All This Time

by Mikki Daughtry

  But…

  They aren’t in sync. My eyes shift from the man to the shadow, his movements a second faster in silhouette.

  He leans over the machine just after the shadow does, but now there’s long hair flowing over the silhouette’s shoulder.

  I take a step closer, confused. The height and shape of the shadow is suddenly shockingly familiar to me. Too familiar.

  Kimberly.

  I see the electric blade spin, but the sound isn’t right. Instead of the whirring of metal, I hear an odd whooshing sound.

  Chill out. This isn’t real. This isn’t real.

  I think of what Marley said, about how I’m trying to control things. Trying to keep a part of her here.

  The shadow’s arm reaches for the slicer again, and I close my eyes, focusing on that. It’s in my head. It’s—I jump when a hand touches my neck.

  “What the…” I whirl around, coming face-to-face with my mom, her hand in midair.

  “I’m sorry,” she says, studying my face. “I thought you heard me.”

  I glance back at the deli clerk to see him making a normal slice, with a normal shadow.

  It’s been almost a week since my last weird vision. I’m pissed at myself.

  “You okay?” my mom asks, feeling my forehead. She’s been better at giving me some space to figure things out now that I’m not staying in bed for twenty-three of the twenty-four hours in a day, but that still doesn’t stop her from poking and prodding me after the slightest trace of a headache.

  “Yeah,” I say as the deli clerk puts the wrapped meat onto the counter. I grab it, put it into the overflowing cart with a thunk. “My head’s just bothering me today. What else is new?”

  I can still feel her looking at me, so I try to reassure her again. “Nothing a little Tylenol and some food can’t fix.” I look down at the pile of groceries in the shopping cart, the bag of potatoes hopefully buried somewhere at the bottom. “Where’d the wind blow you?”

  She shrugs coyly and holds up a tub of ice cream, making the both of us laugh as we head to the checkout.

  * * *

  Exactly twenty-four hours later, I’m in way over my head. The steak? Looking great. Veggies? Steaming. My mom’s béarnaise sauce recipe?

  A catastrophe.

  I’m surrounded by two empty egg cartons, shells and yolk guts littering the entire counter, and for what feels like the millionth time, the sauce comes out lumpy.

  Why is it so lumpy?

  My mom always makes this look so easy.

  I glance at the clock, panicking a bit when I see it’s 5:45. I only have fifteen minutes to get this sauce right, reheat everything, and probably change my shirt, since I’ve sweat clean through this one trying to figure out how to make this fancy-ass sauce.

  After speed-watching a YouTube how-to video, I finally realize that I’ve had the temperature too high this entire time. I scan through my mom’s handwritten recipe card for the thirtieth time, and there is no mention of temperature. So I toss it back onto the counter, doing a double take when I catch sight of a tiny note scrawled on the back: lower temp before eggs.

  Great. Just great.

  I lower the temperature this time, and when I whisk the yolks and then beat in the butter, my wrist screaming, it actually turns into a smooth sauce instead of a lumpy mess.

  “Holy shit. I did it,” I say, breathing a sigh of relief as I give it a taste. Creamy. Perfect. I add a pinch of salt just to be safe.

  Moving quickly, I put down the plates and fold napkins underneath the utensils and even make sure to have a flower centerpiece.

  A branch of cherry blossoms.

  I ran to the park earlier just to make sure they’d be here, so a few of the blossoms look a little worse for wear.

  While the rib eyes reheat, I pour the sauce into tiny ramekins instead of over the meat, since Marley is particular with her sauces. The second one takes a long time to fill, the sauce pouring out at a glacial pace. Impatiently, I tap the bottom of the saucepan, and of course, it all comes rushing out at once, overflowing past the top of the ramekin and onto the countertop like a damn mudslide.

  I’m crushing this cooking thing.

  Sighing, I grab a towel and clean it off, then plate the meat and get everything on the table with just enough time to sprint downstairs to change my shirt before the doorbell rings.

  Marley.

  I smooth down my hair as I take the steps by twos, then slide into the entryway to pull open the door.

  She’s wearing a lemon-yellow rain jacket, the color standing out against the cloudy gray sky, the rain falling all around her.

  “Hey,” I say, leaning casually against the doorframe.

  “Hey,” she says, squinting to look at me through the rain. She nods up at the steady downpour. “Can I maybe… come in?”

  “Oh, right. Yeah,” I say, pushing the door fully open. She steps inside and pulls her hood down, her hair wavier than usual because of the rain. I find my eyes zeroing on a stray strand trying to break out of her ponytail.

  I want to tuck it behind her ear like she always does, but instead I take her jacket from her. I hang it on the basement doorknob to dry while she looks around the entryway at all the pictures. She stops in front of me, peering down the steps.

  “What’s down there?” she asks.

  “A couple of dead bodies,” I joke, to which she rolls her eyes, nudging my shoulder, the tiniest bit amused. “My room’s down there.”

  She looks intrigued. “In the basement?”

  “Yeah. I moved down there my sophomore year of high school, after my mom got it finished,” I say as I nod down the steps. “Sam and Kim used to sneak in through a door down there. Leads straight to the backyard.”

  She smiles at that, definitely amused now. “Ah, a bad boy,” she teases.

  I roll my eyes. “You ready for dinner?”

  “Am I?” she asks warily, understandably doubting my cooking abilities.

  We head into the kitchen and Marley smiles at the cherry blossoms on the table, so at least my manic, limping run to the park this morning was worth it.

  I’m about to sit down when I realize I forgot to put water on the table. Pulling open the cabinet, I hear a car door slam shut outside.

  “Hey, my mom’s home early,” I say as I crane my neck to look out the window, catching a glimpse of her getting her stuff out of the backseat, the rain barely a mist now. I knew she had a mischievous glint in her eye when I asked her to get out her recipe card last night. Of course she couldn’t stay away. Classic Lydia. “She’s going to be so excited to meet you.”

  I head out of the kitchen and into the entryway, then pull open the door to greet her. “Hey, Mom, this is…” I turn around, but the hallway behind me is empty—no Marley. My mom’s excited expression fades to confusion, which I return with the same kind of energy.

  “One sec,” I say as I backtrack to the kitchen, but even the seat where Marley was sitting is now empty. What the…?

  I pause, noticing the door to the basement is ajar, her yellow rain jacket gone.

  “Marley?” I call as I push it fully open, jogging down the steps. I’m met by silence, the French doors in the corner of the room flung wide open. I peer out into the backyard for a trace of her yellow jacket.

  “Marley!”

  Still nothing.

  I grab a hoodie from the back of my desk chair. “Hey, Mom!” I call upstairs as I pull it on. “I’ll be right back.” I jog outside and around the house, squinting as I search for her.

  Where did she—the pond.

  I run-limp out of my neighborhood and along the path, my chest heaving by the time the glittering surface of the water comes into view, the air warm after the rain, the sky a blend of pinks and oranges and purples.

  I skid to a stop when I see her yellow jacket, doing a double take when I notice there’s a duck sitting in her lap.

  Like… an actual live fucking duck. Sitting. In her lap.

  I pul
l off my hoodie and walk over. I place it on the slightly damp ground before sliding down next to her.

  “Well,” I say with an exhale. “This is probably the first time I’ve ever seen anyone cuddle a duck.”

  “I’m sorry,” she says, not looking at me. She remains focused on the duck, gently petting its white feathers, her eyebrows knitted together.

  “What happened? You didn’t even get to taste the food. I mean, I’m no chef, but it couldn’t have been that bad.” The bird turns its head to look at me, its beady black eyes sizing me up. I scoot a little farther away, not looking for a fight.

  Marley shrugs and looks out at the water, the familiar glimmer of pain in her eyes.

  “Is it part of the sad story?”

  She lets out a heavy sigh, her shoulders rising and falling with the breath. “I just… I got nervous,” she says as she pushes her wavy hair out of her face. “Your mom came home. New people make me nervous. I can’t seem to find my voice. I don’t ever know what to say.”

  I smirk and scoot closer to nudge her shoulder, the bird eyeing me. “You talk plenty.”

  “Only to you,” she says as she looks over at me. “With you it’s…”

  Her voice trails off as she searches for the word.

  “I don’t know. It’s… us. You get it.”

  Us. My heart thumps loudly in my chest at that word. I swallow and watch as she tucks her fingers under the duck’s wings and scratches, its feathers ruffling for a few seconds before settling back down. It rubs its beak against her arm, more affectionate than I knew a duck could even be.

  I cross my legs, one over the other, and lean back, trying to ignore the feeling her words have just given me.

  “Well, the way you ditched me at dinner was super not cool,” I say, attempting to be serious. “I spent a full hour on that sauce and you didn’t even try it.”

  I glance over to see her eyes are wide, her face flustered.

  “So,” I say, the word “us” still ringing in my ears. “I deserve a do-over.”

  “A do-over?” she asks, both she and the duck staring at me.

  “No parents allowed,” I say, meeting the duck’s gaze. “Or ducks. Just you and me.”

  The duck quacks in response, its feathers ruffling as Marley and I laugh.

  “Just you and me,” she says thoughtfully, hesitantly, until that shy smile pulls at her lips. “Okay.”

  We stay another half hour, watching the sun set, our legs almost touching. I jog home after, still trying to figure out how I feel about all of this.

  This is not at all how I expected this night to go.

  I thought she’d tease me about the messy sauce or my subpar napkin-folding skills. That maybe she’d open up and tell me a little more of her sad story.

  But now I just have more questions.

  The thing is… I do know exactly what she means by “us.” We just get each other. And even though it feels like something I shouldn’t admit, I can’t help but be excited about our do-over. Excited about us.

  I shake off my jumbled feelings and slow down as I head through the front door and into the kitchen, the uneaten rib eyes still on the table, my mom leaning casually against the counter like she didn’t just come home three hours early to catch a glimpse of Marley.

  “Everything all right?” my mom asks.

  “Yep,” I say as I fill a glass with water and take a quick sip. “It’s all good.” I can feel her eyes on me, prodding for more. “Maybe,” I start to say, and she perks up, eager for more information. “Maybe you can promise me you’ll actually work late next time? Instead of, you know, ruining my plans.”

  She gives me a guilty smile before agreeing.

  “You hungry?” I motion to the uneaten plates.

  She laughs, scooping them up to reheat. “Starving. I’ve been eyeing them since you left.”

  We’ve barely started eating when there’s a knock on the back door. We look over, the hinges creaking as Sam steps inside, grinning wide and holding a six-pack of beer.

  Crap.

  Sam knows my mom usually stays late at work on Fridays, but he hasn’t just shown up like this since before the accident.

  “Hey,” he says as he holds up the six-pack. “Thought we could hang.”

  I frantically gesture to him to hide it, but it’s too late. His eyes widen instantly when he sees my mom, and he quickly tries to hide the beer behind his back, but nothing gets past Lydia Lafferty.

  She gets up and grabs them right from his grip, clutching the six-pack to her chest. “How thoughtful, Sam! How did you know I love a good IPA?”

  “Oh, come on, Mrs. L.,” Sam says, smirking and throwing an arm over her shoulder. Sam could charm anyone. “I feel like I’ve aged three years in the last three months. How about you, Kyle? You feeling twenty-one?”

  “Maybe even twenty-two,” I say, grinning at him as my mom rolls her eyes at the both of us.

  “Nice try, boys,” she says, pretending to not find our antics even a little bit funny, but I can see the corner of her mouth pulling up into a smile.

  Sam sighs and plunks down on one of the kitchen chairs, nodding to the remnants of dinner.

  “That’s a fancy meal,” Sam says, leaning over to give the rib eye a sniff. “What’s the occasion, Mrs. L.?”

  “No occasion,” my mom says. She glances over at me, hesitating.

  “What? What’s that look?” Sam asks me, his gaze confused, and my stomach sinks.

  I know, even before saying it, that he isn’t going to understand.

  15

  I pull my backpack farther up on my shoulder the next morning, finally taking up Sam’s invite to join the Saturday touch football game at the park. I told him a few days ago I’d come, but after last night…

  I see his jaw lock as he looks over at me from the middle of a group of guys. As I get closer, he spins on his heel, intentionally walking away from them. Away from me.

  … I kind of wish I’d bailed.

  I catch sight of Dave and Paul, two guys from our team who have stayed in town and started working. I hesitate, my stomach twisting a little more. I never replied to any of their texts. I really don’t need more people on this field to be pissed at me.

  The worry is instantly washed away, though, when Paul looks straight at me, his face breaking out into a huge smile. “No shit.”

  Dave spins around to see what he’s looking at, his mop of blond hair pulled up into a man bun. “Lafferty! Good to see you, man.”

  “You too,” I say as Paul throws an arm around my shoulder.

  At least someone isn’t pissed to see me. I can practically feel Sam’s passive-aggressive rage radiating at me from his fake-ass hamstring stretches a few feet away.

  He knows now that I’ve been hanging out with Marley, but I can’t figure out why he’s being so weird about it. Maybe because he just left instead of letting me explain.

  The silent treatment was always Kim’s move, not Sam’s.

  “You look good,” Paul says as Dave nods in agreement.

  “It’s been rough, but I’m getting back out there,” I say, which is somehow both an understatement and an overstatement at the same time. This is the most people I’ve been around in months.

  “That’s awesome, bro. Glad you came,” Dave says, smiling as he hands me the football he’s been holding.

  I look down at it, rolling it between my hands, the feeling like coming home. We divide into teams, the rest of the players people from last year’s JV team, now promoted to varsity after our departure.

  When we circle up for the first play, Sam stands off to the side, making a show of disagreeing with everything I say.

  Great. Here we go.

  As we get into formation, he brushes past me a little too hard to be accidental. “It’s just like changing channels for you, isn’t it?”

  “What?” I ask as he sets up on the line, his back to me.

  “You know what.”

  I ignore him and call th
e play, my eyes following him down the length of the field, a defender hot on his tail. I opt to throw a short pass to Paul for the sake of gaining a couple of yards. He catches it, but he’s tapped by a lineman almost immediately, ending the play.

  Sam jogs back over, his chest heaving. “Nothing?” he asks, raising his eyebrows expectantly. “You’ve got nothing to say? Maybe we should ask Marley what she thinks.”

  There it is. Out in the open. Fucking finally.

  “Let it go, Sam,” I mutter as Paul hands the ball back to me.

  “Expert advice, huh? You sure know how to let go, don’t you?”

  Did he really just say that?

  Scowling, I call the next play. The ball is hiked to me, and Sam’s supposed to run a hook route for the touchdown. Instead he just strolls right through the play, his back turned away from the pass.

  What the fuck?

  Fury explodes across my chest. I fire the ball at him with enough force to make my shoulder twinge, watching as it bounces off the back of his head and his neck jerks forward. He whips around and is already running at me before I have any time to take off. He slams into me. I hit the ground hard. Not any harder than I have millions of times in a football game.

  But it stuns me for just a second. I’ve never seen Sam like this.

  “How many times did Kim break up with you? Do you even remember?” he says, standing over me.

  I push myself up, refusing to be intimidated. “I’m guessing you do. How many?”

  He grabs my collar, twisting his fists into it with a raw anger that’s clearly been boiling for a while now. “Seven. Seven times since the ninth grade—”

  Suddenly all the frustration I’ve been shoving down the last few months erupts all at once. At him. At what happened. Who the hell does he think he is? How dare he tell me how to feel?

  “And she was about to do it again, Sam! But she died,” I say as I shove him away, his fingers releasing the fabric around my collar. “What am I supposed to do? Pine forever? Stop breathing?”