Heartbreaker Read Free Page A

does.
    *   *   *
    When she wakes up he is gone. She rinses her underwear and shirts in the kitchen sink and when he comes home he sees her clothes slung over the shower rod, dripping on the floor, and he stops and says Didn’t I tell you I fixed the washer?
    *   *   *
    That evening he says he wants to go for a walk. Outside, it’s still light. It’s too cold, she says, stopping at the bottom of the porch, but he doesn’t turn around.
    You should have put on a sweater.
    She throws her hands up. This is exactly what I’m talking about. You always want to do something that doesn’t make any sense . She considers turning back, but instead kicks at a rock and keeps going.
    *   *   *
    They walk about a mile and then there is a loud cracking noise, like a gunshot.
    What’s that?
    Just a branch, he says. We can go back now if you want.
    No, she says.
    We can.
    No, she says again. Chase me.
    He looks at her.
    Come on, she urges.
    Okay, he says. Run.
    She takes off into the trees.
    *   *   *
    As soon as she knows she is out of sight she stops, leaning against a tree, the air on her lips brittle as she catches her breath. The sky is hooded with leaves and where the sun melts through it turns the dust in the air to gold.
    You’re fast, he says, coming up behind her. She stumbles away from the tree.
    Shit, she says, still panting. You scared me.
    Should we go back?
    Not yet.
    Then what now?
    She smiles. Now you have to kill me.
    He pushes his hands into his pockets.
    Yeah?
    Yeah.
    And what if I want you to kill me?
    She blinks. What?
    Go ahead, he says.
    She reaches out and touches his stomach with the palm of her hand, running it up to his chest and then down past his belt while he watches her. She wonders about beauty, about the way he looks right now—older and folded in on himself—and the heat in her body that will not stop.
    Aren’t you going to hit me? he says.
    Her hands slide off him and she takes a small step sideways.
    Don’t be scared, he says.
    I’m not, she says.
    Then hit me. He lifts his chin. Come on.
    I can’t.
    Yes you can.
    When she sees him raise his hand she thinks for a moment that she should try to stop him, but she doesn’t and he hits her, hard, across her face, knocking her to her knees. He crouches down behind her, an arm wrapped tight around her waist.
    What do you want? he asks.
    Tell me I’m beautiful, she says.
    You’re beautiful, he says into her ear, and then again into her hair. You’re beautiful. Her shoulders start to shake.
    Listen to me, he says. You have to go home.
    No.
    You have to.
    No, she says, sinking her fingers into the ground.
    When I count to ten, he says. One. Two.
    Why? she whispers. I don’t want to.
    But he keeps counting. And when he gets to ten he lets her go.

 
    LOVE, LUCY
    Did you do that? he asked, his hands on his hips, squinting, as I held up the pigeon for him to see. It was the first thing I killed. I was four. I dropped the bird at his feet.
    You didn’t mean to, he said.
    I kicked the bird and it bounced off the front door, leaving a rich red smear. One of its eyes, pried loose by a butter knife, fell out. I had stabbed it all over. He pretended not to notice.
    We’ll give it a nice burial, he said.
    I snatched the bird and shook it. I gnashed my teeth and made dying sounds and sailed the corpse over the porch railing, where it splashed into the dirt. I smeared my fingers down the front of his shirt, leaving behind ten wet tracks branching over the cotton, delicate as a Japanese painting. My hands were small then. He held them, he kissed them; animal blood touched his mouth. I howled, I hissed, trying to free myself from his grip.
    It’s a phase, he decided. But I had just begun.
    *   *   *
    When he found me in the toolshed, so the story goes, I was covered in black fur. He was already an old man,