Intimate Intuition

by Audrey Carlan

  “Does she now?” He blinks lamely, and I want to smash my fist into his stupid, goofy face. The first time I’ve ever wanted to hit my friend. Hell, one of my only friends. And it’s over a woman. Course it is.

  Atlas leads me down the street, past the bakery and bookstore, to the busy shop. Plants hang over the ceiling, vines sprawling all over the place, reminding me of an actual rain forest. A long wooden bar made from a halved tree log makes up the counter. A strawberry blonde works the counter as we approach.

  “Hey, Atlas. How’s it going? You teaching nakey yoga today?” She waggles her eyebrows and laughs to herself.

  “Nah, we just came back from Dara’s class.”

  She nods. “Did she soothe the savage beast within?” Her tone carries a joking lilt to it.

  Atlas leans forward and winks at the waitress with the nametag that says Coree on it. “You know only Mrs. Powers can do that.”

  She smacks his bicep. “Totally! Crazy man.”

  They both laugh at whatever running joke they obviously have going. Me, I’m about ready to crawl out of my skin with the need to hunt down a frustratingly gorgeous woman with a sharp tongue and claws that dig deep.

  “My friend and I will each have whatever sandwich is on special and a cup of the daily soup as well as two iced teas.”

  Frankly, I don’t give a damn what he orders, because I’m not in the frame of mind to make any rational decisions anyway. Food included.

  Atlas pays the woman and moseys over to a corner table away from the bulk of the customers. He pulls out a chair and gestures for me to sit. I do because, at this point, I have no choice. He’s holding hostage information I need, and this is the only way I’m going to get what I want from him.

  He sits opposite me and leans forward, clasping his hands into a prayer pose before resting the tips of his fingers against his mouth. “I’m ready whenever you are.”

  “Atlas…” I warn.

  “You’re going to sit here and tell me what happened between you and Dara that made her so pissed she screamed at you and ran off. I’ve never seen her anything but put together, man, and I’ve known the woman for a long time. She’s one of my wife’s best friends. Hell, she’s one of mine. As are you. We’re brothers. Right?”

  His eyes are pleading. I know his background. His father left him when he was a kid to go live the life of an artist. He worked his ass off to pay bills and make something of himself in the music industry until he met his wife. With his wife’s support, and since he came to work for me, Atlas has made a name for himself. As a couple they are doing great, and he has a small family. Blood-wise, he only has his mother and his daughter. The rest are the family he chooses, and he’s chosen me. As I have him.

  “Yes, brothers.”

  “Then share your burden.” He crosses his arms on the table as though he’s prepared to wait all day.

  I shake my head and run my hand over my prickly dome. “Dude, you don’t want the burden I carry. Your life is beautiful. The last thing you need is my shit piling on top of your hard-earned goodness.”

  He scowls. “Shut the fuck up. Your shit is my shit.”

  I raise my eyebrows.

  “You know what I mean. What happened with Dara? I’m guessing something happened after the night we saw Honor sing?”

  “Yeah,” I admit and lean back into the chair. “We hooked up.”

  The shock on his face is honest. Looks like Dara is as tightlipped as I am about sexual escapades. That’s good. I guess.

  “Okay. You hooked up. And…”

  God, this is embarrassing. I shrug and glance out across the café. Everyone is happily eating, chatting, enjoying their Saturday morning brunch. “She took a runner.” I purse my lips and rip at the edge of my napkin.

  “Meaning she bailed before you woke up the next morning?”

  “Yeah, that’s what I mean.”

  He lets out a low hiss. “Ouch.”

  “Exactly.” I rub across the back of my neck, working the tension there. “To find out she was teaching the class today was a bit of a shock to say the least. Then she sat in front of me, grabbed my hands, and chanted with me so I would get into the right headspace, and for a while I had nothing but peace. Brother, I haven’t had peace in longer than I can remember.”

  “Why?” Atlas asks instantly.

  “Because my wife and daughter were fucking murdered…all right!” The words fly out of my mouth, tasting like vomit on my tongue.

  Of course, as with anything serious, that’s when the server brings over the food. Turns out the day’s special is ham and cheese on rye with a side of tomato soup. Neither of us speak as Coree drops off the food and drinks.

  The second she walks out of earshot, Atlas is speaking. “I had no idea,” he whispers.

  “No one does. I mean my family knows, but out of respect, we don’t talk about it.”

  Just like Atlas, always wanting to help, he reaches an arm out and grips my bicep. “Brother…” His eyes are filled with sympathy and concern.

  I shake off his hold. “It’s been three years. I’m over it.”

  He huffs loudly, sits back in his chair, and crosses his arms over the other. “Bull. Fucking. Shit.”

  “It was a long time ago,” I manage, barely holding back the scowl that comes with talking about Sarah.

  He frowns. “You don’t just get over something like that. Tell me about her…your wife,” he says softly, almost as though if he speaks too loudly, he’ll spook me and I’ll stop talking.

  “She was beautiful. White. Blonde. Big blue eyes. And I loved her. More than anything or anyone on earth.”

  Atlas nods, grabs his tea and sips at it. “What happened?”

  “Car-jacking gone really bad.”

  “I see. And the thing with Dara, the misunderstanding?” He switches gears so fast I get whiplash and yet, I’m grateful. Talking about Sarah, about what happened, is too much to take right now. As it is, I feel dirty and useless. Unclean.

  I take a deep breath in and let it out before responding. “Apparently she got up in the middle of the night and looked around my house.”

  He shrugs and takes a bite of his sandwich. With nothing better to do, I follow suit. The minute the meat, cheese, and mayo hit my mouth, I’m in sandwich love. “Jeez-us, this is good.”

  Atlas nods around a mouthful before sipping from his drink and finishing his bite. “Told you, dude. Best sandwiches ever.”

  “I’ll have to remember that.” I shovel in another bite.

  He stirs his soup before pinning me with his brown/blue-eyed gaze. “Continue. She saw your house. What’s the big deal about that?”

  I sigh and finish chewing before speaking. “I haven’t exactly changed much since Sarah died.”

  His eyebrows rise into his hairline. “And…”

  “She probably saw pictures of us. A happy couple. Man, she thinks I’m married with a daughter, when in reality, I’m a widower who lost his pregnant wife one horrible night three years ago.” The next bite I take suddenly tastes of sawdust in my mouth, and I toss the sandwich aside and rub at my eyes.

  “Dude, that’s fucked up.”

  I nod. “Yeah, it is. But I need to set it straight. I can’t have her thinking I’m some bastard who cheats on his wife. I’d never do that. If Sarah was still here, my life would be very different. But she’s not, and there’s nothing I can ever do to change that.”

  Atlas pushes his half-eaten lunch to the side. Apparently, I’m good at ruining other people’s appetites too. Awesome. Go me.

  “She works at the bakery,” he says softly.

  “What?”

  “Dara. She teaches meditation at Lotus House every other morning at eight o’clock but works at Sunflower Bakery the rest of the time. Her family owns the entire chain.”

  “Really?”

  He smiles widely. “Yeah. She’s just two doors down. That’s how she could disappear…as you put it. She just walked next door.”

 
“Fuck me!” I stand up, my chair pushing back and falling to the floor with a loud clang.

  Atlas stands up. “Easy there, fella. She’s not going anywhere. She usually works the bakery until it closes at six p.m.”

  I tip my chin and place my hands on my hips. “I should go to her.”

  He shakes his head. “No, you should go home. Shower, chill out, get a good night’s sleep, and then approach her when you’re fresh…physically and mentally.”

  “Are you telling me I stink?”

  He puts his hand under his nose. “You may be a bit ripe. Did you forget your deodorant today?”

  I punch him in the arm and then loop my supposedly stinky arm around his neck. “How’s that smell? Fresh as a daisy, right?”

  “No, man, no. Stop! You’re killing me with your pit funk!”

  After a series of noogies that mess up Atlas’s already wild hair, I let him go.

  He lifts his hands up in supplication. “Truce!”

  I laugh, surprised at how this man can make me laugh through an emotionally driven morning. Clapping him on the back, I lean close. “Hey, thanks. For, you know, everything.”

  Atlas hooks me around the back and walks with me out to the street. “Brothers. No matter what. I take my family very seriously, and you’re family, bro, like it or not.”

  “I can dig it.” I grin.

  “Course you can. I’m a loveable guy.”

  “Says your mama!” I fire back and start jogging down the street. When I get to Sunflower Bakery, I glance into the windows hoping for a glimpse of Dara. Unfortunately, I’m not that lucky.

  Atlas follows me to my car. He puckers his lips and looks down the street, a pensive expression stealing across his normally jovial face. “You gonna be okay?”

  He’s worried about me. Such a good guy and an even better friend.

  “Yeah, man. Tomorrow’s a new day,” I offer quietly and tap the top of my pretty baby.

  “You gonna take my advice?” He cocks one brow and smirks.

  “I am. There are some things I need to do at home anyway.”

  He nods. “Call me if you need a friend. I’m there. Two shakes of my dick.”

  I tip my head back and focus on the white clouds passing by. “Powers, it’s two shakes of a lamb’s tail.”

  He cringes. “I don’t have a fucking lamb, but I’ve got a dick. A big one. And I can shake it. Sounds better like that anyway.”

  “Only to you, numbnuts.”

  He shrugs. “Catch you on the flip?”

  “Peace out.”

  “Peace out.”

  * * *

  My home is cold and silent when I enter. No surprise there. It’s been that way every day since Sarah was taken from me. Three long years I’ve grieved, held on to her memory. I walk past the entry table, noticing the red vase we’d gotten as a wedding present from my uncle is gone, smashed during the throes of passion between Dara and me. That was the first time I’d ever brought another woman home.

  I never really liked the vase anyway. Sarah had thought we needed to display it in case my uncle ever came for a visit. She was worried about what he’d think if he didn’t see it out. I couldn’t care less, but that’s how Sarah is. Was. Her entire being existed to make others happy.

  Her family.

  My family.

  Me.

  From the day we met, she exuded kindness and concern for others. She never wanted for much, always giving everything she had to others, whether to charity, her friends, or me.

  God, I loved her.

  I worshipped the ground she walked on. Worked my ass off day in and day out to give her the best possible life. And all she wanted was a baby. Took us five years of trying to get pregnant after our wedding, but that timeline didn’t come without considerable loss. We’d lost two babies before we became pregnant with our little girl. Each loss brought with it a deep depression. Until the last pregnancy when we passed the twelve-week mark. The air around Sarah started to lighten, her mood improved, and she began to have a renewed sense of self.

  We had the perfect life.

  And then it was gone. Poof. Just like that. A single piece of metal killed my wife, my unborn child, and every hope and dream I had for the future.

  All the hurt, anger, and anguish came rushing back today when Dara accused me of having a family. I couldn’t utter the words fast enough.

  They’re dead.

  Gone.

  She wouldn’t have listened anyway. She was furious, filled with indignation. Me? I was at a loss for words. I wanted to tell her something, make her see I’m not the man she thinks I am…

  I sigh and make my way over to the mantle, where picture after picture of my life with Sarah is given a place of honor in my home. The home we built together, where we planned to raise our daughter. She chose every picture as a timeline of our lives. From high school prom, through my college graduation, our wedding, first anniversary, and the day we found out we were having a daughter. Five photos showing a young, happy couple.

  Lying next to the last picture is the program her mother had made for her funeral. My beautiful wife, relegated to a folded piece of paper and a handful of typed sentences.

  I grab the piece of paper and each one of the framed photos and take them down. I haven’t so much as changed a single thing in this house since she passed. As much as I don’t want to let her go, having all our happy times staring me in the face every day is not helping me heal. I know that. I’ve always known it, but I didn’t care…before.

  Now, it feels right. Making this small change.

  My front door eases open, and my mother enters, holding up her key. “The door wasn’t even locked. Boy, have you lost your damn mind?” she chastises as she bustles inside, placing her coat on the tree before assessing me. Her eyes scan my entire form, and her lips purse. Then she sees the empty mantle and the stack of frames in my hands.

  She places her hands on her hips. “You ready to do this? To let Sarah rest in peace?”

  My dead wife’s name on my mother’s sweet lips cracks my chest wide open. I stumble where I stand, grabbing on to the mantle as tears fill my eyes. “I need to try.”

  “What’s changed?” Her words are soft yet direct.

  I move forward and set the stack of frames on the oversize chair’s cushion.

  “The chair made for two,” Sarah said, a twinkle in her eyes, her hands clasped to her chest. “Perfect for a couple in love.”

  Flashes of that day in the furniture store hit me like a wrecking ball to a broken-down building in Oakland.

  “Ma, I don’t know…”

  She shakes her head, her black bob moving with her. One of her hands comes up, and she points to me, my own personal judge, jury, and executioner. It’s not possible to hide anything from her. My siblings and I never could. “You’ve met someone.”

  I close my eyes and drop my shoulders along with my head. Shame filters through my frame.

  “I can’t live like this anymore.”

  My mother moves fast, coming over to my side and dipping her head, which forces me to look her in the eyes. She clasps my cheeks in her soft hands. Tears fall as I let it all go, just like Dara said.

  “Sarah needs to be set free,” I mutter, wishing it wasn’t the truth.

  “Mmmhmm, you can no longer live in the shadow of your old life,” she croons.

  “But it feels wrong, boxing up our memories, putting them all away.” I clutch at my chest, worrying my heart will implode with the overwhelming emotions tearing through me.

  She shakes her head and gets close enough that I can smell her sweet-smelling perfume. Chanel No. 5. It’s been the same scent my whole life.

  “Son, it’s not wrong. It’s part of the healing process. It hurt so bad when I boxed up your father’s clothes and donated them to charity. I couldn’t see them hanging in the closet, expecting him to come home and riffle through his dresser, toss his clothes on the floor near the basket, never in it. Those clothes were
a constant reminder he was no longer there, baby. Look around.” She gestures to the room.

  “You’ve been living in the past. Sarah’s been gone three years. You still have a pink nursery for a child who will never sleep in there.”

  I choke on a sob and grip my mother around the waist, allowing her to hold me up while I cry into her neck. Me, a grown-ass man, and my mother, a small, thin woman, but no one is more mighty than her.

  “It’s time to let Sarah and that sweet baby free. Time for you to live again.”

  “But the guilt, Ma. It’s eating me alive.” I shudder in her arms, and she holds me up.

  “Don’t you dare feel guilty. You’ve been dealt a rough hand. We all have, losing Sarah, the baby, and then a year later, your father. None of it is fair, but neither one of them would want us to live without joy. To mourn them day in and day out. We must move on. Find happiness in something else. Otherwise, baby, we’re just dying on the inside.”

  I nod against her neck, allowing her words to sink in like they never have before. Pulling back, I wipe at my eyes and cough, trying to expel the emotions running rampant through my system.

  Shame.

  Guilt.

  Sorrow.

  Hope.

  That last one shocks me as I find my place on the couch. My mother sits next to me, tall and straight, always the brave warrior, ready to take on any battle, especially when it comes to her children.

  “Now tell me her name.”

  I swallow and glance at the empty mantle.

  “You can’t fool me, son. The only way my boy would have such a reaction is if a woman is involved. I’ll ask one more time, and I expect an answer. What is her name?”

  I lick my lips and focus on my mother’s beautiful face. Her bright-red lipstick perfectly matches her flowing pants and tunic-style blouse.

  “Dara. Her name is Dara.”

  Chapter Five

  The “way of the third eye” is seeing life in moments. We are a witness or an observer, being mindful of our surroundings and all that graces us with its presence.