by Lisa Sorbe
Neither one of them could be contained.
And when it came down to it, I couldn’t blame either Mike nor Winnie. Their ache was one I understood all too well.
As for my mother, she either didn’t know about this routine of ours, or knew and didn’t care. She never mentioned the fact that I left the house in the middle of the night without a valid driver’s license. Nor did she ever seem to notice the leftover smell of vomit in the car or the baking soda-slash-Lysol concoction I used to clean it with.
Those were the years when she was lost to us.
So Mike became my responsibility. And that night, the night he died, I cursed him. I saw another random number from another random party house on the caller ID, and I ignored it. I was tired of covering for him, cleaning up after him, dealing with him at all…and I was angry that he couldn’t get his shit together. He was eighteen and I had just turned sixteen; we’d been living in this pattern for over two years.
I turned the ringer off on the phone and returned to my work.
I didn’t feel at all guilty.
The next morning, I woke to find my mother sitting at the kitchen table, her expression more slack than usual. There was a police officer perched on the chair next to her, his voice a low murmur over the roar in my head.
And a part of me knew. Knew right then that Mike was dead.
The floor swayed beneath me and the officer turned in his seat and his grim face told me all I needed to know.
I felt a snap then, somewhere deep inside, like a rubber band that had been stretched to the point of breaking. A sharp sting reverberated up my spine, zigzagged through my brain.
“Elena.” My mother’s voice came from far away, like a hollow echo. To this day, I’m not sure if she spoke my name out loud or I just heard it in my head. Sometimes trauma can do that—connect people in unearthly ways. But there was no mistaking the accusation in her eyes.
All in all, Mike called the house fourteen times between the hours of midnight and one in the morning. The proof was right there on the caller ID. And I wouldn’t have wiped it away if I could. I deserved the reminder.
My mother didn’t speak to me again for almost a year.
“I’m staying.”
For a moment, Brent doesn’t say anything. I hear the shuffle of papers and the clink of a coffee cup in the background. Then, “What?”
“I’m staying,” I repeat. “For a little while, at least.”
I stir in a spoonful of sugar into my coffee, tap the spoon against the rim of the mug, and lift the drink to my lips.
“In Minnesota?”
Where the hell else does he think I am? “Yes, in Minnesota.” I find it hard to keep the irritation from my voice.
“For how long?” Brent sounds put out, though I doubt it’s due to any feelings of attachment he has for me. More than likely, it’s my lack of presence at the office that has him sounding so irate.
“I spoke to Helena this morning, and she officially gave me leave until mid-August.” Officially meaning: I finally stopped fighting her on it.
Brent clears his throat and makes a little uh-huh-uh-huh noise, something he does when he’s caught off guard and needs time to come up with an adequate response. “So Glaser,” he says, putting an emphasis on Helena’s last name, “is completely okay with this?”
“That’s right.” He’s never come right out and said anything, but I know he hates that I’m on a first name basis with our boss while he isn’t. Brent is competitive that way—even when it’s with the woman he’s sleeping with.
He sighs, and I can picture him running his fingers through his raven hair, the Arizona sun streaming in through the floor to ceiling windows of his condo and reflecting off the gold of his class ring. Brent is a Harvard grad and loves that damn ring more than anything; he flashes it as often as he can.
“I don’t understand the change of heart,” he says, his words clipped. “I thought you hated your hometown. Why stay longer than you have to?”
Moving to the window above the kitchen sink, I take another sip of my coffee and watch as West unspools the hose from the house. Giving it a tug, he stretches the length and drops the nozzle down into the pool. We spent yesterday draining the water off the tarp so that, when we finally pulled the cover off, the muck that had accumulated over the winter wouldn’t slide back into the pool.
“I have my reasons.”
Even if I’m not quite sure what they are yet.
A part of me wants Brent to ask me to come back, to say that he misses me and this last week has been hell without me there, by his side. But I push the thought aside. It’s just the sentimental girl in me, rearing her ugly head.
Something she’s been doing more and more of lately.
And Brent would never ask, anyway.
“I think you should come back.” His voice, already deep, grows lower with the request. It’s soft, this plea, and for a moment it sounds like he’s baring his heart with his words.
Mine performs an unsteady pirouette in my chest. “Brent…”
“I could really use you on this case.”
My spinning heart thuds to a stop so fast I feel the jolt in my head.
“I’m sure you’ll be fine,” I say stiffly.
“It’s more complicated than we originally thought. I…shit.”
Muffled sounds float through the receiver, along with the distant whisper of a woman’s voice.
“Brent?” I more demand than ask. “What the hell was that?”
A girlish giggle and Brent’s irritated whisper. More shuffling, scurrying. What sounds like a door slamming shut.
“It’s just the neighbor,” he says, coming back to the phone. “Wanted sugar.”
Uh-huh-uh-huh. I try to swallow, but my throat is clenched so tight I end up in a sort of silent choke. The floor tilts, and I have to grab onto the counter so I don’t fall over.
Outside, West turns toward the window. Shielding his eyes from the sun, he squints up, concern etched in his features.
It’s like he knows.
I feel a buzz shoot up my spine and along the back of my neck, and it briefly takes me away from my conversation, from the fact that my boyfriend is cheating on me with another woman.
For a moment, all I see is Weston Brooks.
Closing my eyes, I take a couple of deep breaths. When I open them, West is gone, but I hear the heavy beat of his boots on the stairs leading up to the back deck.
“Elena? Look, we’ll just…we’ll talk later, okay? I have to get to the office. I’ll touch base after the meeting with Carlisle.”
The sliding glass door opens with a sigh, and West steps into the kitchen, his brows drawn.
I wipe a tear from my eye, angry that I’m letting myself get emotional about this. But my words are clear, firm. “Don’t bother.”
My thumb is a broom, and I swipe the end call button on the screen, sweeping Brent right out of my life.
“I’m fine.”
West looks at me like I just tried to convince him I’m Santa Claus. “You are not fine.”
No, I’m not. We’ve been sitting at the kitchen table for the last fifteen minutes, me tearing up and feeling like a complete fool while West passes me squares of toilet paper from a roll he dug out of a cupboard in the bathroom because he couldn’t find any actual tissues.
“I don’t even know why I’m so upset about this,” I moan, shredding toilet paper and refusing to meet West’s eyes. I ball up a piece and dab at the corner of my eye, a bitter laugh escaping my lips in a puff. “It’s not like I was in love with him or anything.”
West leans his elbows on the table. It feels weird to be here, talking with him about this. About another man, another relationship. I know it’s been twelve years since we were…whatever we were…so it really shouldn’t matter that I was involved with someone else. Besides, West has a blonde in his life. A beautiful, mysterious flaxen haired beauty that I’ve been waiting on pins and needles for him to mention, yet he ne
ver does.
West passes over more toilet paper. “You trusted him, and he betrayed that trust. You have every right to be upset.”
“Yeah, but the thing is…I don’t. Not really. We were together, yes. We were exclusive, yes. Well,” I snort, “we were supposed to be, anyway.” I can’t look at West, so I focus on my hands and try to will the stupid tears to stop. “But we were never what you’d call close. Like, you know…we did stuff.” Oh, god. Shut up, Laney. “I mean, physical stuff.” Please shut up! “But there was really no, you know, emotional connection. And I just thought that’s how we were. Neither of us wanted that sentimental bullshit. I couldn’t even bring myself to leave so much as a toothbrush at his place. So, you see? I really shouldn’t be all that upset about…about him…” I flutter my hand instead of saying the word cheating.
My mouth is a running faucet that won’t shut off. Everything is coming out in one rambling spiel, gushing from my lips like a goddamned geyser.
“It doesn’t matter what you think you should feel,” West says. “You feel what you feel. There’s obviously a reason for it. Maybe instead of trying to fight it, just go with it. See where it takes you.”
“But I don’t want to feel this way. All sappy and brokenhearted when it’s really nothing more than a bruised ego.” Because that’s what this is, I know it. My ego took the punch, not my heart. I blow out a frustrated breath and swipe my hands over my cheeks. The tears have dried, leaving crusty streaks that make my face feel tight. “Ugh. I haven’t cried since my dad died.”
I say this more to myself, this astounding admission. I had to be the only teenage girl in the history of the Universe who kept a dry eye during those trying years.
Becoming tough, impassive wasn’t something I consciously did; it happened organically.
One day I was vulnerable. The next day I wasn’t.
When Mike died, I didn’t cry; I didn’t deserve that release.
And I didn’t cry when I left West; my heart was nothing more than a stone in my chest by that point.
“You’ve been working too hard.” West pins me with a look, one he manages to fill with formidable concern.
“You sound just like Helena.”
West quirks a brow.
“My boss,” I clarify.
“Well, she sounds like a brilliant woman.” He flashes me a cooked smile, one corner of his mouth perking up in a cocky way that, at one time, made my insides swish and swoop.
It was a look that was cute at sixteen. Now, at thirty, it’s sexy as hell.
I stare at him for a moment, a wide-eyed deer caught in headlights. Just like back then, my insides swish and swoop. Although now, I feel the pull deeper, lower. “Yeah, well,” I say, turning my attention back to my hands and tearing apart more toilet paper, “she has her moments.”
West laughs, and the gruff sound does nothing but stir those swoony vibrations inside of me even more. I feel weird, like at any moment that inner fluttering is going to swing me right up and out of my chair.
“You,” he says, checking his watch and pushing back from the table, “need a break. And I need to head into the office now. But…” He squints, appraising me. “What are you doing tonight?”
I think I’m on a date.
With West.
The golf ball I just tapped (finally) makes its way into the hole at the end of the long maze of obstacles I’ve been maneuvering for the last twenty-four hours, eliciting a collective sigh of relief among the gathered crowd. Okay, so in reality it’s only been about fifteen minutes, but it feels like an eternity.
I’m sure it feels like an eternity to the people waiting in line behind us, too. Most are biding their time by looking at their phones, although one couple is taking this opportunity to make out behind the miniature windmill on the next hole over. But some (apparently die-hard) players are slapping their golf clubs into their palms and shooting me dirty looks.
You probably think I’m joking, but I’m not. If looks could kill, I’d be a withered-up corpse by now.
Oh, screw you, I want to shout at them. I haven’t played mini golf since I was ten, and I wasn’t very good at it back then. Years away from the game certainly hasn’t improved my aim.
But apparently Floyd’s Starlight Mini Golf is the place to be on a semi-warm May night in Wolf Lake. Granted, there isn’t much else to do in the evenings here besides hit the town’s few bars or maybe see one of the two movies playing at the Tamarack Theater or Marvin’s Drive-In (which, I’m shocked to say, is still standing), so mini golf it is.
I grip the handle of my club and walk off the eighteenth hole to a round of applause. Instead of flipping them all the finger, I dip into a quick bow before joining West…and his date.
Oh, did you think I was the one on a date with West?
Nah. That would be the woman from the funeral. Candy.
Her name is Candy.
And I’m the third wheel on their date.
“I don’t know why you thought this would make me feel better,” I say, stowing my club in the long bin beside the building. “I caused a pile up back there.”
West’s club clinks against mine as he drops it in. “It wasn’t that bad.”
“Really? Because I could have sworn I heard a few locals growling for my head.”
West’s lips twitch, and I can’t deny it feels good to make him smile. He looks gorgeous tonight, of course. A black button up that hugs his shoulders while still being loose enough so it doesn’t look like he’s showing off. The shirt hangs casually, untucked atop his bootcut jeans. The cuffs are frayed, framing his worn russet boots in a way that is far sexier than I would have ever thought footwear could be.
His date—Candy, her name is Candy, did I mention that?—is equally as gorgeous, decked out in a red sweater dress paired with boots that look almost as distressed as West’s. Her hair is long and loose, and the light locks are, I have to admit, striking against the deep crimson of her dress. Even her lips match her outfit.
I’m wearing stretch pants, an oversized ASU sweatshirt with the neck cut off so that it hangs loose over one shoulder, and a pair of running shoes. My hair is up in a bun, and the only thing my lips are covered in is chapstick. Oh, and to top it off, I’m wearing eau de sweat, because after West left for work this morning, I spent most of the day hauling more junk to the Goodwill and scrubbing the bathroom in the basement.
My only defense is this: I didn’t know this was a date.
And it’s not fair. Usually I’m the one put together, my outfit and hair and make-up primped and polished to a T. But West said he was picking me up straight from work to go mini golfing, and I only assumed that meant I’d see the same scruffy, blue-collar West I’d been seeing lately: t-shirt and ratty jeans, maybe wearing the trucker’s hat with the logo for his company etched across the front.
And who the hell gets dressed up for mini golf?
Candy’s laughing voice trills through the air as we step into the parking lot, her blonde hair fluttering in the breeze like she’s a goddamned Disney princess. “Wow, I’ve never had a game of mini golf last that long.” Her gaze skitters my way before landing on her date, a forced smile on her face. “Where to now?” I have no doubt that if she could drop kick me all the way back to my house from here, she’d do it in a heartbeat.
Then again, I can’t blame her. How would I feel if the man I was seeing brought along another woman on our date?
“There’s a band playing at Lottie’s.” West rubs his hands together and looks my way. “You in?”
Candy turns just a bit so West can’t see her face and shoots me a glare.
Oh, for goodness sake.
Get out of the house, play a few rounds, have some laughs. It’ll be fun, do you good.
This was his promise. This is how he lured me here. Under false pretenses.
Nice West. Nice. Just one thing, though… You forgot to mention this is a date!
Of course, if I had known, I wouldn’t have agreed to come
. But now that I’m here, now that I’ve met Candy and can see how absolutely wrong she is for West, I feel like it’s my duty to…stick it out.
“Yeah, sure. Do you think we’d have time to stop by my place before the band starts, though? Since it’s on the way? I think I got a piece of dirt or something in my contacts.” I blink for effect. “It’d be great if I could switch into my glasses.”
“No problem. We’ve got plenty of time.” West unlocks his truck and then steps up to the passenger side, holding the door open for us. Candy nearly plows me over as she climbs in, clearly intent on sitting in the middle of the cab, thigh to thigh with West.
As we pull out of the parking lot, she immediately starts to fiddle with the radio, scrolling through station after station before finally stopping on some poppy, bubblegum-teen song that instantly induces a headache behind my right eye. “Ooh, I just love this one!” she squeals, bouncing lightly in her seat and settling a hand on West’s leg.
Much to my irritation, West doesn’t seem to be annoyed by this. He chuckles politely, a small smile playing on his lips like he’s totally relaxed and there’s nowhere else he’d rather be.
Me? The song is zapping my will to live, and Candy’s voice as she sings along is enough to turn my headache into a full-blown migraine if I have to listen to it for much longer. To top it off, I see her hand sliding around on West’s thigh from the corner of my eye—up and down, over, over, over…inching, inching, inching…
I briefly consider giving her long, silky hair a good yank.
And when we pull into my driveway five minutes later, I know what I need to do.
I need to make some excuse, tell them to have a good time, say goodnight, and let them get on with their date.
But I can’t. I can’t because I’m filled with white hot waves of jealous rage and the thought of West doing anything with this woman is making my stomach clench and my skin burn.
So I hop out of truck before it’s even come to a full stop, promising over my shoulder as I do (and in voice that’s way too high-pitched) that I’ll be, “Just a minute!” And then I’m like the wind; my sweatshirt is over my head and off a mere second after the front door is closed. Tossing it onto the banister, I haul ass to my room, pulling off my leggings as I go. Within thirty seconds, I’ve slid into a dark pair of skinny jeans and shrugged into a sleek navy blouse that’s sleeveless and feels like silk against my skin. I swipe a pair of suede ankle boots from my suitcase and hop into them as I stumble into the bathroom, where I take my contacts out, throw on my glasses, plump my bun, and run some color over my lips. A splash of fruity scented perfume (that Brent swears makes him hard the minute he smells it) is the final touch, and then I’m bounding back down the steps and out the front door, palming my keys as I jog back to the truck.
