by Cassia Leo
Liam takes a seat next to me as I begin typing in the password to log into my computer, then I stop before I finish entering it. “Why does he keep talking to you about Houston? I thought you two were finished.”
“We are, but Kenny just needs a little extra convincing.” I scoot a few inches away from Liam, angling my laptop a little so he can’t see my fingers as I type in my password. “He means well. He just misses me and he’s looking for an excuse not to let go. He’ll drop it, eventually.”
Liam lets out a soft chuckle, his gaze laser-focused on my computer. “You don’t seem very worried about the fact that it’s been a month since you left and he’s still trying to get you to go back.”
I look up from the screen and meet his suspicious glare. “Exactly. It’s only been a month. He’s my best friend. You can’t expect him to stop wanting me back after just one month.”
He stares at me for a moment as we both probably wonder who I was just referring to. “Do you want to go back?”
“No,” I reply flatly, turning back to my computer screen.
He doesn’t respond. He just sits there, stealing glances at me as I pretend to check my email with the screen slightly turned away from him. My eyes glaze over the text in front of me. I know I don’t have an email from Hannah. She said she’d call me after she’s read the chapters. I only gave her access to my Google doc a few days ago. I don’t expect her to get in touch with me anytime soon, unless she needs feedback on her own novel.
Something simmers inside me as I sit there pretending to check my email. I don’t know if it’s resentment over Liam making me feel as if I need an excuse to leave the bedroom at night. Or if it’s a sudden steely courage that has eluded me for the past month, buried under my desire to believe that my sensitivity is the problem, not Liam’s insecurity. If I weren’t so thin-skinned, I could handle the occasional bout of jealousy. I could even understand it considering Liam is very much aware that he has big shoes to fill. But it’s not that I’m being touchy. It’s that Liam doesn’t trust me.
And how could he? Our relationship got off to a rocky start in August, with him convincing me to give him a shot despite the fact that I was deeply messed up over running into Houston. Then I went and had an affair with Houston while he was still married. And Liam had to watch as Houston’s wife attacked me in broad daylight. And despite all this, he knows, he can sense that, though my mind and body reside in California, the roots of my heart are still firmly planted in Oregon.
I haven’t given Liam a reason to trust me. I made the mistake of presuming the default status of any new relationship is 100 percent trust. That the trust doesn’t begin to erode until there is actual wrongdoing. But it seems I was wrong. I feel as if Liam and I started at about 50 percent trust. And each mistake I’ve made with him over the past five months has only served to chip away at that number.
“Why did you and Savannah break up?” I ask, hoping I sound as casual as I’m trying to sound.
He stares at the side of my laptop screen for a moment before he answers. “I told you, it just ran its course. It never would have worked out between us. We were too different.”
“Different how?” My fingers click over the keys as I begin typing a fake email to no one.
I can feel his gaze lift from my screen to my face, but I keep my eyes pointed downward. My heart ripples inside my chest, a ghostly flutter of anxiety.
“She cheated on me with her boss.”
The irony of this statement is not lost on me. I am fully aware that Houston was technically my boss before I left Oregon.
My face tilts up and our eyes meet. “She cheated on you?”
So that’s why you’re so insecure?
“Yeah, that’s why I don’t offer up the story unless someone asks. I don’t like talking about it.” He turns his torso toward me and puts on a smile, though I’m sure he’s not feeling very smiley right now. “Enough about that. How about we forget about our shitty exes and go out for drinks tomorrow? Me and a guy from work are going to a local place for Taco Tuesday. We can go down a few shots of Patrón then come home and I’ll show you how much I like brunettes.”
He wiggles his eyebrows and I smile as I realize Liam is just a different version of me. He’s me in two or three years, after all this stuff with Houston has blown over. I’ll probably still have trust issues too, but if I don’t screw things up with Liam, I might have someone who understands why.
I slam my laptop shut and place it on the coffee table. Then I climb into Liam’s lap, my knees on either side of his hips, as I reach up and softly tug his beard. He smiles as I lean in, the crotch of my panties rubbing against his erection as I kiss him slowly. When I pull away, his eyes are glazed over and hooded with lust.
I lean in and whisper against his lips. “Let’s chase down our demons together.”
January 6, 2015
I enter the hospital a few minutes past midnight, rubbing my itchy palms against my jeans. I wish I didn’t feel the need to check on Tessa. I wish I could fall asleep in my bed and not give a fuck. Because this is exactly why she downed that bottle of pills. She knew it would bring me to her and she didn’t care if I came on a white horse or carrying a pitchfork.
I’ll just check in with the hospital staff. Make sure she’s okay. Maybe look in on her really quick while she sleeps, then I’ll leave. If Marie is still here, I won’t even drop into her room. I’ll just speak to the staff to ease my mind, then I’ll turn around and never look back.
I head for the nurses’ station, but from the corner of my eye, I glimpse a doctor coming out of a hospital room. I walk casually past the nurses’ station as they chat, pretending I know my way around, then I speed up to catch the doctor.
“Excuse me, sir?”
He turns around and cocks a bushy silver eyebrow. “May I help you?”
“Yes, I’m looking for Tessa—um, I mean, Contessa Cavanaugh.” She hasn’t changed her last name back to her maiden name yet, but this could work to my advantage. “Is that her room?” I ask, nodding toward the door from which he just emerged.
Confusion settles over his wrinkled face. “I’m sorry. Are you family?”
“Houston Cavanaugh,” I reply, swallowing the nausea blistering up my throat. “Her husband. I was away and my flight just came in. I just want to make sure she’s okay.”
My skin feels itchy as the lies stream out of my mouth. I wonder if he’s even buying this. I’m certain I look more repulsed than grief stricken.
“I’m very sorry, Mr. Cavanaugh,” he begins, and my heart falls with a thunk. “Your wife is stable, but she’s being admitted to Cedar Hills in about eight hours on an inpatient basis.”
“Cedar Hills?”
“I didn’t see any notes in her chart about them trying to notify you, but I guess if you were out of town that would have been difficult.” His expression becomes pained. “Her mother agreed it would be best if she were put under a physician’s hold… She’s considered a danger to herself, so she’s being admitted for psychiatric treatment.”
I blink a few times, trying to process this information. “Is she going to… to get help at this Cedar Hills place? Or is it like some looney bin where they just pump them full of meds and roll them into a corner?”
“They have specialists there who have a lot of experience with BPD, and she’ll only be in the Crisis Stabilization Unit for one to five days. But after that, they’ll talk to you about further inpatient and outpatient options. I’m sure you’re aware that medication isn’t very effective on BPD, so they’ll discuss the various therapeutic options available.”
“BPD?”
The doctor waits for me to come up with the definition of this acronym, but quickly realizes I’m completely lost. “Borderline Personality Disorder. Your wife has suffered with this disorder for, well, according to her chart, about thirteen years. Were you not aware of this?”
I want to say, Do I fucking look like I was aware of this?
I d
on’t know if having this knowledge in my possession from the beginning would have changed my decision to marry Tessa, but it sure as hell would have changed my approach to the divorce. And the past four months I’ve spent trying to get Rory back. I probably would have listened to Troy when he told me to get the fucking restraining order from the beginning.
I always knew Tessa was sick, but I thought it was just her obsession with me that drove her to do crazy things. I thought it was her fear of being alone that compelled her to continually throw out her hook in my direction, trying to get our lines helplessly tangled together for all eternity.
“Thank you,” I whisper, dazed and somewhat relieved to have answers.
Turning around, I walk past the partially open door of Tessa’s room, not bothering to peek inside. No need to keep up the charade of concerned husband anymore.
I came here feeling as if it were my duty to make sure Tessa’s family gets her some help, but they’ve known she has BPD all along. And they never said a goddamned thing to me about it. Tessa spent three years with me not taking meds, not seeing a therapist, until our fucking pre-divorce counseling sessions, which were basically shit on Houston sessions. And all that fucking time she could have been working on getting better.
Instead, her family basically pawned her off on me. Like a fucking mushroom, fed shit and kept in the dark. One of my mom’s favorite sayings. She used it a lot to describe her years with my dad, when he was living a double life with two families. That was me. Fed shit and kept in the dark. I was a fucked-up twenty-four-year-old in the midst of my own PTSD crisis, trying like hell to forget the worst fucking day of my life. And Tessa’s family thought I was the answer to her problems?
Jesus Christ. I thought Rory’s family was fucked up.
I step out of the swishing hospital doors, under the fat starless sky, hoping it will rain. I want to feel the cold prick of raindrops on my skin. Inhale the freshly cleansed air, smelling of wet concrete and ozone. And run all the way to California on a single breath.
But I have to be patient.
My problems with Tessa may be reaching some semblance of resolution, but my problems with Rory are far from finished. I have to stick to the plan Kenny and I hashed out. Even if I have zero chance of getting Rory back, I have to follow through with the plan for her sake.
I slide into the driver’s seat of my car feeling buoyant with hope. Tessa’s going to be taken care of. Her family knows what’s wrong with her. The doctors will make sure they have the tools to help her. Whether they use those tools is no longer my responsibility.
As I slide my phone into my pocket and drive out of the hospital parking lot, my mind conjures the sharp snip of ropes being cut. I get a strange feeling that if I look in my rearview mirror, I’ll see the frayed ends trailing behind my car. But I keep my eyes focused on the road ahead of me. I’m not looking back anymore.
When I pull into my parking space in my new apartment building, I slide my phone out of my pocket and begin typing an email.
Hi Hannah.
I hope this message finds you well. I’m emailing you instead of calling you because I didn’t think you’d appreciate a rambling phone call at one a.m. Plus, Patricia said I shouldn’t call you because it will ruin something with the book. I can’t remember exactly what she said, but anyway, I’m thinking we may need to speed things up a bit. I know you’re busy with your own deadline, but I’d love to hear your thoughts on the book as soon as possible. I don’t doubt it’s good enough to submit to your agent, but I need to know for sure, so I can start making other plans, if necessary.
By the way, thanks so much for all your help. When Patricia told me she was going to approach you, I thought this whole thing was a long shot, but you’ve made me believe in the goodness of people again. That’s something I’ll never be able to repay you for.
Please respond at your earliest convenience.
Houston
I send the message and pray there aren’t any typos. Then I recall how I would sometimes purposely put typos in my emails and text messages to Rory, just to drive her nuts. If the lines of communication between us hadn’t gone dead, I’d text her right now: I can’t loose you again. Your my scar.
January 6, 2015
I sit down at the table in Hannah’s breakfast nook, my insides squealing with a mixture of fear and delight at the sight of what’s laid out on the wooden surface. A maelstrom of paper with words I recognize: Houston, Hallie, Scar… An explosion of black emotions on white canvas with red blood scrawled in the margins.
Every. Single. Page. Redlined.
“Don’t let that scare you,” Hannah says, handing me a steaming mug of coffee, which I’m certain is made just the way I like it. “First drafts are always a steaming pile. And your pile is teeny tiny compared to most beginning writers. And very fresh. Not a single fly.”
I glance at the steamy brown liquid in my cup and set it down on the table instead of taking a sip, pushing aside a stack of paper to make room for it. “Did you… Did you read the whole book?”
Hannah takes a seat in the chair across from me and brushes aside some papers to make room for her mug. “Yeah, I’m going to be totally honest with you. You hooked me with the prologue. I’m not sure the notes I added in the first 75 percent will make any sense because I was pretty much just cramming the words down at that point.” She takes a sip of her coffee and I hope my face doesn’t look as red hot as it feels. “And once I got to the scene with the letter, well, I had to keep flipping pages just to see when these two would get back together.” She raises her eyebrows at me. “So when do they get back together?”
I stare blankly at the chaotic layer of paper in front of me, unsure how to answer this. “I… don’t think they get back together. I mean, if I’m going to sell this story as a romance, I guess I’ll have to change the characters’ names and give them a happy ending.”
She waves away my suggestion. “Pfft! No, this is not a romance. This is a love story based on true events. You’ve acknowledged that. A love story doesn’t need a happy ending the way a romance does, but it does need a conclusion. And there is no resolution in this story. How does it end?”
“How does it end?” I repeat the question, and my nerves crackle, lifting the hairs on my arms. “I don’t know.”
Hannah tucks her dark hair behind her ear as she reaches for the red pen that rests innocently between two stacks of paper in front of her. “Well, then I guess we’d better figure it out.”
* * *
The Vive Sol restaurant on the west side of Mountain View is just beginning to fill up with the dinner crowd. Liam grabs my hand, lacing his fingers through mine as we traverse the cracked black asphalt in the parking lot. We pass a faux stone water fountain on our way inside. It trickles water that smells like rain and I smile at the warm rush in my veins.
Matt, Liam’s friend from work, opens the door for us to enter the restaurant and I flash him an appreciative smile. Liam tightens his grip on my hand as he leads me toward the host station. The aromas in the restaurant make my mouth water: fresh-cut lime, roasted peppers, warm tortillas. I skipped lunch today, opting for a skinny latte and a bike ride instead, gearing up for tonight’s gluttony.
The hostess informs us that the wait is currently forty minutes, but we can sit outside in the outdoor bar-slash-patio right away. Liam looks to me as if sitting outside is even an option.
“It’s, like, fifty degrees out there,” I remind him. “We’ll freeze.”
“There are heat lamps,” the hostess says.
Liam tilts his head. “Come on. I promise I’ll keep you warm.”
I glance at the hostess, wondering how many times she’s heard that line uttered. I gaze longingly at the cozy amber glow from the Moravian star pendants hanging in the warm dining room. Letting out a soft sigh, I follow the hostess and my two male companions to the outdoor bar area.
Ten minutes after we place our order, the sound of my teeth chattering gets Liam’s at
tention.
“Should I order some shots?” he asks, wrapping his arm around me and rubbing my arm to try to create some heat.
I nod hastily. “Yes. Order me two.”
Liam and Matt exchange a look. “Not fucking around tonight, are you?”
I roll my eyes and steer the conversation toward Matt.
What do you do at SaltMedia? Programmer.
How did you get into it? My dad’s a programmer.
How long have you lived here? Uh… I was born here.
Matt is kind of quiet. His answers are short and monotone, only infusing some inflection when he feels the answer is a bit obvious. The typical nerd cliché wrapped up in a slightly overweight, yet boyishly handsome package.
“So, do you have a girlfriend?” I mutter, my lips starting to feel numb from the two Patrón shots we just downed.
Liam flashes me an exasperated look, but I don’t know what it means. Does he think it’s time to change the subject to something other than Matt or does he think I’m flirting with him?
“Nope. No girlfriend. Just a really big collection of—”
“Socks?” I say and Matt laughs.
“I was going to say Star Wars figurines, but I guess my sock collection is just as impressive.”
Liam is definitely looking perplexed by this conversation, which is exactly what I expected. Actually, I’m getting a kick out of it.
“Okay, can we change the subject from cum rags to something a bit more palatable?” Liam suggests.
“Oh, my God!” I say, pulling my phone out of my pocket. “Have you seen that Whitest Kids You Know sketch about The Jizzle? It’s disgusting.”
Matt smiles as I scoot my barstool closer to him so we can both watch the video on my phone. I can feel the heat of Liam’s annoyance scorching my back as he waits for us to watch the one-minute and twenty-three-second fake commercial for a cum rag called The Jizzle, an obvious parody of the Sham Wow infomercial.
