penance. a love story (The Böhme Series) Read online

  pen·ance

  1 Wynn

  2 Hannah

  3 Wynn

  4 Hannah

  5 Wynn

  6 Hannah

  7 Wynn

  8 Hannah

  9 Wynn

  10 Hannah

  11 Wynn

  12 Hannah

  13 Wynn

  14 Hannah

  15 Wynn

  16 Hannah

  17 Wynn

  18 Hannah

  19 Wynn

  20 Hannah

  21 Wynn

  22 Hannah

  23 Wynn

  24 Hannah

  Epilogue Wynn

  From the Author

  Acknowledgements

  About Sarah

  penance.

  a love story

  Sarah Buhl

  Penance. a love story Copyright © 2014 by Sarah Buhl

  All rights reserved.

  Cover image by ©2014 Juan Moyano http://www.dreamstime.com/

  Book design by Sarah Buhl

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author.

  Sarah Buhl

  Visit my website at www.sarahbuhl.com

  Printed in the United States of America

  First Printing: May 2014

  ISBN-13: 978-1499156324

  ISBN-10: 1499156324

  pen·ance

  penəns/

  noun

  punishment inflicted on oneself for a wrong one may or may not have done

  Freedom is found through living.

  Joy is found through forgiveness.

  Truth is found through love.

  For loved ones whose journey has ended,

  I cherish every one of our moments and this book is for you.

  The morning light soaked through the white curtains casting an ethereal glow through our room. Her hair cascaded around her as each of her breaths pooled around my face. We lay there for several moments, having the same silent conversation we often did.

  “Wynn, tell me this will never end,” Hannah said as she tucked her hands under her chin, trying to keep warm under the blankets. She moved closer to me and I wrapped my arm around her in our usual hold. I kissed her temple and tip of her nose before responding. I loved her enough to tell her the truth. “Nothing can last forever, Hannah. But we can truly live through each moment that we are here.”

  1

  Wynn

  The surroundings tore oxygen from me one particle at a time. With my eyes closed, I tried to slow my thoughts. I am in control.

  I climbed off my bike and as I removed my helmet vulnerability consumed me. Nothing hid me now. Memories from when I was a boy came to mind. If I had nothing to hide behind I used to imagine I was a ghost and fade into the shadows. I still want to believe it possible.

  The drones of people paraded around me as I stood near the sidewalk of the college. Unease filled me with every footstep that passed by me. I closed my eyes behind my dark sunglasses and took three steady breaths. I had to stay calm. The bright sun held possibility, but in my mind it instilled fear. It was a spotlight on me, bringing attention to my faults. I refused to meet the strangers eyes as they walked passed. Eye contact might cause them to start up a conversation, speaking nothing of significance.

  I pulled my bag from my shoulder and assessed my belongings. I had to make sure my camera was secure and I do it five times before sanity returns. One, it's still there. Zip the bag, unzip the bag, and check it again. Repeat four more times, and I’m done. I’m not obsessive compulsive. At least according to Stinson I'm not. I just need to keep safe what I value and my camera is the most valuable part of me. I can become the ghost now. I hide behind the camera. No one pays attention to the person holding the camera.

  Stinson, my doctor, told me I needed to spend more time around other people and less time hiding from them. Fuck off was my response as I gave him my annoyed smile. I wasn’t hiding—I just didn’t want to be around people. My eyes turned away from him as I spoke that day not wanting him to see that I questioned my own words. Believing people in general are good is difficult for me. The more people I meet, I realize how much they fucking suck because of their obsession with the self.

  When I brought my eyes back to him that day, I showed the surety I tried to tell myself I had. If I could lie to myself, I could lie to him, as well. I spilled my issues out to him every meeting we had, that was enough sharing of myself. Sid and Petra were there to talk to about life. There was everyone at the art gallery to talk to about art. I had my friend Blake, and we spoke of topics involving alcohol or video games. I had compartmentalized relationships for each of my needs.

  People in large groups are fucking stupid I told Stinson and I didn’t need to meet more of them to change my mind. I forced him to discuss the topic of herd thinking and conformity. Our mental sparring was always fun and I could catch him on this one topic.

  On their own, people can be real with you—sometimes. In groups, people feed from one another as opposed to thinking for themselves. The loudest person in the group declares the course of action and others follow, thinking the decision came from the collective. When in reality, the loudest person manipulated the entire situation.

  “I have no doubt that people are stupid in large groups,” Stinson responded. “Freud’s nephew, Bernays, made bank on that. But you can't hide forever. You deserve more.” He gave me a sincere expression and I thought it true for a moment, but my history flooded my thoughts, reminding me it was a lie. I am exactly where I deserve to be.

  But as I stood on the sidewalk of this college, I wondered if he was right. There was a battle raging inside me and as much as I hated large groups and people in general, I hated this fear consuming me. I hated the anxiety that made me feel like less of a person. The tight, drowning pain in my chest was maddening.

  I pulled my phone from my front pocket to check the time, needing to do something with my hands to calm myself. I scrolled through the contacts on my phone. There weren’t many on there and the scrolling amounted to small movements across the screen. In my anxiety, my mind started to create scenarios and I wondered if I could really take the final steps toward the building.

  I looked up to see a young woman sitting on a bench across the street from me. She sat atop the back with her feet lifted to her toes on the seat. Her crossed forearms rested on her knees as if she were a teenager in a 1950s film trying to project rigidity. I was expecting a cigarette between her fingers, but in its place a lanyard swung. She wore a serious expression that saw right through me. Her cautious, determined stare saw the truth I held inside—I was a boy parading around in his Daddy’s shoes, pretending to be a man and she knew it.

  The twirl of the lanyard continued as she studied me and I her. I never gave anyone a second glance, or held eyes longer than a moment. The longer you give them your eyes, the more apt they are to say something to you. It's human nature. The quicker I turn away, the faster I could avoid meaningless conversation. But this girl, with her relaxed abrasion, held my eyes. A strong fragility in her left me wondering if it permeated into every part of her life. I was not the only one putting up walls to the outside world. She had her guards up full force.

  Her hair was in a chaotic mess at the base of her neck and she wore an air of serene madness with her dark eye makeup
and even darker expression. She drew me in the longer we stared, but she was no match for the years of training I had in pulling away. My walls were firmly in place.

  I wanted to take a photo of her, but pointing a large camera at her would freak her out. Better yet, she would storm across the street and punch me. I scrolled to the camera on my phone and as I pretended to text I snapped a photo of her. It wasn’t the best and it was creepy as hell that I took it and I felt like a stalker. But when I saw the photo fade into view on my phone, a grin formed on my face. She was looking right at me and her pissed off expression was priceless.

  She held a fire in her that was apparent without even speaking a word. I was jealous of her freedom from those around her as she was the ruler of her own world and they couldn’t enter it, even if they tried. I could learn something from her walls.

  She kept her eyes trained on me and I wondered what her careful observation believed of me. Women have read books or seen movies where guys with tattoos and motorcycles are feral men waiting to find a woman to ravish. A fantasy exists in their minds of a tattooed beast that enters their lives and alpha male's their ass. They imagine he will throw them over his shoulder bellowing mine and ward off other men. Women see it as a declaration of devotion. Fucking weird. I didn’t want her to believe that of me.

  I am not that guy. I have both tattoos and a motorcycle and many eager women assume I am that guy. My reality is quite different, though. I ride a bike because I hate the confines of a car and get claustrophobic. My tattoos are a way for me to cope with memories. For a woman to label them as sexual objects makes me ill. I hoped she didn’t believe the lies found in books and movies.

  My phone rang and the girl’s photo faded from the screen. Blake’s name formed in its place and I pushed ignore, knowing I didn’t have time to figure out his mood today. If he's in an annoying mood he keeps me on the phone for hours.

  I looked up to find bench girl was no longer bench girl. She was walking toward me girl, her eyes set on mine, as she walked past me and continued up the sidewalk to the same building I was to enter.

  I ran through my mind of how I could approach her. I wanted to ask her for her number or ask her out, but I couldn’t do that. Blake could do it, but I couldn’t. Fumbled words with sweaty palms haunted me as I thought of speaking to her. I struggle with speaking to others in general—vacant eyes try to locate the words and I look crazed. I need to prepare for a conversation and I can’t do it last minute.

  We approached the door at the same time and I reached to open it for her. This I could do. I can open a door for her. She was a few inches shorter than me and when our eyes met, a dorky smile formed across my face and she returned it with a glare. It threw me off that glare. She didn’t hold the same curiosity in her eyes as me and it made me want to talk to her more. Her obvious lack of interest in me triggered an instinct and I surprised myself in that moment—I wanted her attention. I wanted to know the thoughts that plagued her eyes.

  Music echoed from the ear buds she wore and I could hear the faint sound of Beth Gibbons singing Glory Box. Portishead. I had never met anyone who listened to them. The song bellowed between us as we stood in our ocular showdown. Her eyes rolled and another grin formed on my face.

  This girl didn’t want me to open that door for her, but I continued and waved my hand to allow her passage. She stood there and crossed her arms, with a pointed foot to the side. An annoyed look graced her face, but her eyes showed intrigue for a moment, as if a stranger being polite was foreign to her. She started to walk in the door, and stopped mid-step. The song picked up and was reaching its climactic end. She calculated her decision as her eyes danced around my face.

  We were stubborn, the two of us. I held her eyes and continued to prop the door open. With a sigh, she turned and opened the other door and entered the building. She walked toward the basement without a word or glance back. A guy passed her, who looked back to check out her ass as she walked away. When he saw that I was watching, he wagged his eyebrows as if he thought we shared a predator bond because we both had dicks.

  I gave him a scowl as I stood taller, “Fuck you,” I said with contempt. I didn’t say it because I felt possessive of the girl. She was a human being and she wasn’t an object to claim or use. The guy jerked his head back as if I punched him and wore an expression of total shock as he walked past me.

  I turned and followed him as he was going towards my classroom. I could see the unease he now wore as if he thought I was going to attack him. I was thankful he held that. I had no reason to fight him, but knowing that I intimidated him made the walk to class bearable. The intimidation helped with the insane fear that consumed me as we rounded up the circular hall toward my classroom. I wore that intimidation as armor.

  The building made me uneasy as the hall circled as a parking deck, going up and up past doors and windows. It was a giant fucking circle and I hated circles, being inside one was even worse. I wondered if Stinson was trying submersion therapy. I clenched my hands at my sides as I tried to focus on my steps leading me to my destination.

  Circles. Circles. Circles. I need end points. Rooms can’t go on and halls shouldn't either. Give me right angles. Room 212, 214, and I stopped, at last, in front of room 216. I watched the guy from earlier continue on his way. He looked back and gave a vague smile expressing his relief that I no longer followed him.

  I took a breath and turned toward the door of the classroom. I didn’t want to walk into the room, but it was what I needed. When I step into the room I will learn and grow. It wasn’t about learning art, it was learning to cope. If I stay outside the door, the standstill in my life will continue. I needed to get past this fear. I focused on my steps as I moved toward the door. I have to make myself sit in the classroom for the next forty-five minutes and try to focus on the professor's words. I pulled the pen from my bag and after clicking it five times entered the room.

  I found a girl sitting in the chair closest to the door. I always sat near the door. I can’t sit across the room and have people between me and the exit. I always sit near the exit to leave without obstruction. I can’t have anyone between me and it or my chest will explode from the stress. I imagine it breaking apart and spattering blood and bits of me around onto everyone. People will then never sit near the door again, haunted by the memory of the guy they blocked from the exit.

  With reluctance, I take the seat behind her, though the rest of the room is empty. But I don’t care. I tried to count my breaths. I remember that each breath I take means I’m alive. I am still here, I am not going anywhere and I’m breathing. My chest isn’t going to explode. I am fine. I am fine. My heart continues to beat. I am breathing. Nothing will happen as long as I am breathing.

  The seat was a typical college chair and mine was touching the girl’s in front of me. Her chair was close enough to mine that it allowed her hair to trace across the edge of my desk. I scooted my chair back from her to distance myself from the internal struggle the nearness spurred.

  I thought on the explosion I housed in me. I visualized the countdown and my own miniature bomb diffuser guy cutting the wires. Her hair was still sitting there on the desk and my bomb diffuser began to sweat. Was he choosing the wrong wire? Should I have stayed home? I moved back another inch and his hand steadied. Another inch and her hair no longer touched my desk. He decided on a wire and clipped it. We both breathed a sigh of relief as the countdown stopped.

  I placed my bag on the floor and in the same moment I removed my book, she flipped her hair. This caused a strong floral scent to float back to me. The slight whoosh of her hair sent the lotion or perfume or whatever the fuck it was right to me. The more it enveloped me, the more my resilience suffered. My bomb diffuser was shaking his head, wondering what he did wrong. I closed my eyes and counted my breaths as I sat up in my chair.

  Okay, that is another issue I have with people—they always smelled fake. No matter what, man or woman, they wore scents that were not natural on human
beings. The fake concoctions on women disgusted me and the musk men had to spray to entice women was just as annoying. Smokers are restricted under laws while products filled with nauseating chemicals are free to roam.

  The girl turned around to get my attention, with her eyes raised and wearing a flirtatious smile, she lifted her hand to run it through her hair. She wore a fake ruby ring on her pointer finger that looked as though it added weight to her hand. A thick layer of makeup left a contrasting line of color across her chin. She tried to entice me with her eyes, but it had the opposite effect, leaving me with nausea. I imagine most men approved of her attention. She played this game often and though she wasn’t unattractive, she was too accepting of being average. She was playing the part she thought society wanted her to play.

  Noticing my tattoos she asked, “Are those quotes or something?” She put her elbow on my desk and leaned her chin into her hand, waiting for a response. She gave a tilt to her head as she tried to read my tattoos. She was eyeing Bradbury and it made me uneasy. She wasn’t one to understand the tattoo. She saw it as lofty words written on a man who was deep. The alpha male in her mind was the passionate Renaissance man and she dreamed of me being him.

  I adjusted my books and pen to avoid eye contact. “Yes,” I said with a slight gruff. I was showing my indifference, but by one glimpse of her face, I saw that she thought it a ploy on my part.

  She giggled, “Wow, you sure have a lot of them.” She ran her hand through her hair again and tossed it behind her shoulder and gazed at the ceiling with a veined dreamy expression. “I love tattoos,” she said on a sigh. She held that dream state as if the determined imagination she wore caused my attention to increase.

  “Yep,” I blurted out, not wanting to expound. I learned that people often start conversations just to speak of themselves. They open the conversation with questions of you, in the hope that you start asking questions in return. For instance, she wanted me to ask her if she had any tattoos. I won’t of course. She hoped the conversation led into dinner and drinks. Years from now we say our wedding vows and tell everyone how our first conversation began in that art history class so long ago. She planned her future according to romantic comedies and dime store romance novels.