Lisa Unger - Darkness My Old Friend

The night he’d met Marla Holt, it had been spring going on summer. It was one of those nights, the air full of pollen, a little warmer than it had a right to be yet. It was humid enough that he broke a sweat in the first quarter mile. The leaves on the trees around him were that bright, vibrant new green that promised a long, lazy summer. That was one of the many things he loved about being a teacher-he could still feel excited about the seasons. Summer loomed with its hot days and swimming pools, trips to the beach, the vow to make good headway on that novel he’d wanted to write. Fall was the excitement of fresh beginnings, crisp textbooks and notebooks, new book bags and school clothes. The first snow brought the anticipation of the holidays, the Christmas play, and the formal dance at school. He loved all those things, and he’d never lost that, that excitement for the markers of the year. Even though the years hadn’t really delivered any of what he’d hoped for or expected. He’d never written that novel. He’d never married or had children. He’d never really done any of the things he’d thought he’d do.

He’d seen her up ahead of him, moving slowly. She wasn’t an easy runner, he could see that. Some people, lean and light, with big lungs and small frames, seemed designed for speed. Others, like himself, like the woman ahead of him, had to work for every mile, felt every footfall. He slowed his own pace, because he didn’t want to run past her. It was so discouraging when people overtook you, glided by with ease. He hated to hurt anyone’s feelings, even someone he didn’t know, doing something that most people would do without a second thought. Then, in the next second, he saw her fold to the ground, issuing a little cry of pain and distress. He picked up his speed and came along beside her.

“Are you okay?”

She looked up at him and then back down at her ankle. “Oh, I’m okay. Just clumsy. I fall all the time.”

He offered his hand, but she shook her head and pushed herself up. She limped a little circle.

“I’m just going to try to walk it off,” she said. But he could see that she was in pain.

“We should get some ice on that,” he said. “Keep the swelling down.”

“Oh, you’re sweet. But I think I’ll be all right.”

He pointed down the street. “I’m right down the road, let me run and get you an ice pack.”

She gave him an embarrassed smile, and he noticed for the first time how beautiful she was. It was more than the sum of her features, her lush body, her creamy skin. It was more than that. She offered him her hand.

“I know. We’re neighbors. I’m Marla Holt. Henry Ivy, right?”

He took her hand in his, and he felt a kind of heat rush through him.

“My son, Michael, came to your door the other day,” she went on. “You bought some candy from him for his baseball team. I waved from the curb.”

“Of course,” he said. He did remember her son, who was striking with black eyes and very tall for his age. “Of course.”

“I wasn’t a sweaty mess then, lying in a heap on the ground.” Her laugh was lovely, somehow managing to be self-deprecating and seductive at the same time. He walked her home that night. And then, without a word of arrangement between them, they started meeting out on the street, doing their miles together. It was nice, comfortable. They became friends. He wished it could have just stayed that way.

Anyhow, it was a long time ago. He thought about her now and then, wondering where she had gone and with whom. He hadn’t imagined her to be the kind of woman to leave her children. But then again he didn’t know much about women, did he?

He walked up the back drive to the school and then returned to his office. There he packed up his paperwork, including Willow Graves’s file. He closed and locked his door and started down the hallway. He felt like he’d been walking down these hallways all his life. He was going to head to the gym and then go home for dinner, like most nights.

He hadn’t dated in a while. That last woman he’d met on Match.com had turned him off the process a bit. Not that there was anything wrong with her, or with any of the women he’d met through dating services over the last few years. But there was a problem with misrepresentation. Henry was always meticulous in his descriptions of himself, his interests, his hobbies, and what he was looking for in a mate. What was the point of lying? What was the point of looking good on the page but not measuring up in person?

On the drive to the gym, he thought about Jolie Marsh, Cole Carr, and Willow Graves. As a teacher, someone used to separating kids in class and in the cafeteria to minimize horseplay and conflict, he knew a bad combination of personalities when he saw one. It was a chemistry thing. Some people were good together, some were bad together. Jolie was a girl in pain, someone who acted out from that place, caused trouble, got herself in trouble. Willow was a pleaser, the perfect sidekick. And Cole Carr? Henry wasn’t sure yet. Cole was quiet, not a bad student. He hung out with some bad elements, like Jeb Marsh, Jolie’s older brother. Jeb was one of the kids Henry had lost, a dropout working now at the gas station-dealing weed, LSD, and Ecstasy if the rumors were true.

But Cole Carr hadn’t been in any trouble at Hollows High. All his teachers said he was smart, did his work. More than one had commented that Cole might be exceptional if he applied himself. But he didn’t seem inclined to do that, skated by on the minimum he could get away with. If Henry had to guess, there were problems at home. The boy had that look to him-that lost, sad look Henry had seen before.

He wondered if he’d made a mistake being lenient with Willow, if Bethany Graves had unduly influenced him. He was a little starstruck. It wasn’t often you met a bestselling author. But it was more than that. She was lovely, everything about her-the sound of her voice, the way she smelled. She was a good mother, gentle with Willow but not weak, not overindulgent. Anyhow, she was way out of his league. Wasn’t she? He didn’t even like to get his hopes up anymore. When it came to women, he’d learned that the old adage was true: Nice guys finish last.

At the gym he clocked three miles in less than twenty-five minutes, then moved on to weights. The other guys there were all in their twenties, buff and fleshy in the way of youth. Henry knew he was in good shape, that he didn’t have anything to be embarrassed about when he took his shirt off. But he still felt like the skinny nerd he was in grade school, the bully magnet. He wondered, did anyone ever stop hearing those taunts? If someone had told him that he’d still feel the sting of those insults in his forties, he wouldn’t have believed it. Maybe if he’d left The Hollows. Maybe if he’d left Hollows High, had a different life, the past wouldn’t be so present all the time. Maybe.

On the way home, he called Maggie Cooper-his childhood friend and, although she didn’t know it, the love of his life.

“I had some issues with Willow Graves today,” he told her. Bethany Graves had asked him to call Dr. Cooper and bring her up to speed before Willow’s session tomorrow.

“Oh?” said Maggie. “She’s been doing well with me. I’ve felt like we’re making progress.”

Henry filled her in on the events of the last couple of days-the incident with Mr. Vance, the cutting, the unauthorized trip into the woods.

“We’ll talk it out tomorrow,” she said.

“Anyway, it looks like Jones is back on the horse,” said Henry. “So to speak.”

“Meaning?”

Henry paused a second. She must know. Had he misspoken?

“Oh, you mean the cold-case investigation,” she said then. “Marla Holt. He’s excited about it. I think it will be good for him.”