Perfectly Undone

by Jamie Raintree

  Dad’s eyes go glassy, and my own vision blurs. Some of my anger toward him dissipates. It’s hard to be mad at him when I’ve felt the same way about Mom. I guess we all found our own ways to cope. Instead of searching for solace in each other, we found it in other things, other people.

  “But how could you do it?” I ask him. “After everything we’d been through already.”

  “I was stupid, Dylan. I know it will be hard for you to understand, but as a man, to... This is so...” He stops and sighs. “For a man, it often has very little to do with the woman he’s with. I know it doesn’t make sense, but for me, I felt like less of a man because I didn’t know how to make your mom happy. If I couldn’t do that one thing, what kind of husband was I? So one night I had too much to drink. A woman came on to me, which made me feel a little better about myself, and I missed your mom. I regretted it while it was happening.”

  Did Cooper feel like less of a man because he didn’t think he could make me happy? Because he thought I didn’t love him enough to slow down at work? Because he didn’t know the real reason behind my drive, and that it had nothing to do with putting off a life with him?

  Dad sniffs and wipes his eyes with the pad of his thumb. I move to get him a tissue, but he reaches out and stops me. I stare at his hand on mine. I squeeze it back.

  “I was a weak man that night,” he says. “I wish I could take it back every single day. But I can’t. And she won’t forgive me. Sometimes the hardest thing you can do is leave. But I can’t keep living like that. Maybe I don’t deserve a better life, but this is the only life I get. Can you understand that?”

  I don’t respond, but I do understand. There’s so little time in this world to make the right decision and then follow through on it. He and I have both experienced that firsthand.

  Dad rubs his fingers over his face like he’s trying to wash away the pain. He’s held my hurts all my life, but before now, I never thought about how many of his own he’s had to carry.

  “I do understand, Dad. I can talk to Mom,” I say. “Maybe coming from someone who can relate to what she’s gone through, she’ll listen.”

  Dad shakes his head, but I go on.

  “There has to be a way to make her see,” I say. “She can’t want to live like that either. And she can’t want you to go.”

  He frowns and opens his mouth to contradict me, but I cut him off, pleading.

  “We can be a happy family again. I understand now. She’ll understand, too.”

  “Dylan, I’m sorry. It’s too late.” He holds my hand in both of his, but it’s not reassuring like it once was. “Please, do talk to her, though. You two need each other, now more than ever.”

  “Dad, I...”

  “Listen, I know you don’t particularly appreciate the woman your mom has turned into. I probably didn’t appreciate her enough either. But you have to know that the choices she’s made over the years were out of love. For me, and for you. For the whole family. She never wanted to move to the lake. She did it all because she knew it was what I needed, and because she knew it would mean a better life for you kids. So she gave up her own dreams and did what she felt necessary to create the lifestyle she thought we needed. Yeah, it turned her into a woman who’s hard to get to know and hard to love, but I’m sure no one is more disappointed about that than her. You’ve got to cut her some slack, honey.”

  “She’s never cut me any slack, Dad,” I say, silent tears slipping down my cheeks. “Where’s my unconditional love?”

  “She loves you, Dylan.”

  “Did she tell you that?” I ask, embarrassed at the squeak of desperation in my voice.

  “Baby girl,” he says with a laugh. “She doesn’t have to.”

  After my dad leaves, I can’t sit still with this new information. I pace the house thinking about my parents, about Cooper, about how Abby would feel if she could be here to see what our family has turned into. I don’t want to face any of it, so I do what I’ve always done. I get in my car and drive straight to the clinic. I let myself in the back way, wait for the lights to flicker on in my office and then fall into my rolling chair in front of the computer. I don’t open the blinds, and I don’t check my neglected email. Instead, I open my grant application and I lean back in my chair.

  I close my eyes, and I remember the look on my mom’s face as she slammed the door of my childhood home for the last time with Abby alive. I recall the lines of my dad’s face on the anniversary of Abby’s death this year, the extra finger of bourbon in his glass. I think of my brother, who is alone and may always be because he trusts love as little as I do. My parents’ arguments replay in my head, my argument with Cooper and one of the last conversations I had with my sister—the one that led me here. I open my eyes and I type. And it doesn’t matter that I don’t know when the next grant will become available. This time I’m writing it for me.

  * * *

  For as much as I strive to analyze everything that happens to and around me, it was easier to accept that Cooper’s infidelity was random, an aberration that had nothing to do with who he was or the road our relationship had taken. I didn’t want to accept any responsibility for the end of us.

  After talking to Dad, I can’t ignore it anymore. It’s been pulled to the forefront of my mind, and this time I want answers. I need to know the facts, whether I like them or not. I’m still not ready to hear them from Cooper, but there’s another person who knows what happened that night.

  I sit in my car in the back row of the Liquid Courage parking lot. The bar isn’t busy yet, but my car isn’t the only one here. In a few minutes, the back door will open, and a woman will come out carrying four large, overstuffed trash bags. She’ll drag them out effortlessly, even in her high-heeled boots, and toss them one at a time into the Dumpster on the side of the building. I know this because I’ve sat in this spot for the past two days with the visor pulled down to cover my eyes, the engine off to avoid drawing attention to myself. I’ve sat here watching her.

  On cue, the back door opens, and Kim steps out, two trash bags in each hand. She looks up at the parking lot, scanning it and the sky, like this is the first time she’s left the dank sanctum all day. Then she ducks her head, lifts the bags with surprising strength for her small frame and hikes over to the Dumpster. I sit up straighter in my seat, squint and memorize the cadence of each movement, as if it will help me understand what Cooper saw in her that was worth risking our future.

  Today she’s wearing a pair of skintight jean shorts that cover just enough to be decent, but not enough to leave much to the imagination. She’s probably in her midthirties, but a decade freer of responsibilities. It’s obvious in the way she walks with her face tilted toward the sun and the way her hips sway, not because she’s trying to be sultry—there’s no one out here to appreciate it—but because she can’t be bothered to move at a quick pace. Instead, she moves fully through each step like a feral cat.

  Watching her reminds me of what I see in Reese. Time spent with Reese is time spent chasing a fantasy, a break from the real world. I owe him nothing, and he owes nothing to me. There are no disappointments between us. It’s a clean slate.

  Kim reaches the Dumpster, uses both hands to flip the lid back, then braces herself with a wide stance and swings each bag into the bin, using her whole body to lift each one. It only takes her a few seconds, as rehearsed as the act is, then she closes the Dumpster lid again and dusts her hands off on the back of her shorts. That’s it. That’s all she does before she disappears into the bar for the rest of the night.

  I sink into my seat when she turns back to the building. I don’t know why I come here or what I expect to find. She’s not going to have an explanation of their tryst tattooed across her midriff.

  I sit up and reach for my keys hanging from the ignition, but just when I’ve decided never to come back here, before Kim grab
s for the door handle, she stops. I look around, searching for whatever caught her attention. She’s still for ten swift beats of my heart, and then, before I can duck or breathe or disappear inside my own self-pity, she looks at me. For a moment, I freeze, sure she’s only looking in my general direction, not at my pale face half hidden by my visor and sunglasses. But then, even at this distance, I clearly see her lift an eyebrow and give one quick nod toward the building. She narrows her eyes at me to make sure I’ve gotten the message, then pulls the door open and enters the bar.

  She must have seen me sitting here. Yesterday, the day before. She must know who I am.

  Before I can change my mind, I open the car door and cross the blacktop. I have nothing to fear, I assure myself. There’s nothing left to lose.

  Once the heavy bar door falls closed behind me, it could be afternoon or midnight. The lack of windows makes the place tomb-like. I never noticed before, when the place was teeming with locals and major league sports broadcasting from every TV. Now it’s only a few people setting up for a slow weeknight. Kim stands behind the bar, filling the condiment tray, like she’s forgotten about me already.

  I approach the bar, weaving through tables and chairs. The jukebox is off, but a hum of country music plays overhead. There are two men on the other side of the bar drinking quietly by themselves.

  When I reach the bar and place my hands on the sloping carved wood, Kim says, “What can I get you?” She’s served us many times before, when I’ve come here with Cooper, Stephen and Megan, but the deep pitch of her voice seems more noteworthy this time. Silky. Sensual. Untrustworthy.

  “I didn’t come here for a drink.”

  “C’mon. It’s on the house.” She finally looks up at me. Her brown eyes sweep over me without giving anything away.

  “No, thanks.”

  She turns to grab a bottle of vodka, places a shot glass in front of me and fills it up. A few drops land on the bar top, and she swipes them away with a cocktail napkin. She sticks her hand out to offer a seat, but I refuse that, too.

  “Something on your mind?” she asks and goes back to arranging maraschino cherries. She knows exactly what’s on my mind, that I’m sure of. Her nonchalance about it is amusing. She thinks she holds the power here.

  “You remember me?” I ask. She glances at me but says nothing. I take it as a yes. Already tired of her games, I get to the point. “Do you remember Cooper? Cooper Caldwell?”

  Again, she looks at me without responding, but the answer is clear in the tic of her jaw muscle. I wait her out. After a moment of silence, she empties her hands, wipes them on the apron around her waist and faces me.

  “Yes,” she says. “I remember him.”

  Pain blooms in the center of my chest. I’m here to try to understand, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt to picture them together, which is made all the easier with her standing in front of me. I don’t let her see it. The pain I feel doesn’t belong to her. She doesn’t deserve to have such an effect on me.

  “Did you see him outside of the bar?”

  She lifts an eyebrow—one sleek, sexy eyebrow. Stephen often commented on how attractive she was when Megan wasn’t with us. I kicked him under the table every time he did.

  “Yes,” she says.

  “Did you...?” I can’t bring the words to my lips. Her eyes darken, though. She doesn’t need me to finish.

  “Yes.” No hesitation. No sugarcoating. No apology. I write the entire scene in my head. Him sitting in the stool that now stands empty next to me. Him complaining to her about me. Having a few too many shots. Staying past closing time. Following her out the front door. Kissing against her car. Or was it his? Slipping inside. Going back to her place. Or maybe they never made it that far. Maybe it happened right there in the parking lot.

  My logic wavers.

  “Say it,” I whisper. “Say it out loud so I... So my life hasn’t been torn apart because of a misunderstanding.”

  She purses her lips and tilts her chin up. I understand her expression. She’s impressed.

  After a pause, she says, “Yes, I slept with Cooper.” One of the guys across the bar looks up at us. I ignore him and give her one sharp nod.

  I weigh my options. I could hit her. Drag her around the bar by her hair until someone calls the cops. I could dissolve into tears and beg her to disappear and pretend the whole thing never happened. Many women would do one or the other in my position, but I feel no desire to do any of those things. Instead, I sit down on the stool next to me, pick up the vodka and take a sip. It burns down my throat and all the way up into my nose.

  Kim hasn’t moved, hardly even blinked.

  “You have no shame, do you?”

  She shrugs. “Listen, Dylan—”

  “Don’t say my name. I never gave it to you. You don’t know anything about me.”

  A grin plays at her lips. She must have expected a weaker woman to walk in here, if she expected to be confronted at all. She must have expected someone who would be intimidated by her beauty and confidence and the forceful role she played in breaking down another woman. Not me. She doesn’t win unless I let her. And I won’t.

  “Listen,” she starts again, “your relationship is with him, not me. I haven’t broken any rules or lied to anybody. That’s between you two.” I appreciate that she didn’t say his name again. I couldn’t stand to hear how familiar the word would be when it rolled off her tongue.

  I pick up the shot glass and choke down the rest, then stand and turn to leave. I stop.

  “Thanks for being honest,” I say over my shoulder. That wipes the smile from her face, and for the first time, I see some humility in her.

  I break out into the fading evening light and blink away the darkness. As I walk to my car, I have no strategy or analytical assessment of the situation. I thought coming here would help me put a lid on Cooper’s one-night stand, but there are no labels or categories or clean-cut understandings when it comes to love. Not even for me, no matter how much I try.

  “Wait!” I hear from behind me, as well as heavy footsteps approaching quickly. “Wait.”

  When I turn, Kim halts a few feet in front of me. She shades her eyes with her hand, and a breeze whips her hair around her face. She really is beautiful. I’m not sure if that hurts more, or if it makes it easier to accept.

  “He loves you,” she says.

  I snort. “Yeah, he’s done a great job of proving that.”

  She shrugs and nods toward the bar behind her. “I spend a lot of time around men, and they don’t do a whole hell of a lot that makes sense. But...he was a mess. Because of you. He loves you and...he was hurt. Drunk, too.”

  “So you took advantage of a man in a fragile state.”

  Her lips curl, and her nose wrinkles. She sniffs, and for one crazy second, I think she might cry. “I’m not proud of it,” she says. “Trust me when I tell you, there aren’t many good ones out there. I thought for one night...” She shakes her head and trails off, looks over her shoulder like she’s waiting for someone to call her back. Then she locks eyes with me and says, “You have a good one. If I were you, I wouldn’t let that go.”

  She holds my gaze as she takes a few steps backward, then turns away and strides back to the bar.

  * * *

  Saturday morning, I sit on the back step with my hands wrapped around a cup of coffee, watching Spencer attack individual blades of grass. It’s early—much too early for a Saturday—but I was tired of tossing and turning, so I got out of bed and started on the caffeine. It’s going to be a hot day. Already the sun has warmed my skin to almost sweating.

  When a shadow crosses in front of me, it’s so natural to assume it’s Reese, I forget he’s not supposed to be here today, not on the weekend. But I look up and it is him. The early morning sun emanates from behind him, so I can
only see parts of his face; but I recognize his stance, his muddy boots, the way my head clouds when he’s around. I squint up at him.

  “Hi,” he says.

  “Hi,” I breathe.

  “Are you on call?” he asks.

  I shake my head. He comes over to sit next to me. There’s little space here, so the sides of our bodies are pressed together. It awakens me more effectively than the caffeine. I should fight these feelings, but I’m tired of fighting everything. Life could be easier if I just let go.

  “Why are you here?” I ask.

  “To make sure you’re okay. I haven’t seen you all week. I wondered how things went with your dad.” He rubs his leg against mine, prodding me for an answer. “So, are you okay?”

  I shake my head, being honest for once.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Everything,” I say. “My parents are divorcing.”

  I tell him because I know he understands what it’s like to have parents who aren’t together. I tell him because I want to.

  He frowns. “Why?”

  “He cheated.”

  He sucks air in between his teeth, as if burned. “You’re mad at him?” he asks like he already knows the answer.

  I nod.

  After a minute, he says, “Now what?”

  “Hell if I know. You seem to have all the answers.”

  He chuckles softly. “Hardly. I just pay attention.”

  “And what do you see now?” I ask. I’m no longer afraid of his analyses. I might be better off if I start listening to them.

  “Either you’re very hungry...or you’re about to have a complete emotional breakdown.”

  I burst into laughter, because what else can I do when things get so bad it’s like life itself—or the “Universe,” as Reese calls it—is plotting against me? Reese laughs, too. When I feel his fingers suddenly on the side of my face, I stop breathing. He traces my hairline with his index finger and tucks the loose strands behind my ear. Then he wipes a tear from the corner of my eye. I hadn’t felt it there. His light eyes are so focused in on me, I can’t look directly at them.