by James, Ella
I giggle. “Like me.”
He frowns.
“For you.”
I throw myself at him, end up falling on the console in between our seats, and then fall victim to a minor bout of hysterical laughing.
“Barrett,” I gasp. I start howling.
I can feel him laughing, too, his chest bumping into mine as his low chuckles fill the car.
“I’m sorry,” I cackle. “I love them so much. And you.”
By the time I pull out of his lap, I have to wipe tears from my eyes. The tears pick up steam again as I look at the bracelets. “God, they’re perfect. Thank you, Bear.”
I wipe my face, but that just seems to make the tears flow faster. Then I’m crying in my hands. I don’t know why.
“No… Piglet.” Barrett’s leaning over to me now, his hands on my shoulders. “Hey… It’s Christmas, and you’re Santa, right? Striptease Santa doesn’t cry on Christmas.”
I laugh, still crying.
“You’re a sad one. A sad drunk,” he murmurs, wiping my tears with his fingers.
I nod.
“Better than a mad one, baby. Better than a mad one.”
I settle eventually, and Barrett runs back into my mom’s house and gets some water for me. I look at the bracelets, winking like a bunch of little guiding lights.
And that’s when I realize: I am a mad one. I’m a mad drunk, and I’m mad sober. Because I love Barrett, so much. I love him, but I can’t move on. I can’t write a new story with Bear because I’m missing a huge chapter of my old one.
Chapter Nineteen
Gwenna
January 1, 2012
1:11 a.m.
I press my fingertip against the clock that sits on Jamie’s bathroom counter. Isn’t that what we used to do when we were kids? See a row of the same digit on the clock, and you got to make a wish. What is my wish, I wonder, as I sink my nose into the thick gray scarf.
It smells like man.
Not cologne, how Elvie smells, but male. Like…pheromones. And how pathetic am I, standing in Jamie’s bathroom, sniffing some dude I don’t even know.
I sigh, a sound that echoes. Which kind of makes me laugh. I’m still smiling as I dial Elvie.
For reasons I can’t fully explain, I left the theater room, where Nic and Jamie were starting Forrest Gump, and went to my room to call Elvie. But I had to pee, and my bathroom didn’t have toilet paper, so I came in here to—
Oh yeah. I need to use the restroom.
I sit down as the phone rings, and then stand as I realize there’s no TP here, either.
I frown at myself in the mirror as the phone rings once…twice…three times before I’m answered by a male laugh.
“Elvie.”
He laughs again. My lips move into a reciprocating grin, until I hear him say, “Stop, babe.”
“What?”
He laughs again, and it’s his slow laugh. It’s his drunk laugh. “Sorry, babe.” He hisses, “Just a second.”
My pulse spikes, despite the alcohol still in my bloodstream. “Are you talking to somebody else?”
“Gwen? I can’t hear you.”
“I can hear you.” And the other two hundred people in the background. “Elvie, where are you?”
“I can’t hear you. Gwen?”
“Go somewhere else, Elvie. It’s too loud. If you can’t hear me, it’s too loud there.”
The line goes dead.
I take a deep, slow breath. My head throbs. Holy fucking hell. He dropped me. Elvie— He does this to his parents sometimes! It’s the faux dropped call. I invented that, at least in our world. I used to use it when my crazy Aunt Maurine would call, when we were sophomores.
Holy fucking shit.
I’m so distraught, I sit down and pee, without re-realizing there’s no toilet paper.
“ARGHHHH!”
So what to wipe with? I massage my temples. Sometimes there’s a hand towel on the counter… Nope. Not right now. Ugh. I could use a sock. Ewwww. Gross! I spot Jamie’s makeup bag. Hells yes! She sometimes has a little pack of Kleenex in her makeup bag, to blot her liquid eyeliner. I lunge up off the toilet, grab the bag, and—SCORE!
I finish taking care of business. By the time I step into Jamie’s room, I’m haunted anew by what just happened with Elvie. What the hell is going on with him? Is he seeing another girl? Or is he just drunk and surrounded by fan girls and doesn’t want to risk one of them saying something that would piss me off?
I wander into two other guest rooms, looking for toilet paper, then go upstairs to the home theater. I find Jamie by herself.
“Just you?” I ask, as I walk nearer to her.
“Oh.” She turns to me. “Yeah, Nic left right after you did. Apparently there’s some—” she drops her volume— “family drama. His mom or dad went somewhere. Something. He left in his car instead of walking next door. Which I know,” she rolls her eyes, “because I watched him from the window like a stalker.”
I smile. “See this scarf? I’m sniffing it.”
“Ohh, what does it smell like?” She leans closer, and I hold it up.
“Nope. All mine.” I inhale. “It’s man-smell.”
“Sweat and dirty laundry?” She arches a flawlessly plucked eyebrow.
“No.” I swat her. “You’re so unromantic. Man-smell like…pheromones.”
Jamie, the bitch, throws her head back and actually howls. Like a wolf. At a full moon.
“Pheromones!” She points her flawless, red, bitch nail at me as if I’m naked on stage at a middle school play.
I wrap the scarf more tightly around my neck and cross my arms. “They’re real, you know. I didn’t make them up. This man has excellent pheromones. I can tell.”
“And what’s his name again?”
I blink and cast my gaze up to the ceiling. “I’m not telling,” I say peevishly. And then I feel embarrassed, because maybe I really am insane, and I also don’t want to fall into talking about what happened with Elvie, so I change the subject fast. “I feel like we may be out of toilet paper? Is that even possible with—”
“We are. I wiped with the hand cloth earlier.”
“I looked for that.”
“I stashed it underneath the sink. Nic was in my room.”
“Sexxxy.”
She fans her face. “I know, right?”
“So is he coming back?”
“He said he was, yeah.”
“That’s awesome, dude.” We high-five, Jamie smiling shyly, the way she always looks when she’s newly crushing on someone. It’s adorable.
“So I’ll go grab some? TP?”
She blinks, then frowns. “You want to? Dad could call someone.”
A delivery person. That’s what she means. Her parents call them any time we need something up here—sometimes in the middle of the night, even. “Nah. I’m in the mood to get out.”
“Are you stewing?”
I hold both hands up and walk backward. I can’t help smiling, probably guiltily. “Later, lovahhh.”
“I love you.”
“I love you more.”
“Get the Cottonelle. You know how Dad is! Take his car, too.”
“Yessir!”
Downstairs, the house is quiet. Jamie’s parents are asleep. The family cocker spaniel, Bruno Mars, is curled up underneath the granite counter in a little red dog bed. Her ear twitches when I grab Mr. Madison’s keys off the hook beside the fridge. I know they’re his because they have a Wheaton keychain attached. I stare down at it for a second, then notice I left my jacket upstairs in the bathroom. Classic.
I smile ruefully at my adopted scarf.
Barrett. Jamie didn’t remember his name, but I did.
I need to take the damn scarf off and give it to Nic.
Later.
For now, I decide to go full-on Mr. Madison and borrow his long, black down coat in addition to his SUV. I pull on my tall snow boots, lace them tightly, and admire the way his coat falls all the way down to
my shoe soles. At least I won’t be cold.
Outside, the porch stairs are slick and gritty with salt. Which is better than icy and snowy. Mr. Carmallo usually keeps the stairs and walk meticulously ice-free. Him or his wife. They live in a guest house behind the main house and keep the place up when the Madisons are elsewhere.
I walk slowly down the stairs and down the curving stone walk toward the driveway. Snow’s still falling, landing coolly on my cheeks and scalp. The driveway hasn’t been plowed in a few hours, so as I hit the “unlock” key on Mr. M’s keyring, my boots squeak on the fine powder.
The inky black Lexus LS looks meticulous inside, save for a folded copy of yesterday’s Wall Street Journal and the lingering scent of stale coffee. I grab the window scraper from the glove box, cleaning off the windshield as the defrost aids me from the inside, then folding down the windshield wipers. People in these parts leave them raised up off the windshield like this, I guess to keep them from freezing to the glass.
By the time I get back in, my seat is warm. The vents are blowing warm, coffee-scented air.
I fold my stolen scarf over my mouth and nose. As I back out, I inhale deeply.
So—I’m miserable.
That’s the truth of things. That’s my New Year’s secret.
As I drive toward the little general store a half a mile away, I allow myself a moment to imagine the man’s big, strong hands on my body. The way his fingers might feel stroking the soft skin of my throat. The way his beard would tickle the inside of my thighs.
I wonder if he’d love me well.
I tell myself he would. The snow pours down, a thick white curtain out in front of me, and I think it’s a shame I never realized sooner: Elvie doesn’t love me. I’m not sure he can.
That’s what’s been missing. Not just love—the possibility of finding it. I won’t, not with Elvie. But he’s comfortable. Elvie is easy. Warm and cozy.
What I need is fresh—and cold. A new start. Scary.
I say a silent prayer that I’m brave enough to change.
* * *
Barrett
December 27, 2015
I strap the brace on my left hand and look down at my fingers. The three that don’t move on their own are tightly curled against my palm: just tight enough so they can wrap snugly around the grip panel of my .22.
Christmas from Gwenna. So goddamned thoughtful.
I unload a few shots into the bull’s eye out in front of me, then use the lever on the fence to move the target back another thirty yards.
A cold breeze smacks it from the side, causing the bull’s eye paper to flutter. All the better. I set my sights on the small, red dot and pull the trigger with my right index finger.
When the bullet slices cleanly through the middle, I grin and blow on my fingers.
Not bad for a leftie.
I spend another half an hour at the range. It’s just three miles from our houses, but I still wouldn’t be here were it not for my secret Christmas present to myself. I feel fucking bad about it if I think about it too long, so I try not to. I just watch her on my phone and see her singing in her car and get a deep, relieved breath.
She’s leaving Home Depot with some bungee cords for the trip. We’re leaving tomorrow. I follow along with her as she heads toward her hair place. Fuck, her voice is gorgeous. She’s singing some old-school country music. Reba, I believe. Dove went through a country phase in Myanmar one time, so I know the classics.
When she exits the Mini Cooper, I’ll track her phone. Be sure she gets into the hair place. If she loses the phone, it doesn’t matter. All her shoe soles have been punctured, and the right shoe of every pair harbors a tiny GPS tracker.
I turn up the volume, trying and failing to muster up some guilt for listening to her sing while I finish up. Her voice is…like a living thing. It gets inside my chest. So far, I’ve withheld her last Christmas gift: a booking to sing at an upscale whiskey bar in Breckenridge on New Year’s Eve. I was hoping it might take her mind off things.
Since Christmas night, I’ve asked her to sing to me as we go to sleep. So I can tell for sure: her voice is not affected by what happened to her mouth. She can hit all the notes, make all the sounds. I’m not sure why she doesn’t perform anymore.
Something hot and tight takes hold of the back of my throat. I load the gun up and walk slowly back to my Jeep. She told me the other night that not remembering what happened to her is a problem. That she feels like she can’t move on in the way she wants to.
I haven’t been able to think about it since then, but now I do, as I drive back toward our houses.
It makes me feel ill.
I’ve been thinking more and more what matters most for someone: honesty, cohesion? Or love? There shouldn’t be a choice between the two, but if there was? Then what?
What can I do for Gwenna? What can I give her? Everything I can, and my whole heart. Is that enough?
I get to her house before she does, and I’m so restless, I change clothes and jog up to the rock. I check her on my phone when I get to the enclosure gate. Still at the fucking hair salon. I run back up the hill again, so by the time she rolls into the garage, freshly styled and looking like a miracle, I’m dripping sweat.
So what does my sweet girl do? She takes my hand, kisses my sweaty jaw, and leads me in the laundry room, where she strips my wet clothes off and grabs me by the dick. We fuck on a blanket by the couch, Gwen riding me. She looks like an angel with her coppery hair swinging around her shoulders, bouncing off her creamy breasts.
I blow as she clenches my dick with her own orgasm, so hard I feel like I’m coming apart. I’m still hazy when she returns from wherever she went with a wet cloth. She kisses my lips before she drapes it over my face.
“Thanks,” I manage.
I feel weird, so reflexively, I hope she goes. That’s what I do—I realize more and more. When I have a problem, my instinct—my instinct as a former Operator—is to hide it. Hide me.
So I’m surprised how good I feel when Gwenna tucks the blanket over me and snuggles up beside me. She kisses my temple… My cheek. Her gentle fingers stroke my hair.
“I saw you awake the last two mornings.”
I cut my bleary eyes at her, and find hers warm and understanding.
I roll on my side, hesitant about bringing my sweaty self closer to her. But Gwen wraps an arm around me.
“If you want to talk, you know I’m here. And if you don’t, just fall asleep. I thought of doing stir-fry burgers, you know, with onions and green peppers and some sauce? I’ll wake you up soon—or the smell will.”
My eyes squeeze shut as my throat tightens. A tear slips out. I rest my forehead against her throat and swallow.
“Why do you love me?”
I didn’t mean to ask. The words just tumbled out.
Her hand, stroking my back, goes still, then starts to make a slow, firm circle. I feel her soft laugh as it moves inside her throat. “Why don’t I, Bear? I can’t even think of one thing.” I feel her lips move over my hair. “If I really love you, I love everything, yeah? Good and less good. Whole burrito.” She laughs softly, tucking the blanket more tightly around me. “So there is no ‘why.’ There’s ‘why not’, and there’s no reason why not. You know what else?”
“No,” I whisper.
“I’m not flip-floppy. I don’t change my mind once it’s made up. When I like someone, I like them. My college beau? I always kind of knew he was a prick, but he was comfortable, I think. Jamie? Liked her from the second I met her. Nic, her boyfriend? Never have. Don’t even know why. You?” She strokes my hair. “Love at first kick. And you know what else?”
“What else?”
“I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately. It sounds kind of weird, but hear me out.” When I don’t speak, she goes on, “You might say you don’t deserve it—and you don’t—‘deserve’ it. Love is, by its definition, impossible to earn. It’s an abundance. It’s extravagant. Did Bill Gates ‘earn’
a gazillion dollars? That much money can’t be ‘earned.’ He hit the jackpot for a thousand different reasons. Worthy or not. Love is like that, I think. It can’t be deserved. It’s given. It’s a gift. And I’m giving it to you. You wanna try to give it back?”
I lay there, breathing. I kiss her throat. “You’re incredible, Piglet.” I would never think to say that in the way that she did, but I feel it just the same. I wish I could convey it.
“You’re the best thing I’ve ever had. The best thing in my life.”
“I’ll take it,” she says. “Because I want it.”
She wants me. For just a moment, I savor it.
Chapter Twenty
Gwenna
December 30, 2015
We fly out of Nashville just a little shy of 5 p.m., on a nonstop flight to Denver International Airport. Barrett booked our tickets and surprises me with first class. I get strangely teary as we sink into our roomy, leather seats. Jamie and Nic spent Christmas in Breckenridge with her family. It’s the earliest she’s ever headed out to Colorado, and the first time she made the holiday trek without me. That Barrett booked us in first class—gives me all the feels. He doesn’t notice, I don’t think. In fact, in his fluffy new olive green down jacket—hip-length, with a sweatshirt type hood, ragged jeans, and sneakers, he looks slightly sleepy.
He’s been keeping close to me all day. He had his arms around my waist in line to board, which is sort of unusual for him. He’s never minded a little PDA, but he seemed downright handsy. Which I happen to love, but which makes me wonder what’s up with him.
What’s his mood? I can’t tell. He seemed in a good mood, making French toast and bacon for breakfast before I even got out of the shower, but then he shaved his beard and sheared his gorgeous curls way down, and…I don’t know. It seemed so random. He seemed tense after he did it. He still seems off.
We latch hands for takeoff, and I cover us with the bear blanket Rett got me for Christmas. It’s fleece, with a picture of a black bear wandering the woods. Fitting, since Rett is staying at my place most of the nights we’ll be gone.
