by Diane Munier
He would go home. He'd lock his door. He was done.
But he had not gone far when she came after. He stopped then and waited for she'd called out and he could take in the air…finally.
She reached him, holding a shirt, a man's blue one. She was already pulling it up his arms. She moved so quickly…too quick for him…not quick enough.
She was buttoning it, a satisfied look, her deep dark eyes darting to his, the sweet lip turned in a smile. Was this mercy? He wanted it. More. He was sick.
"After today…no more."
"Tonight then?" she said. "Don't tell me. I'll come to you. If you send me home I'll know what this morning was."
"What was it? Rutting on a cabin floor?"
She smoothed over his shoulders, the hurt in her eyes. "Not for me."
"What then? You don't even know me."
"I do…and I will. Didn't you mean it? What happened between us…wasn't it real?"
"As I remember…I left evidence."
"I mean…it's powerful…between us." She let her hands drop.
"It is what it is. I'm sorry you had some other idea of it. I'm at fault. I never should have…."
"Don't," she said with such intensity it worried him.
But he understood something. She needed this…illusion…as much as he needed her…and that was powerful.
He cupped her face, her lovely face, with his big hands, and he searched her eyes and ran his thumbs over her cheeks.
"I…don't know if you're sent by God or the devil," he laughed softly, and the despair….
"It ended in lovemaking. That's what everything we have left leads to."
Was she crazy? "What do you want from me…really?"
"Tonight," she whispered.
Chapter 3
She was in his head. He tried to read…to be…to do something. Mrs. Palm came to clean the house that didn't need to be cleaned. It was her job, she said when he suggested…perhaps…less often.
He withdrew. When she left he went in the kitchen, he knew how to make a salad.
Did Cori eat meat? She was thin…her bones…fragile. He felt something inside her…body…he'd had the training…his hands laid on every kind of flesh, every kind of joy and despair in the skin, muscle, blood, the face, the voice, the posture, the air…and all the stops between, and he looked at his hands, too soft, too knowing, too willing…too resistant…and now this woman…Cori.
Surrender…was profundity. To give over…weighty. She had given herself to him.
She asked nothing…not with words…but the game…the magic of a story in reverse…is that what she wanted…magic? He knew that role. He surely did know it…but want it? Oh God he did not. But a fixed end…well…he'd believed in that once…and she had it orchestrated…or so she thought. Deadly.
He'd told her who he was. Right off. Years of habit…transparency…removing the threat of himself. I'm Jordan Staley. I'm…innocuous Jordan. I do not think, feel or bleed like you, and even if I say I do, fall apart before you…still…you won't believe me.
He watched the beach and he went to the stove and he fired the grill, the center of the stove, and he watched, then back to make the salad, and what the heck did she like…what if she was vegetarian…this was a big hunk of meat…he couldn't imagine her eating this at all. He wanted…where was she?
And finally, long after the grill was off and the steaks were thrown, thrown on a plate, raw and unwrapped and set on a shelf in the refrigerator, and the salad was in the trash, long after he'd taken to sitting on the porch, in the dark chill and the roar of the water he watched for her and knew she wasn't going to come. And he was quiet…and calm…and festering…and expecting nothing at all.
When all hope was let out of its cage and the cage was cleaned and desolate, a light bobbed in the distance, too big to be a firefly…too late in the year. She came in the dark, flashlight…blue jeans and the sweater, and her hair in a ponytail, and boots…boots almost to her knees and she carried the big cloth purse and it looked loaded with something heavy.
He didn't stand, but stayed in the chair, tipped back on its two hind legs, he wore jeans, barefooted, and a sweatshirt from years ago.
She walked slowly up the stairs, cradling her bag. "I'm here," she said.
He felt nervous, frustrated. "I gave up," he said.
"You were waiting?"
"You didn't think I was?"
"You never said for sure. I…almost didn't come. But…I made soup."
"Soup?" That angered him more, the thought that she had stayed away to cook.
"I had food here," he said.
"Oh. This is still hot."
"I'm not hungry," he lied. "It's too late. I'll bet you never think about time."
She stood there, staring. "Do you want me to go?"
He slowly lowered the chair. His heart hammered with her so near he could smell her food, he could smell her skin, her hair, over the sea, because he knew her, the slightest trace of her.
He stood now, their eyes locked and he couldn't hold her gaze, couldn't, wouldn't send her away. The house had grown so empty. She shouldn't have made him wait.
This was her idea. She wanted tonight. What was it about? He should send her home.
He went in and held his door wide as she'd done for him earlier.
She followed him, and he veered off at the table and she went to the stove. She set her bag on the wooden countertop and lifted a green pot with a lid. She set this on the stove and she lifted the lid and he smelled it and he was right there by her.
"It's potato soup," she said, offering it to him, her eyes…just like when she undressed…or laid with him…those eyes….
"I'll…I'll take some," he said, swallowing loudly.
Bowls. They needed bowls. He couldn't remember and he stupidly opened two cabinet doors looking. Damn Mrs. Palm, this was somehow her fault. He saw the crockery and took two bowls down and slammed the door harder than he meant to.
He had to be with her. He wanted to be with her.
She laid the lid on the counter. She pulled a drawer and found the ladle. She went to stirring and he got right beside her and set the bowls. Two of them. One for her…one for him. Two of them.
Her hand was on the counter as she stirred the soup.
She had stopped stirring. He looked at her. Deep, dark silence. "Where is he?" he said.
She shook her head. "Not with me," she whispered.
"Were you going to tell me?"
The dark silent look. "You wouldn't ask this close to the end," she said. "You would know by now."
"You're a damn married woman," he enunciated.
"I'm not," she yelled back, and he was surprised at the sudden emotion, but he'd seen that before, that morning in fact. "It's over."
He waited for more.
"Don't," she said.
"Don't? Don't ask who you are?"
She started to stir the soup. "Cori Weston," she whispered. "Google it if you must."
They stared at each other. He felt angry enough to break a few dishes at least, but he knew how to control himself. But the wild jealousy inside, he hadn't seen that coming. He might hate her right now. In fact…he did.
"Should I go?" she said again.
He turned away from her and ran his hands through his hair. He looked around, the dark, the still and the uncountable tons of water shifting beyond…she was playing havoc with…everything. He was a wreck and she seemed to plug right into it. "I happen to respect marriage. Give me a choice at least."
"I knew that. I…imagined that. I wouldn't do that to you."
"Really?" he said, but it wasn't nice.
"Should I go?"
He wanted to send her away, wanted the drama, wanted to hurt her, reject her on the chance she lied, so he could prove to himself he was so upstanding he wouldn't continue to use her now that he'd dropped lower than ever.
But did he want her to go? Was there a shred of honesty in him? Would he put all his sins on her? He ha
dn't asked…if she was married. He hadn't cared. "No," he all but croaked. "No."
He let out a breath and went to the fridge, popping it open and grabbing two green bottles of beer.
She was watching him, taking her cue, she started to stir the soup again, filling one bowl then the other.
He yanked out a chair and sat, and she served him first. That calmed him. More than he liked. He was letting her call all the shots, turn him inside out. He was begging for more.
She went back to the stove for her bowl and brought it to the table.
He noticed her hands shaking as she set it on the table.
All the anger was out of him. He reached and circled her wrist with his long ridiculous fingers.
They looked at each other, and she was quickly moving to him and he pushed against the table and the soup rocked like the waves and he was barely aware as she fell on him and he wanted it…wanted her, and he rose, his arms around her and he lifted her off her feet and her legs went around him and he held her there, and his hand moved to the back of her head, the other arm shelved her ass and she locked her ankles and he carried her a few paces one-way and the other, and she held on, her face buried against his neck, and he thought, my God, even like this…even if…I want her.
They slept on the couch that night, and he held her…and she held him…and outside, a storm, and rain pelted the porch roof and the windows and the soup cooled on the stove and the table and maybe the floor and he'd never closed the door…and it was downright cold and still…he held this woman.
Chapter 4
In the morning, she startled awake. He'd been holding her for hours, quiet, the urge to pee the only protest in the serenity. But holding her…he couldn't deny…it felt useful.
Life was still sweet. And he couldn't care enough, desperate as he was to feel it.
Why had he moved out of the fog? There, it had been painless at least. But now…with her…oh God…life became tragic once again.
To him…she was beautiful. Her skin, her dark brows, and hair, her sweet lips. To him, the rise and fall, the thump of her heart, the way her hands moved in her sleep and she mumbled, and she quieted becoming aware, again and again…she wasn't alone.
God, what are you doing to me, he thought more than once, and though he was bitter, he was not just that, he was asking a question, like a student, like someone open to learning, and he didn't want that…to learn. He'd quit asking. He'd quit.
He held her and that was the thing. He let himself feel her weight, her need. What was she doing? Who…? He'd seen the indent on her ring finger, he knew it had been there recently, and for a good while, maybe it belonged there still.
He was conflicted, and he knew it would make him unstable, and how he'd worked to quiet the madman…to die to himself.
He was not a haunted man. The voices had stilled. He had buried them. He had been counseled…he had listened. It wasn't his fault…surviving…breathing through it…lasting long enough…to walk away. It wasn't his fault that his words…his deeds…and he knew all that. It's what he'd say himself to someone else wrestling with a situation they'd been thrust in…hadn't chosen…wouldn't want. He'd said that in his pastor's voice, his soothing, shit-filled slide of a voice, it will all be alright…it matters.
He just wanted to hold her. That's it. Anything more was impossible. Every word ready to blow it up…blow them up. She was playing an impossible game. They'd started with sex. It couldn't be anything more. They were good at it…compatible. It's what they both lacked…him at least…connection…mindless driving need…it's what they needed…he did…and she was clawing for it…chirping, bleating for it, mewling and mooing for it, trying to drain him…like she could.
He moved from beneath her, went outside and peed in line with the wind. He went in, shed his clothes, moved to her where she waited on the sofa, pulled her onto her feet, her eyes soft with deep sleep, he started to undress her, knocked her hands away and did it himself, hurried, but careful enough for a man with a hard heart, a hard story, he unbuttoned, unhooked, unzipped, and tugged until her skin and curves and temptations and secrets were his, for him, for his eyes. He took her to the windows, to the floor, that soft honey shine, and her on top and he wanted to feel her weight, he wanted to be crushed. His fingers dug into her flesh, and his eyes rolled into his head and he took, and took, and took. And he fell back and she laid over him, a shell of woman, an armor of woman, and her hair and her limbs sprawled, and he finished, his mouth open, and against her neck, and his lips gathered slowly to plant a kiss against the flutter, his breath in her ear, but no words.
Time dripped from the eaves and they lay on their backs. Not touching. Staring at the crisscrossed wood above them. "He was…he was with you…they…were with you," she said.
It was like mercury had been shot into his veins, the cold silver running through, slamming into his heart. The betrayal…stunned him.
Cori Weston. He looked at her. She was already turned to him, the sympathy, the fear in her eyes.
"That's why," he said. A set-up. Nothing more. Of course. The world…the Godforsaken ruined world.
Chapter 5
"Leave," he said. It wasn't difficult. His sense of betrayal…it wasn't hard to ask her…to demand it.
"Please…please…let me explain."
"How did you find me?"
"Alisha," she said, still naked, her hair her only covering sitting on the floor still, and him already standing, dressing.
Double betrayal…his…tryst…and his sister and she was so damn open with him…this woman…this woman who needed to cover herself.
"You have to go. Go now. I don't want to see you again. Go now." He found her clothes, lonely discarded…crumpled…her jeans, her underclothes, her blouse, her pride. He flung these at her, in her direction, and she made no move, but she sat there, naked, untied, undone, unholy, unwanted, scab, scar, intrusion.
"Get out," he said louder, "get out," and he did not know himself, this voice, these movements, "get out."
He wouldn't run and hope and cower and steal and stealth…she had to go, he went to the door, then he saw her pan of soup and he went for this and he took it out on the porch and he threw it and the lid and the pot and the white slash of soup, and the gray, gray, gray world.
She came out then, and he waited, hands on the railing, head down. He didn't used to be this. But now…he was.
She stepped close to him, and she wore the sweater and clutched the blouse, her bra, the scarf, and her hair blew over her face, her lovely, lying mouth, her beautiful, sinful, scheming, conniving eyes. "I want you to meet him. He talks about you…all the time."
"Get out. Get the hell out," he said, though she was out, and waiting on the porch and he wanted to fling her…like the soup.
"I'm going. I'm leaving…but I'll be there…at the cabin," she said.
Over this he yelled, "Get away from me," and he stomped into the house and slammed the door and locked it against her.
His back on the door, his shoulders, his stomach…his fury. He went up the stairs, but that wasn't it…he went to the room he used now, his room and he stood there and walked there, to the window to make sure…she was going, and she was, stumbling along, tripping some, rubbing at her eyes, she'd dropped her clothes, she'd left the pot, the lid, she left…she left.
Chapter 6
He brooded for two days. He got drunk and told Cori off in the empty house. He went so deep down the well of self-pity he could barely breathe. He called Alisha and yelled and Paul got on and told him to deal with it and to shut the hell up and then nothing.
Oh, so this was the new approach now. Run him over…then tough love.
He threw his phone and heard it break apart on the floor…where he'd been with her…that cunning bitch…that traitorous bitch.
He'd passed out on the floor. Mrs. Palm found him there the following morning.
"Are you alright Mr. Staley?" she asked, leaning over him, startling him as he opened his cr
usted eyes and tried to focus on her round concerned face.
He felt shame. Time was…he put others first…he'd cared how he came off…how he represented…love. Now he struggled to get up. "I'm fine," he mumbled, then he rolled onto his knees and defied gravity to get on his feet. No sooner had he gotten his bearings than he had to run out the door she'd left open.
The fresh air was a shock. He leaned over the railing and threw up and the sea rolled and his stomach with it, but there wasn't much inside him…he hadn't eaten.
So he was quiet and sick deep down then. He hoped Alisha was happy, pulling him back to all the crap, the voices, the feelings, he hoped she was wrecked and Paul was cursing him while he tried to comfort her. He knew how he'd leaned on them, but that was Alisha. She'd have it no other way…his enabler. Now she was trying to get rid of him, trying to move him past it all so she could breathe. He'd told her to back off, he'd said it and said it…they weren't joined at the hip…he had a right to feel terrible…to be terrible. He had a right.
When he calmed some, and he always did eventually, he cleaned up and drove to the library in town to use the computer. He didn't have Wi-Fi at the house, and with his phone broken…. He didn't want it. But here, using the library's technology, he Googled Cori Weston. There were five of them, maybe more, but she was head of the list…well, she would be. It had been a big story, and there was her name…linked to his…the dead grandfather…the wounded kid…linked to him. On the computer…linked forever.
The intersection of two souls on the beach…orchestrated. His sister. The one he'd leaned on…the only one left...and now…nobody.
He followed the thread on the boy…story after story. He'd recovered. He was walking. She was the mother…Cori Weston.
Emotion opened…a sinkhole, a pit. That kid was walking. He shut it off then. He looked around, made sure he was alone as he wiped over his face with a shaking hand.
He hadn't wanted to see the boy. He hadn't wanted it. It was the only way to control something…and from his core…he'd refused all interviews.
