THIRTY-SEVEN
Katie
Days creep by. The week is punctuated only by the arrival of my belongings on Friday afternoon. Everything I left in New York, packed neatly into my bag, brought by messenger to my door. No note. No Rogan. No hope. Just a suitcase full of stuff that I couldn’t care less about.
I’ve never hated Friday more.
Slowly, the days turn into a week. One week into two. Two into three. And then a month has elapsed. I’m firmly back in my shell, hiding from everyone except Mona. It seems everyone is hiding from me as well. I’ve become a bit of a pariah, from what I can tell.
Two days after returning to Enchantment, the disastrous post-fight interview aired on Sports Central. I didn’t immediately know, of course, since I have ovaries and therefore do not live and breathe sports. It didn’t take too long for me to figure it out, though. The men who saw it asked the women they knew about it. Then the women talked among themselves over lunches and drinks and workplace water coolers. Eventually, word got out and the video made its way around the studio.
I wasn’t surprised by the strange looks that followed the circulation of the video. I’m the resident freak show, after all. I’d been living right here under their beautiful, flawless noses all this time, unbeknownst to them. But even so, that doesn’t mean I’m not hurt by them. Hurt and humiliated.
The Ew, what happened to her? and Gross! What’s wrong with her skin? looks were both hurtful and humiliating, but not nearly as much as the ones that showed pity. Those are the ones I have little tolerance for. They’re the ones that hurt the most. They say I’m the pathetic girl who fell for a guy way outside her league. They say I was a fool to ever think he could really be interested in me. A freak. A scarred, backward, freak who used to be somebody but then basically died in a fire. Only a few human parts remain and they fled the moment I left Rogan at the airport.
Rogan.
Even now, after a month, it hurts. I thought it would get easier, but it hasn’t. It seems that the gaping hole in my chest is ever-widening. I’ve had these recurring nightmares where I’m sucked into oblivion by the vacuum that exists within me. Only sometimes, it’s a dream rather than a nightmare. In a way, I’d welcome an end to this misery.
Victoria has kept her distance. She didn’t come out of that video looking like a very nice person. She did the smart thing and just hung her head like she was ashamed. Now she’s laying low until it blows over. As for me, I hope I never have to see her again. Despite the fact that this is a small studio and an even smaller town, I’ve gotten really good at avoiding. Life, people, the outside world, I avoid it all. I go to work, I come home. Sometimes I go to the store. Sometimes I take Dozer to the park. Other than that, I eat (sometimes), I sleep (sometimes) and I work. That’s it. Even Mona has become accustomed to eating in my “office” with me rather than venturing out to the diner.
All in all, it seems that Kathryn Rydale has died yet again. That’s twice now, twice that I’ve suffered the death of who I am in some way or another. Kat died in a fire, and only a tiny part of her was resurrected in Katie. And most of Katie died in New York after a mixed martial arts charity fight. She still lives in the same house and works at the same job, but all the pieces of her that were living are mostly dead now. I can’t even seem to find happiness in the few trivial things that I’d managed to enjoy as Katie. There’s just nothing left for me. Just . . . nothing.
I foresee me living out my life as a walking, talking corpse. A zombie. Someone who used to have a heartbeat, but is now just going through the motions.
• • •
The phone is ringing when I unlock my door. My landline rings so seldom that I forget that I even have one most of the time. I give Dozer a quick scratch and head for the kitchen to grab it before it stops ringing. I can’t even imagine who might be calling me on it. Probably a telemarketer.
“Hello?”
The pause is so long that I’m getting ready to hang up when I hear the baritone voice that I’ll likely never forget.
“Hello, Kat.”
Chills break out on both arms and my skin feels both cool and hot at the same time.
“What do you want, Senator Sims?”
“You used to be such a pleasant girl,” he remarks.
“You’ll have to excuse me if I can’t find any pleasure in hearing your voice.”
He ignores that.
“I’ve got a proposition for you.”
“I’m not interested.”
“You don’t even know what I’m going to say.”
“It doesn’t matter. I don’t care what you have to say. The answer is no.”
“Even if it could save your friend?”
There’s a hitch in my pulse. It feels like my heart almost stops for a second. “My friend?”
“Yes. Kiefer Rogan. He is your friend, isn’t he?”
Air freezes in my chest like wedges of thin ice. “And what does he need saving from?”
“Not what. Whom.”
I’m quickly becoming irritated with his vagueness. “Why don’t you just tell me what it is that you want, Mr. Sims,” I say, emphasizing a title he will feel is disrespectful.
If it needles him, however, he hides it well. When he resumes speaking, it’s as though he’s embroiled in polite conversation with an old friend. “Kiefer Rogan is a man of secrets, secrets I’d be willing to bet he’s never shared with you.”
If he’s hoping to hurt me, it’s working.
“Everyone’s entitled to their secrets.”
“In any case, they’re not really entirely his secrets to share.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Did Rogan ever tell you how his father died?”
A lump of dread forms in the back of my throat, making me feel for a few seconds like I can’t breathe. I focus on drawing air in and out of my lungs slowly. Steadily. “No, but I think you already know that.”
“I do, but there’s no reason I can’t enjoy this.” His tone is smug and it sets my teeth on edge. But he’s got my attention, so I hold my tongue until he continues. “There was an unfortunate accident involving his younger brother. He had enlisted in the Army just before graduation. His father found out and tried to cripple him with a crowbar. Kurt hit him in the head with a baseball bat. Killed him instantly. Kiefer wasn’t willing to trust his brother’s future to the fickle legal system in this country, but he trusted his coach enough to tell him what had happened, to ask his advice. His coach came to me. He knew I could help, that I could make things . . . go away.”
My stomach feels like a ball of lead is sitting in the bottom of it. I know just how adept he is at making things go away. At letting criminals go free. “Why should I believe you? Why should I believe any of this?”
“Because that’s why Kiefer will do as I ask, no matter what. When I wanted him on a Special Forces team that my senate committee oversaw, he enlisted in the Army. When his brother was injured and discharged, Kiefer came home and went back into the ring to fight for me. He’s smart enough to know that I hold the keys to his brother’s past. And his future.”
This is too much information, too fast. “Wait, what? Rogan was in the Special Forces?” He’d mentioned the Army, but not Special Forces.
“He didn’t tell you that either?” He’s smiling. I can hear it. He’s enjoying torturing the girl who dared dump his son. He probably blames me for Calvin setting me on fire, like it’s somehow my fault his son is psychotic.
Obviously the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.
“No. He didn’t mention that.”
“Don’t feel too poorly. There’s not a lot he would even be permitted to tell you about, but pillow talk can be quite an effective . . . relaxant. If the partner is good enough.”