Saving Avery

by Angela Snyder

Nathan steps back and grabs the suitcase handle. "Don't make me regret leaving you here alone," he warns before wheeling the case behind him out of the room.

  When the front door closes behind him, I release a deep, shaky breath. I breathe in and out deeply, desperately trying to control my emotions. My ribs are killing me with every breath, but I don't care. A burst of joy escapes my lips before I can contain it. No rules, no stress, no abuse and no pretending for an entire week. I suddenly feel free…even if it's only temporary.

  I have a lot planned for this week while he's gone. The first step is to meet with my father and tell him that I want a divorce from Nathan. I have hinted around to my father before about our marital troubles, but I have never used the D word. I'm sure my father will be upset. He likes to keep the image of the perfect, happy family for the press releases on his campaign trails. At this point, though, I don't care if it upsets him. I'm telling him how I feel, and that's final.

  I have to wonder if Max has a little bit to do with my sudden need to escape. The feelings he stirred up made me realize that I can have more in life, that I want more in life. I could have a bright future, but I will never know just how bright while I'm stuck here under Nathan's thumb.

  Grabbing the house phone from the charging dock, I carry it outside onto the deck. The afternoon sun beats down on my face, and I close my eyes and relish every second of it. I feel a sense of freedom already without the ever-demanding, oppressive presence of Nathan. For a week, the house will actually feel like a home instead of a prison, and I'm going to enjoy it immensely.

  Smiling at the renewed energy coursing through me, my fingers press the numbers for my dad's cell phone. I walk down to the swimming pool on the lower level deck and wait for him to answer. He picks up on the third ring.

  "Hello?"

  "Dad."

  "Avery. I haven't heard from you in a while, sweetheart. How you are you? How's Nathan?"

  I cringe when he says his name. "Fine," I state simply. My voice is shaky as I ask, "Dad, do you think we could meet for lunch tomorrow?"

  He hesitates, and I can hear papers shuffling in the background. He's checking his schedule, and it makes me roll my eyes. It's pretty sad that my own father has to pencil me into his life, but I should be used to it --- he's been penciling me into his life for the last twenty-three years. "Sure. That should be fine. I can move some things around," he mumbles. Then a little louder he asks, "How about noon at our usual place?"

  Stepping to the edge of the porch, my hand wraps around the railing as I stare out over the water. "Sounds good, Dad." A flicker of movement to my right catches my eye, and I turn to see a man jogging. He's wearing navy blue shorts and a gray hoodie with an iPod strapped around his right biceps, the headphone wires bouncing as he runs. His legs are muscular and tan, and I can't help but wonder what the rest of him looks like under his clothes. The hood is pulled down low, shadowing his face, and he stares straight ahead, not noticing me at all.

  "Listen, Dad, I'm going to go. I'll see you tomorrow."

  "Okay. Bye, sweetheart."

  I hang up the phone and stare at the mystery man, watching him attentively. I've never seen him before, and I wonder briefly if he realizes this is a private beach. To my surprise, he jogs past my house and up the porch steps next door. I thought the house was still empty. Maybe the real estate agent wasn't, in fact, staging it like I had thought. Maybe he's my new neighbor.

  I can't seem to tear my gaze away from him as he jogs up the steps and stops on the deck. He raises his arms above his head, revealing a couple inches of rock hard abs, and a low groan escapes his lips as he stretches. The sound reverberates through me, and my lips part with a gasp. I've never been so turned on by a single sound before. Feeling instantly flushed, I watch intently as he leans down, stretching his fingertips down to each foot.

  Our porches are only several yards apart, so I get a clear view of him. I can't help but stare. There's something about him that seems so familiar. And when he straightens and lowers his hood, my heart stutters. Max. His eyes lock with mine in surprise. He quickly reaches for the cord to his ear buds; and with a swift tug, they fall. "Avery. Hi."

  My hand raises and does some sort of awkward wave. I am in complete shock that he's my new neighbor, but he doesn't seem all that surprised to see me. I wonder how long he's been living there and how long he's known I'm his neighbor. "Hello," I say, and it sounds like a throaty whisper. I quickly clear my throat and say, "Dr. Harrison. Hi."

  "Please. Call me Max." He runs a hand through his sweat-slicked hair and flashes me a killer smile. My mouth goes dry. He is dangerously beautiful. "I wanted to tell you at the hospital that I moved in next door, but I didn't get the chance. You're always too busy running away from me," he says with a grin.

  The realization slowly sinks in that the man who invades my thoughts and dreams is going to be less than a hundred feet away at all times. It was hard enough to ignore him at the hospital, and now he’s going to be running up and down the beach like a fitness model getting ready for a fashion shoot. I don’t know whether to be delighted or completely terrified. "So…you bought the place?" I ask in an attempt to act nonchalant even though I'm a nervous wreck on the inside.

  "No. Just renting for the time being."

  "You didn't have a few million lying around to buy it?" I joke. I'm surprised I'm being so casual with him. I spent the day ignoring him. But as long as he's acting friendly, I will too.

  He chuckles. "No. My piggy bank doesn't hold that much, unfortunately."

  I grin. Hot, nice, sweet and funny. I grimace inwardly. It's going to be so hard to keep ignoring him. I know I should turn around and go back inside, but my legs won't cooperate with my brain. I stay rooted where I am. There's one question that I need to ask and know the answer to. "When did you move in?"

  After a brief hesitation, he answers, "Monday."

  So he's been here all week. My stomach drops as I worry my bottom lip between my teeth. I wonder if he's seen me on the beach at night. I never noticed him watching me, but that doesn't mean he wasn't. Maybe that would explain his sudden interest in me. After all, seeing a woman bawling her eyes out on a beach every night would raise some suspicion.

  He wipes some sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. I suddenly feel a little hot myself. I touch my fingertips to my cheeks, and I can feel the warmth there. His eyes are trained on me, and I suddenly feel uncomfortable under his dark gaze.

  Clearing his throat, he says, "I thought I saw someone leaving your house a little bit ago. Was that your husband?"

  I nod and try to keep a frown from appearing on my lips. I fail miserably. "Yes. Nathan. He has a medical conference in Seattle. He'll be gone for a week."

  Max's brows quirk up. "I see. Well, I was going to invite you both over for dinner tonight." He shrugs and then says, "I guess now I'll just have to invite you."

  Dinner. Alone. With Max. Nathan would kill me if he ever found out. I stare down at my knotted fingers and try to think of a quick, believable excuse.

  Perhaps sensing my hesitation, Max quickly adds, "I'm not the best cook in the world, but I make a mean spaghetti."

  My head snaps up. "Spaghetti? That's my favorite," I blurt out.

  "Really? Well, I guess that means you can't refuse my invitation then."

  Grinning, I reply, "Well, I could refuse…but I don't want to." I hear the words coming out of my mouth, but I can't believe I'm actually the one saying them. I didn't even know I remembered how to flirt. My brain seems hell-bent on tuning out my subconscious, which is the one and only thing that wants me to say no and realizes that this isn't a good idea.

  His smile widens. "Okay. How about six o'clock?"

  After hesitating for a few moments, I finally nod. "Sure."

  "See you later then, Avery." He walks backwards toward the patio doors, his eyes never leaving mine until he disappears inside.

  After he's gone, I turn and amble up the steps to my house. I put the
phone back on the charging dock and collapse onto the couch in the living room. What have I done? I know I should have turned Max's invitation down. I also know I should probably feel guilty about having dinner with Max when my husband isn't home, but I don't. I actually feel excited and happy. And it's been so long since I've felt that way. Far too long.

  *

  It's almost five o'clock when I step out of the bathtub. I take my time blow-drying my hair and putting on makeup. I do my eye shadow a little darker than normal since I don't have Nathan here dictating over every choice I make. The smoky look really makes my blue-gray eyes pop, and I get a thrill from rebelling just a little. I finish the look off with a pale pink lipstick that has a hint of gloss in it. My lips look totally kissable, and I suddenly find myself fixated on whether Max will try to kiss me or not.

  No. He was going to invite both Nathan and I over tonight, so clearly he has no romantic intentions. Whatever I think I’m feeling for him is probably all in my head. But fantasizing about being with him in another life, a happier life is better than facing my harsh reality.

  Standing in the walk-in closet, I rummage through outfit after outfit trying to find the perfect thing to wear. I settle on a white, blue and gray tier sundress. It's a modest cut, fitted through the chest and waist and then flaring out to just below my knee. I walk over to the full-length mirror and frown. Dark bruises litter my skin. The worst is the large one, which is an angry shade of purple, covering my knee that is partially visible under the hem of the dress.

  Sighing with sadness and frustration, I return to the bathroom and dig my most prized possession out of my beauty bag --- tattoo cover-up concealer. This stuff works wonders for bruises, and I have relied on it for the past few years. At one of the women's shelters I ran away to, a battered woman, not much unlike myself, told me that she used the stuff religiously. Her husband often bruised her face and neck, and so she needed the makeup to convince her family and coworkers that she was in a perfect, happy marriage. She reveled in the moment that she had had enough and threw the makeup in the trashcan, leaving her husband and the abuse behind. If only I could have a moment like that in my life. What I wouldn't give to leave all of this and Nathan behind.

  The bathroom clock ticks loudly, as my eyes fixate on it. It's ten minutes until six o'clock, so I do my best to apply the makeup as quickly, but as evenly as I can. I feel like Picasso or Rembrandt, attempting to create a masterpiece with my skin as the canvas and the concealer as my medium. The bruises on my arms virtually disappear right before my eyes. The makeup is waterproof, but it doesn't stay on forever. After several hours, it will start to rub off. I have to be careful when I wear it and make sure I reapply it or wear something that doesn't require much cover-up.

  Once I'm finished, I put on some jewelry and a watch on my left wrist. The band of the watch covers my scar, and so it serves a greater purpose than just allowing me to keep an eye on the time. I slip into a pair of wedge sandals and walk to the patio door. My hand stops when I grip the knob. My wedding ring glistens in the light, and I can't tear my eyes away from it. I'm cheating on my husband. The realization hits me hard. Theoretically, I haven't committed adultery, and I don't know if things would even go that far between Max and me. But I would never tell Nathan about this dinner, and hiding it from him is essentially cheating. Right?

  My fingers clench around the doorknob as I force myself to think about the hell Nathan has put me through the past five years. Even though we're technically married, I haven't loved him for a long time. And I don't think he has ever loved me. I'm planning on getting divorced as soon as possible. I try to tell myself that there's no reason to feel guilty. So then why am I hesitating?

  I pull my hand back and close my eyes. "You deserve to find some happiness in your life," I say out loud. I don't know if I truly believe that, but I know deep down that I should. I've just been numb and drowning in pain for so long that I don't know if I can bring myself some peace and break through the surface again.

  Fighting down the mixed emotions I'm reeling from, I glance at my watch and hurry outside. I don't know what the future with Max holds, but I know it has to be a lot brighter than the dark hell I'm living in now.

  *

  MAX

  Looking around the back patio, I hope that I haven't overdone it. Candles and tiki torches are burning everywhere, casting a nice glow around the deck. On the round, glass table, I had placed some fine china that my mom had given me a while back when I got my own place after college. I never used it before tonight, but I have to admit it does look nice. A bottle of wine is on ice in a bucket, and two wine glasses are by each plate. The spaghetti is warming on the stove, and the breadsticks are baking in the oven. Feeling content, I sit down and wait.

  I don't remember ever being this romantic with my ex-fiancée. Don't get me wrong. I sent the occasional flowers and took Gretchen out on a lot of dates, but I never made this much of a fuss over dinner with her or anyone, for that matter. Especially not a friend, which is exactly what Avery will be to me until she hints at wanting something more. And I desperately hope she wants more.

  She said her husband is out of town for a week, and I can’t help but feel as if fortune is intervening at the exact moment I want it to. This will give me an opportunity to get to know Avery better and find out what is really going on in her life instead of trying to squeeze information out of Rosie every day. Rosie always has a smile on her face, but I know she's getting annoyed with my numerous questions.

  It's a little after six, and I'm beginning to worry if Avery will show. I guess I didn't consider that she might not feel right about dinner alone with a coworker and neighbor while her husband is out of town. I know the situation is complicated. I'm not stupid. She's married. In any other situation, I wouldn't even pursue a married woman. But this isn't a typical situation, and this is Avery I'm talking about. She is one of the most selfless people I have ever met, and she's being abused. I constantly see the unhappiness and fear in her eyes. I don't know what is going to happen between us, but I just want to try to help her in any way that she needs me to. There's just something about Avery that makes me forget about the rest of the world and just focus solely on her. She's like a breath of fresh air slowly bringing me out of my rut and back to life.

  My head turns at the sound of Avery running up the porch steps, nearly tripping in the process. "I'm sorry I'm late," she apologizes quickly while trying to catch her breath.

  Standing, I watch her carefully. "Avery, it's fine if you're late. I would have waited all night out here for you," I say, and it's the honest-to-God truth.

  She seems to slightly relax, but the look on her face is as if she doesn't believe me. Realization creeps over me as I remember her panicking from being late yesterday. And then that night she was crying on the beach and limping. Her husband must punish her when she's late.

  My hands clench into fists at my sides over the thought of him hurting her, but I quickly calm my emotions. I don't want her thinking that I'm anything like Nathan. I'm going to do my best to prove to her that people can be kind and that she deserves their kindness.

  I focus my attention back to her. The dress she's wearing suits her and shows off her legs. Her long hair falls down her back in soft waves, and I find myself wanting to run my fingers through it. "Avery, you look beautiful."

  I watch the flush of crimson slowly rise to her cheeks. "Thank you, Dr. Har --- Max," she says, correcting herself with a shy smile.

  Pulling out a chair, I tell her, "Have a seat. I'll bring everything out."

  She hesitates before sitting down. "Are you sure?" she asks.

  "I'm sure," I tell her. I have a feeling she's not used to being waited on either.

  I take the spaghetti pot out first and set it on a trivet. Then I go back in the house, take the garlic bread from the oven, place it in a basket and bring that outside as well. While I'm pouring the wine, I glance over at Avery. The candlelight bathes over her beautiful features,
and she takes my breath away.

  As I dish out the spaghetti onto her plate, I grin and ask, "Is this really your favorite, or were you just saying that to be nice?"

  "It really is. I can remember my mom making it a lot when I was a kid. I think it might have been one of the only things she could make," she says with a grin. "It always reminds me of her when I eat it, so I guess maybe that's why I like it so much," she says reflectively.

  "She doesn't make it anymore?" I question.

  "She died from cancer when I was a little girl."

  I grimace. Way to bring up a sore subject, Max, I chide myself. I have a knack for putting my foot in my mouth when I'm around her. "Oh, Avery, I'm so sorry. I wouldn't have brought it up if I had known."

  She waves her hand, dismissing it. "It's fine."

  I set the plate of spaghetti down in front of her and dish out my own before taking a seat. I watch in anticipation as she takes the first bite. Her eyes roll up to the heavens as she groans, "Mmm!"

  A smile spreads across my lips. She is completely charming without even trying. "Is it good?"

  "Better than good. It's perfect."

  "My dad's recipe," I say with pride.

  "Your dad?" She sounds surprised.

  "Yeah. He was the cook of our family. He actually taught my mom how to cook." I take a bite of the spaghetti. It turned out just right, and I couldn't be happier. "Pretty darn good. I was so worried I would ruin it and we would have to get take-out." She grins at my confession, and it's contagious. I can't stop smiling when she's around.

  "So do you cook more than just spaghetti?" she asks.

  "Yes, but not much more. How about you? Do you like to cook?"

  She gives a slight shrug. "I suppose I enjoy it." She takes a sip of wine. "Neither one of my parents really cooked, so they hired a chef from California. I learned all the basics from him. He was a great teacher."

  "So you must be a pretty good cook then?"