Picture Imperfect

by Lea Santos

  “I’m glad I didn’t miss you guys completely.” Iris wound her long hair into a spiky knot, securing a band over it, then said, “Scoot a cheek,” to Paloma and sat down as soon as Paloma had obeyed. “What kind of exercise is this, slackers? Sit and Be Fit?” She still hadn’t caught on to the aura of gloom that surrounded them like a gray mosquito net.

  “No.” Paloma leveled a bleak gaze at her. “We’re trying to figure out why Deanne and I hadn’t had sex in more than six months before the split. And, before that, why things had been getting progressively worse for—”

  “Eight years, she says,” Emie interjected. “Since Pep was born.”

  Iris’s eyes darkened. “Really? That long, Pea?”

  “I mean, it didn’t happen instantly, but yeah.” Paloma shrugged one shoulder. “I couldn’t seem to powerwalk and explore that lovely topic at the same time. So we sat.”

  Iris wrapped Paloma in a side hug. “I didn’t know. I’m sorry I was being so flippant.”

  “You weren’t. You were just being you, which I love. You don’t have to tiptoe on eggshells around me just because my life is shit.” Impatience blasted through Paloma, directed at herself. “As a matter of fact, I’m tired of this ‘poor me’ tune I’ve been whistling. Know what I need? Hot and heavy no-strings sex. Wild, sweaty, boot-knockin’ with a woman who can make me feel like a wanton, lusty—”

  “Pea!”

  “—slut.”

  Paloma met Iris’s horrified gaze directly. “What? I’m serious. Hey—set me up with Tori’s little sister. She’s gorgeous. Definitely boot-knock-able.”

  “Uh”—Iris smacked Paloma’s left thigh—“you’re still married, dumbass.”

  “Separated,” Paloma corrected her. “Big difference.”

  “¡Cállate!” Emie thwacked Paloma’s right upper arm. “Madeira was in elementary school when we graduated, for God’s sake.”

  “So?” Paloma jammed her arms crossed. “She’s all grown up now, and not a stranger to the concept of a one-night stand, from what I’ve heard. Knocking a piece off of a hottie like Madeira Pacias would do wonders for my self-image and—”

  “I’ll tell you what’ll do wonders for your self-image,” Iris interrupted. “Spending some quality time with yourself. And I’m not talking about sex—although, go there if you gotta—but when it comes to Madeira or anyone else, drag your mind out of the gutter and listen.”

  “And please,” Emie added, looking ill, “never use the phrase ‘knocking a piece off’ again. I can’t think of you that way.”

  Paloma hoped her expression was appropriately skeptical.

  Iris pressed on, undaunted. “Pea, this isn’t about sex. Face it, you’ve always put yourself last. First in high school when Deanne was Ms. Track Star and you basically supported her in that. Then college. Same deal—”

  “Iris, she had a full-ride scholarship—”

  “I know. I’m not judging. But you worked while she went to school, setting aside your own aspirations—”

  “I wanted to do that. That was my choice.”

  “Granted, but you still put yourself last. And now, with the boys, you do it even more.” Iris held up her palms. “I understand mothers have to make sacrifices, but you’re a woman, too. You’re Paloma. And somewhere along the line, you’ve forgotten that.”

  Iris had hit so close to the mark, Paloma squirmed and looked away. Her faults were agonizing in the light of day. Ugly.

  “She’s right,” Emie said.

  “You don’t need to knock boots—”

  “Stop!” Emie covered her ears.

  “Or anything else with Madeira. Perish the thought—she’s practically my little sister.” Iris shivered. “What you need is some introspection.”

  What the fuck—sarcasm seemed as good a defense mechanism as any. “Introspection?” Paloma scoffed. “And, that’s ranked above sex on Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs? Since when?”

  “Hush, girl.” Iris squeezed her arm. “I’m saying you need to take stock of your future. You’ve made a major change. Now you have to figure out what to do with the rest of your life, where you want to be in five years. That’s more important than scratching some sexual itch with a one-night stand.”

  Paloma looked down at her hands, which were clenched in her lap.

  In five years?

  Five years?

  Pep would be—ugh—a teenager. A teenage boy from a broken home. Paloma hadn’t imagined it that way, not in her wildest, worst nightmares.

  She’d thought leaving her wife was the end, but her friends were dead-on right—as usual. It was more of a scary beginning. All she’d ever known was being Deanne’s partner—her wife—and the boys’ mother. Just like she’d always wanted. What else was there for her?

  Cold apprehension clawed up her spine. “I wouldn’t even know where to start,” she admitted, her voice a rough whisper.

  “All the more reason for you to do it,” Emie said. “You’ve given yourself a clean slate, but Iris is right. Now you have to fill it. You have the boys, of course, but, God, Paloma, you’re only thirty-two. What else do you want to write on that slate?”

  Deanne.

  The word popped into Paloma’s mind before she could stop it. She squeezed her eyes shut, unable to imagine life without the woman she’d loved for so long. Yet her own actions, her request for a separation, had made living without Dee a stark reality.

  Paloma wasn’t happy in her marriage. Fact.

  So why did the thought of ending it prompt such sparks of terror inside her? Flashes of fear? Aches of loss?

  She had uttered the words.

  She had set the wheels in motion.

  She had better damn well get used to it.

  And she’d better get used to herself—her new self.

  She managed her first heartfelt, if a bit tremulous, smile of the day. “You’re right. My life isn’t defined within the parameters of being Deanne’s wife anymore. A-and that’s a good thing.” She paused, drawing the corner of her lip into her mouth. “Right?”

  “If you want it to be,” Iris said.

  Another pang of uncertainty struck, painful, like a snap against her flesh. “I just haven’t gotten used to it yet. But I will.”

  “Atta girl,” Emie said, beaming. “You’ll get through this if you put your mind to it. You don’t need Deanne.”

  Yes, I do. Jesus, I do.

  “No,” Paloma said sternly, hoping to quell the scared little scream building inside. “I don’t.”

  *

  Dee stood on the curb and stared, dumbfounded, at the bucked hood of her patrol car, which was wedged up against the backside of the late-model Mercury Sable she’d corn-holed at the intersection. She took in the glass-strewn crash scene, the bent hubcap lying in a pool of power-steering fluid—an apt metaphor for the sorry state of her life.

  Truthfully, Deanne’s pride stung more than the airbag cut on her chin. She’d been en route to handle a nothing-special call. Her mind, of course, had been filled with thoughts of Paloma instead of focused on the job as it should have been.

  When the Sable’s driver braked instead of cruising through the yellow—exactly what most drivers did when a cop was behind them, a fact Deanne well knew—she hadn’t given herself enough reaction time to stop. It was Police Driving 101, and her grade was a big, fat F. This was not an error an eleven-year veteran officer should make.

  Yet, here she stood on Federal Boulevard, in the middle of the least cop-friendly neighborhood in her sector, while her supervisor, Sgt. Obermeyer, wrote the state report with Deanne’s name printed in the at-fault box.

  She pulled the four-by-four gauze patch away from her face, wincing when it tugged on the clotting blood. A glance at Obermeyer showed the sergeant engrossed in the paperwork, and guilt stabbed Deanne. Obermeyer hadn’t shown any kind of emotion when she’d rolled on scene. Instead, she remained carefully neutral toward Deanne and her egregious mistake. Somehow, that felt worse than if Obermeye
r had ripped her a new asshole.

  As if reading Dee’s thoughts, Nora Obermeyer glanced up from the long state accident form, the breeze catching wisps of gray-shot blond hair that had escaped from her braid. “Grab the insurance card from the cruiser for me, Vargas.”

  Nodding once, Deanne started toward the car, then turned back. “Sarge, I’m sorry about this.” To make matters worse, they were shorthanded to start with and Fridays were always busy. Now Dee had tied up not one but two cars with this mess.

  “Now’s not the time for apologies. We’re slammed out there.” Obermeyer glanced toward the tow truck that had just rumbled to a stop in front of the Sable. “Get the card, then go deal with the tow driver. Report to my office after this intersection is cleared and you’ve swapped out cars at shops. We’ll discuss it then.”

  Deanne gave another stiff nod, then stalked toward the battered cruiser feeling glum and angry at herself. Obermeyer wouldn’t yell; that wasn’t the sergeant’s style. But Dee could tell her longtime supervisor was disappointed by this lapse, and Dee couldn’t blame her. First her marriage, now her formerly stellar job reputation. What next?

  An hour later, Deanne rapped on the door to Sgt. Obermeyer’s office, then entered, dread thick and sour in the pit of her stomach. “Am I interrupting?”

  “No.” Nora looked up from behind the battered metal desk, then stood. “Come in and have a seat. Actually, indulge me for a second. Come here.” Nora walked around to the side of her desk.

  Confused, Deanne approached her boss.

  When the two were a couple feet apart, Nora leaned forward and sniffed. “Aha.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “A little intuitive experiment. My guess is, you’re having problems with Paloma and it’s affecting your judgment on the job.” The statement confidently neutral. “That about hit the mark?”

  Deanne stared at Nora, then bent her head and sniffed. Nothing. “Mind if I ask how you came to that conclusion?”

  “I’ve been supervising officers for ten years, Dee. You for five. As your sergeant, and one who’s trained to observe and catalog details”—Nora’s eyes crinkled with wry humor—“but mostly as a woman myself, I happen to have noticed that Paloma uses a particular fabric softener on your uniforms. Gain—the same brand I use.”

  Deanne blinked. Twice. “I don’t get it.”

  Nora shrugged. “Clearly, Paloma hasn’t been the one washing your clothes, because that telltale fresh scent is history. Couple that with your uncharacteristic preoccupation of late, and it doesn’t take rocket science to put it together.”

  No, but apparently it did take an astute sergeant like Nora Obermeyer.

  The chair’s dilapidated cushion wheezed as Nora settled into it, her gun belt squeaking with the motion. She adjusted her flashlight so it hung along the side of the chair, then steepled her fingers on the desktop. “I try to stay out of my officers’ private lives. In light of today’s incident, it’s time you and I talk about your personal situation.”

  Deanne sank into one of the vinyl-covered swivel chairs that faced the desk, feeling dumbfounded and out of her league. For the most part, Obermeyer was just another cop, and a damned good one. But every once in a while, some odd thing reminded Dee she was also a woman, wife, and mother. So much like Paloma in so many ways. “Fabric softener? Seriously?”

  “Well”—one of Nora’s eyebrows quirked—“do you use it?”

  Ridiculous that it hadn’t crossed Deanne’s mind to buy products other than the detergent, and truthfully…shamefully…Paloma had always done the shopping and washing, at least up until last week. Paloma had done a lot up until last week, come to think of it. Chagrined, confused, Deanne stared at her knees. Should she seriously have known what laundry products Paloma used? Did her lack of attention to freaking fabric softener sheets contribute to Paloma’s decision to kick her ass to the curb? For God’s sake, she’d memorize every bottle, box, or can under the sink if she could just have Paloma back. She peered at her waiting sergeant, and her thoughts jerked back to her question. “Uh, no. I don’t use it.”

  “My point exactly.” Nora’s hard gaze diffused into a look that bespoke of friendship more than rank. “Spill your guts, Dee. You aren’t doing yourself any favors keeping it bottled up. As your friend, I care. As your supervisor, I need to determine if you can pull it together enough to work.”

  Deanne stiffened, her gut clenching. “I can work. Work’s not a problem. It’s my life. I just need…aw, hell.” She scrubbed a palm over her face, then slumped back in the chair. “I need Paloma back.”

  Nora let the words hang in the air a moment. “She left?”

  “Kicked me out.”

  “Were you cheating on her?”

  Dee’s head came up as if she’d heard gunfire. “What? Never.” Her internal temperature spiked at the casually posed question. How could Nora think—?

  “Any physical violence?”

  Deanne strained forward, hot blood ripping through her temples. “Sergeant Obermeyer, I respect the hell out of you. You know that. But please don’t insult me.”

  Nora didn’t even blink. “No need to get angry. I’m not accusing you, but it’s my duty to get a grasp of the basic picture, and these are standard questions IAD would ask, so…”

  Teeth clenched, hands white-knuckled on the chair arms, Deanne said, “I would…never hurt Paloma or any woman.”

  Obermeyer didn’t appear cowed or bothered by Deanne’s vehemence. She nodded once. “Enough said.” She flicked a hand. “Sit back, Vargas. Take a damn breath.”

  Deanne did. Grudgingly.

  Nora crossed her arms. “Well, I’m all ears. I’ve been happily married to a civilian for twenty-six years and I’ve raised two sons and one daughter, none of whom use fabric softener, much to my chagrin.” Her eyes crinkled with attractive crow’s feet around the edges. “Maybe I can help.”

  Deanne willed her mind to knock down the fire of anger inside her. She took a moment to collect her scattered thoughts. Then, avoiding any mention of sex, which would have been way too uncomfortable, she haltingly described the rift of distance and silence that had split her and Paloma’s marriage. Dee couldn’t tell Nora how it started, or how it had gotten so bad, because she had no goddamn clue. She ended her tale of woe with the night Paloma had sent her packing with those damned suitcases.

  When Dee finished, Nora’s intuitive eyes were narrowed. She shifted in her chair, her weapon clanging on the metal armrest, then cleared her throat. “From what you’ve told me, her kicking you out doesn’t make sense. You work hard, support the family. She stays home with the kids—which she wants, right?”

  “Yes.” At least, Deanne thought so.

  Nora twisted her mouth. “Seriously, no arguments?”

  Dee shook her head. “Paloma’s never been confrontational. She never complains. She’s great. Amazing.”

  Something in Nora’s expression sparked. “Never complains. So, what about all the rest of the things married couples struggle with?”

  “Such as?”

  “Money? Child-rearing? Religion? In-laws?” A pause. “Intimacy.”

  Dee shrugged. “No problems. We’ve always seen eye-to-eye. We don’t even bicker.”

  “Hmm.” Nora drummed her fingers against her lips, searching for the elusive answer. Suddenly, the drumming stopped. “Were you attentive?”

  “Attentive?” Meaning what?

  The sergeant sighed. “Attentive, common spelling. Common connotation. Did you give Paloma the attention she needed? You know, hugs and kisses, remembering her birthday and your anniversary. Did you bring her little gifts now and then just because you love her? That sort of thing. Attentive. It is a readily recognized word, Deanne.”

  With dismay, Dee recalled the pathetic grocery store apology flowers she’d attempted to give Paloma for having missed their anniversary. A twinge of guilt struck. She supposed she wasn’t the most attentive partner on the planet, but it had never seemed t
o be a problem before. “Well, I…don’t have the best memory for dates.” Dee grimaced, feeling out of step and embarrassed. “But Paloma knows I love her. She wouldn’t leave me over something so minor as forgetting an anniversary or two.”

  “Granted. I’m sure it was more than just that. But you’re a woman yourself. You get this. Women want to feel loved and special. Remember”—Nora inclined her head—“Police 101: the crime is always based on the perception of the victim. It’s what Paloma thinks that matters. What you think doesn’t mean shit.”

  Deanne had never thought of her marriage in that way, as if she’d perpetrated some crime trying to…to what? To do the right thing? To not be Victor? Pain, like a hollow-point bullet, shot through her middle. Target: hit. She spread her arms wide in protest. “But the times I missed events or forgot special days, I was working.”

  “So fucking what?” Nora challenged. “Since when does that feeble excuse appease Paloma and the boys?”

  Confusion smothered Deanne. Taking care of her family was a feeble excuse? “It didn’t bother Paloma or she would’ve said something.”

  “You sure about that? I thought you said she never complained?”

  Deanne pondered this. Dismissed it. Good point, but… “Paloma knew I was working for her, Nora. For the kids. To provide us a good life.”

  Nora leaned forward, her chair squeaking. “I get that. I’m sure Paloma does, too. But, because I’m pushy and you need the push, I would venture a guess she needed more, whether she verbalized it or not. Most spouses do.”

  Frustration squeezed Deanne’s skull like the metal band on an electric chair. Truth be told, she didn’t have that much experience with relationships. Paloma was her first…her one…her only. Her forever. “Like what? Paloma got to stay home to raise the kids, like she wanted. I provided for everything. She had security, freedom. Anything she needed.”

  “Except the one thing she probably wanted more than all of that. You.” Obermeyer made a little gun with her hand and fired it at Deanne’s heart.