I didn’t. But I did buy a diary. I even wrote in it every night for two months, filling it with little details which, in the back of my mind, I thought Samuel might like to read. Whenever Danita came to visit, I left the pink diary in plain view, the key secure in the padlock. She never took it. I played in the Cabrals’ basement and blatantly laid the book on top of my pom-pom hat. When I returned, it was always untouched. After a while, it became clear that Samuel meant it when he said he would never read my diary.
But still, I’d wanted him to. Badly.
I gave up on the thing halfway through December. It remained hidden in the bottom of my underwear drawer until I left for college. Now, seventeen years later, I wished I’d filled it to the brim.
That night, I heard the rapid clacking of fingers flying over a keyboard before I even unlocked the apartment. The box of Samuel’s papers was heavy and awkward in my arms. I hoisted it onto my hip and pushed through the door, ready to chew him a bit for not hearing my huffing knocks. He didn’t even turn his head when I loudly dropped the box next to the coffee table.
“Samuel, what are you doing?”
“I’ve got to write it all down,” he muttered. “All of it…”
Fear shot through my heart. “Write what?”
“The words. The memories. I have to get them on paper before I lose them, because I can feel them slipping away again, every day, further and further, slipping away again and I can’t let them leave.”
His glasses were pushed up into his hair, which made me realize he was typing blind. Muscles beneath his T-shirt bunched and clenched with frenzied energy, his body not fast enough to release what was in his head. Peering over his shoulder, I squinted at the glowing laptop screen:
Catch them in your hands, those bitter drops of rain or blood like death seeping through brittle bones split over age or paving stones. Or maybe she’s stone through and through, always was and always will be, like the stone angel woman towering over us, la llorona with her drowned babes and sad sad lips gaped in a horror scream, a space of black
if only she’d crack that cement seal.
I lift my love, so light so warm, by her waist. I lift you high high high so you can see her dead eyes and hope for some life, but she’s dead, you see, staring down at me from her place above, or below, but always staring in her tomb and crying from cold eyes
But oh my, there you are all grown up in brown earth and roots, thriving, hot and wriggling in the sun, and I want to kiss you.
I want to fuck you.
I want to be buried with you in warm flesh so pink and alive when she watches me…
I swept an unruly lock from his forehead.
“It’s okay, Samuel,” I said, trembling. “You need to sleep, and then we’ll go see a doctor in the morning.”
“No. I need to write it all down before she’s gone.”
She? I cast a wary glance at the urn above the fireplace. “Before who’s gone? The Weeping Lady?”
Sad eyes met mine. “Aspen. I can’t lose her again, Kaye.” He returned to his keyboard.
Oh no. Please, no. Was he writing his thoughts before he lost them, or was he confusing fantasy with reality? That wasn’t supposed to happen with hypomania, was it? I had absolutely no idea what to do. But I had to do something, had to ground him.
“She’s right here. I’m right here.” I knelt beside him and pried his fingers away from the keys then forced them onto my face. “Can’t you see her in me? Tell me you can.”
Fevered blue eyes locked on mine. His fingers dug into my cheeks, the back of my skull, as he searched for his Aspen. Finally, he nodded. “I see you.”
Ground him. I watched his face, mesmerized by the raw craving I saw there. He probably saw the same thing in me. I was terrified and I wanted to feel him, to hold him close and tie him to me in the only way I had left.
I pushed his laptop aside and placed my hands on his chest.
That was all the invitation he required. His lips took mine with a frantic passion. He clung to me, fingers pushing under my shirt, only breaking his kiss to drag it over my head. I heard the metallic clatter of his glasses as they skittered across floor. We tumbled down and my tailbone screamed in protest at the sudden jarring, but I swallowed the pain beneath his heated skin and wrapped my legs around him.
“I love you,” he rasped as he dragged his fingers through my hair. “I’m not ready to let you go. I love you. Let me love you. You are so warm.”
A gut feeling told me those words were not meant for me. They were for an idea of me and, strangely, I felt guilty for deceiving him, for making him believe he was with a different person…but not enough to stop.
We shed our clothing and pressed our bodies together, driving out the air until there were only rib cages, sharp pelvises, and soft flesh. Still, like his elusive memories, he was slipping away. I fought to find that symbiotic circuit crossing between us so I could overpower his manic mind, to draw out the madness like a fever and replace it with cool sanity. I pushed his back to the ground and straddled his lap, but I couldn’t ground him. Keeping Samuel with me was like forcing sunlight to stay on my skin. It could burn and burn and burn until my arm was a charred, aching mess. Even so, its brilliance would vanish when the sun sank.
We made love on the floor. My hands clutched his beautifully shaped shoulders, feeling the lithe, potent muscles shift. I begged him to stay with me. “Please come back, Samuel.” His eyes were hooded with pleasure. He flipped me to the ground, his torso weighed me down and his legs twined with mine, pinning me, heavy as a humid night. A clammy palm cupped my face. “I love you…I love you…I love you.”
I hugged him to me. Every muscle in his thighs, back, and arms clenched, and he shuddered, groaning into my neck a single word.
“Aspen.”
The dream returned. I was cast as the brunette, trapped beneath Samuel’s steel arms as he gazed at the broken girl in the doorway. I shoved at his chest, trying to get his attention. I shouted. I must have said or done something in my sleep, because I awoke to Samuel whispering in my ear, trying to calm me with gentle words.
“I’m going to take you to Boston, to Fenway Park. Would you like that? Please don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. I haven’t forgotten the promise I made to you that morning by St. Vrain Creek. Do you remember?”
“I remember,” I choked out, even though I didn’t remember.
“It was a sunny day and you skipped your government class to hike with me. Your shoulders were sunburned. I kissed them like this—” he smoothed dry lips over my skin “—and you told me it made them feel better. After lunch we waded in the creek. We dug rocks from the bed and laid them out in the sun. When they were dry, we drew faces on them with markers and then threw them back in the water for other people to find.”
I buried my face in my pillow as he spoke, stifling my breaking heart. I’d begun to hate Hydraulic Level Five and my youthful doppelganger.
Chapter 13
Stupid Hurts
An idiotic decision that results in injury
to the diver or another person.
S—THEY FOUND YOUR LAPTOP and returned it to me. I hope you don’t mind, I read what you wrote those days in New York. I’m no expert, but it doesn’t really gel with the rest of our story. So I’ll write it for you, even though I’m crap at it. I can’t exactly screw it up because I’m Aspen…right? I think I am, but sometimes I’m afraid I’m not. I love you anyway. ~Kaye
Hydraulic Level Five [working title]
Draft 5.34
© Samuel Caulfield Cabral & Aspen Kaye Trilby
34. Using Up Stamps
Aspen squints at her young husband in his smelly undershirt and jeans, hunched over his guitar, and wonders whether he’d look hot with Cobain hair. No, definitely not. She smooths smoke-heavy locks from his forehead. It’s been months since he’s had it cut, and the shagginess ventures beyond Sexytown and into Grungeville. He turns his face into her palm and gently nips the base of
her thumb.
“I’m heading back to campus,” she says. “Can you buy stamps and mail my internship applications before two?”
Caulfield nods, red-rimmed, glassy eyes not leaving the guitar strings as he plunks out “Pale Blue Eyes” for the fiftieth time—a far cry from the grinning, golden boy baseball star of their high school days. “Linger on…” And on, and on, and on.
She tugs his T-shirt sleeve. “Why don’t you toss that in the hamper and I’ll do laundry tonight.”
He pauses in his playing to jerk the ratty thing over his head, then chucks it in the vicinity of the hamper. She catches a whiff of sex and stale beer and oddly, it’s a turn on.
“You don’t always have to take care of me,” he says.
She shrugs. “I’m used to taking care of stuff. Besides, you take care of me, too.”
“Not very well.” He closes his eyes and his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows.
They had a late night covering an area band. She doesn’t know how he could stumble home with her half-drunk tush, have mind-blowing sex, and still be coherent enough to turn around a review for the paper by deadline. It’s typical for him to write his reviews the same night, when his mind is still fresh with details. Somehow, he always pulls it off.
She vaguely remembers him crawling into bed sometime around five and wrapping his arms around her waist. But the fruity drinks he bought her at the bar and sound-system overkill made her head throb, so she pressed her face into her pillow and went back to sleep. Earlier this morning, her mouth was so mucky she questioned whether she’d been throwing back sours or sewer water. Even now, her hangover lingers like a barfly who can’t take a hint. As she gargles mouthwash, she hears quiet chords and his even softer baritone drift from the couch.
“Caulfield?” He doesn’t answer. Aspen glances at her watch—eleven forty. She has to hurry or she’ll be late for her internship. Strum…strum…strum…Nothing short of kneeing him in the balls will get his attention, so she just leaves.
She grabs a can of instant soup from the cupboard and scribbles a quick “don’t forget mail & stamps” for Caulfield on a Post-it note. Then she drags her bike downstairs and pedals into the Boulder sunshine.
Her tires skid around a smashed and rotting jack-o’-lantern, splattering orange gunk on her sneakers. It is miserable October days like this that make her restless to run away from home. Fortunately, this is all limbo until the grown-up phase of their lives begins. By this time next year they’ll do some apartment hunting in New York over fall break, if nothing screws up her five-year plan:
Year one: campus internship (scored one in the Alumni Office).
Year two: graduate, land paid New York internship while Caulfield attends NYU.
Year three: find entry-level job and get two years’ experience.
Year four: save money.
Year five: move back to Colorado and start business with Molly.
Most college students didn’t think of their futures past graduation, but Aspen is not one of them. She has goals. No one can accuse her of being rash and naïve, not anymore. She is twenty now. She is an adult.
She hopes Caulfield remembers to buy stamps.
Later that afternoon, her phone rings as she rummages through stacks of old alumni pictures.
“Hey, Caulfield.”
“Hey, I’m at the post office. Do you want a book of stamps or just a sheet?”
She frowns and glances at the clock—four fifty. “You’re just now mailing those? That means they won’t get to New York before Friday.”
“Well next time, mail them yourself,” he grumbles.
“I barely had time to get home between classes and work, let alone go to the post office. The only thing you had to do was mail that stuff for me.” She doesn’t know how the frick he is going to manage grad school.
“It won’t kill anyone to wait a day. I just didn’t feel well. Sorry.” He exhales and the raspy, tired sound loosens the anger knotted in her chest.
“Listen. I know everything feels really temporary right now. When we find our footing, it will get better.”
“Firecracker.” She hears the frown in his voice. “Yeah, it’s temporary, but it’s still life, here and now. Case in point—look at the attacks last month in New York and DC. The Towers, the Pentagon, all those people with the photographs, hunting for the people they love. If you’re always looking ahead, saying it will be better if this happens, or if that happens, you’ll never actually live your life.”
“Hangovers and playing your guitar until noon isn’t living.”
She wants fire from him, but he doesn’t take the bait. There is a long pause, then a resigned, “I’ll see you tonight. I love you.”
“Caulfield?” She shoves a file of old photos into the cabinet and presses her aching head against the cool metal. “We only need a sheet of stamps. It will take too long to use a book and who knows when postage will go up again.”
After Aspen hangs up, she realizes she forgot to say “I love you” back.
Sam—I’ve often wondered what kind of person I’d have become if our (and when I say “our,” I mean “my”) New York plans had come to fruition. I don’t think I would have liked her very much. Just one of those “looking on the bright side” moments, I guess. ~Kaye
“Happy Birthday, Kaye.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
My mother’s voice was a welcome sound early Monday morning as I dropped two slices of bread into the toaster. I’d already been up for an hour, having called Samuel’s psychiatrist before the sun rose. By some miracle, Samuel was still asleep.
I remembered it was five in the morning in Colorado. “Why on earth are you awake so early?”
“Putting a batch of tomatoes in the pressure cooker for canning. Wish you were here, but it’s a relief not to worry about a party this year.”
“Mom, we go to the Cabrals every year for my birthday. Sofia always takes care of the cake.” My heart twinged at the thought of Sofia’s spicy chocolate cake.
“Well then, I don’t have to buy a birthday hat.”
We chatted for a while. My arms ached to hug her neck when we said our good-byes, even though we rarely embraced.
“You take care of yourself, Aspen Kaye. Only carry a little cash when you go out.”
“I will, Mom.”
I hung up the phone then jumped when Samuel’s arms snaked around my waist. Still warm with sleep, his scruff tickled my cheek as he nuzzled it.
“Happy Birthday.” He yawned. “Any news from Gail?”
I peered up at him with wary eyes. “Other than Hector getting busted for doing fifty down Main Street? No.”
“Sounds like business as usual.”
“Yeah, the big lug asked the sheriff if he’d hold his six-pack while he pulled his license from his wallet.”
His eyes crinkled in laughter. Well. Now he seemed completely normal. Still, Samuel had behaved normally yesterday morning, too, and look how he’d deteriorated by evening. “Hey,” I said gently, “how are you feeling?”
“Fine. Rested. Hungry. I was going to make you breakfast, Birthday Girl, but you beat me to it.”
I pecked him on the cheek. “You can play me ‘Happy Birthday’ on your guitar. I’m sure you were exhausted after last night.”
“Last night?”
“Yes. It was…” I froze when I saw bewilderment, then blatant fear seep into his eyes. His arms tightened. A single shudder raced through his body and slackened. He kissed my neck with trembling lips and released me.
“Last night was great,” he lied. “Do you want coffee?”
“No, thanks.”
Crap crap crap. He didn’t remember. I could see it in his face, even though he tried to hide it. How could he possibly not remember something so important? A dreadful weight settled in every joint of my body, threatening to press me into the floor with pain and guilt as I grasped the far-reaching hurt my rash choice last night brought down on both our heads. Tears pricked my
eyes. I had to get him to a doctor.
“Toast’s up.” I sniffled. “Jelly?”
“Just butter’s good.” He grabbed a slice and took a big bite, then fled down the hallway. Moments later, I heard the shower run. My thoughts strayed to the old Moleskine notebook in my messenger bag—the one he didn’t know existed. I’d have to show it to him, and it would suck worse than scraping my knuckles on concrete. This would complete Caroline’s betrayal and he’d feel it keenly.
Licking the jam from my fingers, I pattered down the hall and knocked on the bathroom door. “Samuel?”
“Come in,” he called. “Did you need something?” he asked when I still hadn’t spoken.
“I collected a box of hard copies from Caroline. It’s your earlier writing.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. It might send you into a tailspin when you read it. And I, um, scheduled a doctor’s appointment for you this morning.”
A pause. The shampoo bottle snapped open. “I can’t. I have press interviews.”
“We can reschedule them.”
“No, we can’t—not after the LA debacle. Kaye, I’m fine, truly.” Nothing but the quiet plopping of suds. Then he stuck out a wet head from behind the shower curtain. “Will it really make you feel better if I go?”
“Yes.”
“I propose a compromise: I’ll go tomorrow, first thing. Just one more day.”
“I don’t know…”
He used that disarming crooked smile, darn it. I hungrily watched water drip from his hair and trickle down his neck. “I’m much better than yesterday, and I know I can make it through today without any issues. We’ll get the interviews out of the way, Jerome’s disgusting display of opulence tonight, then the doctor tomorrow. Okay?”
“Okay,” I relented, because I very well couldn’t hog-tie him and drag him to his psychiatrist. “First thing tomorrow.”
He began to whistle—he was actually whistling in the shower—and that boded well for the rest of the day. But I knew better. I’d read the notebook. I heard him confuse my names. I’d seen too much to turn off the lights on last night.
Skygods (Hydraulic #2) Page 29
