefinger moved a fraction to the trigger. It curled around the hook. Pull back. Resistance. More pressure. Release.

Alarming blast.

Dad was right. He couldn’t prepare me. The force of the kickback scared the shit out of me. My adrenaline kicked into overdrive. The shaking started almost instantly after the bullet shot out. I couldn’t stop it. I placed the gun on the counter and clasped my hands, but I couldn’t control the shaking.

“That’s normal,” Dad said. “It’s your first time. You get used to the power and then stop reacting like that.”

He swiped his thumb over my forehead. I didn’t even take notice of the shell casing smacking my head, apparently leaving black residue in its wake.

“This isn’t like the movies,” I said, teeth chattering. Stop with the shaking already!

Dad laughed.

“I’ve never seen actors get hit with casings. Is that normal?”

Dad nodded. “If you shoot a gun with real bullets in it, yes. You’re gonna get hit in the head with the casings on occasion.” He noted my shivering. “Calm down. Take a deep breath.”

I obeyed.

“You knew before that it wasn’t a toy,” Dad said.

I blinked, confused.

“But now you really understand that.”

Ohhhh, I got it. I nodded solemnly.

“That thing on the table there should only be used for good. You understand?” he asked.

I nodded.

“Don’t let anyone make you feel ashamed for owning and handling guns. You’ll be the one they run to when they’re in danger. Do you understand?”

I understood none of it, but I nodded anyway.

“You fight for that thing sitting on the counter. Always. Because people will always try to take it from you. Do you understand?”

I continued to nod.

Dad smirked. “You wanna try again?”

Now
that
I understood. I nodded enthusiastically and took hold of the gun once more.

~