Magnolia Road

by J. Lynn Bailey

  I watch as he drives away, unsure of what I just signed up for. Unsure of where this will lead us. Unsure of the end result. But one thing is for sure; I know what I want.

  I walk into the house, and Helen is thumbing through a travel magazine at the kitchen counter. She looks up when the door shuts behind me.

  “Ready to get started?” She’s pretending that what she saw outside wasn’t complicated. Maybe because she doesn’t want to meddle in her son’s business. Maybe because she doesn’t want to know.

  Either way, I wish Trudy could be more like Helen. Trudy would be the hawk. Swooping down, using her talons to pick up and lose information. Giving her opinions when they weren’t wanted.

  That reminds me; I should call her.

  “I am.” I walk into the kitchen and put the grocery bag on the counter.

  I don’t have the complete secret recipe to my chili written down. I do have several scraps of paper with changes I’ve made to the recipe over the years scattered in my recipe folder, but I know it by heart, even the changes.

  “Do you want to cut the onions while I rinse the beans?” I ask.

  “You’ve got it,” Helen says as she looks in the bag. “May I?”

  “Yes, absolutely.”

  This question of hers makes me feel like I’m private. That, by looking in the bag, she’s invading my privacy, but she’s not.

  Helen grabs the onions from the bag and gets a cutting board and a knife while I get the big bag of pinto beans and rinse them.

  Helen chops the onion.

  After the beans are rinsed, I grab the whiskey.

  Helen stops. Looks at me. “I’ve never taken you for a whiskey drinker, Bryce.”

  “It’s the secret ingredient. That, and”—I pull another small bottle out from the bag—“fish sauce.”

  Helen stops altogether. “Whiskey and fish sauce.” Her eyes bounce from the ingredients and back to me. “I guess I’ll need to take your word for it.”

  She continues to chop while I grab the rest of the ingredients and shove the brown paper bag underneath the sink.

  I grab the garlic, another cutting board, a knife, and begin to chop.

  “You know, Ethan wasn’t the man he is today,” Helen says. “Wasn’t as quiet, wasn’t as serious. So … removed. I guess that would be the right word.”

  Chopping the garlic, I listen.

  “When the boys were little, Ethan was always the cautious one. Aaron was the more outgoing one. More of a risk-taker.” She stops, thinks, and stares at the living room ahead, lost in her own memories.

  “When he came from the war for the first time, came home for a visit, he was all right. I assumed the small change in him, the way he didn’t smile, the way he was more withdrawn, was the war. What they had to see over there. Do.” Her voice grows quiet. “I tried to keep things normal for him at home. The way they always were. Something familiar. There’s nothing normal about war.”

  She stops cutting the onion for a moment. “When he came home and told Bill and me that he wanted to enlist in the Marines, it took us by complete surprise. Ethan has always had the softer heart, the old soul of my boys. Ethan was the one who would bring injured animals home and try to rehabilitate them.” She smiles at the memory, laughs.

  “There was one time when he brought home a wounded bird from the woods. He and Aaron were about ten years old. Anyway, he put it in this big blue container, and on the outside, the bird didn’t look wounded. Ethan said he just couldn’t fly. The bird had survived the night, so Ethan took it to share at school the next day. He said, when he pulled the bird out of the container to share with his classmates, the bird’s head dropped to one side. The bird had died.” Helen covers her mouth to stifle a laugh. “I shouldn’t be laughing, and of course, I didn’t laugh at the time when he told me. Instead, I consoled him, his wounded heart. Made him some hot chocolate, and we buried the bird in the backyard. We have somewhat of a pet cemetery in the backyard for the animals that Ethan couldn’t save. Which weren’t very many. He saved many animals.”

  Helen’s voice grows quiet. “So, you can see why he went into such a protective mode last night when that car came at us.” She grabs another onion and begins to cut again.

  We chop and listen to the silence.

  “Just because there aren’t any wounds on the outside doesn’t mean he’s not dying inside.”

  I meet Helen’s gaze.

  “You have given Ethan a smile that I haven’t seen since he came home from his second tour, Bryce. I really enjoy seeing his smile.” Tears come to Helen’s eyes as she chops again. “Damn onions.”

  I enjoy Ethan’s smile, too.

  My phone sounds.

  I grab a dishrag and wipe my hands. “Excuse me, Helen. I’ll be right back.”

  In my purse, I grab my phone and see that it’s my mother. I hit Ignore and begrudgingly make a note to myself to call her back when Helen leaves. I shove my phone back in my purse and walk back to the counter.

  Fourteen

  Ethan

  I sit across from James, my leg bouncing up and down, slouched, comfortable in the space that I’m in.

  “Why is your leg bouncing, Ethan?” James asks, his hands folded casually in his lap.

  It makes me think about our first year together and how he’d sit, pen and notepad in hand, waiting for me to give him my life story.

  I pull my body forward, placing my elbows on my knees, contemplating whether to tell James about Bryce. My leg stops bouncing.

  I’m no longer ordered to come see James. I do it on my own.

  His office is clean. The dark, thick hardwood floor is protected by an off-white area rug. Bookshelves line the length of one wall. Love and War. A Separate Peace. Waking the Tiger: Healing Trauma. To Kill a Mockingbird. One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. War and the Soul. I wonder why James houses fiction books in his office. I come up with reasons in my head, never asking him for the true answer. Why? I don’t know. Maybe my curiosity is the answer I’m looking for. Maybe it’s the one I want to believe. Because life is easier lived if it isn’t your own. A make-believe world is just that. You can walk away at any time.

  “You’re nervous. Care to discuss it?” James reaches forward and takes a sip of his water. Folds his hands back in his lap, crossing one leg over the other.

  “There’s a woman,” I say, leaning back. Knee starts to move up and down again.

  James nods. “Bryce?”

  My mouth falls open. “How do you know about her?”

  “I’m a trained listener, Ethan. She’s the only woman you’ve ever brought up.”

  I nod. “She’s back in town again for a while.” I stall.

  “Have you asked her to dinner?”

  I pull back my lip to a snarl and give him a look. “No, why?”

  James shrugs. “That’s what you do when you find a woman you’d like to spend more time with, Ethan.”

  “James”—I shake my head—“you know how I feel about that shit. I can’t … I can’t just ask her out.”

  James frowns. “Remember the circle we did a few years ago? I asked you to draw a circle. And all I asked you was to put where you were in relation to the circle. Remember?”

  I nod.

  “And remember when I asked you to add the important people in your life in relation to the circle and you?”

  Fuck.

  “And you drew you on the inside, and everyone else on the outside. Helen, Bill, Aaron, Ryan, Eli.” He pauses. “What’s changed since then, Ethan?”

  Leg starts to bounce again.

  “Where would you put Bryce on the circle?”

  “Outside.”

  “And why?”

  I let out a big breath. “Because, James. You know why.”

  “Say it out loud.”

  My eyes narrow. Fucking A. Why do I pay this man one hundred dollars a session? “You know why.”

  “Say it out loud,” he says again.

  “Why? So, it feeds you
r ego?”

  That’s the thing with James; I’ve never been able to get under his skin. Ever. No matter what I’ve said to him in the past, and I’ve said some pretty harsh things—not because of him, but because of who I’ve become and fought so hard not to be.

  “You don’t pay me one hundred dollars a session, so I can feed my ego; trust me, Ethan.” James smiles and takes another sip of water. “Why would you put Bryce on the outside of the circle?”

  “I’ll hurt her if she’s on the inside.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because I know, all right?” I lean forward because I want to stop the shaking of my leg.

  “You aren’t giving yourself the chance to hurt her, Ethan. Your fear of emotions—”

  I interrupt the sentence I’ve heard him say a thousand times to me. “That’s why you’re scared of intimacy, Ethan.” I mimic his voice, his tone, his gestures, but I partly smile as I do it.

  “Is … is that a smile from Ethan Casey?” James asks.

  We both know he’s right about my fear of emotions. Commitment. Love. Intimacy.

  “What are you going to do about this fear?” he asks.

  There’s a long-drawn-out silence between us and outside his office. Not even the song sparrows sing.

  “Fear can keep us from happiness,” James says. Lays it out on the table like it’s rye bread or a perfectly acceptable statement. His eyes narrow. “Fear comes up in different ways, Ethan. It might not always show physically with shaking, sweating, not eating. But it can also certainly be in decisions we don’t make or situations we walk away from because we can’t face them. It can be sex relations, ambitions. Self-esteem—you’re fearful of how Bryce will make you feel. What, maybe vulnerable?” James stops talking for a moment, waits, eyes me from his chair.

  “I need to go,” I say and stand.

  “Did you ever stop to think that maybe life might work out for you?” James says and stands also.

  “No.” I turn toward the door.

  “And why not?”

  “Because death is always inevitable, James. Always. We come into this world one way, and we get out one way. It’s that simple.” I open the door and shut it behind me.

  I throw my keys on the table beside the front door. I need relief from all this shit that’s going in my mind.

  I grab a bottle of Maker’s Mark along with a small glass from the liquor cabinet and listen to the glub of the bottle as I pour it, adding some ice from the freezer.

  The booze slides down my throat, burning, and explodes on my empty stomach as I slam the glass down on the counter.

  I wait for the poison to reach my brain and lift the feelings that inundate me right now.

  Everything slows down.

  Words in my head aren’t so loud anymore. Thoughts don’t spin so fast.

  I pull off my shirt with the intentions of a shower.

  The doorbell rings.

  I finish the glass of whiskey. I’m not expecting anyone, but it could be my brother or my mother. Which would be weird if I answered the door with my shirt off.

  But it’s her hair I notice first behind the door.

  I pull it open.

  “Hey.” A small exhale escapes her mouth as her eyes involuntarily drop down to my bare chest and shoot back up to my eyes.

  When I see her, I can breathe better. More clearly. Maybe it’s the whiskey, too. My stomach gets tight, and I think it’s nerves.

  I’ve had liquid courage. This can go so right and so wrong.

  “Your mom gave me your address. I hope that’s all right. I need you to try this chili. I walked up here.”

  I realize she’s holding a small container in her hands.

  “Have you eaten?”

  “No.”

  Bryce holds out the container.

  I take it. “Come in,” I say, knowing I’m asking for a situation that might not be right, but my heart is overruling my head right now. Also, the whiskey.

  She steps inside, and I breathe her in. The scent of her shampoo, citrus, combined with her body way too close to mine make me realize I need to move. I shut the door behind her. Bryce spots the Maker’s Mark on the counter.

  I walk in front of her, throwing my shirt on the counter. “Care for a drink?” Small metaphorical red flags go up for me.

  There’s a short silence before she answers, “I could use one, yes.” She sits at the counter while I stand on the other side, creating distance between us. “Give me your honest opinion about the chili,” she says, watching me as I make her a drink.

  “Anything with the Maker’s?” I ask.

  “No.”

  “Straight?”

  “Yes.”

  I slide the glass across the counter after I drop a few ice cubes in it.

  I pour myself another small glass and take a sip. I watch her.

  “What?” she says. “Never seen a woman drink whiskey straight before?”

  “Just Dani Leroy. In high school. Watched it come out of her nose, too.” I feel the grin begin. Maybe it’s the booze. Maybe it’s Bryce here, in my house.

  “Ouch.”

  “Yeah.”

  She puts her glass to her lips and sips. It’s so quiet that I hear her swallow. Bryce’s lips form a thin line as she sets her glass down.

  “Can I tell you something?” She sweeps her finger across the brim of her glass.

  The whiskey has definitely reached my head because flashes of her meet the forefront of my mind—from this morning to our night in LA. These memories seem to drown out the bad ones. The ones I don’t talk about. The ones I only share with James.

  “All ears.”

  “I think I’m going to enter my chili in the Fall Festival tomorrow.”

  “Is that why my mom came over?”

  “Yes. But why would you assume it was for the chili?”

  “Helen Casey makes the best chili in the state of Maine. Aside from Milton Murdock.”

  “But … she didn’t say anything. She just cut the onions, the garlic. Helped with the secret ingredients.” Bryce looks dumbfounded.

  “She probably wouldn’t.” I shrug. “Wait, how’d you know where I lived?”

  “Played dumb with your mom. I figured your girlfriend should know where you lived, but I played it off as the new girl in town. ‘A left on what street, Helen, to get to Ethan’s?’”

  I’ve got to take a cold shower, I think to myself as we both put our glasses to our mouths, attempting to relieve the tension between us. Not the bad tension. The sexual tension I know I feel. But does Bryce feel it?

  “I should go. Let me know if the chili is good enough to beat Milton’s?” Bryce stands, taking her glass to the sink.

  I don’t say she shouldn’t go. I don’t ask her to stay because we both know it’s a bad idea. Not a good mix. Booze and sex.

  “Yeah,” I sigh as she walks past me. Still, my shirt lies on the counter, and I grab for it, but she beats me to it, swiping it from the counter before I do.

  “Like I said, I’ll take what I can get.”

  Fuck. I don’t care what she takes. I’ll give her anything, except the dark places my mind goes when life seems to get hard. Cold shower, Ethan.

  There’s nothing to say to that, except, “Okay.”

  She walks to the door, and I follow in her wake.

  I pull the door open, but she turns, looks at me, doesn’t say a word, but hands me my shirt back. I want to say something profound. Deep. But the words don’t come. What would James say in this situation? Hell, I’m not even sure he likes women.

  Hesitantly, she takes her hand and gently touches the spot on my chest where my heart is. “I can’t fix this. I wish I could.” She reaches up and touches my temple. “I wish I could fix your memories. Only the bad ones.” Bryce allows her fingertips to slide from my temple to the side of my face, down my chest, and lets her hand fall next to her. “Good night, Ethan.”

  Bryce walks outside.

  Am I drivi
ng her home? I can’t. I’ve had something to drink.

  And I can’t seem to fucking catch my breath. My body is full of need, surging with energy.

  Let her go, Ethan.

  Let her walk away. Her house isn’t more than two blocks downhill.

  Why can’t you be strong enough?

  Let go.

  I wait seventeen seconds, and something inside me tells me to fucking run after her.

  I’m outside and reaching for her arm. I flip her around and not so gently push her back against the truck. I grip the sides of her face and smash my lips to hers with everything I have. My tongue searches into her mouth as she opens wider for me. Our eyes stay locked as I allow my body to press up against hers. I feel myself harden, and I want her to know what she does to me without words.

  Her hands slide to my ass, and she pulls me closer to her, wanting this just as much as I do.

  My tongue probes her mouth as I feel her body relax, and this makes me think of how tight she was in my mouth until she finally relaxed when I made her come.

  I pull away, catching my breath, and I watch her chest heave in the moonlight, her stare hard.

  “What do you want, Bryce?” I take my hand and slide it over her covered breast.

  “Whatever you’ll give me,” she pants.

  Think rationally, Ethan. For fuck’s sake. “What if it’s just this?”

  She nods and takes a big breath in. “I’ll take it.”

  But I see the truth in her eyes. She’ll want more.

  Despite that, my lips crash down on hers again.

  Fifteen

  Bryce

  He pulls me inside, and I’m drunk on him. Maybe the whiskey, too. He leads me to his bedroom with power. Force. A force not used against me, but for us.

  If it’s just sex, will you be all right with this, Bryce?

  My question goes unanswered because he moves me to the end of his bed. The only light in his bedroom is from the moon outside.

  Ethan removes my sweatshirt and T-shirt.

  A woman never comes to a man’s house, whom she has feelings for, without shaved legs and a sexy black bra with panties to match. It’s just code.