by Roya Carmen
My house.
It could have been my house. But I’m glad it isn’t.
She walks over to the cooler, wearing a stylish gold accented tunic and matching flip-flops. “Can I get you something? I have pomtini coolers and margarita mix.”
I smile. I can drink. I can get drunk if I want. “I’ll take a pomtini cooler please.”
“Atta girl,” she says as she pops the cap off with a silver bottle opener.
It’s nice and cold and tastes so good.
Greg and Gabe chat by the barbecue. They get along relatively well, but they are so different. Greg is as straight as they come, and Gabe is a free-spirit. Greg would never understand what Gabe and I were involved in. I’ve sworn Gwen to secrecy. The only thing Gabe and Greg have in common is a love of sports and beer. Although Gabe likes your classic American beers like Budweiser, Coors Light and Rolling Rock, and Greg seems to favor foreign beers like Heineken, Stella Artois, Alexander Keith’s and Corona with lime… like a certain person I know, who shall remain nameless, who I shall stop thinking about.
I shake my head. Maybe Gabe is right. Maybe I need to put some distance between us. But I have a bad feeling that even if we were miles apart, on different continents even, oceans dividing us, we’d still think about each other every day. I blow out a breath at the thought. I wish I had never met him. I wish I could just forget him.
Gwen cheers, giving me a squeeze. “It’s so nice to see you.”
We clink bottles. “You too.”
My eyes dart from her to my kids splashing in the pool. Claire wears her pink princess water wings. She can swim now, but I would never trust her in there without water wings. She always looks like she’s struggling when she swims, but I suppose that’s the way all kids are when they first learn.
“I can’t believe school starts this week,’ she says. “I’m not sure I’m looking forward to it.”
“I am. I need the distraction. But it is a little earlier than usual this year.”
She studies me for a moment. “Yes, how have you been? Are you well enough to go back?”
I smile at her. “I’m good.” And this time, I don’t lie. I’m actually pretty good, all things considered.
We have a great afternoon, splashing around in the pool, chatting, laughing and enjoying Greg’s gourmet burgers and Gwen’s macaroni salad — one of the few things she can make.
We chat about Gabe’s work, the new school year, summer escapades, the girls’ new obsession with creating pictures with tiny glittery foam squares and making bracelets with tiny colorful elastics. Gabe tells them all about the little squares stuck to the floor and the tiny elastics found in the strangest of places, tucked in all corners of the house.
“I should probably vacuum more often,” I joke.
And all the while, I wonder what Weston is doing. Is he with his children? With Bridget? Could they have possibly gotten back together, or is he still waiting for me? I hope for all our sakes, that he’s sitting beside her today at some fancy country club luncheon. I can almost see them…
She’s dressed in a smart cream chic two-piece. She presses the folds out of her skirt, and adjusts her little stylish hat. He’s dressed in a sleek suit, tells his kids to use their linen napkins, and makes idle chit-chat with old money.
Yes, I want everything to be as it was before we all fucked things up royally.
The girls are so excited this morning I can hardly get a spoonful of food in them. The first day of school is always like this. I’ve dressed them in matching black shorts and frilly tops and matching flowered headbands. Claire’s is pink and Chloe’s is purple. Chloe was none too pleased with me and I begged her to cooperate, just this once. I’ve worn a soft coral skirt, sheer white blouse, camisole with pink colored lace detailing, and sensible pink ballet flats.
Our home life might not be perfect but at least, we look good. I’m so glad to be going back to work. I definitely need the distraction. With the separation, the miscarriage and this on-going drama with Weston, I’m going absolutely bonkers. And work always grounds me. That’s exactly what I need right now — to be grounded. Because I feel like I’m flying in all directions, caught up in a windstorm.
My school kids are adorable, as always. I take in the details of them, focusing on remembering names, twenty-one little humans thrown at you all at once. I had the list but I haven’t perused it. I’ve been so naughty.
I can tell straight away which ones will be the leaders and the Chatty-Cathies, and which ones will be the introverts; the quiet ones in the corner, faces buried in books. I’m always drawn to those quiet kids. They remind me of myself. And there’s always the ‘troublemaker’ — it never fails. This year, it’s a red curly haired, freckled boy by the name of Sebastian, and he’s a handful. He manages to break two toys, completely messes up the counting station, and makes three classmates cry…all on the first day!
I suck in a deep breath of relief as I tidy my classroom after the kids have all left. If I can survive the first day, the rest of the year should be fine. I smile at the memory of Sebastian. He’s going to make me earn my paycheck this year. That’s for sure.
The next few weeks get a bit easier. We spend a lot of time as a family, going to the park, Gwen’s pool, the library, and the city. We play board games and watch family movies at night. And after the girls go to bed, we watch episode after episode of The Sopranos, cuddled up under the old fleece throw. It’s just like the old days, but not quite. These days, Gabe doesn’t stroke the inside of my thigh and turn off the TV for a quickie. With the exception of the lack of sex, life is pretty much just as it was before. Except Gabe is more attentive now. He treats me like a princess.
Gabe and I are still not officially back together. He stills sleeps on the sofa downstairs. We tell the girls it’s because he snores too loudly, which is true. But in fact, I usually sleep like a log, and am not bothered by the snoring. I’ve asked him if he’s okay on the sofa, and he tells me he is.
We talk about his work, about the opportunity in Phoenix which is still on the table. We talk about the logistics of moving. I’d have to leave my work, and we’d have to leave our families and our friends. But we’re not too close with our families, especially mine. And although Gabe has a lot of buddies, I only have the one friend. Gabe is so outgoing, I’m sure it wouldn’t take him too long to find himself some new friends.
Truth be told, I’m still not too keen on the idea. I don’t like change. Gabe seems to be more serious about it and something tells me it’s not just about the opportunity, about a change of pace. It’s also about Weston.
As long as we’re close to him, as long as he calls and pursues me, I’ll always be a risk of falling into his arms again. Gabe is unaware of many things; the house Weston bought for me, the two encounters we’ve had in the last few months, but he’s not an idiot. He knows Weston is still around, still longs to see me, to be part of my life.
He knows Weston is not letting go.
Gabe looks gorgeous in dark wash jeans and a plain white tee — I can’t help but ogle. He’s fiddling with the DVD remote, setting up an episode of The Sopranos. I’m wrapped up in the cozy fleece throw. I doubt we’ll be sharing it tonight, like we used to. He shoots me a smile and I smile back shyly. It’s like I’m sitting next to a beautiful stranger.
Life with Gabe back at the house has been strange. It’s all nice and proper — ‘how are you?’ and ‘I’m fine, and you?’. It’s weird as hell. We’ve lost that playfulness, that little spark that made us…us.
But on the upside, he’s been more helpful than ever with the girls and the chores.
I want to know what’s going on inside his mind. Why is he here? Has he forgiven me? Is there still a chance for us?
And I want him. I want to cuddle, to laugh, to play with him.
“Do you remember what episode we were on?” he asks, not quite looking at me. He hasn’t looked at me much lately, and it’s absolutely killing me. It’s almost like he’s afr
aid to, afraid to love me again.
“Twelve, I think,” I say, and I wonder if he’ll sit next to me.
He locates the episode menu and sits back on the recliner. My heart sinks. Gabe never sits on the recliner if I’m with him, but lately, that’s what he’s been doing. Things really have changed.
“Did you kiss the girls goodnight?”
He turns to look at me with a smile. “Of course.” His face stretches into a grin. “Apparently, Chloe wants a pool.”
I laugh a little. “Yes, she’s been talking my ear off about it. But to be fair, it is pretty damn hot these days.”
He smiles. “Well, you never know, this Phoenix thing…”
I perk up. “Oh, is that still on the table?” If he’s talking about us and Phoenix, maybe there’s still a chance.
He nods. “Big time. Williams wants me to give him an answer in the next few weeks.”
My heart skips a beat at the thought of all of us packing up and moving way, saying goodbye to all our friends, to everything we know. “Do you think this is something we should seriously consider?”
He swallows hard and there’s a certain intensity about him I don’t see too often. “Yes, we should seriously consider it, Ella.”
“You’re ready to leave your job, all your friends, your family?”
“We can make a new life, Ella. It’ll be hard, but we can do it.”
My spirits lift. There is still a ‘we’. He hasn’t turned his back on us, despite all I’ve put him through. I know he loves me still.
He leans in on his elbows and his eyes are dark and serious when he tells me, “You need to get away from him.”
My stomach seems to tighten at his words. He’s right. This would be for the best, for me, for us and for our family.
I don’t say a word and he smiles at me. “So, are we watching this show, or what?”
I’m folding a load of laundry when Weston calls. As soon as I hear his voice, I trudge over to the powder room and lock myself in there with the phone. I don’t need Gabe hearing this conversation. He’s likely to blow his stack if he knows Weston is still calling me.
“Weston,” I sigh. “You shouldn’t be calling.”
“I needed to see how you were faring. I want to know you’re well. I’ve been in tatters thinking about you.”
“I’m great,” I assure him. “Both physically and emotionally,” I tell him, wondering how he’s doing. I know he was broken up about the baby. The last time I saw him, he was completely shattered. “How are you?”
“Hanging in there,” he says, and then adds without preamble, “I’d love to see you.”
My heart beats a little faster when I tell him, “Weston, we can’t. We need to stop this. Our story is over.”
“It isn’t for me.”
“Well, it is for me. It has to be.”
“You just need a little more time, Mirella,” he presses, not letting go. “You’ve been through something awful and you’re trying to run away from it.”
Yes, I’m trying to run away from you.
I press my head against the wall, not wanting to say what I’m about to say. “I’m not running away. I’m trying to move forward with my life…my life with Gabe. But you’re not letting me do that.”
I hear a sigh and I can tell I’ve hurt him, but I carry on, needing to tell him this. “I won’t be moving in with you, Weston. I know you have this beautiful house all ready for us but–”
“I don’t care if there’s no baby anymore, Mirella. Like I’ve told you, it doesn’t change a thing. We belong together.”
“Weston…”
“We can try again,” he says. His voice is animated like he’s just had the most brilliant idea. “We can have another baby. We can still be a family…you, me, the girls and…”
“Weston,” I sigh. “You’re acting crazy again.”
“I’m not crazy, Mirella,” he tells me, his voice soft. “I’m in love.”
My toes are tucked uncomfortably into pink foam toe separators. I apply a second coat of bright pink with military precision.
I remember sitting in my walk-in closet that day so long ago, playing dress-up with the girls. Appalled by the dreadful state of my feet, I vowed to pay a bit more attention to myself, pamper myself a little. Although, I may have taken it all a little too far — I had been thinking along the lines of the occasional mani or pedi or bubble bath — not taking on a lover. But ever since, I’ve been doing a weekly manicure and pedicure, usually at night after I’ve tucked the girls in.
“Claire promised me she won’t get up again,” Gabe tells me, standing just outside my room (our room), his tall frame filling the doorway. I focus on my toes and try to not look at him. It seems I’ve been very ultra-aware of this casual-sexy vibe he’s got going; the worn tees, loose summer pants, and grey sweats hanging off his hips, just so.
I smile. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”
He walks in uninvited, although I must admit I’m not even close to being upset about it. He sits on the edge of the bed, and as his two-hundred plus pound body lands on the mattress, the bed bounces. Thankfully my bottle of pink nail polish sits safely on my night table.
He lies back on the bed, arms outstretched. “The garage was a mess but it’s looking pretty good now. I’m exhausted.”
My gaze darts from my toes to him. The edge of his tattoo peeks out from under the sleeve of his grey tee. As he rakes a hand through his unruly locks, his shirt rides up.
Mmmm…
“Tomorrow, we should go look for vanities. I was thinking maybe a double vanity or two single ones,” he says. “It all depends on what we find, I guess.”
He obviously has no clue what effect he has on me. What naughty thoughts I’m having.
I twist the cap of my nail polish closed, and tuck my supplies back in my toiletry bag. Suddenly it’s a little hot in my room.
I peel off my robe and stretch my legs. He doesn’t even notice! He stares at the dimmed light fixture on the ceiling, looking…well, utterly exhausted.
“You and Claire were having quite the little chat,” I point out.
He turns to look at me and does a double take. Now he notices. He smiles. “Yeah, we were playing this little game we like to play. She calls it ‘What do you care more about?’”
I smile. I’m surprised I’ve never heard of this game. “How does it go?”
His gaze sweeps over me and then travels across the room. He scratches his chin. “Well, what do you care more about?” he says as he takes in the bedroom. “Uh, that blue vase there,” he says, “or the table lamp?”
I smile. “Well, the blue vase I just picked up at a garage sale. But the lamp is from my aunt Rachel. And I think it’s worth something, so the lamp.”
He smiles at me. His smile stretches a bit lower on the one side, revealing crooked bottom teeth, but somehow his smile still manages to be one of the sexiest I’ve ever seen.
“Okay,” he says, leaning up on an elbow. “So what do you care more about?” he asks again. “The lamp…or,” he trails off, his eyes sweeping over the space, “ the TV?”
I laugh. “Well, that’s easy,” I say, looking at the fifty inch flat screen we just bought last year. “Definitely the TV. Screw Aunt Rachel.”
He laughs. “Okay, I have a tough one for you,” he says, and all of a sudden, he seems closer. I can smell the sweat on him. “What do you care more about? The TV or the dresser?”
“Oh damn,” I say, my mind at work. “This game is getting tougher.” He knows I bought this dresser a few years back at an antiques auction for a pretty penny. It’s one of the very few pieces of furniture in the house that doesn’t come from Keates Furnishings.
“Damn, Gabe, you know I can’t give up my TV. The TV, I guess,” I say reluctantly.
He trails his finger along my freshly lotioned foot. It feels so nice. My feet have never been an erogenous zone, but my body is pretty desperate for his touch. It clings to anything it can get.
“So, it seems like the TV is very loved,” he teases. “But what do you care more about? The TV or your bed?” His hand trails to the back of my calf. I really don’t know if he’s doing this absent-mindedly or with intention.
I bite my lip. “Well, I need something to sleep on, but I can probably buy one of those blow-up mattresses for two hundred bucks, so I’d have to say the TV.”
“Oh wow,” he says, blowing out a breath. “The TV is doing real well,” he says as he studies me intently. “But what do you care more about the TV or…your house?”
I smile. “That’s easy, the house,” I say without a second thought. I know we might be planning on moving soon, but that’s a no-brainer.
He cocks a brow. “Okay so, what do you care more about? The house?” he says and pauses for effect, “or your pinkie finger?”
I laugh out loud. “Oh, this is getting morbid now. A nice manicure would just not look the same if I were missing a finger.”
“You have to choose.”
“Well, do I get insurance money for the house?”
“No,” he laughs. “There’s no insurance money in this game. You lose it, babe.”
I shake my head with a shrug. “Well, in that case the house, I suppose.”
He takes my hand in his and kisses the tip of my pinkie. “Poor pinkie,” he whispers.
I smile down at him, suddenly wanting to play a whole different game.
“So,” he says, his voice a little ragged. “What do you care more about? The house or your hand?”
I cough a little. “My entire hand? Which one?”
He mulls it over. He knows I’m left handed. “Your right hand,” he finally decides.
“Well, this is a tough one.”
He smiles. “You can still do a lot with one hand,” he points out. “You probably won’t be able to knit. But you could still teach, paint, read, cook,” he says, his hand trailing higher to my thigh. “You could even…you know.”
“You know what?” I ask, completely oblivious. Like I’ve said before, I’m not the fastest horse on the racetrack.
