July 3
“You ready to go?”
Andi turned at the sound of Mike’s voice. She had slept beside him upon the sand throughout the night, feeling the familiar confidence that he engendered in her--that perhaps things would work out okay after all. Her sleep had been sound--no nightmares had intruded upon her slumber, and no laughter had accompanied her awakening.
Now she knelt in her living room, her sword resting in her lap. That morning she had pried two of the boards loose, stepping into the eerie silence of her former home.
Mike crawled through the narrow opening she had made and knelt beside her.
“You okay?”
“Yeah, just tying up a loose end,” she said, gripping her sword and drawing it from its ornate scabbard. Mike stared at it for a few moments before extending his hand.
“May I?”
She wordlessly handed him the blade, handle first. It was heavier than he expected it to be for such a slim, simple weapon. The tip wavered for a moment as his arm adjusted to the strain.
He had never touched it before--not because Andi did not allow it, but because he never had occasion to. She had kept it safely tucked away in the small space between her bed and the wall, and Mike had rarely seen it . . .
Until the razor’s edge had been plunging towards him.
In the bright light of morning it was much prettier--and less threatening--than it had been four nights before. As he looked at it he realized that the blade was not flawless as he had once thought--there were several small nicks in the steel. The hilt--two silver horses twined around one other--was likewise nicked in several places. The leather bindings on the handle were cracked and worn. From afar the blade looked like perfection, but up close was a different story. He handed it back to her.
“What are you going to do?” he whispered, afraid to shatter the early morning silence.
On the floor before her lay a beautiful velvet-lined mahogany box. She sheathed the sword and gently placed it in the box. “This,” she said, “does not have a place in my life anymore. It’s because of this that I almost killed you, and that is not a risk I am ever willing to take again.” She closed the lid and latched it. “So I am leaving it here, where it belongs.”
As she began to push it underneath the couch Mike reached out and took the box by the handle. “Wait. You don’t have to do this. It’s a good idea for you to move past this, but . . . bring it with you. Who knows,” he said, winking, “it might come in handy someday.”
She raised an eyebrow. “All right. I’ll trust you on this one.”
“That’s your favorite phrase, isn’t it?”
“No,” she said, climbing slowly to her feet. “But it’s starting to be.”
~*~
Once outside Andi replaced the boards, pounding the nails back in with a block of wood. She followed Mike across the beach to where the others were waiting without looking behind her.
“Hey, Andi,” Peter said. “How are you feeling?”
“Tired,” she said, rubbing at her eyes--still swollen from the previous night’s tears. “But much better, thanks.”
“What’s in the box, Mike?” Micky said.
“A little piece of Andi,” he said, winking at her.
Davy started to giggle. “Which piece?”
Andi swiped at him and missed, then took off, chasing him down the beach. The others followed, quickly leaving the houses and beach behind.
They reached the Monkeemobile a few minutes later, and Mike placed Andi’s sword in the trunk, where it would stay until--if ever--it was needed. She retrieved her possessions, which were still in the back of the ruined truck, and tossed them in the trunk.
“What about that?” Mike said, pointing at the wreck.
Andi ran her fingers through her hair and sighed. “I’ll take care of that later. Leave it. It is, after all, my truck on my property.”
Mike shrugged and tossed the keys to Micky. “Here. You drive.”
Micky’s eyebrows shot up. Mike was definitely a control freak when it came to the car, so why was he turning over the driving privileges? However, when he saw the loving way Mike slipped into the middle seat next to Andi, putting his arms around her as she leaned against his shoulder, he understood.
He smiled and shook his head as he slipped behind the wheel. Looks like things are finally getting back to normal. He looked to the right, where Peter and Davy were arguing over who would get to sit in the front seat.
“Or at least . . . as normal as things ever get for us,” he muttered.
On to Chapter Twelve
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