Page 54 of Everlasting Vows

“You wanna head outside and let the police know I’ve disarmed the armed man and have him secured?” I call out.

No answer. She’s probably frozen in fear. A common response after a traumatic experience—people freeze up. Completely understandable when your life has been at risk.

The gym guy pushes to his feet. “I-I’ll go,” he stutters as he runs for the door without a thought to check on the other people around him. What a fucking waste of space. Not as much of a waste as the guy beneath me who’s valiantly trying to escape my hold.

I twist his broken wrist a little, and he screeches like a fucking banshee. “What the fuck, man? Get the fuck off me. Let me fucking go!”

I chuckle darkly. “I don’t think so, asshole.”

He continues to curse up a storm as loud shouts and quick footsteps thunder on the pavement outside, and within moments, I’m surrounded by several cops with their guns trained on me. “Drop the gun and put your hands behind your head.”

“He’s not the bad guy here,” Mr. B barks. “He is,” he tells the officers as he points to my detainee.

The police completely ignore him and jab their guns forward, making their point. “Drop the fucking gun and put your hands behind your head,” one of them barks.

To be fair, they don’t know what went down, and I could be as unstable as the man beneath me for all they can ascertain from the situation they’ve barged in on. Slowly, I slide the gun across the floor and raise my hands behind my head, but not before I’m jostled off the perpetrator and man-handled into a similar position. Tensions are already at an all-time high, so I don’t struggle. Instead, I remain calm and compliant.

Shouting ensues as they roughly cuff the gunman, eliciting screams from him as they shove the cuff on his broken wrist. A smirk touches my lips at his pain; I don’t think I’m a masochist, but maybe I am.

Over the noise and the chaos, the young woman’s sobs fill the air. Nobody should bear witness to such acts of violence, let alone have a front-row seat. I turn my head to the side, pressing my cheek against the filthy floor, hoping to see her beneath the shelves. I don’t think she’s moved an inch from the position she held before.

There’s a scuffle and more shouting from the cops as they drag the gunman out of the store. Anyone would think they were apprehending a group of terrorists with their zealousness, not a lone gunman. Suddenly, I’m pulled to my feet and spun around. The cops shove me away and tell me to stay where I am.

“Nobody move!”

A team of paramedics rush inside, quickly assessing the two men on the floor. Crouching down, they tend to the victim who’s still alive with efficient movements, asking questions in a perfunctory manner.

Mrs. B comes out from the back and wraps her arms around her husband. He returns her embrace, both of them sobbing and shaking in shock. They really need to be seen by the paramedics, but the police are solely focused on getting statements from everyone. I’m certain they’ll readily provide a detailed statement once they calm down a little.

The young woman finally makes her way toward the front of the store; she’s younger than I originally thought. I move closer to her, fighting my protective instinct to wrap my arms around her. “Hey, everything’s okay now. You’re safe,” I say softly.

She snaps her head toward me—her unique two-colored eyes catching me off-guard—and nods slowly, as if she can’t believe a single word I say. Her hands tremble as she readjusts her backpack.

I smile calmly. “The police will probably need a statement, and then you’ll be free to go home.”

Her bottom lip trembles, and she shakes her head in a way that tells me she doesn’t realize she’s doing it. “I don’t have a home.” Her body folds like a house of cards, and I quickly wrap my arm around her slight frame to hold her up as she sobs while my heart breaks for her.

I know times are tough. Abbi reminds me often enough with the stories she shares after her volunteer shifts, but being confronted with this homeless young woman hits hard. Now I understand my wife’s penchant for wanting to open our home to strangers in need, because that’s exactly what I want to do.

Experiencing a holdup is distressing, but most people can return to the safety of their home to recover. She doesn’t have the luxury of a safe space, and that guts me. It’s completely unacceptable. She needs somewhere safe to recover and recuperate.

A female officer steps beside us, her features awash with concern. “How are we doing over here?”

The young woman burrows further into me as if I’m her safe place, giving me hope that she’ll be open to letting me help her.

“I’m okay, but this young lady is in shock and needs to be seen by the paramedics.” I nod toward the fridges at the back of the store. “I don’t suppose you could grab a bottle of water for her. I’ll pay for it before I leave.”

She glances at the fridges and back at me, a soft smile tilting her lips. “Sure thing. Then I need to take statements from you both.”

“Happy to give you mine, but I don’t think this young lady is in any state to answer your questions right now.” Maybe if they give her a chance to calm down and gather her bearings. Even then, I’m not sure she’ll be in any state to recount the event. She was toward the back of the store, so I doubt she saw much.

The officer returns with water, then heads back outside. When I glance out of the store, early evening has arrived and my stomach sinks. There’s no way I’ll make it to Abbi in time. Resignation fills the space where pride was more than an hour ago as I walked out of my building.

“C’mon. You need to drink some water,” I tell her softly. I remove the lid off the bottle and hand it to the woman.

“Thank you.”

I smile at her. “You’re welcome. I’m Nix, and I’m so sorry you had to witness all of this.”