by CJ Martín
“Just give it a little time.” She squeezes my shoulder. “I’m sure it will all work out.”
My mom is like an infectious mold—I can’t get rid of her. She stayed with me the next four nights and agreed to leave only because Mikayla has dance class and my dad doesn’t know how to arrange her hair in a bun. Mikayla cried for ten minutes straight last night on the phone when my mom suggested she wear it in a ponytail.
I envied Mikayla and her frivolous problems. One minute you’re a kid, crying because your mom won’t style your hair, and the next you’re an adult whose heart is ripped into a million pieces and your mom wants to help but she doesn’t know how. And neither do you.
“I’ll be fine,” I assure her, as I follow her onto the hall landing. “I only have one class tomorrow.”
She smiles and nods. “I know, I checked your schedule.” I suppress an eye roll as she continues, “A few more weeks and then you’re done. Hang in there.”
“I will.”
“And I’m only a phone call away if you need to talk or vent or…”
“I know.” I wrap her in a hug. “Thanks for everything.”
She meets my gaze. “I don’t know what’s going on with you two, but you’ll find your way.”
I nod even though I don’t agree.
Jesse isn’t going to call. He isn’t coming back. He’s gone forever.
Her cell phone buzzes in her purse and she scans the screen. “That’d be your sister wondering where her stylist is.”
“You better go.” I shake my head. “Duty calls.”
“Love you,” she says as she descends the stairs. “I’ll text you when I get home.”
“Okay.” I make my way back inside the doorway. “Love you, too.”
When the door’s finally closed, when the deadbolt slides into place, when I hear the sound of her car engine roar to life, only then do I allow the fake smile to slip away. I allow my shoulders to round, and allow my hopelessness, my despair, to bleed through.
No pretending that I’m okay.
Because I’m not.
And I don’t think I ever will be again.
49
Jesse
You’re a coward. Out of all the text messages that Riley has sent me over the past six weeks, this one hurts the most. Couldn’t she see that I left so that she could have a better future? To give her a chance to find a nice guy, someone who could provide for her, someone who she could build a family with.
My grip tightens on the wrench in my hand at the mere idea of Riley talking, touching, loving, being with someone else. Suddenly, I want to strangle the nonexistent, faceless stranger my mind has conjured up.
“You’re over-tightening that bolt.” My dad’s tall figure looms over my shoulder. “It’s gonna crack.”
I drop the wrench, and it clatters to the floor with a loud bang. “If you’re such an expert then you fucking do it.” I wipe my hands on the dirty rag shoved in the pocket of my coveralls, but it’s no use. No matter how much I scrub my hands, I can’t erase the grease from my skin, nor can I get rid of the pungent diesel smell.
“Watch your mouth.” My dad slaps me on the back of the head. I stare at him for a beat. With his tall, athletic frame, we’re similar in many ways, same broad shoulders, same wide hands, same bright smile. But whereas he is dark—his eyes, his skin, his hair—I’m lighter, having inherited some of my mom’s softer attributes.
My dad’s a decent, if not simple guy. Things didn’t work out between him and my mom, but I’m not bitter. More than half of marriages in the United States end in divorce. Couple that with the fact that my dad dedicated more time to his motorcycles than his wife (and kid), it’s no surprise that my mom left.
But it worked out okay for us. I saw my dad during the summer and visited with him on major holidays. But still I can’t help but wonder: Do I want to turn out like him? Unattached. Married to my job. With no one to come home to each night, no one to share simple, peaceful moments with, no one to laugh or bicker with…
“Jesse.” My dad calls my name, and the volume at which he speaks makes me think he’s called me more than once. “Hand me the spark plug pliers.”
I grab the tool from the shelf and give it to him. He grunts his thanks.
“You’re happy here?” Even though I mean it as more of a statement, my voice rises at the end.
His head pops out from underneath the hood of the ’66 Plymouth he’s been working on. Bikes are his first love, but he recently ventured into repairing vintage vehicles. He’s been restoring the Plymouth for the past seven months. “Huh?”
I shrug and turn my head away, embarrassed. “You’re happy being single? Just you and the garage? Mom’s not here to bother—”
His voice cuts me off. “Your mother was the best thing that ever happened to me.”
My eyes widen in surprise, because this is the first time I’ve heard him talk about my mother in a way that didn’t directly relate to me.
“Your mother,” he repeats, “is a good woman who deserves a good life. She deserves a man who can take care of her and give her the world.”
“What?” My voice shakes a bit. This is news to me. When I was a kid and would question why my parents didn’t live together like other parents, Mom would say, “Honey, sometimes mommies and daddies live apart. This just makes you more special because you get to have two homes.”
At the time I thought it was great. I mean, what kid wouldn’t want two bedrooms, two sets of toys, two candy baskets from the Easter bunny? When I was old enough to actually understand what divorce was, I didn’t care enough to ask what really happened.
“Son, look around.” He splays his arms wide. “Your mother deserved better than this. You did, too.” He looks me in the eye. “So, I let you go.”
A chill sweeps through the room, even though it’s ninety fucking degrees outside. It’s as though the Ghost of Christmas Future has visited me, and I’ve caught a glimpse of the next forty years of my life: Alone. Tired. Merely existing.
And what did my dad’s sacrifice earn him? Happiness? No. Is he still in love with my mother all these years later? Clearly. Could they have made it work? Maybe.
I make a decision right here and now that no matter what happens, I will make something of myself, to earn my way and work hard, to become a man worthy of Riley’s love. And then I’ll go back for her. I have ten and a half months to become the man she deserves, a man she can be proud of. Until then, all I can do is hope and pray she will continue to love me as much as I still love her.
50
Riley
Why does the word routine get a bad rap? Some routines are good; for example, brushing your teeth every morning or recycling plastic water bottles. But then other routines are deemed unhealthy or pathetic. Things like checking Jesse’s Facebook.
What? Don’t judge me. The man has been a part of my life for over a decade. All of a sudden he’s gone, and I don’t know how to handle it.
The voices of Liza and my mother float around my head.
How are you supposed to move on? You’ve got to stop this, Ry. People leave your life for a reason.
But I can’t stop the compulsion to log on, to check to see if there’s a new sliver of information regarding his life, some tiny crumb tossed into the ether that will allow me to feel connected to him in some way, no matter how small. Nothing good can come from it, but it’s the barest of threads that still binds me to him, and I can’t bear for it to break. Truthfully, Jesse rarely posts on social media. Day in and day out, the same unchanged, un-updated page greets me. It’s remained the same for ninety-three days. I should know. I check. Every. Day.
Imagine my surprise then this morning, when I search his name and a host of new photos greet me. He didn’t post the pics, but he was tagged in half a dozen pictures, with Abigail (Who the fuck is she?) and three other people whose names I don’t recognize, nearly twelve hours ago. I glance at the clock and calculate the time of upload: ten at night.
Despite my gut telling me to close out of the browser, I click the first picture. And then the next. Then the next. My stomach churns as I fall deeper and deeper into the rabbit hole. Jesse looks just as I remember him. Same strong jaw, wide shoulders, casual-but-sexy grin. His clear blue eyes are slightly glazed, half-lidded, at best. He doesn’t look happy, but at the same time he doesn’t look unhappy. He looks neutral, resigned. He wears a steel-grey suit with a lighter grey button down and dark tie. He looks powerful, magnetic, and I mourn the fact that he never wore a suit when he was with me, because he looks damn good.
The bile churns in my stomach as a sick, deep weight settles over me. I’m struck by how relationships change. At one point in time I knew everything about this man, his favorite food (boxed Kraft mac-n-cheese, but only the shapes), his favorite movie (Zoolander), his favorite place to be touched (the inside of his elbow, apart from his penis, obviously).
But now it’s as though we’re strangers. Two separate ships sailing in the vast ocean of the world with no attachment or acknowledgment of each other. I graduated from college—a major life event—and he wasn’t there to celebrate with me. I remember the day of the ceremony I was so absolutely convinced he’d be there that my eyes kept darting to the back of the auditorium. After the President’s welcome speech, the back door squeaked open, and I held my breath, but when my eyes focused on the figure standing in the lobby, they saw a petite older woman. Not Jesse.
I have a new job that he knows nothing about. He has a new girlfriend that I learn about through a Facebook update. How did this happen to us?
My emotions are too raw, too real for nine o’clock in the morning. I’m at work for Christ’s sake. I can’t have an emotional breakdown. Another one. I’m lucky enough to still hold my secretary position after I walked out of our monthly team meeting meant to boost morale and productivity three weeks ago—that’s a different story for another time.
Logging off the site, I head toward the break room. Coffee, my mind screams. Coffee will make everything better.
I slip a K-cup into the Keurig on the side counter, just as one of the newer realtors, Shannah, I think her name is, enters. “A girl after my own heart.” She grabs another pod and stands beside me.
Sighing, I grab the warm mug of liquid gold and say, “It’s only Tuesday.”
She smiles rather perkily—she’s a morning person; God, I hate those, and says, “At least there are muffins.” She gestures to the table behind her.
When my eyes find the sugary confections, I wonder how I didn’t spot them earlier. I plunk a double chocolate, chocolate chip muffin from the box. “Who brought these?” I tear a piece of the top off and stuff it in my mouth.
She shrugs. “Lauren, I think. Mr. Lewg is coming this morning.”
“Oh, goodie.” I know I sound like a complete and total bitch, but part of me doesn’t care. I’d worked at Lewg and Morgan Properties for two months now and had yet to meet the infamous Mr. Lewg. Although we saw little of him around the office, his presence was everywhere.
Mr. Lewg likes the folders filed by date, not alphabetically.
Mr. Lewg insists that all his employees wear the God-awful, poly-blend, black polos that irritate the hell out of my skin.
Mr. Lewg likes the secretary to answer the phones with the approved, scripted message… Give me a freakin’ break.
I bite off another chunk of muffin and chew forcefully before saying, “Mr. Lewg is an ass.” Shannah raises her eyebrows, but I keep going. I’m in such a funk that it feels good to vent, even if it is about something as stupid as my mystery boss. “He needs to get his priorities straight. Maybe if he worried less about how I file the goddamn records and more about the troll he hired as an office manager, this place would be a lot better off.”
“Ah-hem.” A throat clears behind me.
Oh, shit. All blood drains from my face and I drop the remaining quarter of my muffin. Please, tell me that Mr. Lewg isn’t behind me. Please, dear God, I pray to all that is holy, don’t let him be right—
“Those are some great suggestions,” a distinctive male voice says.
Turning around, with my face the color of a ripe summer beet, I stammer out an apology. “I-I’m sorry.” I chance a quick glance at the man whom I suspect to be Mr. Lewg and have just insulted without reason. Well, not without reason, but still. He looks nothing like I had imagined. He’s young, thirty-five years old tops, with a solid build. His dark brown hair is thick and wavy even though it’s a bit untamed.
He holds my gaze for a moment, his warm, honey eyes holding a hint of amusement.
“I’m sorry,” I repeat, clasping my palms in front of me. My job is as good as done.
Shannah, not wanting to get caught in the line of fire, edges along the wall until she reaches the door. She casts one last long look over her shoulder before slipping out. Thanks for nothing, bitch.
“Mr. William Lewg.” The man in front of me extends his hand, and I try to (discreetly) rub my crumby hands on my slacks before extending my own. “You can call me Bill.” He winks. “Or ass.”
My face heats. “I am so sorry.” I stumble over my words. “It was an off morning, but that’s no excuse for my unprofessional comments. I understand if this needs to go on my employee review or if…” I let my voice trail off because I can’t bring myself to say the word “fired.” Christ, what else could go wrong in my life?
He chuckles. “Don’t worry. What happens in here,” he gestures around the break room, “has nothing to do with your employee review.”
“Really?” My eyes widen.
He shrugs. “Besides, I’ve been called a hell of a lot worse than an ‘ass’.”
Another wave of heat flushes my face. “I’m sorry. My life has been kind of crazy lately.” I stop myself from rambling, because this man doesn’t need to know details about my personal life. Nor does he care. I decide to end on a positive note, even if it is a lie. “And I do like these shirts.” I tug at the scratchy fabric.
“No, you don’t,” he says simply. When I say nothing, he continues. “Those shirts are awful. Lauren designed them and submitted a purchase order without my approval.”
“I knew it!” I exclaim. Lauren, my she-devil boss, claimed that Mr. Lewg hand-picked the winning design from the dozens of entries submitted by community members, but I had my suspicions. I mean, really, what businessman would select a graphic where the skyscrapers resembled two tall dicks?
He winks again. “Now we both have a secret.”
Just then, Lauren barges into the break room. “Riley. Get back to work. Mr. Lewg will be here any— Oh. Mr. Lewg, you’re here early.”
“Yes.” He speaks to Lauren but keeps his gaze on mine. “I was just chatting with Ms…?”
Lauren supplies, “Jones. Riley Jones.”
“Ms. Jones was just telling me how much she loves working at LAMP.” His eyes sparkle with amusement. “And how she’s particularly fond of the shirts.”
Is he mocking me? Or flirting? God, I’m so far out of the game, so lost on Jesse, that I don’t even know anymore.
Lauren’s eyes narrow on mine for a split second before she plasters a cheery smile on her face. “I’m so glad Riley’s happy here. Now, Mr. Lewg, if you’re ready, the meeting’s about to start.”
“Yes.” He turns to Lauren and walks toward the door. “Lovely to meet you, Ms. Jones.”
“You, too,” I mumble, but they’re already out the door.
I sigh and stuff what’s left of the muffin into my mouth.
Fuck my life.
51
Riley
“Chop it off,” I say to my stylist, Autumn, who has been cutting my hair since I was sixteen.
She shakes her head. “You can’t be serious.”
Like I said, Autumn has been styling my hair for a long time. I go to her salon exactly two times a year for a trim. Though I would never admit it aloud, I was damn proud of my hair, not that I could take any credit for it.
It was full and thick, the auburn color reminiscent of burnt caramel. The natural wave gave my mane body, so I had to do little more than run my fingers through it in the morning. On days when I was feeling especially elegant, I’d flat iron it, allowing the smooth strands to frame my face. I loved my hair. The problem was, Jesse did, too.
I find Autumn’s gaze in the mirror. Her eyes are wide with shock; my own are narrowed and stern. “Serious as a heart attack.”
“Ooookay.” She draws the word out and begins to weave a loose braid at the nape of my neck. “How short are we talkin’?”
“Above the shoulders.” I nod my head slightly and the braid pulls.
I watch her reflection, watch as her eyes widen once more, but she simply nods before holding the braid out to the side. “I have to measure to be sure, but I think there’s enough length to donate to Locks of Love…if you’re interested.”
I nod, glad something positive will come from Mission Hair Chop.
She secures an elastic band around the tail end of the braid and pulls a shiny, sharp pair of scissors from her apron pocket. They hover at the nape of my neck. “Are you sure?”
I don’t hesitate. “Do it.”
The pressure from the blade, the slice of it, reverberates in my ears. And as I watch the loose locks fall free around my face, I stare at the person reflected back at me. I don’t even know this girl.
It’s like the old me is dead. Gone. The person who has emerged is new, different, jaded. She has sharp edges that need to be approached with caution. This budding relationship cannot be rushed. She needs time to figure out who she is, where she fits in.
Autumn measures the braid, a frown pulling down the corners of her lips. “It isn’t long enough to donate. Sorry.” Her foot pumps the pedal on the round trashcan. She drops the tangle of hair in the trash and the lid bangs closed.
