Vice (H.S)

CHAPTER 21 -SAFETY

It's baaaaaack :)

.

.

.

Growing up, my favorite story was Cinderella. I liked the magic. Sure, I wasn't exactly destitute; I grew up in a mansion that was not so unlike a castle. There was no tragic death of a beloved mother and then subsequent introduction of an evil stepmother flanked on either side by a pair of wicked stepsisters. No, my life was charmed. But, regardless, I dreamed of something more.

I studied my fairytale books as if they were a guide on how to be successful. I sought out magic in the form of wishes on stars and whispered down deep wells. I wanted a prince that could take me away, someone who could love me like no other. I wanted to be swept up in romance and beauty, to runaway hand-in-hand with a dazzling stranger at midnight.

The fairytale died when I was 9 years old. It's fuzzy, the memory of it, nearly 17 years ago now. I remember playing at the edge of our property, a grove of orange trees bordering the neighboring cattle farm, when a car pulled up to the fence. I was young. I was stupid. I was gullible and when the man and woman crooned sweet words, promises of something good, I got in the car with them. My parents had, foolishly, forgone any sort of preparedness talks with me. There was no 'stranger danger'. And, as the child and grandchild of some of the wealthiest men in the country, they should've known better than to let me wander freely.

I was only gone a few hours, maybe a day at the most. I remember very little of the kidnapping. I was treated well, fed, left alone. I woke up in the back of a police car covered in blankets.

When I was back home, safe and in bed, it was as if it were my fault, as if I were in trouble. Mother and father laid it on thick. They enlightened me, regaled the danger, the risk, the evil ways of the dreadful world. Any and all fantasy was killed instantly, on impact. There was no good. There were no fairies or wishes, there was no magic to be found, no happily ever after with a handsome prince. It wasn't real. None of it was real.

I was 16 the first time I looked at Niall as something other than an annoying family friend. He was always cute, albeit sort of dull, and that year he'd just come back from a summer in Europe. He was braggy, sort of obnoxious, like always; certainly no prince. He regaled stories of his travels to the parents and they lived vicariously through his tales of sowing wild oats across the continent. But then, when he settled back into the routine of life in California, he had this air about him, this stature. For the first time, he spoke to me like I was an adult, like I had ideas, something worth saying. I drained him dry of stories about the streets of Rome after sundown and Berlin in the early hours of the morning. He was so... cultured, well-traveled. He seemed mysterious and different and new and exciting. But, underneath it all, I knew he was the same boy I'd grown up with, the same kid who grew up loitering around our house. He was safe. Guaranteed. Certain. No risk, no danger, no harm. There was no way I could get emotionally invested so there was no chance of getting heartbroken and certainly no chance I'd ever fall in love.

The rain comes down harder as I circle the same street again. It's here, somewhere. He's close. He lives somewhere near here. I just have to find him. The panic builds, small waves at first, gentle, but then rising into something resembling a tsunami.

Where are you?

I suppose I figured I'd come here, drive around where I know he lives, and I'd find him, like some sort of homing signal, like the pull of my affection for him would plant me at his front door. But, instead, I'm lost, giving in just as I spot a telephone box on the side of the road.

I'm drenched, top to toe, as I exit the still-running car and step out into the rain. The call box is small but warm and my breaths quickly fog up the interior glass. My hands shake as my fingers work a few coins into the machine, slowly dialing the number I've memorized but never used. The dial tone sounds. And then the call picks up.

"Hello?"

The warmth of his words blows through me like a summer breeze. I clench the phone against my cheek, knuckles white. "Hello?"

"Hi," I answer finally, voice wavering, crackling, the heavy rain overhead in the callbox making it difficult to hear myself speak.

"Who's this?"

"It's me, it's— it's Winnie. I didn't know what to do, I didn't know where to go."

"Where are you?" his voice drops in concern. "Winnie, I can barely hear you. Where are you?" he repeats the question, worry punctuating each word.

"You said... you said you lived in this neighborhood. I thought, I don't know, I thought if I were here then I'd know which house was yours, I'd know how to find you."

"Winnie," he's desperate.

"I'm at the payphone on Plum Street."

He sighs and the sound is low, tight. "Stay there. Wait in the car."

"Harry, I—"

"Stay there," his voice shakes.

I do as he says, hanging up the phone and jogging back through the downpour to wait in the running car. Five minutes pass, then ten, and I begin to worry, that dreadful panicked feeling returning to my body. But then, there. From down the street I can see him, running towards me, through the fervent storm. He's at my car door in an instant, opening it, slipping into the vehicle beside me.

I can't ignore how beautiful he looks, slick hair falling strangely at his forehead, rainwater caught, suspended, in his eyelashes, dripping down his nose and pink cheeks. His eyes are dark, worry, want.

He nudges me aside on the bench seat, taking control of the vehicle from the driver's side. "Come. Let's go home." I watch as he shifts the car into gear. And it was a slip-of-the-tongue, I'm sure of it. But in an instant, I realize he is right. Home. He's taking me home. Because wherever he is, that is home to me.