Page 3 of Phoenix
When I finally return, a good while longer after I had actually completed the task of making a few hot beverages, I find Mr Flynn leaning onto his elbows with a furrowed brow. He appears conflicted, like he’s going to be epically screwed by being caught in the middle of this inconvenient storm in the middle of nowhere. I instantly become suspicious; my past has forced me to suspect everyone.
As I think on it more, I come to the conclusion that this officer of the law doesn’t look like he comes from around my little town on the New England coastline. He’s much too healthy-looking for starters; everyone I know is just as pasty as I am. His inked skin doesn’t quite belong in our safe little neck of the woods either. His tattoos are far too rebellious for anyone from around here. No, he would have been the subject of much gossiping if anyone else had laid eyes on this wall of a man.
When Joe Banks dyed his hair black and got a nose ring, it was the talk of the town and within a month, he had decided it wasn’t worth the hassle and dyed it back to a less ‘intimidating’ chestnut brown. He removed his nose ring but not before it had become infected and filled with copious amounts of pus, just to make everyone feel nauseated when they looked at him. ‘Served him right!’ they all said and patted themselves on the back for saving another misguided youth from destroying his entire life from a bad hair job and backstreet piercing.
Even my family and I were gossiped about for living in the solitary house on the hill, outside the safety of the village’s limits. It had served us right too. Not that anyone would dare bring that up in front of my parents; that would be a little too insensitive. Mr Flynn, however, seems oblivious to the small-minded gossip that frequently rotates our village. I can tell because he doesn’t look at me the way they do; like I’m broken, like I’m already dead.
“You don’t have a TV,” he comments as I place his cup of coffee on the table in front of him. He seems impressed by the fact. Most of the modern world would deem us positively prehistoric for not possessing such a thing in our home.
“I used to have one when I lived here before,” I reply quietly before sitting down in my chair and immediately covering myself up with the homemade knitted throw. He eyes me curiously before picking up the cup to take a sip of his bitter drink. “But when I went away, my parents got rid of it. By the time I returned, no one really felt the need to get another one. TV only brings bad news.”
“So, do you live here with your folks?” He asks this question with an expression that tells me he thinks I’m much too old to be doing such a thing, especially in a little village that’s far away from anything remotely youthful. The average age must be about forty, and being that I’m still in my twenties, my options for work, life, and love are very much limited.
“For now.”
I look away in the hope that he’ll drop the subject. The conversation turns to silence, awkwardly so. However, when I glance back up at him, he’s watching the building storm outside with a nervous look on his face, an expression I strangely feel the need to reassure.
“I’m sorry about the phones; you’re welcome to stay until the weather subsides.”
“That’s really nice of you,” he says with an appreciative smile, “and normally, I would decline and argue against causing such an imposition, however, I’m pretty much fucked at the moment.”
“Y-yes, I suppose so,” I reply with a smile that’s beginning to come a little more easily around him. More silence. “Am I allowed to ask what you’re doing around here, Mr Flynn? You look very…official.”
“I’m just following a line of questioning on a case,” he says and leans back against the couch, appearing more comfortable now that I’ve offered him shelter from the storm. I just hope he is as trustworthy as I’m giving him credit for. “I didn’t mean to stop off here, but the storm was getting bad, and I thought I’d try and find a hotel or something. I guess I left it a little too late.”
“I’m beginning to think my parents did too,” I admit, looking out front as if trying to highlight the fact by showing him the empty driveway. “I can’t remember the last time I was in this house alone at night.”
I don’t know why I even confessed this to him, but I do know I immediately want to take it back. He remains expressionless, but his eyes look straight into mine until I can bear it no longer and avert my gaze. I then loudly clear my throat, another nonverbal attempt to let him know I don’t want to talk about it anymore, and can we please forget the words ever left my mouth?
“So, what did you study at college?” he asks as he finishes off his drink and places it back on the table in front of him. Confused by the question, I look to him for further explanation. “You said you went away? I assumed you meant college.”
“Oh, yes, of course, college,” I rush out, for this explanation is a lot easier to stomach than where I really went. “English Literature.”
“Sure, sure,” he smiles, nodding his head while looking at nothing in particular. “How old are you, Jessie?”
“My mother always said you should never ask a woman how old she is,” I reply with a sigh over having fallen into a line of questioning I’d rather not answer.
“Ok, how old were you when you lost your virginity?”
“Excuse me?” I gasp before looking at his crooked grin and then smiling myself. In fact, I find myself laughing, almost manically at his rather blunt and intrusive change of tact. I haven’t laughed in I don’t know how long. It feels strange, but good. I never thought I’d feel good again; I thought my body and mind were both incapable of feeling such a thing.
“Well, I figured it would make my age question seem less invasive,” he delivers with a wolfish grin, the kind that probably lands him plenty of action between the sheets.
“Eighteen,” I lie.
“When you lost it?” he jokes, and I can’t help smiling over his cheekiness. It’s rare for me to meet anyone who doesn’t know what happened to me, so this casual teasing from someone is new. I take the opportunity to experiment with it for a little while, just this one night before my reality sets back in. In answer to his question, I simply nod; I can be this other person who got to have normal experiences, who saved herself for prom night with her first love.
Warren and I spend the next hour or so getting to know one another, or at least, a pretend version of me. I reason that I have no other form of entertainment to offer unexpected guests who nearly drowned in a raging storm, so it’s the least I can do, right? As a rule, I shy away from talking to other people, particularly people who look like Warren Flynn, a man who could crush someone without breaking a sweat or looking back over his shoulder. To my surprise, however, Warren is friendly and approachable; he makes me laugh at least once every few minutes or so. He lets me drop my guard, which makes him dangerous, very dangerous.
Warren Flynn is thirty years old and works in California, but is investigating a series of murders that stretch far and wide, including a small town only a few miles away from here. His parents, David and Leslie, are retired and currently traveling across Europe, and his big brother is a teacher back in his hometown. He plays guitar, goes to the gym, and enjoys watching musicals of all things. Reading is low on his list of likes, but he can see the appeal if you are crazy enough to not have a television. He often chooses to ‘Rot his brain’ in front of the sixty-inch plasma every evening. The notion of settling down fills him with the type of anxiety that makes him itchy on the inside. His only long-term companion in life is a German Shepherd, called Mabel.
“And the tattoos?” I ask after he has given me virtually his whole CV over a dinner of homemade lasagna and salad. “Was that an act of rebellion or do they actually mean something?”
“Both,” he replies as he begins clearing away our dishes and loading the dishwasher, looking extremely comfortable in my home kitchen, even more so than I do. In fact, Warren appears to be more than comfortable in this strange situation we have been thrown into by raging weather and flawed technology. The fictional version of me acts comfortable, however, behind the mask, the real me is huddling in a corner.
“How many do you have?” I ask as I get up to help him because he is still a guest in my home.
“Fifteen, give or take.” He smirks when I accidentally brush my arm against his and jump back so far, it’s obviously comical. “I don’t have germs,” he mutters before closing up the dishwasher and leaning against the countertop.