Beautiful Sacrifice by Jamie McGuire

  "Why are you still here?" I asked, ignoring her point.

  She made a face. "God, Falyn, sorry. I'll wait downstairs."

  I reached out to her as she stood to leave. "No, dummy!"

  I pulled her down, and she sat with a frown.

  "I mean, why haven't you bounced out of this town yet?"

  Her face smoothed. "I like it here," she said, shrugging. "And Gunnar is still in school. His parents will foot the bill as long as he stays home and helps with the ranch."

  "He's still going to apply for the physician's assistant program in Denver?"

  "That's why he's staying close to home, doing his prerequisites for pre-PA at UCCS, and then he can transfer super easily to CU Denver."

  "You mean, he's staying close to you."

  "Just to save money. Then we'll move to Denver. Hopefully, I can find something there that's flexible like this job, so I can work while he is in class."

  "I bet you can. Denver is ... well, Denver. You'll have options."

  Hope widened her eyes. "Where did you go? Not around here."

  I felt my expression involuntarily turn in. "I was premed at Dartmouth. Well, that was the intended direction anyway."

  "You didn't like it?"

  "It was a great year."

  "Just one year? You act like it was a lifetime ago."

  "Just one. And, yes, it feels that way."

  Kirby fingered the edge of the plastic lid on her to-go cup. "How long has it been since you left? Two years?"

  "Four."

  "I've been working with you all year, and you've never talked about it. It has something to do with your parents, doesn't it?"

  I raised an eyebrow. "I'm surprised it's taken you this long to ask."

  "By the time I thought we were close enough for me to broach the subject, I was afraid of what you might say."

  "There's nothing to talk about."

  "Are you just saying that to make me feel better?" she asked. "Because if something happened to you there, you can talk to me. You know I won't tell anyone, not even Gunnar." Her perfect features were even more stunning when she was sad, her bottom lip even fuller when she pouted.

  "Nothing bad happened to me at Dartmouth. I told you, I liked it there, but my tuition came with conditions I couldn't agree to anymore."

  "Oh," she said, a bit relieved. "Your parents."

  "Yes. Them."

  A knock on the door sounded again.

  Kirby yelled, causing me to jump, "Come in!"

  The knob turned, and in walked a mammoth man-child with the sweetest baby face and more muscles than his T-shirt could handle. He flipped his trucker hat backward with a quick motion, and caramel wisps fanned out in every direction from beneath the black mesh, refusing to behave. He rushed to the sofa to sit next to Kirby. "Damn it, baby, I'm sorry. Fucking night class and fucking traffic."

  She leaned over with a stoic expression, letting him kiss her cheek. She batted her long eyelashes.

  She wasn't fooling anyone. He was already forgiven.

  He peered over at me. "I apologize for the language."

  I waved him away, dismissing his apology. "There are no rules here." I looked around my loft with a grin. "That's part of its charm."

  "How was work?" Gunnar asked, his eyes bouncing between Kirby and me. His tongue fell just behind his teeth when he spoke, causing the slightest hint of a lisp that I found undeniably adorable.

  Gunnar was naturally polite and considerate, yet when I joined him and Kirby on nights out, his foreboding glare would keep any unwanted male attention at bay. On many occasions, Kirby had mentioned what being the love interest of a superhero felt like, never feeling afraid or worried because Gunnar had it handled at all times. Although he spent his time in the gym when he wasn't studying or with Kirby, Gunnar didn't have the girth of a serious bodybuilder, but he was tall and just bulky enough to be intimidating. His only fault was that he was too nice, trying to be everything for everyone, often making him late and overwhelmed in the process.

  Exhaling, Kirby stretched her legs over her boyfriend's lap. "It was wonderful. Falyn has a date."

  Gunnar looked to me for confirmation.

  I shrugged. "My parents showed up. They were there when he asked. I kind of had to say yes."

  He shook his head with a smile, already knowing where the story was headed. "Poor guy."

  "He knows," Kirby said.

  "Oh. Then it's his own damn fault," he said.

  I pulled a throw pillow from behind my back and hugged it to my chest. "It's just dinner anyway. It's not like I'll break his heart."

  "That's what I said when Kirby asked me out," he said, chuckling.

  Kirby yanked the pillow from my grasp and chucked it at Gunnar's head. "Stop telling people that! They're going to think it's true!"

  Gunnar was still grinning when he plucked the pillow off the floor and playfully tossed it back at her. "Maybe I want you to believe it. That version at least makes it seem like I haven't been chasing you the whole time."

  Kirby melted.

  With little effort, Gunnar pulled Kirby onto his lap and gave her a quick peck on the mouth. He stood up, lifting her with him, before quickly setting her on her feet.

  "I'm glad you're leaving," I deadpanned. "PDA makes me nauseous."

  Kirby stuck out her tongue, letting Gunnar lead her by the hand to the door. He stopped, and she did, too.

  "Good luck tomorrow," Gunnar said.

  Kirby's features sharpened into a mischievous grin. "The guy is the one who needs the luck."

  "Get out," I said.

  I reached over the arm of the sofa and snatched up the pillow, throwing it at the door. At the same time, Gunnar pulled Kirby through, closing the door behind her. The pillow bounced off the old wood and fell to the tan carpet below.

  My entire body felt heavy as I pushed myself up off the chair and trudged to the bed. The covers were already pulled back from when I'd crawled in earlier. I sat down and slipped my legs underneath, pulling the blanket up to my chin and snuggling with myself and the empty space around me.

  I took a deep breath, breathing in my freedom after five full years of dealing with my grief and guilt on my own terms. I might have let my parents make one too many decisions for me, but against all reason and fears, I had liberated myself. Although my parents would stop by on occasion, they couldn't hurt me anymore.

  My eyelids grew heavy, and I blinked a few times before letting myself nod off to sleep with no nightmares about bright lights, white walls, strangers grabbing at me, or screaming in the distance. Those hadn't happened since a month after I moved into my tiny loft. Now, I would imagine omelets and cheesecake and sun tea along with Chuck's expletives over the stove and Phaedra's insistence on seating patrons. Normal came with the absence of suffocating impossible expectations.

  I took a deep breath and exhaled, but I didn't dream of the Bucksaw.

  I dreamed of Taylor.

  The alarm bleated, yanking me out of unconsciousness, and I reached over to smack the snooze button with my palm. The sheets were wrapped around my legs, and the blanket had fallen to the floor like it did every night.

  I stretched and slowly sat up, squinting at the bright sun pouring in through the bedroom window. The white walls made it even more severe, but I wouldn't dare ask Phaedra to change a thing. She and Chuck had already given me this loft apartment for nearly nothing, so I could save money.

  I dressed in one of the dozen or so V-neck shirts stored in my tiny closet and stepped into my favorite jeans that I'd found at the local ARC Thrift Store. The faded skinnies were the pair I'd purchased just a couple of days after moving into the loft, after my first paycheck from the Bucksaw, and after Phaedra had found out I was sleeping in my car, exactly ten days before my parents had towed and sold it.

  Even though I'd had a bedroom full of designer clothes and shoes at my parents' house, my closet in the loft still had plenty of space. Aside from the things I had stashed in a bag--lik
e toiletries, water, snacks, and the shoebox--before my getaway, all I'd had was my car and the clothes on my back. Five years at the Bucksaw had gained me five more pairs of jeans, three shorts, and a dozen or so shirts. It was easy to do without when you had nowhere to go.

  I pulled back the top section of my hair into a clip, letting my bangs fall, which would catch my eyelashes every time I blinked.

  Always in my damn eyes!

  The time for a haircut at The Falyn Salon was overdue. I glanced down to the drawer that held the scissors and decided against it since it was just before my infamous date with a cute but decidedly unlucky hotshot. There was no way he would be able to compete with my perfect dream version of him, who could make me orgasm with just a side glance, so my mind had already written him off as a disappointment.

  After scrubbing my face and completing the rest of my morning routine, I grabbed my apron and pushed open my door. With a quick flip of the wrist, I locked the door behind me. After just a short jaunt down a narrow hallway and fifteen stairs, I was in the Bucksaw again.

  Chuck was at the prep table, and Phaedra was counting the cash in the register, the morning sun highlighting the silver strands in her hair.

  "It's like I never left," I announced.

  "You say that every morning," Phaedra called back to me.

  "It feels like that every morning."

  "You say that every morning, too," Chuck said. He placed a plate of pancakes drowning in syrup, topped with a small swirl of whipped cream and a sliced strawberry, onto the counter in the window between the kitchen and the main dining area.

  "For the record, I can think of only one other place I'd rather be," I said, taking my plate.

  "You'll get there," Chuck said.

  "So, the kid," Phaedra began, a hint of warning in her tone. "He's awfully cute."

  "Nothing I can't handle." My words were garbled around the forkful of pancake I'd just shoved into my mouth.

  "He's picking you up here?" Chuck asked, crossing his arms over the window counter that sat just below chest level for him.

  The space was big enough to place at least five plates of food when we were busy.

  He looked to his left when Hector pushed through the double doors leading into the kitchen.

  "Morning," Chuck said.

  "Hello, Mr. Chuck," Hector said, sitting on a stool at the end of the bar. He prayed over the omelet he'd brought from the kitchen before shoving a fourth of it into his mouth.

  Ten feet behind where Hector sat was the stairway that led to my loft.

  "Whatcha lookin' at, Falyn?" Phaedra asked.

  "It used to bother me that anyone inside the Bucksaw could walk up those stairs."

  "Until you realized that I have no patience for curious patrons."

  Chuck laughed. "Not even kids. Remember the time you made the Morris boy cry?"

  "Jumpin' jacks, Chuck, he's in middle school now. Are you ever going to let that go?"

  "No," Chuck said. "Because I love the look on your face when I bring it up."

  From his spot in the food window, Chuck faced forward, staring down the long bar lined with stools. It separated the cash register and a couple of drink stations from the main dining area. To Kirby and me, that narrow space felt like home base, a place where we could have a few seconds to gather ourselves before heading back out into the trenches.

  I sat on one of the barstools, happily chewing my bite of pancake drenched in syrup.

  "You dodged my question, Falyn," Chuck said.

  I wasn't particularly in a rush to swallow the sweet goodness of the spongy pancake to answer Chuck, but I didn't want to be rude. "I'm not sure if he's picking me up here. I haven't heard from him."

  "He'll come by I bet," Phaedra said, closing the cash register drawer. She crossed her arms. "Now, if he is anything but a gentleman--"

  "I know," I said. "I'll punch him in the throat."

  "Good girl," Phaedra said, punching the air. "They hate that."

  "She's right," Chuck called from the kitchen. "We do!"

  I laughed once, knowing Chuck would rather cut off his stirring hand than do anything to a woman to earn a throat-punch.

  Chuck disappeared from the window and then pushed open the swinging doors. He wiped his hands on his pristine apron, leaving orangish-brown streaks behind.

  "Uh-oh," I said mid-bite, noticing Chuck's expression. "You're not going to give me the talk, are you? Please don't."

  "What about this boy? I'm concerned about your motivations, but I'm even more concerned about his intentions," Chuck said.

  Phaedra beamed at her husband, like forty-six years of love had just been doubled with one question.

  I finished chewing, and then I dabbed my mouth with a napkin. I wadded it up and let it fall to my lap.

  Blaire's soothing but firm voice echoed in my head.

  "Incorrect fork, Falyn."

  "We do not collect our soup that way, Falyn."

  "Stand up straight, Falyn."

  "No man worth having will want you if you're not behaved, Falyn."

  "We do not discuss vulgar topics, such as your opinion, at the dinner table, Falyn."

  When I was compelled to use the manners so forcefully imposed on me, even after my liberation, I would use bad manners just to spite Blaire. Even if she couldn't see it, rebellion would make me feel better.

  Nearly five years after I'd left, it still made my blood boil that those habits wouldn't die--just like my parents' need to control me, to make me fit into their perfect mold of how Colorado's first family should be.

  "Falyn?" Phaedra said, her comforting gravelly voice bringing me back to the Bucksaw and away from my childhood. "Are you all right, kiddo?"

  I blinked. "He's, uh ... it doesn't matter what his intentions are. I just said yes to rile William."

  "Then why follow through with it?" Chuck asked.

  "Because he played along when I lied to my parents," I said with a grin. "He doesn't care anyway. He's just looking for an easy lay."

  Chuck stared at me with a blank expression, and then he slowly backed toward the double doors until he was out of sight.

  Phaedra burst out laughing. "You're going to be the death of that man. He loves you like his own. Let him believe you're a virgin." As soon as the words had left her mouth, she froze, and her eyes widened. "Oh, honey, I'm so sorry."

  "I think he already knows I'm not," I said, making a show of dismissing her apology.

  Noticeably shaken, Phaedra went back to preparing her world-famous sun tea.

  I stood up and walked around the end of the bar. I hugged her from behind, resting my chin in the crook of her neck. "It's okay," I said softly.

  "Damn my big mouth"--she sniffed--"and damn my small brain."

  I turned her around, waiting until her eyes met mine. "Damn your soft heart."

  Her bottom lip quivered, and then she pulled me to her chest for a quick squeeze. Her wrinkled hand patted my back. "We don't have any of our own. You and Kirby are it. Now, get out of here. Get some work done, for Chrissakes," she said, returning to her pitcher of tea.

  I reached back for a napkin and handed it to her. She held it to her face, dabbing her eyes I imagined since her back was still turned to me.

  "I said, get," she said.

  "Yes, ma'am." I rushed around the bar and picked up my plate. I stuffed the remaining pieces of pancake into my mouth while walking toward the kitchen.

  Pete--round, bald, and frowning--stood next to Chuck, helping with anything else prep-related as he did every morning.

  Hector was already at the sink, polishing the silverware. "Good morning, Miss Falyn," he said, taking my plate. He pulled down the sprayer and rinsed off the round white plate made of something between glass and plastic.

  "For the hundredth time, Hector--"

  "Don't say, Miss. I know," he said with a sheepish grin.

  Pete smiled. He was marinating chicken, keeping to himself.

  The three of them, in addi
tion to Phaedra whose creations had made the Bucksaw famous, made up the kitchen staff.

  Chuck was mixing his special sauce with a blank stare, his mind somewhere far away. He wiped his wet cheek with the back of his wrist and continued chopping. He glanced at me then and shook his head. "Damn onions," he said, wiping the other cheek.

  "Uh-huh," I said, dubious.

  Phaedra wasn't the only softy in the family.

  With a wry smile, Pete glanced over at his boss and then continued with his duties.

  I helped Hector roll silverware. Then I refilled the Coke syrup in the soda fountain behind the bar, cleaned the windows, and double-checked that the dining area was sparkling clean.

  Gunnar dropped Kirby off at eight o'clock sharp, and she stood at the front door with her arms crossed, like she did every morning. I wasn't sure why she insisted on coming in so early. We didn't open until nine.

  I opened the door and then locked the door behind her.

  "I'm here!" she announced as she walked across the dining room, another thing she did every morning.

  "I'll alert the media," Phaedra deadpanned.

  Kirby stuck her tongue out at Phaedra and then winked at me as she pushed through the double doors, letting them swing violently behind her.

  "You're gonna break those damn doors one of these days!" Phaedra called.

  "Sorry." Kirby was rushed but sincere, her dark ponytail swishing as she carried the salt and pepper canisters.

  As she began to refill the shakers on each table, they exchanged knowing smiles.

  "I've known that brat since she was a latchkey kid," Phaedra said, shaking her head at Kirby.

  "I can hear you," Kirby called back.

  "Good!" Phaedra snapped. "I'd make myself a grilled chicken panini with pickles and chipotle mayo every day, right about the time Kirby would pass by on her way home from Columbia Elementary."

  Kirby smirked. "And she'd always magically lose her appetite."

  "Just because I knew you'd be ravenous by the time you poked your little crow head into my door," Phaedra said, her tone a mixture of sass and silly. "She would talk nonstop with her mouth full, carrying on about her day, while she annihilated my poor panini, and then she wouldn't even say thanks before wiping her mouth with her sleeve and walking the few blocks to Old Chicago where her mom waited tables."

  Kirby screwed on a saltshaker lid. "That isn't entirely accurate."

  "Okay," Phaedra spit. "She used a napkin. Sometimes."