by R. C. Martin
She changes the subject and I listen to her talk for a while, mostly about the progress she made on her novel this afternoon. I chime in here and there, but it’s not long before my day in the sun catches up to me again and the sound of her voice lulls me to sleep. I don’t feel bad when I start to doze. She doesn’t take offense; it happens from time to time. Instead of hanging up, she keeps talking until she thinks I’m asleep. Just before I slip into unconsciousness, I hear her whisper, “I love you. Sweet dreams.”
I unwrap the frozen pizza and toss it into the oven. For the hundredth time, I tell myself I need to learn to cook. That, or find another frozen dinner option. I’m not sure how many more pizzas I can subject myself to before I start getting nauseous at the mere thought of one. For now, I’m too hungry to care. I know I have a few casseroles left. Crystal put most of them in the freezer a couple months ago. I don’t know how many dishes of food were left after Grams’ funeral. Too many to count. Eating them always reminds me of her and I’m not in the mood to combat my stomach’s memory of her as well as my own. Not today.
It’s on nights like this that I miss Crystal.
Fuck. I need to learn to cook.
It wasn’t long after Rett got deployed that she and I moved back to Wyoming. We both moved in with Grams. She always liked Crystal and told her she was more than welcome. Crystal and her parents don’t get along, and all of her friends were in leases, so it just worked out that she make herself at home in one of the spare rooms here. After Grams—
It was just easier for both of us when she moved out. We didn’t want to lose each other, but with Rett overseas and Grams gone…our need for each other was overwhelming. The only way to get past it was to put some distance between us. A few walls and a hallway wasn’t enough.
We still see each other plenty. Yet, after living with her for almost a year, it’s been an adjustment not having her around. Thinking about it reminds me just how big this damn house is. Big and empty and depressing, especially without the woman who made it home. I know that I should probably feel more sentimental about this residence; I should probably feel some sort of familial obligation to keep it forever. It’s paid off. More than that, it belonged to my grandparents. Now, it belongs to my brother and me. Something about that change in ownership makes everything different. While it might be wrong to even think about getting away from this place, the idea seems more attractive as time goes on.
I don’t know how long the memory of Grams will be enough to keep me here. I’m already starting to lose bits and pieces of her, which is proof positive that staying here won’t help me keep her. She’s gone. But I can’t just bail. Not without talking it over with Rett, first. He’ll be home next month. We can decide what we want to do then. Together.
I set the timer on the oven and then head into the next room to sit down in front of the television. I don’t really have any great interest in watching anything, but the house is too quiet with just me in it. I spot Crystal’s sweater thrown over the arm of the sofa and assume she left it here on accident last night. She came over for dinner—for the holiday. She brought a few beers and we hung out on the porch and watched the fireworks together. We’ve got a pretty decent view. With the moisture this summer, and the lack of a fire band, there was a good show.
I’m not old enough to go drinking on my own, but she’s happy to oblige. Especially over the last couple of months. She’s not as antisocial as I am these days, but I mean enough to her that she’ll come to me without complaint. I just haven’t felt like going out, recently. Too much shit going on in my head. It’s been that way since the day I woke up and found—
I pull my cell phone out of my pocket and shoot Crystal a text. I got off early. The shop was pretty bare with the holiday weekend and I didn’t have any appointments today. My client list is growing, which is good. People trust me enough to recommend me, so I’m gaining a reputation, and that’s all I can ask for. Hopefully it won’t be too long before Harvey and I can get our acts together and open our own place. Our long-distance friendship and partnership, along with the dream we both share, it’s about the only thing that’s keeping me afloat. That and the countdown for Rett’s homecoming.
Muscles is willing to get out of Cali, but he refuses to come to Wyoming. I don’t blame him; it’s not for everyone. We’ve yet to find a compromise on location. I don’t really want to go as far as Denver, but Colorado seems like our best bet. It’s cheaper than California, for sure. I figure, maybe we could settle in a college town. With a large young population, we might not have such a hard time getting ourselves off the ground.
Crystal replies to my text, telling me that she just got off work and she’ll drop by to pick up her sweater before she goes home. As I slide my phone onto the coffee table, the doorbell sounds. I know that can’t possibly be her, seeing as how she just informed me that she was on her way and she wouldn’t bother to ring the bell. I turn the television down and head to the front to see who it is. When I open the door, my stomach drops and a wave of nausea overwhelms me.
There are two uniformed men on my front porch.
One of them is holding a United States flag, folded to perfection.
“Trevor Rockwell?” His voice is low, I notice, and he speaks slowly but with confidence.
Hearing the sound of my name on his lips crushes me. Any hopes that they’ve got the wrong house have been stolen.
Rett…
One of them—the other one—continues to speak, but I can’t hear him—can’t pinpoint the tone or pitch of his voice. I know that it’s important that I listen; it’s important that I try to hear and decipher what he is saying, but their presence is a clear message. I’m not sure I can actually handle fully hearing what they have to say.
I grab a fistful of shirt, wishing I could reach inside of my chest and pull my heart out instead. It hurts. It hurts so fucking bad that I just wish I could take it out!
“Sir?”
He speaks the same time I manage a breath. Suddenly I realize that the reason I haven’t been able to hear a word that he has said is because another deafening sound fills my ears. The noise of agony that comes from my own mouth.
“Mr. Rockwell, would it be alright if we came inside?” His eyes are brown and full of compassion and for a moment—I. Hate. Him.
“I think I’m going to be sick,” I mutter, pushing past the both of them so I might retch.
I throw up the acid in my stomach. There’s nothing in me, but I drop to my knees, unable to control my gagging.
With every painful heave, realization chokes me.
My brother. My brother. My brother! Fuck. My brother!
I don’t know how long I’m down before I feel a gentle hand on my shoulder. I look over and one of the soldiers—deep voice, green eyes—hands me a glass of water. I accept with a gracious nod. I force in a deep breath before I take a swig. I swish the liquid around my mouth and spit it into the grass. The grass. The fucking grass.
I should have mowed it this week. It’s getting too tall. Grams would have my ass if she were here to see it. The thought makes me gag, but I manage to control myself. Then I think of Rett. He wouldn’t have neglected the lawn. Another sob erupts from someplace deep inside me. He was always better at outdoor chores.
Was. Was! Shit—my brother…
“Trevor?”
My head shoots up at the sound of her voice. Our eyes lock from where she stands, stopped a few paces away. It only takes her two seconds to read the situation. I watch as her own grief makes her crumble. She claps her hands over her mouth as she begins to cry. I stare at her, wondering what her sorrow feels like; wondering how the past year has twisted and contorted how this moment should feel. For her. For me.
I wish she wasn’t here. I wish that the last memory that I have of my brother didn’t have her in it. I wish that the last year—that the last two months—I wish she hadn’t been a part of any of it. I wish that my sorrow could exist all on its own. But it doesn’t. Having h
er here, it makes it all worse.
“Oh, Trevor,” she cries as she closes the distance between us. She stumbles her way toward me and kneels down beside me, the solider at my side standing to give us space. When she touches me, I jerk away from her instantly. Her touch makes me angry. At her. At myself. At Rett—for leaving us...
That last thought makes me feel like shit—makes me want to push Crystal away. Rett doesn’t deserve my anger, and if it wasn’t for her, for me, for our pathetic weakness, I wouldn’t have even gone there.
When she looks at me, I can tell that I’ve hurt her, but I don’t give a damn. I realize that I’m shaking—so overcome with guilt that I can hardly stand it. Guilt and anger and sorrow so intense that I feel as though I might never recover—for who in the world is left to save me?
She’s here. With me. But she can’t save me. Maybe before—but now? Now she’s the force that’s pulling me under. And Rett is dead—Rett is—
I gasp, sitting up as I’m pulled from my nightmare.
Fuck. If only it was just a dream.
Despite my lack of clothing, I’m drenched in sweat. I take a few deep breaths as I try and shake off the dreadful feeling that always accompanies my night terrors. I haven’t had one in a couple months. I stopped trying to figure out what triggers them. As the church-folk might say, I just assume it’s my cross to bear. I run my fingers through my tangled hair and blow out a chest full of air. I suppose I needed the reminder—the reminder that I don’t deserve more than what I have. Rett got to live out part of his dream but was robbed of everything else.
War wasn’t the only thief.
I look down at my phone, still clutched in my hand from when I was on the phone with Daphne. It’s one in the morning, but I know I won’t be sleeping anymore tonight. For a second, I think about calling her. I know, even if she was sleeping, as long as she heard her phone she’d wake up to talk with me. But I can’t do that to her. Right now, I don’t feel like I have the right to be that selfish. Instead, I climb out of bed and hop in the shower.
I take my time and let the steaming hot water beat down on me until I can’t stand it anymore. I wash and get out, towel drying myself before stepping into a fresh pair of briefs. I head toward the kitchen and pour myself a glass of water. I still can’t cook for shit, so I make myself a PB&J before heading to my workroom. I turn on the lamp at my sketch table, discarding my snack on top of my file cabinet full of supplies, and riffle through the pieces I’ve yet to stow away.
Here, at this table, I can chase away my nightmares. I will always be haunted by reality, by the truth of my past, but I can survive here, at this table. When the world is sleeping, innocence cloaking those who slumber, I stay awake with the guilty—with my fellow men, too distracted by their demons to obtain rest. But here, at my table, I can at least try to rid myself of the evil that is in me—the animal that is in me—little by little. Through my art, I’m not just pursuing my passion, I’m following through with the promise I made to Rett before he left. My loyalty to my craft is like my loyalty to him, his memory. He deserves that from me—and more.
I find an unfinished design that could use a bit more work and dive in without looking back.
I shower with the door open when there are no guests wandering about. By guests, I mean my brother or Trevor. We don’t usually have people over. For as much as she puts herself out there, Logan’s actually a pretty private person. Our home is ours and when she needs to be around people, she prefers to go out. She likes to be entertained, not forced to play the role of entertainer. As for me, if I’m not with LG or out with Trev and the Ink crew, the only company I invite over are my men. Even then, I’m not even sure they can be considered guests. How many times do you have to be welcomed into someone’s home before the title is moot?
The point is, to prevent the mirror from fogging up, I disregard any modesty.
I wrap myself in a towel and am making my way to my bedroom when Logan emerges from her own, smelling decadent and looking drop-dead-business-sexy. I blow a wolf whistle and she grins before offering me a wink. “I’m headed to work,” she tells me, turning to back her way down the hallway. “Are there post-basketball plans tonight?”
Every Monday night, a few of the guys from Generation Ink get together with Rome and his roommates to play a game or two. Logan and I usually go out with them for a late dinner or an early round of drinks afterwards. Gracie and Granola come too. “I’m not sure,” I begin to say. Before the words are out of my mouth, I’ve decided that if no plans have been made, plans will be made before too long. “I’ll find out and let you know. But count on it.”
“Alright, Skank. Text me!” She blows me a kiss, grabs her to-go coffee tumbler from the corner of the kitchen counter, and hurries out the door.
I laugh at her term of endearment as I head to my closet to get dressed. I’m due at Little Bird Cafe in less than an hour. I make quick work of my outfit, deciding on white shorts, with a floral print, and a plain, teal tank with my peach and cream stripped boyfriend cardigan. I don’t have time to blow-dry my hair, so I scrunch my waves with some moisturizer and leave it to dry on its own. Then I hop up onto the counter and make myself comfortable as I pull out my makeup palate.
I don’t really wear much, aside from eyeshadow—and maybe a little lipstick, if I’m feeling playful or sexy. Occasionally, when I’ve got something to cover up, I’ll put on a little concealer, but I don’t need it today. Instead, I get to work on my left eye. I feel like keeping it fun and flirty, so I start with a cream color base; then I blend in a bit of peach and a hint of medium brown over my lid, layering the colors carefully so that the warm, rich combination brings out my chocolate irises. I spread silver from the inside corner of my eye and let it fade into the peach. I blend the contrasting shades with a touch of shimmering muted bronze and then start on the other eye. After applying just the right amount of liner and mascara, and a light coat of lip gloss, I feel made up enough to face the day.
Heading back to my room, I tuck my socked feet into my tan, suede, ankle boots, grab my purse and my phone, and head for the door. My stomach growls and I pat my belly, promising my empty organ that I’ll fill it with something delicious soon. The act reminds me that I totally spaced on taking my birth control. Again. I’ve already dropped my keys inside my bag. I stare down at it, contemplating whether or not it’s worth it to go digging in order to let myself back inside. I shake my head at myself as I realize I have neither the desire nor the time to worry about it.
You’d think that after this long, I’d be in a mindless routine of swallowing the damn thing. I started taking the pill a short while after I was sans baby. It seemed like a good idea at the time. You know—fool me once…fool me twice? I needed to be smarter. Not that I was planning on having sex again anytime soon. Even so, the resounding counterargument, which came by way of my postpartum recovery, reminded me that I wasn’t planning on having sex the first time either.
It’s been over four years and I have yet to find myself in the same position—or any others for that matter—that I found myself in with Mack. The most intimacy I’ve experienced since then has been with Trevor. While some insist that spooning leads to forking which could lead to babies, we really do Just. Cuddle. So, some days I remember to take my daily dose and some days I don’t. I’m paying for it, which is the best reason I can come up with to shake my finger at myself in reprimand, but it’s an easy thing to forget when no one is trying to take your clothes off on the regular.
It takes me about ten minutes to drive to Old Town and another five minutes to find parking, which has me walking in the door a whole two minutes before my shift. I love this place. It’s a cozy little coffee spot that attracts students and artists alike. Twice a month, we host an open mic night, drawing in all sorts of interesting crowds; and the music selection that I get to listen to most days—Top. Notch! Not to mention my coffee obsession. I’m a pretty loyal customer to Little Bird, but I know where to find all the b
est cups of Joe around these parts. In my opinion, it’s one of the best perks about Fort Collins. Not everyone can boast of a coffee culture like we have and I honestly don’t know if I could call any other place home.
Granted, I didn’t really think I’d be working at a coffee shop after I graduated college, but I’m still undecided on what I’d like to do next. Some days, I think I want to go to grad school and study to become a professor—but, like my brother, I needed a little break from the world of academia. In the interim, it seemed appropriate to find easy, fun work and try my hand at writing, which has always been a hobby of mine, so that’s what I’m doing. I know my parents aren’t fond of the idea—a message delivered through my brother, as I don’t really speak to them much. I always tell him to remind them what their son has been up to for the past four years…
“Where have you been? I expected you at least ten minutes ago,” chastises Brandon as I make my way behind the bar. I scowl at him in confusion before checking the time on my phone. He chuckles and then pulls out a plate with a blueberry scone. “It was warm before.”
“You,” I exclaim, reaching for the plate as I press myself up on my tiptoes and brush my lips against his cheek. “I love you. Thank you.”
Little Bird doesn’t sell blueberry scones—but Brandon makes the best breakfast pastries known to man. What amazes me is that he hasn’t even been to any type of culinary school. He wants to open up his own coffee shop one day. He’s slowly but surely earning a business degree from the local community college, paying for classes when he can, and baking for practice so that he’ll have his own signature treats when his dream finally comes true.
Brandon and I work most of our shifts together, which we love. We’re also not afraid to whine when Lori tries to switch up the schedule on us. He’s always bringing me samples of his latest attempts in the kitchen. Lucky for me, my body doesn’t believe in fat, so I don’t hesitate to accept every single offering he’s willing to give me. Lucky for him, he likes to bike just about everywhere to keep off all evidence of his massive sugar intake.
