The Memory of Us

by Lisa Sorbe

  “You’re not fat. Not even close.” He shrugs, as laid back as he ever is. “And who cares if you are?”

  “Um, maybe I do?” I’m being snippy.

  “Okay.” West says slowly. He grabs the remote and flicks on the TV, stopping at some show about cabin builders in Alaska. The volume is on low, barely a buzz in the room, but the noise is enough to snap me out of the zone I’ve been in for the last hour, and I set my pen down with a huff.

  West shuts off the TV and turns, flashing me a sarcastic smile. “So you’re okay, huh?”

  I sigh. “Corrine’s dying.”

  “What?” The question comes out as a laugh, like he’s in shock and his brain is interpreting the news as a joke.

  “She has cancer.”

  “Damn.” West blows out a breath and rubs the back of his neck. “How do you know? Did she actually tell you or?”

  “She told me.” I explain how I went over to help her with her will and filled in what little blanks I knew. “I can’t believe she’s refusing treatment.”

  “I can.” West sighs, though a soft smile touches his lips. “I mean, this is Corrine we’re talking about here.”

  “Yeah,” I say, “and the Corrine I knew was a fighter. Not someone to lay over and die. Literally.”

  “I don’t know. I think this is her way of fighting. Going out on her own terms. Not bed ridden and sick to her stomach from the chemo. Hell, now that I think about it, I’m not surprised at all. Robert had cancer, and they put him through the works. Radiation, chemo…none of it helped.” West shakes his head. “Man, he was miserable. And she never showed it, but I know it broke Corrine’s heart seeing him that way. I mean, the woman’s tough, sure. But she has her moments.” His eyes sweep my way. “Like we all do, I suppose.”

  My mom mentioned that Corrine’s husband passed away a few years ago. I didn’t know him well, only that he was a short little man who crunched numbers for an accounting firm during the day and usually arrived home right before our parents picked us up in the early evening. He was quiet but nice, and I remember noticing how much softer Corrine appeared when he was around.

  “Maybe,” I concede. “But her kids are still around, and I can’t imagine they’d approve of this. Not that she’s telling them.” My stomach twists in anger. “This isn’t fair to them, West. It’s just not.”

  “Maybe not. But it’s up to her. People respond to tragedy in different ways. I can’t imagine it’s been easy for her, processing all this. And after what she saw Robert go through, well, she’s doing the best she can with the information she has.”

  I’m still not convinced, though. But any reservations I have about the matter are quickly pushed to the back of my mind when West slides his hand over my bare foot and up my ankle.

  “I was thinking we could take care of number fourteen tonight.” His hand comes to rest on my calf, his strong fingers kneading the muscle.

  I feel like purring. “Hmm? Remind me what number fourteen is again?” My body loosens as my head drops to the back of the couch. “Because if it’s West gives Laney a massage, then I’m all for it.”

  West laughs and scoots closer, slipping his hand higher, past the crook of my knee and all the way up to my thigh. He pushes the hem of my shorts up a bit, and the hum in my chest grows louder. “It’s not,” he growls, “but I’d be more than happy to add it.” But then his touch turns to a tickle, and his laugh turns evil.

  I squirm out of his reach. “Jerk,” I sputter, trying but failing to contain a burst of giggles.

  West pulls me back by the leg and smacks my thigh. “Get up.”

  I study him suspiciously. “Why? What are we doing?”

  West presses his lips together, and I find myself wanting to kiss that delicious smirk right off his face.

  “We’re sneaking into an R-rated movie.”

  The line to the ticket cage at the old Tamarack Theater is taking forever. Apparently, everyone in Wolf Lake has decided to spend Friday night at the movies.

  That’s the thing about a small town. Things can get real crowded real quick.

  “But we’re legally allowed in R-rated movies now,” I point out, surveying the line ahead of us, “so it’s not like we can really sneak in.”

  “Maybe.” It’s all West says as we take a step forward.

  “I’m happy to see they expanded the place, at least. Now we can choose between four movies rather than, you know, two.” I snort and gesture up toward the marquee. “There’s a huge multi-plex by my condo. Recliner seating and sixteen movies playing at any given time.”

  “Wow,” West says, injecting an overabundance of twang in his voice. “Big city livin’ sure must be nice.”

  I roll my eyes, though a cheesy grin pushes up my cheeks. “Whatever, nerd.”

  The line inches forward, and I can’t help but notice a group of teenage girls a few feet ahead of us looking longingly at West. One of them whispers to another, and the entire clique erupts in a fit of giggles. A blonde wearing a dress the size of a postage stamp shoots me a dirty look.

  I nudge West and nod subtly in their direction. “I think you have a fan club.”

  West flashes the girls a big smile. “They’re just mistaking me for Chris Hemsworth.” He gives them a little wave, and they practically swoon. “Happens all the time.” He winks at me and then slides his arm around my waist, drawing me close.

  I swear I see the fingernails on the blonde grow an inch in a blink.

  “So,” he says, completely unconcerned that these teenagers are more than likely plotting my death, “looks like there are two movies rated R. Which one do you want to see? Sex or horror?”

  I laugh and shimmy away from his side. “Horror,” I say firmly.

  West shakes his head, but he’s smiling. “I’m not surprised.”

  I shrug off his comment. “And since we’re both thirty, seeing either movie is completely legal, so I’m not quite sure how we’re going to do this.”

  West just shrugs mysteriously while the gaggle of girls finishes up at the ticket stand. As we take another step forward, he reaches back, patting his back pocket. “Shit,” he whispers, leaning in close. “I forgot my wallet in the truck.”

  “Whatever. I’ll get it. It’s no big deal…” Except it is, because when I pull out my wallet-slash-phone case, I realize I didn’t put my card back in after shopping for groceries this morning. Meaning my debit card is still sitting at home, in my purse. “That’s odd,” I say, checking behind the flap…everywhere. “I could have sworn I put it back in before we left…”

  I’m mumbling when West pulls me out of line, and after I shove my phone back into my pocket, I make a start for the parking lot. But West yanks on my hand, tugging me along the narrow sidewalk that skirts the building.

  “What are you doing? The parking lot is over there…”

  West tightens his grip. “I know,” he says easily.

  “Then what?”

  He doesn’t answer, just continues to plow ahead, dragging me behind him. When he comes to the alley at the back of the building, I frown, a sneaking suspicion washing over me. “Weston Brooks. Don’t even tell me you’re planning to do what I think you are.”

  West looks back over his shoulder, lips pushed up in a cocky grin. “What? Chicken?”

  I halt and pull my hand from his grasp. Crossing my arms, I huff. “No, I am not chicken. But I am an attorney, and this is against the law. Not exactly good for, you know, my career.”

  West tips his head back and sighs dramatically, as if dealing with me is wearing him out. “The worst that would happen is that we’d get kicked out. Believe me, getting caught sneaking into the movies is hardly going to go on your record.”

  I open my mouth to argue but West is already gone; his long legs have taken him halfway down the alley by the time I catch up with him. He takes a spot behind a dumpster from the shoe store next door, and I quickly fall in beside him, clucking about misdemeanors and possible jail time in a hushed vo
ice.

  After about a minute, West turns and snakes an arm around my waist. Pressing a finger to my lips, he reprimands me. “Shh. You’re going to get us caught before we even get in.” He lifts a brow. “Man, you’re not very good at this, are you?”

  “Of course I’m not very good at this,” I hiss. “But you sure seem to be. What? Have you fallen into a life of crime since I left? I mean, really West—”

  “Again,” he whispers, his voice a rough growl in my ear, “shh.”

  He slides his finger down my lip, over my chin, and along my jawline which finally succeeds in shutting me up.

  “There. That’s better.” His mouth is so close to mine when he speaks that I feel his breath on my lips. “Now,” he says, his voice low, “be quiet.” One corner of his mouth pulls up into a smirk. “Or else.”

  I’m pressed so close to his chest that I can feel the thump of his heart against mine. “Or else what?” I challenge.

  “Do you really want to know?”

  The way he asks turns my knees to jelly. How is it that I’m getting turned on in an ally behind a dumpster? The smell of stale popcorn and hot cement is ripe around us, and yet all I want West to do is push me up against the scarred brick wall at my back and have his way with me.

  And it seems that’s exactly what he’s about to do, because his lips are close, closer, they’re brushing mine…

  But the metallic screech of the theater’s back door interrupts the moment, and West pulls away so he can peek over the top of the dumpster. I push in beside him and see a lanky teenager in a red vest and black pants appear at the door, dragging a plastic bag full of trash behind him. He does something weird with his leg and, squinting, I notice the door has a sort of makeshift bike stand at the bottom, one the kid unhinged with his foot. The bar clicks in place, keeping the door wide open while the guy lugs the trash to the theater’s dumpster just parallel to ours.

  My palms are sweaty and my heart is racing about a million miles per minute. Or at least that’s what it feels like; the sound of blood rushing, pounding in my ears, pushing against my temples is so intense that it drowns out the other noises in the alley. I tense, ready to bolt, figuring West wants us to slip in through the door while it’s still open, before the guy finishes with the trash. My mind is a spiraling tornado, a whirlwind of what-ifs, because even though sneaking into a movie theater is small potatoes on the crime scale, it’s the most illegal thing I’ve ever done and the whole act is giving me a rush.

  But West draws me tighter against him, as if he can sense the nervous spring in my bones. “Wait,” he breathes, maneuvering me so my back is against his chest. I can feel his chin on top of my head, his steady breath as he waits for whatever it is he’s waiting for. West has a plan, he always has a plan, and I lean back against his strong frame, waiting for his go-ahead.

  The theater employee dawdles in his task, seeming to take forever as he bangs the lid open and hoists the bulging plastic bag into the bin. When he’s finished, he stretches and yawns, kicks a stray soda can out into the alley, and checks his phone before heading back toward the open door. After he kicks the stand up, his disappears inside, the dark doorway swallowing him up so wholly it’s like he stepped through a vat of tar rather than into the darkened hallway of a dimly lit theater.

  The door swings shut with a shriek of metal on metal. But just before it closes completely, West sprints out from behind our dumpster and snatches the handle. He holds it still for a minute, pressing his body against the crack to block any light that might filter in from the alleyway. When he motions for me to join him, I do so hesitantly, tip-toeing silently across the gritty asphalt.

  West turns when I reach him, a triumphant smile lighting up his features. He opens the door and bends, making a grand sweeping gesture with his arm.

  “Ladies first.”

  West’s plan was simple.

  He proposed that we both go to the University of Minnesota, which would be an easy commute from Wolf Lake, and then our families would be able to help with the baby. I would, of course, have no problem getting in, what with having already obtained an academic scholarship from another school. And though I wouldn’t have a full ride at the U of M like I would’ve had at ASU, West was certain grants and student loans would more than cover the costs.

  In his mind, it was as simple as that. Easy peasy.

  I wasn’t surprised when he suggested this option, as it was really the only one left on the table. Yet a part of me died inside. Died at the thought of continuing to live in the same house, in the same way I’d been living for years, so closely with ghosts both dead and alive.

  What did surprise me was how well he took the news. I wouldn’t say he was happy, exactly. But a sense of peace filled the space around him as I spoke, which was at odds with my own melancholy. I was entirely despondent, my voice nothing but a shattered stutter that had nothing to do with the cold and everything to do with the hopelessness of the situation. His response was filled with the sort of optimism I’d always known him for—though hardly expected under the circumstances.

  But when he mentioned that I might want to take a semester or even a full year off after having the baby, I almost hyperventilated.

  I couldn’t go through with an abortion, yet I could hardly go through with the birth. I was stuck somewhere in the middle, and the only way to make things better would be to go back in time and never sleep with West at all.

  But that was impossible.

  The only request I made of West was that we waited on telling our parents until I was one hundred percent ready. He agreed, because as optimistic as he was, he had the good sense to know that the conversation wouldn’t be an easy one. Sure, I wasn’t just some random girl from school; I was Laney from next door. I was practically family already. And though I doubted his mother would find any fault in our relationship (she’d made so many comments over the years about how great it would be if West and I ended up together), I was pretty sure that becoming a grandmother a good decade before she was ready would have her eating her words.

  So time moved on, with West treating me like I was eight or nine months pregnant rather than what I was, which was ten weeks.

  We made the next trip to the clinic in Minneapolis together, and this time I went inside, my heart in my throat and West’s hand hot in mine. I was stiff through the ultrasound and accepted the information on vitamins with a smile and a nod, though my tongue was too tied to ask any questions. West took the lead, sounding far older than his years, and I listened with a numb indifference as he spoke with the nurse, their voices nothing but a distant buzz, a foreign language I didn’t even try to decipher.

  West’s enthusiasm that day was like a grain of sand in my eye, a splinter in my toe. And when we left the clinic, driving north toward home, my anger was almost too much to bear.

  I hated West. I hated the baby. I hated myself and the way one reckless decision was altering my life so drastically. This pregnancy was like a tornado, picking up my little world and shredding it to pieces, scattering it into the wind like it was nothing.

  I never did get on board with the pregnancy. I applied for and was accepted to the University of Minnesota, and humored West while he roamed second hand stores in search of cribs and infant seats and those little bouncing swings. I talked him out of buying anything; to actually walk out of the store with a crib or bassinet in hand would have made everything more real.

  And I didn’t want real. I wanted make believe. A world of make believe, where I was already in a city that resembled nothing of the one from which I came. Where absolutely nothing would remind me of the past—of the ones I’d loved and lost and the ones I’d loved and let down—and I could start new.

  Totally and completely new.

  While I went through all the motions, there was a part of me that refused to believe it was happening. I lived in denial, barely acknowledging the brief bouts of morning sickness and the tiny bump that developed and pressed against my jeans at f
ourteen weeks. I swilled mouthwash and covered the bulge with baggy clothes and moved on with my day. In the early spring, I received information from ASU about freshman orientation and registration. I read it through, then tucked it all away in a folder, not bothering to tell them I wasn’t coming. I was putting it off, putting it off, putting it off…

  Until one day, I didn’t have to anymore.

  Because at seventeen weeks, I miscarried.

  The summer days roll by in a way they haven’t in years. Not since I was a kid and those hot months seemed to stretch on forever. Time seems to speed up as we get older, but maybe that’s just because we pay attention less. Children get lost in the moment. As adults, we try to control it.

  “Relax.”

  I roll over onto my stomach and rest my cheek against my forearms. “It’s hard. I have a lot to do, and I’ve been slacking.”

  And I’m leaving in two weeks.

  But I don’t mention this, because neither West nor I have acknowledged that our time together is coming to a close.

  The waves behind me lap at the shore, a tranquil sound that, if I let it, would lull me right to sleep. But I can’t sleep, because West is next to me, and just his presence alone has my body buzzing. I open one eye and squint, watching him as he lounges, golden in the sun’s golden light. Water droplets from our morning swim glisten on his hair, his chest, lending a radiance to his skin that seems to come from within.

  Some days, most lately, I marvel that I’m here. That I’ve let this man back into my life. Or, perhaps more accurately, that he let me back in.

  And I’m not even sure what we are, not really. Sometimes we pal around like kids, as if the years turned back and our friendship never faltered the way that it did. Then, other times, my desire for him almost consumes me—a hunger that’s out of my control and the only way to satiate it is to…