by Max Henry
I stare. I ogle. I’m pretty sure my jaw hangs as slack as a hillbilly’s.
His black T-shirt stretches in all the right places to show how much attention he pays to his level of fitness. The guy packs some weaponry under that clothing, and I’m in no doubt as to why my husband ended up the way he did.
“I j . . . just wanted to check on Rocco,” I say.
He tips his head to the side, his dark hair falling slightly across his forehead, and thumbs over a shoulder. “He’s back here.”
I take the fact he moves to the side as an invitation to go inside, and cursing myself again at my state of dress, I do.
His home smells masculine. I know the idea that a house can smell masculine is insane, but it does. Woody, earthy tones mix with the tang of engine oil, and takeaway food . . . it smells like a guy. Like a real man. A man who takes care of himself. Not my husband.
He shadows me as I creep up the hallway. I’m reminded that I don’t have the foggiest how many people live here. Is it only him? Does he have a housemate? Several? A girlfriend?
Reading my mind, he speaks up from behind me—as in right behind me. “It’s okay. We’re the only ones here.”
I glance over my shoulder, and pull a smile from somewhere deep in the recesses of my memory; I haven’t done that in a while. The minute I round the doorway into the huge living area, Rocco bounds off a makeshift bed of towels and runs toward me, tail wagging like an idiot.
“Hey, buddy.” I crouch down to hold him to my chest, inhaling the comforting smell of his fur. “How you feeling?” He lets me lift his head, and check his neck for signs of injury.
“He’s okay. I checked him when we got home, and took his collar off. He’s had it off all night, actually. I’ve only put it on now.”
My midnight savior stands casually behind me, hands in pockets as he speaks. The cut of his T-shirt tugs around his trim waist, and the denim of his jeans pulls across his thick thighs.
He watches me with a subtle interest.
“Thank you for what you did for Rocco.”
He shrugs. “I didn’t only do it for him.”
My incredible ability to not understand the obvious leaves me staring at him, blank as a sheet of fresh paper.
“I did it for you as well.” His eyes drop from mine, and he wanders through to the adjoining kitchen. “You want a coffee?”
“Love one, thanks.” How can he drop that on me, and walk away?
“Standard?”
“Yeah.” I take a seat next to Rocco, who has reacquainted himself with the towels.
“I’m kind of surprised to see you,” he calls out as he collects the necessities. “I sort of thought that douchebag would have been over here the minute he woke up.”
I surprise myself with the giggle that falls so easily at the sound of somebody naming Dylan a douchebag. “I don’t know where he went this morning.”
“Do you mind if I ask you something kind of personal?’ He stops what he’s doing, and leans both hands on the counter to face me.
The familiar heat of panic returns to my neck and chest. “What’s that?”
“Why are you still in your night wear?”
My relief can’t be hidden. I close my eyes, and smile. That, I can answer. “Haven’t been inside since you saw me last.”
He holds the teaspoon out in my direction as he connects the dots. “You mean, you spent the night outside?” He waves the teaspoon toward my house. “And now he’s gone out?”
I nod, and look back to Rocco. He stares into my eyes in a way that tells me he understands.
“He shut you outside?”
“Yeah.”
“Locked you out? No way in?”
“Exactly.”
The teaspoon clatters inside the cup with obvious tenacity. “You should have come over last night.”
“I didn’t want to presume I was welcome.” Given the tension clouding the room at this point, I start to doubt I am, even now.
“Don’t be stupid,” he hisses. “Of course you’d be welcome. He”—Midnight Savior jabs his hand toward my house—“isn’t though.”
He walks toward where I sit, with the coffees in hand, and I shamelessly watch the way his hips move in the low-slung jeans he wears. I’d forgotten how nice it could be to look at a man and not cringe at the fear he embodied. I’d also forgotten what it could be like to look at a man with longing.
Shit, I need out of here.
“Thanks,” I offer as he gives me the cup. “I best have this and be out of your way.”
He shrugs again. “What’ll he do when he gets home?”
“I don’t know when he will.”
“What will he do though?” He draws a mouthful of the hot liquid, and places the cup down.
This time I shrug. “I don’t know. I’m more concerned about what he’ll do to Rocco.” His furry ears perk up at his name. “I’m worried he’ll try to kill him again.”
“Then leave him here.”
My eyes snap to his, and I frown. “Are you insane? Why would you get yourself involved in a fucked up mess that’s not your problem? No, I’ll take him home. It’s better if you stayed out of Dylan’s way.”
“Who said it isn’t my problem?” He picks up the coffee, and downs another casual mouthful. I eyes his lips; so full, so soft.
“I did.” He draws my gaze back to his eyes, and I shy away. Still not enough guts.
“Look, Jane—”
“How do you know my name?” Rocco’s head pops up at the aggression in my voice.
Midnight Savior shakes his head. “I think the whole neighborhood knows your name by now.”
Of course they do. “Be nice if anyone bothered to do something about it,” I mutter.
“They probably want to, but who’s to say that interfering wouldn’t put you in more danger? I’m going to guess that’s most likely why nobody has intervened before.”
I sip at my coffee, not liking where the conversation is headed.
“Why haven’t you left him yet?”
And, he’s done it. Turned the whole situation back on me. Yet another person who blames everything on me. “I’m pathetic, I know. I don’t have the guts. I’m a miserable waste of space. I’m sorry you felt the need to get involved, when clearly, I’m not worth it.” Hot tears spill from my eyes, and I place the coffee down to swipe them away.
“Hey,” he soothes. “I didn’t mean that at all.”
He watches me with a morbid curiosity as I silently cry, cross-legged on his living room floor. We sit that way long enough for him to finish his coffee, and set the cup aside.
“I asked you why you hadn’t left because I wanted to know what he was threatening you with. I’m sure you’ve got your reasons for being there.”
“Yeah, like who would want to take me in? And what would he do to everyone I knew if I left . . . although that isn’t many people.”
“I can guess,” he adds dryly. “But what about you? What reasons do you have to stay?”
I stare at him, confused.
“You gave me reasons that affect others, not you,” he clarifies.
I fiddle with a loose thread on the edge of a grey towel. “I don’t know.” I’d never thought about it like that.
“Maybe you should be trying to answer that, then?”
What I would do to remain in the moment forever, because in this sliver of time, I’m safe. Everyone’s safe. Going back to last night to change the outcome would only lead to hurting Rocco, and going forward only leads to getting this guy too involved.
“Trust me when I say you don’t want to get involved with my issues,” I warn. “Dylan doesn’t have a conscience. I’m pretty sure the devil was out of morals when he put him together.”
He chuckles. “At least you’ve still got your sense of humor, eh?”
“Sometimes.” I smile.
“So, what do we do?”
“I have to go back,” I mumble. “But maybe you could keep Rocco for a whi
le. I’ll give you food for him, and all that.”
“Don’t sweat it. How would you get it here without him noticing?, Plus, if you’re suddenly not buying dog food, then the douchebag might believe you when you say Rocco ran away.”
He has a point; Dylan was out cold when Midnight Savior took Rocco. He doesn’t know where my dog is.
My neighbor gazes out the window at nothing in particular, and I take the break in conversation to look at him a little more carefully. His lashes are full, and add an odd softness to an otherwise harsh face. His jaw is square and sharp, his nose crooked, and his skin holds the bronzed tan of a person who spends a lot of time outdoors.
The man is a mystery, but one I’m thankful to have.
“I’ll have to take Rocco home eventually.” My fingers stroke his black fur idly.
“Yeah, well, hopefully by then you’ll have a new home.”
Six years ago, I was just the same as this guy. He honestly believes I still have a chance at walking out of that place, and starting again. His optimism is cute, but misplaced.
“He’ll never let me leave.”
“I know.” He shrugs. “But isn’t it better to die having tried?”
I SPEND the remainder of the day doing what I do every Saturday—cleaning the house to within an inch of its life. Midnight Savior kindly shot over to jimmy the door open for me, and promptly disappeared after seeing the clear panic etched into the lines of my face.
What if Dylan had caught him there? What would he have done?
I couldn’t dwell on the what-ifs; only prevent the maybes. So I scrubbed, polished, wiped, sorted, and folded until the house could be passed off as a show home. Not a single thing sits out of place. I even have the damn forks lined up perfectly on top of one another in the cutlery drawer.
Like the good little housewife I am, I make sure to shower away the sweat of a hard day’s work before my darling husband returns home from work. The woman who stares back at me from the bathroom mirror shocks me to the core. It’s fair to say I sometimes manage to go weeks without catching a glimpse of myself, but on those occasions where I do, it sickens me.
There was a time when I turned all the boy’s heads—when I could walk into a party, and be confident that I would be noticed. Being so young, and stupid, I reveled in the attention, drank in the adoration, and basked in the popularity that followed. In high school, girls wanted to be me, guys wanted to date me.
But I was naïve, foolish, and unprepared for the harsh reality of the world. I married a guy older than me who knew what he wanted: a wife like his mother. I let him shape me into what I am today. I let him break me down, and strip me of my confidence.
Therefore, I did this to myself.
I allowed it to happen.
And now, I exert effort to try and avoid my reflection. I do what I can to dodge seeing the sunken eyes, the pale and dry skin, the stringy hair. I avoid at all costs seeing the woman in her twenties who looks like she’s in her thirties. I deny the fact that the stress, the hardship, and the suffering has aged me, has stripped me of my beauty, and replaced me with a tired, worn out apparition.
Instead, I cover it up. I apply my mask.
For him I apply my makeup. For Dylan I style my hair. For that tyrant I turn myself into a beautiful woman once again, even if it is merely a charade built from cleverly applied makeup.
I paint my happiness on like an actor does in preparation for the final show.
And I smash that performance, each and every day.
To say that I pretty myself, that I clean the house purely for fear of upsetting Dylan two nights in a row wouldn’t be sharing the honest truth. My hands keep busy to distract me from the core of it all—I miss Rocco. He’s next door; safe, content. But the fact he didn’t rise from the makeshift bed when I left that morning put me at unease.
Is it that terrible here? Do safety and security mean more to him than being with me? I shouldn’t feel such a need to look into it, but damn it all, he’s my dog, and he let me go at the drop of a hat. Man’s best friend, my ass.
I stand in the kitchen with a carrot in each hand, the fridge wide open, deciding if I should cook enough for both of us, or myself only. Both options leave room for error. Either he’ll be mad at me for wasting the food if he never shows, or he’ll be mad I didn’t prepare his dinner if he does.
Damned if I do, damned if I don’t.
The fridge door swings shut with a quick tap of my foot, and I bring both carrots over to the chopping board. I might as well cook enough, and if he doesn’t show, I can always freeze it and make out that I intended to prepare him a ready-to-eat lunch.
My eyes instinctually drift up, and search out the window I now know is the living room next door. I wonder what they’re doing in there: my dog, and his savior. Are they happy together? Will I cause too much disruption when the day comes to take Rocco back? I curse at myself for abandoning my fur-baby so easily, but again, the need to preserve what I love wins over.
Some time later, I stand at the stove with boiling carrots, corn, and a steak frying in the pan. Dinner is mere minutes from being ready, and as if he could smell it from a mile away, Dylan’s engine idles into the driveway. My body stiffens of its own accord, and my wrist catches the side of the pan. Cursing, and flailing like an idiot, I stumble across to the sink, and hold my wrist under running water as he enters.
“Expecting somebody?” He stands in the doorway with that smirk on his face which reads ‘whatchya gonna do about it?’
What would I do? Admire the swelling, and bruises, is what. His face remains a mess. Wherever he’d been all day, it sure as shit wasn’t a doctor’s office.
“You probably need stitches for that eye.” I pull my dripping hand out from under the tap, and switch it off.
“Thanks for stating the obvious.” He snatches the dishtowel from the handle of the oven, and tosses it at me. “Dry off, and flip that steak before it burns.”
If looks could kill, his shirt would be on fire. Never once have I glared at his back as he walked away, but after last night, and after meeting him, I feel a new source of determination.
The instinct to fight might be imperceptible to Dylan, but I know it’s there, and that’s what matters. My strength has found a way to return. It may still be a fledgling, poking its head out from the safe confines of its underground bunker, but the strength is still there.
Maybe I can do this? Maybe I can try?
“Smells like it’s burning,” he hollers from the couch.
Confident there’s no possible way for him to see me, I flip him the finger through the wall. I turn the damn steak, finish it off, plate the food, and serve it to him with a cool beer—top removed, of course. He grimaces at the meal.
“I guess it’ll do. You’re lucky I’m fucking starving, Jane.”
The thought hits me upside the head like a nine-iron; he’s never called me anything but my name. No ‘baby’, ‘honey’, or even something as simple as ‘dear’. The jackass has never given me a pet name because quite simply, he doesn’t feel that affection for me.
How did I never see that before now? Have I been getting around with blinkers on?
“I’m sorry, baby. What would you like me to make you tomorrow night? I’ll make whatever you want.”
He lets his gaze drift to me, and it’s cold. Like icily so. “I’d like you to pay enough attention to me that you fucking remember what I like to eat. Do I honestly need to tell you again, after all these years together?”
I stare at him, nostrils twitching, and I swear to God I hear the click of something break in my head. The gears shift, and machinery grinds. This ship isn’t running quite as tight as it used to.
“You think I don’t pay attention to you?” I mumble.
His head whips back as though I’ve hit him. “Are you talking back, Jane?” A moment passes where neither of us moves. My heartbeat drowns out the sound of the sports on TV. “Well?”
Robotic Jane turns away
from the scene, and all intentions are to return to the kitchen, and avoid the conflict.
Dylan has other ideas.
The plate clatters to the floor, ceramic shatters, and I know he’s on his feet.
Three, two, one . . .
“Where the fuck do you think you’re going?”
My skin crawls.
“You fucking dare turn your back on me?”
My chest rises, and falls with a carefully hidden shudder. I turn to face him, impassive as ever.
“Answer my fucking question, Jane. Were you talking back?”
I know he’s baiting me. The smirk on his face says he’d mapped how this would play out before he stood. “It wasn’t my intention, but I know that’s how it sounds.”
I cry in shock at the pain. He’s hit me before, but always with an open hand. This time, it’s a closed fist directly to the jaw. The agony spreads through my teeth, and down my neck.
“Get out of my sight, you disrespectful slut. All these years carrying you, and that’s what I get?”
I do as I’m asked—I leave. Who is this woman I’ve become? One hit to the face, and I crumple back into the role of submissive wife within a heartbeat. I had the gall to fight for Rocco last night, so why the fuck can’t I do it for myself?
Hot tears sting at my eyes as I make my way up the hallway to our bedroom. God only knows what I’ll do once I get there: fold some washing, change the sheets, clean the bathroom—again. Whatever it is, I’m certain it won’t be continue to cry. He doesn’t deserve my tears, and I don’t deserve to pity my situation.
Not when I’ve put myself here.
I stand in the doorway to our room—correction—his room, my retreat. Why is it that? Why does this room make me so comfortable? My eyes roam my surroundings; the bedspread he liked, the bedside lamps he chose, the fucking color on the wall—that was all his doing. Nothing in here is mine. Nothing of me remains—anywhere.
Where did I go? If I was to go through all our storage, would I find myself somewhere amidst the unused silver from our wedding? The pointless things I bought him for anniversaries and birthdays that I found gathering dust on shelves, and in cupboards?
