by Shey Stahl
I see the truth in her words, but it doesn’t exactly sit well with me. “And he’s different? Because the last time I checked, and I know Baylor pretty fucking good, he has the same mindset.”
“He’s different. He makes time for me, and I never have to question who he’s with.”
The words hit me in the chest. Brie actually believed I had been fucking around on her because her roommate told her so. That’s the maturity I was talking about earlier. She never stopped to ask me what happened at that party, and instead, believed what she heard.
“Whatever.” I open the door to my car. “Doesn’t fucking matter now.” Closing the door, I leave her standing in the parking lot, much like the night we broke up. Only I’m the one leaving this time, and hopefully she’s left with emptiness.
A hard-hit line drive.
SYDNEY
“Loretta wants rolls.”
Okay, before you start thinking, whoa, who’s Loretta? Please remember my daughter is three. She… sometimes refers to herself as Loretta, and in the third person. I know, bizarre as shit, but lemme explain. She’s three. And that, my friends, is the only answer to give you. That and I’m pretty sure they gave me Stevie Nicks’s baby at the hospital.
I raise an eyebrow. “Spring rolls?
She nods, bouncing around in the kitchen, barely able to control her excitement, and swirling her dress in opposite directions, so excited for food.
Ah, to be three again. Actually, look at me shaking my ass to the beats of no music playing. I’m as excited as she is. Food does that to us girls.
Smiling down at her, I hand her a plate. “Here you go, baby.”
“Thank you, honey.” Before she sits down, she stares at the table. “Where Daddy?”
“He’s working late tonight.”
I take my three containers of food to the booth-style table in our kitchen. I designed every aspect of this house Collin and I built in south Scottsdale, Arizona. It’s in one of those builder grade communities, but I at least got to pick out all the features and have them build me this kitchen booth. There’s something about it that reminds me of eating at a diner after baseball games with my dad.
“How was school?”
Tatum’s eyes remain on her spring roll dissection she’s working on. “Shitty.”
Don’t be so surprised by my daughter’s choice of words. I am her mother, and I told you I enrolled her in private school to help. Either I should have picked a stricter one, or I should be researching boarding schools soon.
While I’m organizing my chicken wings, my spring roll, and the mountain of pad Thai on my plate, Emmie sits across from me next to Tatum and I slide her container of chicken satay. “Oh, yes! Thanks for getting me something.”
Emmie is our neighbor girl who frequently comes over to hang out with me because I’m that cool.
Lies.
Since my nanny up and quit out of the blue, I had to befriend the neighbor girl and bribe her to watch Tatum for me on occasion. Or help with her when I’m swamped with custom orders. Like tonight. I have six custom signs due by tomorrow morning.
I smile at her. “I appreciate you coming over to help me out.”
“Collin working late again?”
I fight the urge to roll my eyes in front of Tatum, but Emmie, she’s fourteen and totally gets it.
Tatum tugs on Emmie’s shirt, smiling at her. “Hi, Emmie.”
“Oh my gosh.” Emmie hugs her to her side. “Your dress is so cue!”
Cute. That must mean cute. I’m… assuming. But what do I know?
Emmie is Tatum’s best friend. She struggles to make friends her own age. Part of this is her ability to drop a well-placed f-bomb, and kids’ parents don’t enjoy this, and the other has to do with Tatum refusing to play with children her own age.
“This peanut sauce is fire.”
“You think it’s spicy?” I lift my eyes to Emmie after pouring the peanut sauce onto my pad Thai. If you’ve never tried it, you’re welcome. You’ll never go back.
“No.” Emmie levels me a straight-faced expression showing my true age of nearly thirty. I’m twenty-eight but might as well round up because last week I was trying to do a TikTok dance with her and pulled a groin muscle. “It’s amazing.”
Right. I remember having to explain to my dad what dope meant. He thought I was doing heroin, when in fact, I was saying something was cool.
Beside Emmie, Tatum dips her spring roll into the extra peanut sauce. “It’s so spicy.” Tatum draws in a quick breath, fanning her mouth and pushing the sauce to the side.
Have you ever watched a toddler eat? It’s… weird. She has certain foods she refuses to eat. Like potatoes. Of any kind. But she’ll eat french fries. Only from McDonald’s. It’s because they put crack in their food, and once it hits the lips of children, they’re addicted to GMOs.
I’m kidding. Kind of. I don’t even know what GMO stands for. Please forgive me, Mr. Ronald. I mean no harm against McDonald’s.
Also, Tatum won’t drink milk. I can’t blame her on that one though. I watched a documentary once on how it’s loaded with puss and blood. Sorry if you just gagged, but imagine my surprise when I watched it.
Anyway, it’s hard to get Tatum to eat anything. But spring rolls are her favorite. Watching her eat them?
Disturbing.
She starts by taking the rice wrapper off, digs out the shrimp, and tosses it to me, eats the lettuce, and then the rice wrapper. Ninety-nine percent of the time, she chokes on it because she has absolutely no gag reflex, and then cries.
Tonight isn’t any different.
AFTER DINNER, IT’S a battle to get Tatum to bed. Though I had Emmie come over, a screaming half-naked toddler takes two people to get in the tub.
I may have given birth to a seventy-year-old gypsy lady who loves Willie Nelson and calls herself Loretta (often in the third person), but she’s like any other toddler. As in, fucking insane about twenty minutes before bedtime.
You know in those Huggies commercials when the parents lay the sleeping baby down in the crib and everything is peaceful?
It’s a lie. At least in my experience. Legit, they drugged that baby.
When it’s time for Tatum to go to bed, she’s like a dehydrated drunk who can’t decide if they’re thirsty, tired, cranky, hungry, or maybe all of the above. I almost feel bad for Emmie having to deal with her, but it’s great birth control for girls her age. Believe me.
I close myself in my office to get started on the signs I need to finish. I’m twenty minutes into it, and Emmie’s on her third book in with Tatum and begging her to fall asleep. I can hear her on the baby monitor. “Please go to sleep.”
“I’m not tired though.”
“Just close your eyes and you will be.”
“If I close my eyes, I sleep. I don’t want to.”
“Loretta, please!”
When you want Tatum to do anything, refer to her as Loretta. It’s as if she appreciates the play along and does whatever you want. I try not to encourage it, but I don’t blame Emmie. Sometimes we have to resort to it.
I’m halfway through my second sign when I hear a car pull into the driveway. Lifting my eyes to my watch, I notice it’s already after ten, and Collin still isn’t home. Figures. He’s been working later and later these days. He hasn’t seen Tatum since Wednesday night when he came home just before I put her to bed. Looks like tonight is another no see Daddy day.
Headlights flash on the dark wall behind me and then click off, two doors closing behind the sound. That’s weird. Is someone with him?
Turning my head, I look out the window facing the driveway, only to see two figures approaching the front door.
“Hey,” Emmie says, coming down the stairs with her cell phone in hand. “Can I stay the night? My mom has book club, and my aunts are over. They’re so extra.”
I nod, my eyes on the driveway as I stand from my table. “What book are they reading?”
Emmie’s attention mo
ves to the driveway as well, peeking around me. “I don’t know. Some book. Who’s that?”
“Not sure.” Standing, my heart pumps wildly in my chest, imagining someone broke into our gated community, shot the security guard, and chose my house out of a hundred to break into and murder me. Not likely, but my mind always goes there.
The knock at the door follows. Hesitantly, I look over at the camera to see two police officers standing at my door.
I swallow over the lump in my throat, knowing what this is. My hands shake, my breathing tense. “Who is it?”
“The police. I think.” I look over my shoulder at her, forcing humor into my tone. “Did you rob a bank before you came over here?”
Her eyes widen and she swallows hard. “What? No.”
“Where’s Tatum?”
She motions behind her. “Sleeping. Do you think it’s really the police? No cap, I’ve totes seen this on the news. Murderers dress up like police and get inside their house and chop our heads off.”
Not only do I not understand half of what she said, it’s crossed my mind already too, but I have to keep her calm. “It’s fine. I’ll ask for a badge. I won’t let them in.”
I crack the door open, cool air hitting my face and the fresh smell of rain. I hadn’t realized it started raining again. My eyes move from the driveway to the men before me. Drawing in a quick breath, I clear my throat. “Hello?”
The officer on the left speaks first and shows me his badge. “Hello, ma’am. I’m officer Thompson and this is Detective Sharp.” Officer Thompson’s eyes shift to Emmie behind me. “Can we come inside for a moment?”
“Uh, well.” My heart thumps harder against my breastbone. I try really hard to remember every horror movie I’ve ever seen. Hello, it’s Friday the thirteenth. No way I want to die like this at the hands of police officers.
“No, you can’t come in.” Beside me now, Emmie clears her throat. “Show us your badges.”
“Yes, here.” They both flash their badges, drops of rain on their dark jackets.
I focus on the rain and the wind outside. I drop my eyes to our front porch, the pebble stone path leading up to our door, and it’s as if I’m watching myself from a distance, frozen in a moment I can’t escape, and knowing what comes next will forever change my life.
Deep inside, I know what this is about, but I’m too scared to say anything or allow myself to crumble.
“These guys are sus,” Emmie whispers in my ear, pulling on my shoulder.
I stare at her, my body sagging with the weight of her attached to my side. “What the fuck does that mean?”
“Suspicious.” She hands me her phone. “Call the police and ask if they’re real. Their badges could be fake.”
I have to admit, Emmie’s making me even more paranoid. “I’m sure they’re not. They came in a patrol car,” I whisper back, trying to force a smile at the officers who can clearly hear everything we’re saying.
“Yes, come in.” I motion them forward, their boots squeaking against the tile entry of our home. “Can I get you something to drink? Water? Beer?” Dumbass. They can’t drink. “Juice box?”
“No, thank you,” they reply, removing their shoes at the door.
Wow. Gentlemen even.
“What’s this about?”
They take a seat on our couch in the formal living room we never sit in. On the couch Collin’s mom picked out and I can’t stand. It’s bland. White. Boring. I stare at them, waiting for what I think they’re about to tell me.
Do you have those moments when you’re looking at someone, and you know they’re talking, their mouth is moving, forming words, but you have no idea what they’re saying?
I’ve been there. No, no… I’m actually there right now. His mouth is moving, isn’t it? Or am I imagining that too?
Officer Sharp’s eyes move to Emmie. “Can we have a moment alone with your mother?”
Emmie does that thing where it looks like her head is about to snap off. “No. I’m not leaving her alone with you two.” And then she gives them the two-fingered “I’m watching you” point.
“She’s fine. She’s our babysitter.”
“Mrs. Greyson?” Officer Thompson clears his throat. “Are you Collin Greyson’s wife, Sydney Greyson?”
Fear hits me in the chest, a hard punch right to my heart. I nod. It’s all I can do, because like I said, I know what’s coming next. Emmie sits next to me, her sudden silence evident of the shift in the air. It’s quiet, the only sound is the boom of my heart in my ears.
Leaning forward, his elbows rest on his knees. “Your husband, Collin, was involved in a car accident tonight… and unfortunately, he passed away at the scene.”
At first, I don’t understand what he said. It’s not until Emmie gasps, her hand on mine.
The words… I focus on them for a moment while I attempt to process the meaning behind them.
Collin. My Collin? My husband.
My stomach feels like it’s been drop-kicked by a horse. It hits me like a brick to my chest even before they give me the news. In the movies, this is where the Lord Huron song begins to play. Or the music softens, and the shot blurs, unable to catch the true significance of one’s life being altered by a four-letter word.
Emmie touches her hand to my shoulder. “No way.”
I don’t say anything. I’m not sure I can.
“How do you know it was Collin?” Emmie asks, and I don’t have to look over to know she’s near tears. “You could be wrong.”
“His ID in his wallet and the Tesla he was driving was registered to him.”
The officer who delivered the news hands me a business card. They tell me things like I can contact a counselor and where to pick up his belongings. And that his accident occurred on Interstate 60. While they continue talking, I think, why was he down that far? His bank is in North Phoenix. It doesn’t make any sense.
Died. He died?
Fear knots in my throat, and it’s as if someone is choking me. As I close the door, reality crashes against me as I stumble back. What do I do? Who do I call first? His mom? His dad?
Oh my God, Tatum. I don’t know why, but I hadn’t thought of her, until now. I want to rush up the stairs and hold her. Cry with her, but I’m afraid to tell her. How am I going to tell her that her daddy is gone? I was twenty-one when my dad died. I was an adult and understood that death happens as you get older. It didn’t mean that I like the fact that I lost both my parents in the same year, but Tatum’s three. She has her whole life ahead of her and now has to face it without the one man she looks up to.
When I woke up this morning, I didn’t know my world would be turned upside down, and every aspect of my life forever altered. Nausea rolls through me, my only thought, fuck, I’d been an asshole to him this morning. Had I known that was the last time I would see him, I would have… hugged him? I don’t know.
Reality smacks me in the face. It’d been two days since I told him I loved him. Two days!
He knew though, didn’t he?
The most commonly thrown pitch in baseball is a pitch meant to be thrown very fast. There are different variations of fastballs.
SYDNEY
“I can’t believe my credit card isn’t working.” I toss my wallet on the table, kicking off my heels. “Debit card. Nothing. What the fuck am I supposed to do?” Not only that, I couldn’t even pay for Collin’s funeral. Imagine that. After the Starbucks incident, I can’t say I’m entirely surprised by it.
The worst part, his parents had to because I’ve basically been cut off.
And it’s not like I’m a housewife living off my husband’s money. I have my own money that goes into those accounts from my business.
Word to the wise, sisters, if you’re thinking about getting a joint account with your husband, or significant other, think twice. Or at least have the passwords and know at all times what’s going on. I thought, he’s a banker. It’s fine.
Riiiiight?
Ha. Fucking. H
a, bruh. Don’t do it.
Nahla takes the bowl of popcorn she’d made for her and Tatum in her hand. “I can check with Kenneth and see what you can do to access your accounts.”
“Okay.” Nahla’s been my best friend since high school when as a senior, she took the dorky freshman art student under her wing. Now she’s an attorney and her husband is a pediatrician. Though he probably can’t hack into my bank account without the official death notice I haven’t received in the mail yet, his brother might be able to. He’s a manager at the bank Collin worked for.
Nahla stirs the popcorn around in the bowl, adding a dash of salt to it. “It’s weird that your name isn’t on them and he didn’t have any of the passwords written down.”
Weird? That doesn’t even begin to describe this last week. So many other adjectives come to mind. Like fucked up. That’s an adjective, right?
“Where’s the good shit?” Sadie, my younger sister, is in the kitchen digging through the liquor cabinet, black dress a little too high to be appropriate for a funeral. “I know Collin had some expensive wine in here somewhere.”
“In the back on the left,” I add, staring at the papers covering the table. What a mess.
Two hours ago, I laid my husband to rest, and though I’ve cried more in the last week than I have in the last five years, now there are no tears. They’ve dried, and I’m left with this emptiness I can’t find a home for. It hangs in the air, waiting to be filed in the “okay, this is what we’re doing now” category.
While Nahla gets Tatum settled with a movie and popcorn, the doorbell rings. Considering my only living family member, Sadie, is with me, I’m guessing this isn’t a death notice.
With my own bottle of wine in hand, I take it to the door with me. It’s Amos. My neighbor. He asks me once a day if I’m okay and brings over food. Despite my shitty attitude of no thank you, go take your pleasant ass somewhere else, I thank him, take the casserole his wife made, and set it on the counter with the others that we haven’t eaten yet.
