by Cassia Leo
I tried to distance myself from the emotions, to focus on the facts, the way Jack had been coping for the past two years. It worked. The anguish I’d felt while watching the woman and the sick girl was gone. I needed to say the words more than I needed to feel the pain. I needed Isaac to understand why I had rejected his attempt to open up on the way here.
Isaac looked away. “Well, shit… I did not know that. To tell you the truth… I try to stay away from the news, so I didn’t read any articles about it. Edna’s the one who told me what happened. She probably left the worst parts out.”
I shook my head, trying to force myself to stay focused on the facts and the words. “Have you ever considered that everyone you’ve ever met may be hiding a secret as dark and painful as yours? That thought had never even crossed my mind. My life was so easy. I took my happiness for granted.”
This time, I wanted Isaac to say something. I wanted him to tell me about the horrific things he’d hinted at in the truck. But this time, he was the one who didn’t want to talk.
We sat in silence for a while before he was called back to an exam room. I stayed in the waiting area, pretending to watch the TV mounted in the corner of the ceiling. But that didn’t last. I needed to do something or call someone.
I stepped outside and reached into the back pocket of my skinny jeans to retrieve my phone before I sat down on a concrete bench outside the ER entrance. As soon as I gripped the phone in my hand, I realized something felt off. Pulling it out of my pocket, I was shocked to see it was not my iPhone in my pocket. And whoever’s phone this was, it was covered in blood.
Did Isaac put his phone in my pocket after he cut his hand?
That had to be the strangest thing out of this whole experience. He didn’t even ask for it back after I woke up. What was even weirder was the number of missed calls and voicemail notifications displayed on the lock screen: eleven missed calls and four voicemails. It seemed Isaac was a busy man.
I shook my head, ignoring the nauseous feeling in the pit of my belly as I slid the blood-encrusted phone back into my pocket. If my phone wasn’t on me, that meant it was in my purse, probably still in the house. I couldn’t remember if I had taken it inside with me.
It was probably a good thing, since it was about five a.m. in Tokyo. I didn’t want to wake Jack just to tell him about my panic attack. He’d been through enough of those with me. I would wait for him to call me later. I’d call Drea when I got home.
When Isaac was stitched up and discharged, we headed back toward the truck.
“I think I have your phone in my pocket,” I said, pulling the phone out as we crossed the parking lot. “Do you know how it got there?”
He looked panic stricken as he took the phone. “Oh… Oh, shit.”
“What?”
He shook his head. “Dammit. They blocked me in.”
I turned toward the truck, and sure enough the two cars parked on either side were no more than three inches away from his side mirrors. Definitely not enough space for a man built like Isaac to squeeze through.
I was keenly aware that he had failed to answer my question about the phone. I had a right to know how a bloody phone ended up in my pocket. But something was telling me I shouldn’t push Isaac.
He looked down at me. “Do you think you can squeeze in and pull the truck out?”
I smiled and nodded as I held my hand out for the keys. It seemed my lack of appetite was finally coming in handy.
When we arrived at his house, he turned into his driveway. “I don’t think you should go home right now. I’m gonna have to board up the window I broke to get into your house, and… Well, I imagine there’s a lot of broken glass and blood in there. Between the window and the mess, you probably don’t want to go back there just yet.”
I really didn’t want to see that. I knew it would remind me of all the broken glass and blood from that night. But I couldn’t keep hiding from the pain. Or that monster that followed me around everywhere would never go away.
“Do you think you can board up that window tonight?”
He smiled. “Yes, ma’am. I’ve got some plywood in the garage I can use. And I’ll measure the window, too. I can call around tomorrow and see if any local contractors got a suitable replacement in stock. Might not be dual-pane, but it will work temporarily until we can order an identical replacement.”
“You don’t have to order that. I can do it.”
“Nonsense. I broke it. It’s my responsibility to fix it. You’re welcome to hang out in my living room while I clean up the glass and stuff?”
I stared back at him, amazed at the kindness in his eyes and actions. “No. I’m going to clean it up. I need to be the one to do it.”
“You sure? I don’t mind doing it.”
I nodded. “Positive.”
As we approached the porch steps, I was relieved to see that my purse, which I had evidently dropped just outside the front door, was still there. My cell phone lay next to it. As we got closer, I saw the grapefruit-sized hole in the open window.
Instantly, I felt queasy and lightheaded, on top of the headache I already had. But I would just have to tough it out.
“You’re white as a ghost. Are you about to pass out again?”
I closed my eyes and focused on my breathing, the way I did in yoga class. “Nope,” I replied. “I just need a minute.”
“Take as long as you need.”
The late-afternoon sunlight shone bright-red through my eyelids. As I breathed in slowly through my nose, I imagined the beautiful sunsets I’d seen on all those trips Jack and I had taken to the coast. I thought of the waves crashing and lapping at the shore.
I was suddenly filled with hope for the possibility of going to the beach with Jack again. Maybe we couldn’t go back to the people we were before that night. But maybe we could be a newer, wiser version of the couple we used to be.
I held onto this thought as I gathered my things off the porch. I focused on my breathing, and that beautiful beach sunset, as we stepped inside the house. I replayed the sound of those crashing waves in my mind as I swept the glass and dropped the shards into a waste bin.
When the tears came too fast for me to see properly, Isaac insisted I head upstairs and take it easy. He would finish cleaning up the blood and lock up the house before he left to get the plywood.
I took a long, hot shower, then I pulled on some pajamas despite the fact that it was barely five p.m. As I lay in bed with the covers pulled over my head, I considered calling Drea to tell her what happened. But then I wondered what she would think if I told her that Isaac had helped me through this panic attack.
As this thought occurred to me, the sound of hammering reminded me that Isaac was downstairs right now, boarding up my broken window. Should I have insisted that I could do it myself? Or should I have hired someone to do it?
My stomach curdled at the thought of keeping this experience a secret from my best friend and my husband. But I worried that telling them would cause unnecessary drama. Especially with Jack so far away, I didn’t want him to worry.
There was nothing going on between Isaac and me.
As the hammering continued, I smiled as it occurred to me that Isaac was a natural caretaker.
He obviously had difficulties dealing with his past. He hadn’t admitted it to me yet, but I highly suspected Boomer was a PTSD service dog. But despite the fact that Isaac needed Boomer to take care of him, the evidence for Isaac’s nurturing nature was everywhere.
It was in the plants he sowed and reaped. In the way Dylan talked him up every chance he got. In the way Isaac jumped at the chance to help, and sprung into action when I lost myself today.
I would tell Drea about today’s breakdown later, maybe when I moved back home. But for now, I needed to focus on the breakthrough. I wouldn’t have been able to face that mess in the living room alone today. I would have to thank Isaac for being there for me.
I hurried up and pulled on some clothes. As I st
epped out onto the porch, Isaac was just gathering his tools to leave.
“Thank you for everything you did today. I don’t think I properly thanked you before I fled upstairs,” I said, stepping around a basket of tomatoes in front of the door. “What’s that?”
“I’ve got tomatoes coming out of every orifice right now. I already took a box to Edna.” He slung the strap of his leather tool satchel over his shoulder and smiled. “Figured I’d pawn some off on you.”
I smiled. “Gee. Thanks.” I bent over and grabbed one of the tomatoes, bringing the firm fruit to my nose and inhaling the intoxicating, verdant fragrance. “That smells mouthwatering. It must have come out of a very clean orifice. Thank you.”
He laughed. “I’ll let you know as soon as I find a replacement window for you.”
We both nodded at each other as he set off back toward his house. I was starting to feel like I was in serious debt to the Bank of Good Neighbors. I would have to make Isaac some casserole or lasagna with those fresh tomatoes.
The difficult truth I had to admit was that I wanted to make something for Isaac. Because today was the first time I remembered what it felt like to be taken care of without sex or money.
18
Laurel
I woke up disoriented in the guest bedroom in my mother’s house. I dreamed that I was living at home with Jack and I was pregnant, and we were both so happy, so complete.
My head throbbed as I rolled over and grabbed my phone off the nightstand. I felt a little like the time I woke up with a sedation hangover in a cold hospital room.
Glancing at the screen, I saw it was five a.m. and I had one missed called and a voicemail from Jack’s cell. Last night, I had been too tired to stay awake until midnight — four p.m. Tokyo time — so he could call me after his meeting. Especially since I tired myself out pulling the weeds in the backyard flowerbeds after Isaac left yesterday.
But it was five a.m. now. I didn’t have to be at work for three hours. It was nine p.m. in Tokyo. It was the perfect time to call Jack.
He answered on the second ring. “Hey, beautiful. Did you sleep well?”
God, I loved the smooth richness of his voice.
“I did. I got a bit of a workout in the garden last night. Turned in early. How’s everything going over there?”
He let out a deep sigh. “This isn’t going to be as quick or easy as I’d thought. Akiko wants us to meet with some of her advisors, but trying to figure out the timing is proving a bit difficult. In the meantime, Kent and I are gorging ourselves on the sake and ramen. We have another meeting the day after tomorrow. We’re still waiting for Oliver to get here with the rest of the legal team. They should be here tomorrow.”
I sat up in bed. “You sound so stressed. Are you getting enough rest? Do you need me to take care of anything while you’re gone?”
He chuckled. “Damn. I didn’t mean to worry you. I shouldn’t have unloaded on you like that.”
“You should always unload on me,” I replied.
Our brief laughter at my innuendo was followed by tense silence.
“What are you wearing?” he asked, his voice heavy with longing.
I smiled as I looked down at my comfy, oversized “I Love Florida” T-shirt with the pink flamingo’s leg standing in for the I. “I’m wearing your favorite ‘I Love Florida’ shirt and panties.”
“Are you lying down?”
I quickly lay back and pushed the covers off my legs, putting the call on speakerphone and laying it on the mattress next to me. “Yes.”
“Take off your panties.”
I bit my lip as I slid my white cotton underwear off and tossed them aside. “Okay.”
“When was the last time you shaved your pussy?”
My breath caught in my throat. I loved when he talked dirty to me.
“Not since the day before our counseling session.”
“Did you shave it for me?”
I smiled as I ran my fingers down my abs, stopping just above the small patch of freshly grown hair. “Yes.”
“Because you wanted me to fuck you?”
“Yes,” I breathed.
“Do you want to touch yourself right now?” he asked, a note of dark hunger in his voice.
“Yes,” I replied, tracing my fingertips along the crease of my thigh.
“Are your eyes closed?”
“Mm-hmm.”
He let out a heavy breath, and I hoped he was touching that beautiful cock. “I want you to imagine your finger is my tongue. Can you do that, baby?”
“I can do that. What is your tongue doing?”
He groaned softly. “Spread your lips for me, pixie. Spread your lips so I can stick my tongue inside that beautiful pussy. How does that feel?”
I moaned as I slid my middle finger inside my pussy, which was already slick from our conversation. “That feels so good,” I breathed.
“I’m tongue-fucking you now. Do you like that?”
“Oh, yes… Oh, yes.”
“Stop.”
My other hand slid up to pinch my nipple. “Don’t stop, Jack.”
He was silent for a moment, making me wait for it. “I’m licking my way up your slit now, finding that juicy center. Swirling my tongue around that sweet clit.”
I matched his words with action and my body soon began to tremble with the beginning of an orgasm. I exaggerated my moans so he could hear what was happening as he imagined it.
“Are you going to come?”
“Yes!” I groaned as the muscles in my core began to contract.
He waited until I finished moaning, then he let out a sexy laugh. “You fucking slay me. That moan has to be the most beautiful sound in the world.”
I smiled as I tried to catch my breath. “Did you come?”
“I’m saving myself for you, pixie. So I can unload on you when I get back.”
I shook my head. “Very funny. When do you think you’re coming back?”
He was silent again, longer this time. “I don’t know. Could be another two to three weeks.”
My stomach clenched at this news, but I didn’t want him to hear the disappointment in my voice. He had enough to worry about. “I won’t schedule the next counseling appointment until you’re back, but… do you think you’ll be back by September 13th.”
September 13th was a little less than three weeks away. It was also my mother’s birthday. I really wanted to visit her grave with Jack by my side, but I didn’t want him to feel guilty if he couldn’t make it back by then.
“I’m going to try real hard to make it back by September 13th. I promise.”
I smiled my chest flooded with warmth. “I love you, Jack.”
He took his time responding again. “I love you more than you can imagine. Have a good day, baby.”
* * *
I left work at noon and stopped at the grocery store to get stuff to make lasagna with Isaac’s tomatoes. I hadn’t made lasagna in months. I also hadn’t eaten lunch yet. By the time I was done assembling the pasta in the casserole dish and topping it with slices of fresh mozzarella, I was ravenous.
I would just deliver the dish to Isaac then go out and get myself a burger or a burrito. I hadn’t had a burger or a burrito in more than a year. I had to take advantage of this craving before it was gone.
I knocked on Isaac’s plain wood door and rang his doorbell, not really caring if I seemed eager. I was eager. Eager to get this over with so I could go get myself some greasy food.
When I heard movement inside, I put on a smile and stood up straight.
“Hey, what are you doing here?” Isaac asked, his face beaming with that eye-crinkling grin.
“Hi! I just came by to drop this off as a gesture of my appreciation for the tomatoes and for everything you did yesterday,” I said, holding out the foil-covered lasagna dish. “It’s all ready to go. You just have to put it in a 400-degree oven for about 40 minutes. You’ll have lasagna for days.”
“Lasagna?” he said, t
aking the dish from me. “I love lasagna. Have you been spying on me?”
I shrugged. “You caught me.”
He shook his head. “I knew it.” He looked over his shoulder then turned back to me. “Hey, why don’t you come inside. I’m making tacos. You like crispy fried tacos?”
The phrase “crispy fried tacos” made my mouth water. “I really shouldn’t. I was just about to go grab something to eat, actually.”
He looked confused. “Who says no to tacos?”
I shook my head and laughed. “Okay, but I can’t stay long. I have to get to work on the weeds in the backyard.”
He opened the door wide so I could come in. “I’ve got a special tool you can use for those weeds. It will make it ten times easier.”
“I have a spade and a hand rake, but two years is a long time for weeds to take root. I have my work cut out for me.”
He laughed as he closed the door behind me. “I’m sure your tools are just fine, but mine are better.”
I couldn’t help but notice again how the light-gray walls were completely devoid of pictures, the way my mom’s were now. But the starkness was offset by the savory aroma of fried garlic and roasted peppers. I was ravenous before. Now, I was fucking starving.
The living room we passed through on the way to the kitchen was spacious and sparsely furnished in a modern style, which I had thought of as Scandinavian in nature. But the more I saw of it, the more I realized it was very clean, utilitarian. Almost militaristic. But the small touches, like the Roman blinds and the plaid throw blanket draped over the boxy gray sofa, made it feel warm and inviting.
As we passed the dog bed where Boomer was out cold, Isaac directed me to sit at the round kitchen table while he finished cooking.
He slid the lasagna into the freezer and wielded a pair of metal tongs to gently lay corn tortillas into a cast iron skillet. The oil in the skillet popped as he molded the fried tortilla into a shell, placing each one on a napkin-lined baking sheet.
He even blotted the oil before he moved onto the next tortilla. It was truly a joy to watch him cook with such care and efficiency, the way he seemed to do pretty much everything.
