by Bree Dahlia
The only thing he needs to do is go back to bed.
After setting the cup in the sink, he flicks on a light. The bulb flashes for a nanosecond before fizzling out. “Damn it!”
He grips the counter and lowers his head. Before I can go to him, he’s already storming away.
“Cain?”
“Do you even realize how many repairs this house needs?”
“Well, yeah—”
“Do you really?” He pauses under the arch and looks at me for the first time this morning. “Then what makes you think a coat of paint or some frilly towels will solve everything?”
“What? I don’t think—”
“Like it matters what fucking color this place is when it’s falling apart.” My mouth gapes. “Like someone’s ever going to say, ‘Hey, check out that color on the collapsed wall over there. It sure looks nice. Good thing his wife painted it first.’”
“Cain, are you… are you okay?”
“I don’t have time for this.” He steps back and snatches his keys from the sill. “I’ll see you later.”
My jaw plummets again. He doesn’t slam the door on his way out, but he might as well have. He might as well have beheaded my daisies and smashed my vase to floor too for as blown away as I am.
I do my best to shake it off as I sip the rest of my cooling coffee. My stomach growls, but I don’t bother to feed it, just drink until my cup is empty.
I know sleep deprivation can have disastrous effects, but what the hell? Cain’s never spoken to me like that before.
As soon as the sun welcomes me, I decide to let it go. Everyone’s entitled to a shitty day. I have several every month.
I bring my laptop to the table and check my email. No one has contacted me. Not surprising, considering I haven’t reached out to anyone either. Am I expecting an art director to stumble upon my website—that’s stuck in maintenance—and just “have to have me” for their next project?
I drag my fingers down my face. How long before a fairy flutters along and sprinkles me with confidence dust? At what point will I no longer feel the need to add “just one more” sample to my stack?
I decide to work on my website, changing the header three times before going back to the original. I add a few of my latest drawings, then decide they don’t measure up and remove them. I feel incompetent, and it’s disheartening. Someone needs to hang an ‘out of order’ sign on me.
And at the first indication of rolling balls, I say, “Screw it.” It sounds like they’ve multiplied. No wonder it was quiet last night; they were too busy getting lucky. Or maybe Cain was spot on and the house is collapsing around us.
Either way, I’m out of here.
I take a quick shower and leave the house with wet hair and no makeup. I’m sure I resemble an underage muskrat, but I’m fine with that. I refuse to piss away half my day like I did yesterday.
My stomach continues to grumble as I drive to The Gardens. And when I’m sitting on my favorite bench, I’m wishing I had a chocolate muffin the size of the lily pad I’m eyeing. I scavenge around in my bag until I find a half-eaten granola bar, stuff it in my mouth, and get to work.
I choose my inspiration for the day: a fat bullfrog, half the body above water, its arms stretched out and clinging to the pad-shaped flotation device. It stares at me but doesn’t move a muscle. Doesn’t even blink its bulbous eyes. The perfect model.
Imagining a mate nearby, I pull out my book and draw. Before I know it, I have an entire amphibian family sketched out, with baby frogs swinging from the reeds while mama and papa enjoy some much-deserved relaxation time. I even enlarge her belly, another colony of tadpoles ready to join the gang, and top it off with a castle balancing atop the moss. And just like last time, it has that spark that makes it come alive, even if it’s all make-believe. I’m titling it Froggy Nirvana when my phone rings.
I open my purse to see Cain flashing at me. “Hello,” I answer, having no clue what to expect.
“Maddie, baby. I need to apologize for this morning. I really don’t know what came over me—my workload, the lack of sleep, whatever—but you didn’t deserve it.”
I release my breath. “It’s okay. We all have bad days. Maybe we can—”
“Shit.” I hear a booming voice in the background. “Sorry, I have to go. We’ll talk later. Love you.”
I don’t even finish my “Love you too” before the call disconnects, much less get to ask if he can slip out long enough to meet me for lunch.
I lower the zipper on my sweatshirt and lean back, feeling the rays on my upper chest, my face. Despite Cain’s apology, something feels off. And despite the satisfaction I received just a few moments ago, I still feel off. I don’t want to rely on leaving the house whenever I want to get something accomplished.
As I’m soaking up the sun, growing drowsy, my phone rings again. I smile, reaching for it with eyes closed, assuming it’s my husband. I hope his schedule suddenly cleared and I’ll be able to meet him after all.
Right before I hit Accept, I peek and see it’s not him. My father. I sigh and put it aside unanswered. One of these days, I’ll need to suck it up and talk to him. But not today.
My stomach forces my eyes open a second time, growling at me loudly as I squint through half-open lids, zipping my hoodie up once more. I dozed off, but for how long?
Checking the time only shows me a dead screen. I dig through my purse with no luck, then try to remember if my charger’s in the car. That angers my stomach. It doesn’t care about such things. My child-sized snack earlier insulted it.
I pack up and head to the car, intending to find food as soon as possible. Near the beach, there’s an ice cream stand. A double scoop of hazelnut swirl will placate me until I get home. I think of dinner and wonder if Cain will be around for it.
“Maddie.”
I pause, my name sounding in my ears. Looking around, there’s no one I recognize. Figuring it wasn’t intended for me, I continue forward.
“Maddie!”
It’s louder this time. Closer. I stop once more and turn my head. My chest acknowledges him first, even as my brain denies it.
Thump thump thump.
Move along now, nothing to see here, I tell myself.
Thump thump thump.
His lips curve up.
Flip.
As soon as my heart turns inside out, the rest of me follows suit. Hair the shade of soft sand flopping into one eye, muscles that challenge the clothes covering them, that smile. He looks exactly the same. No, better.
I want to freaking die.
Jake.
Fuck.
Jake.
My fingers attack each other, and I stuff my hands in my pockets.
He strides over, nearing my vicinity. My personal space. I should feel relieved. No more guessing if he’s really home or not. No more worrying about running into him because the worst just happened and I didn’t melt. I should feel relieved, but I so fucking don’t.
I remain upright even when his lips cause his face to split into a dimple that always endeared everyone in his path.
“Hi,” I say. God, we haven’t seen each other since we were teenagers. I should at least try to act surprised that this man is within touching distance for the first time in years, but I don’t.
“Hi.” He stands before me, and except for my traitorous heart and bloodthirsty nails, my body stays still. Isn’t time and distance supposed to cure all? At the very least, it should bring a new perspective. The problem is time and distance doesn’t exist when he’s standing right the fuck here.
I’m pretty sure words are spilling from his open mouth. Things along the lines of “How’ve you been?” and “It’s great to see you again.” Standard polite conversation. I can transpose it all and still decipher the meaning.
It’s not until he bends his head forward and says in a softer voice, “You look amazing, Maddie,” when I know I hear every syllable correctly.
I swallow hard. “Thank you.”
I fail to mention I feel the same. My eyes lower and I notice the camera clenched in his hand. The unease takes a back seat to my beaming smile, and I look up at his face. “You’re still taking pictures?”
“Not just taking them, but getting paid for it too.”
“That’s wonderful!”
“Yeah, I started up a little side thing.” He shrugs. “It does all right.”
I know he’s being modest. He’s probably killing it, and I couldn’t be happier for him. I want to ask him loads of questions. Go for a walk and learn all about the dream he brought to fruition. I release my hands, clasping them in front of me.
“And you’re still drawing.”
It comes out as a statement, and I nod. His pleasure rivals mine. My support for his childhood passion was not one-sided. He encouraged me the same, lifting me up whenever the doubts crept in. We were hell-bent to do what we loved, and we never let each other forget it.
The vibe between us is comfortable enough to unsettle me again. I can easily imagine him also wanting to know everything, to show him the sketchbook he knows I always carry around.
I steal a glance at his ring finger. Naked.
In our little familiar space, at this moment in time, it feels as if we never broke up.
And I hate it.
I pray to my God, his God, whatever God is listening to take it all away. A kid peels by on a skateboard, so close we both jerk aside. The distraction opens my mind enough for Cain to leap in.
Cain. My lifeline. My cementer of broken pieces.
My husband.
“I should get going,” I say. My car is only one of my football throws away, and I should be in it.
“Okay.”
He advances a step, and I stiffen again. I can’t handle a goodbye hug. The last one nearly killed me. His eyes drift down to my hand this time, to the white gold burning through my very unnaked finger. The heat spreads up my arm, the vein a direct route to my heart.
He steps back. “It was really nice to see you again, Maddie.”
“You too.” I smile, acting as if this short interaction didn’t faze me when we both know that’s a lie.
I walk to my car, not looking at him until I’m safely tucked away in my metal box, driving away. He waves, and I wave back.
I always wondered what would happen if we saw each other again.
Now I know.
I’m home, pulling up the crackly drive. The stones are like Pop Rocks underneath my tires. The garage door opens, Cain’s car throwing me off. I didn’t expect to arrive before him. The sun hasn’t even dropped yet.
I hike to the house, glad he’s home. I want nothing more than to spend an early night with my husband, sharing an extra-large frozen pizza.
As I cross over the porch and open the door, I also have every intention of telling him about Jake. It’s his right to know. And after we talk about it, I’ll feel better. No secrets.
I’m barely over the threshold when I catch sight of Cain in the front parlor, leaning against the wall, arms folded in front of him.
“Hey,” I say, smiling. “You’re home early.”
He pushes away. “Where were you?” He uncrosses his arms and rakes his hand over his head as if my presence is stressing him out.
Since when did coming home ever do anything other than make him happy to see me?
“I—”
“As you said yourself, I came home early, hoping to take my wife out for a late lunch. Hoping to make things up to her.”
“Why didn’t you call first?”
“I did.”
Of course. After he says it, I remember. I grab it from my purse and go to the kitchen, the charger curled up on the counter. He follows me in.
“It must have been after my phone died.” I plug it in and turn around. “Sorry about that.”
“Here I am, swamped as hell at work, but I come home anyway. I thought you’d be just as busy working too and could use a break.”
“I was working.”
He laughs. Laughs. “I’ve been home for hours, Maddie. No, you weren’t.”
My chest tightens. His tone is all wrong. The glint in his eye is all wrong. With the exception of this morning, this is not how Cain acts.
My pulse bounds under my skin. Does he know about Jake? Was my unplanned visit that upsetting? But he didn’t give me a chance to even tell him yet. No, that can’t be it.
“I was at The Gardens.” I take out my book, about to show him my frog sketch, when he shakes his head.
“Did you make any calls? Send out samples of your work? Do anything to further your business?”
“What do you call this?” I shake around my growing portfolio.
He sighs as if I’m a contrary child. I’m no longer anxious. I’m confused as hell.
“What is wrong with you? You apologized on the phone, and now you’re back to this? And what does it matter if I’m working away from home? You’re the one who suggested I leave in the first place.”
He grips the window trim so hard, I bite my tongue. I want to remind him to be gentle with the splitting wood. Either he’ll slice his hand or break the thing clean off.
“Do you understand how irrational you’re being right now?”
At my words, he squeezes harder, his knuckles whitening. For a disturbing moment, I feel like I’m inside his fist and I’m crumbling.
“Fuck this shit.” He gives the frame a push. “I can’t waste any more time.”
He storms away, leaving me speechless for the second time today. I hear a door slam and assume he’s in his home office. It’s just as ugly as the one I’m supposed to be using. The small alcove tucked away off the top of the stairs has potential to be a cute space, but for now, it’s the opposite of inspiring.
Cain doesn’t need inspiration to do his job. He doesn’t understand.
But he used to.
That’s the piece that loses me. I’m beating myself up enough lately; I don’t need Cain to gang up on me too.
I pour a glass of merlot, knowing between that and my empty stomach, it’ll knock me out early. I’m counting on it. I sit on the floor and corner myself against the wall and the side of the counter, ignoring the edge of unglued linoleum poking me in the thigh. After staring up at my star chime for who knows how long, wishing I were lying underneath the sky, I reach for my phone.
I want to tell Rowan about Cain’s strange behavior, but she’ll probably just tell me he’s possessed. I also want to fill her in on what happened earlier with Jake, but not over the phone.
Can we get together Monday? I’ll come to you.
Finishing off my wine, I wait for a response. The screen casts a sinister glow in the darkening room, and the stillness only adds to it. I’m already light-headed when I stand up to refill my glass. I assume Cain’s not coming back down, and to be honest, I don’t want him to.
How about Tuesday? But you shouldn’t have to do all the driving. If you wait till later in the week, we can meet halfway.
I don’t mind. And I’d rather see you sooner.
I unplug my partially charged phone, figuring it’s good enough, and take that and my wine to the parlor.
Hmm. Anything I need to know now?
It can wait until I see you. I scan through places near her school, remembering a sandwich shop she loves. Tuesday at Carla’s? Noon?
Make it 12:30 and sounds great. Can’t wait xoxo.
I set the phone beside me on the love seat and gaze out to the fireplace. Cain mentioned something about it needing a new liner before we’re able to use it this winter. At least the oak mantel is in decent condition. Thankfully, because it’s gorgeous. I imagine our children’s photos displayed across the top and my cheeks lift, which then drop when I picture Cain a floor away from me.
I quickly send the rest of the wine down my throat, hoping to speed up the end of this day. I think of Jake and something comes to mind: I didn’t act surprised to see him, but he didn’t act surprised to see me either. Was it that
natural to come together in a parking lot? As if we’d stepped into a time warp and were transported back seven years?
My lids fall to half-mast, but I’m still too keyed up to sleep. For the hell of it, I tap in a number, one that was branded into me long ago. I haven’t thought of it in ages, but it’s like writing my name—unless I suffer brain damage, I’ll never forget it.
I dial it for nostalgia’s sake, allowing myself this small bit of fantasy. I hold the phone in my lap, pretending I’m hiding a quick text before Mr. Steele, our bald-headed history teacher, notices and takes it away. As if Jake and I didn’t just talk before class. We never could make it that long without some form of contact.
It’s all in fun. I don’t expect him to answer.
I nearly fling it across the room before managing to disconnect.
Fuck.
He’s calling back.
Fuck fuck fuck.
His number flashes across the screen, and my past and present collide once more, twisting my insides. A spiral staircase rising to my throat.
He doesn’t know it’s me. He can’t know. Unlike him, I have a different number. I don’t know anyone who has the same number since high school. It’s unheard of, except obviously it’s not.
I wait until the ringing stops, then wait some more to see if a voice mail notification pops up. It doesn’t. I hold the phone in my lap for another hour as the nerves rattle my teeth. I was only messing around, but it feels as if I pricked open an airtight seal. A destructive genie locked away for a damn good reason, and I carelessly come along and give it enough breath to slither out.
My chest bangs harder.
Oh God. I’m going to be sick.
Five
I wake up in bed, but I didn’t fall asleep here. I’m sure of it. I get my bearings as a warm body presses against me.
Cain?
I flip over, and his arms wrap around me. “Morning, baby,” he mumbles, kissing my shoulder.
Am I dreaming?
“Cain?” The vibration feels real in my mouth, but I’m still not convinced. I’m probably drooling all over the couch.
He turns me stomach down and runs his hands under my shirt, rubbing my back. His lips brush across my neck and up to my ear. His breath on my skin is a contrast to the cool morning air.
