Picture Imperfect

by Lea Santos

  Dee scowled, flicking away the words. “I told you. There’s never been another woman besides Paloma. I love her.”

  “That’s not what I meant. I’m talking about affection. Attention. Romance. Presence.” Nora snapped her fingers. “Stick with me here.”

  “We—we had all that.”

  “Had?”

  A sinking feeling in Deanne’s heart dragged her gaze from Nora’s too-perceptive face. “Well…then the boys came along, and I had to start thinking about their futures—”

  Nora’s tired laugh made Deanne feel like a child who didn’t quite get it. “Damn, Vargas. I never knew you were so thick. No offense, but you sound like some of my male officers, and if you repeat those words, I’ll deny ever having said them.” A beat passed. “How’d you win her in the first place?”

  Stung by the insult, Dee huffed. “Thanks a lot.”

  “No. Sincere question. You won Paloma once.” Nora rolled her hand, urging some brainstorming. “How?”

  What kind of whacko question was that? “Hell, I don’t know. That was in high school. We were kids, not adults with a mortgage and two kids to raise, responsibilities.”

  Nor held up one finger. “But Paloma fell in love with you for a reason, true or false?”

  Deanne paused. “True. I suppose.”

  “Okay.” Nora inclined her head. “Find out why and how, and try to figure out when it ended.”

  Deanne had always been pragmatic. She didn’t buy this right-brained, New Age relationship advice. It wouldn’t solve a damn thing. She and Paloma couldn’t be fifteen or eighteen or twenty-one forever. For Nora to suggest otherwise wasn’t practical. The issue wasn’t that Deanne had become a different woman. Or that Paloma had. The problem was, Paloma had kicked her out. Period. Why couldn’t Nora stick with the matter at hand?

  Frustrated, Deanne pushed to her feet and straightened her gig line, jutting her chin out to loosen the collar of her starched uniform shirt. “Thanks for listening, Sarge. I’ll take your suggestions under advisement.”

  Nora followed Deanne’s all-business lead and turned her attention to the stack of forms on her desk. “Good. Do so, Vargas. At home.”

  What? Horror riddled through Deanne. “You’re suspending me for the accident?”

  “Of course not. Accidents happen. Though I will have to note it in your critical incident file—just policy.”

  No surprises there. “Sure. But work is all I have now. About the time off—”

  “Listen.” Sgt. Obermeyer leveled Deanne with a clear blue gaze that left no room for argument. “You have a helluva lot of banked annual leave. Too much, frankly, which tells me you haven’t seen the umbrella-drink side of a vacation in a long time. I strongly suggest you take one and get your shit together.”

  “But—”

  “I’m not sentencing you to hard time, Dee, for God’s sake. Do what the hell you need in order to get your life on track so your mind can focus on the job.” Nora aimed her pointer finger at Deanne. “You’re no good to me in your current state. I don’t want you here. It’s not a suggestion, it’s an order.”

  Deanne stood straighter. Obermeyer was right, which rankled. “Fine,” she said, through clenched teeth. “How long?”

  Nora shrugged, and tapped a pile of forms into neatly edged order. “It’s up to you. The shift is fat, so we won’t be short-handed. But be clear on one thing. I don’t want you back here until your head’s screwed on straight, and I’m talking, for good. If that means two months, it means two months. Is that clear?”

  “Crystal.”

  “Good. Keep me up to date.”

  An awful thought rushed into Deanne’s mind, and her stomach lurched. She cleared her throat. “How will, uh, this affect my chances on the sergeants’ test? I’m on the list to take it mid-month.”

  Nora shook her head as though Deanne were the exasperating one. “Listen. You’re an officer, not a superhero. It’s okay—no, it’s expected, actually—that you also have a life, and sometimes life gets messy. I guess it depends on how you handle it.”

  Another cryptic answer. “What I meant was, can I still come in and take the exam, even if I am on annual leave time?”

  Nora sighed. “Yes. I’ll note it, and they’ll expect you there.”

  Deanne gave a curt nod and turned to leave.

  “Hey,” Obermeyer said, her tone softer.

  Dee paused, hand strangling the doorknob. After a moment, she glanced back.

  Sarge tapped the end of her pen on the desk a few times. “Think about what I told you when you’re not so pissed off at me, okay? I’m only trying to help you save your marriage.”

  Heat rushed to Deanne’s neck, but she held her supervisor’s gaze.

  “Consider it. That’s all I ask.” Though Nora’s face remained serious, a whisper of a smile showed in her eyes. “And call me if you need to talk. Friend to friend.”

  Some of the tension eased around Deanne’s mouth, but she knew she’d never call. “Thanks, Nora.” For a whole lot of nothing that makes any sense.

  Chapter Three

  From Paloma Vargas’s journal, Monday, September 10

  It’s great being able to choose what I want to do with my life from here on out. But sometimes it feels like I’m searching for something to replace my marriage. No class or book or hobby can do that.

  But wait. I don’t want to think about Deanne.

  DO-OVER.

  What can I write about MY life? I started yoga classes over at the community college, and I’ve been to one session. Being around all those students got me thinking about going back to school. Why not? I didn’t mind working while Deanne was getting her degree. We were always a team, and I did it willingly. To be honest, though, I did imagine I would get my chance later. (Damn, I brought up Deanne again.)

  I called Torien, since she’s working on a degree in Nonprofit Management down at Metro State, and we discussed different schools and courses of study. I think I’d like Metro. Torien says there are a lot of “non-traditional” students there (read: old), so I’d fit in!

  Maybe I’ll study English. I could be a teacher, or a writer. Or a book critic. (Ha ha.) Human Services looked interesting, too. I could counsel women to be more assertive. You know what they say: those who can’t, teach.

  I wish I knew what Deanne would think, but she probably wouldn’t care. Wait. That’s not fair. Deanne always cared. Man, I’m really contradicting myself. (And I brought up Deanne again, damnit.)

  This…sucks. And if that’s the only description I can come up with, maybe English isn’t the degree for me. Okay, to hell with it. I’m going to bring up Deanne. I’ve never censored my journal entries before.

  I can’t get used to her conspicuous absence from the house. Sure, she wasn’t home much before, but I could still feel her presence around, smell her shampoo lingering in the air. I could see (trip over) all the stuff she never picked up. Now it really feels like she’s gone. I wasn’t prepared. Not in the slightest.

  Every day I think of things to share with her, then I remember. She’s gone. My choice. Is it ever gonna get easier?

  The boys miss her, too. Immensely. We’ve tried to be vague with them until we know what’s gonna happen. We’ve explained that Mommy’s just keeping Uncle Ruben company for a while because he’s going through some grown-up stuff, but I can see in their innocent little eyes that they’re worried. I don’t want to keep Deanne from them. I don’t want to keep them from their mommy.

  Here I go placating again. Terminally happy Paloma trying to keep the world spinning. UGH! Best case scenario? I want life to be just the way it’s always been for the boys, but different for me.

  Me <————impossible dreamer.

  I’m a mess.

  A hot freaking mess.

  The phone rang as Paloma was gathering her mat and water bottle for yoga class, stuffing it unceremoniously into the fuchsia bag she’d bought the day before. She scowled at the phone on the second ring.
The boys had dawdled and bickered before school, and now she was running late. No time to chat. On ring three, she admitted defeat and tucked the receiver between her ear and shoulder while whipping harried glances around the room. Where’d she put that damn towel?

  “Hello?”

  “Ah, mi hijita. You sound distracted. It’s a bad time?”

  Her mother-in-law. Paloma froze, her stomach plunging like the proverbial baby grand from the thirty-first floor. She began to shake internally and couldn’t stop. She hadn’t expected Rosario’s call so soon. Staggering to the nearest chair, Paloma sank into it, barely registering the pain when one of Teddy’s pointy action figures gouged her thigh.

  “Hi, Rosi.” The false cheer in her tone made her cringe. “I was, uh…actually, yeah. Headed out. But I have a sec.” She swallowed through a dread-tightened throat. “What’s up?”

  “No emergency, honey. You go on to your day.”

  No emergency? How’d she figure? “No. I have time for you.” Paloma shot a glance at her watch and winced. She actually didn’t have time, but she respected Rosario too much to blow her off, and this horrible, inevitable conversation had to happen sooner or later anyway.

  “Just put my gorgeous daughter on,” Rosario said, with laughter in her voice. “I’m planning the annual Broncos vs. Raiders family football party. I know you usually do all the scheduling, but you’re busy. I can discuss it with Deanne. It’s still a ways off. Go on.”

  The roar of pounding blood sounded in Paloma’s ears.

  Rosi doesn’t know. Jesus, she doesn’t have a clue.

  The realization knocked the wind out of Paloma. She struggled for words, unsure whether to be relieved or completely fucking annoyed that Deanne hadn’t told her mother about the separation. But…then again, she hadn’t summoned the courage to call to her parents, either. She knew Mom would lecture her about her “duty” to fix things with Deanne, who was “such a good provider.” All that hetero-based bullshit. Paloma loved her mother, but she couldn’t stomach the “women make sacrifices, dear” speech again. It had been nearly two decades. Didn’t Mom realize she and Deanne were both women?

  “Paloma, honey? You still there?”

  “Y-yes. Deanne’s…uh”—think, Paloma!—“not…up yet,” she finished, taking the coward’s route. “C-can I have her call you?”

  “Not up yet?” Rosario sounded surprised.

  Okay, so yeah. It was the stupidest excuse she could have concocted. Deanne was a life-long early riser. Lying sucked. “Swing shift got off late, so she slept in for once and I haven’t had the heart to wake her.”

  Rosario murmured a sound of approval. “You’re a good wife to my daughter, Paloma. And a good mama. They’re lucky to have you. We all are.”

  The room swayed before Paloma’s eyes. She squeezed them shut and pinched the bridge of her nose until it hurt, Rosario’s words warring with those of her own mother. The praise was undeserved.

  A good wife didn’t kick her partner out, now, did she?

  A good wife worked things out, made things better, instead of letting them build and fester until they erupted into untold ugliness.

  A good wife didn’t lie to her mother-in-law.

  What could she possibly say to this woman who had loved her and accepted her and Deanne’s relationship from the very beginning? Who had championed it? Who had—for God’s sake—given her daughter away to Paloma during their wedding?

  The doorbell chimed, thankfully, saving her the trouble of commenting on Rosi’s words. Paloma shot to her feet. “Hang on. Someone’s at the door.”

  “Okay, honey.”

  She could’ve kept talking on the cordless phone while she traversed the room, but used the reprieve to collect her thoughts. She fumbled with the deadbolt, then yanked the door open.

  Deanne.

  Paloma’s insides imploded. Not this, on top of everything else.

  Dee held up one of Pep’s textbooks, smiling, though the expression never quite reached her wary eyes. “I was in the neigh—”

  Heart thudding, Paloma reached up and clapped a palm over Deanne’s mouth. She feigned normalcy over the phone line. “Rosario, sorry, it’s UPS and they need me to sign, so I have to go, but—oh, look! Deanne just got up.” Her desperate look begged Deanne to play along with the ruse. “Hold on. I’ll let you talk to her.”

  Rosario clucked. “Oh, dear. I hope the phone didn’t wake her after you took such pains to let her rest.”

  “N-no. It’s okay. She looks”—unbelievably gorgeous—“well-rested.” She covered the mouthpiece with her thumb and tugged Deanne into the entryway with her free hand.

  “Hurry up,” she rasped. “It’s your mom. She thinks—”

  “You told her—?” Deanne paled.

  “No, I said you were still sleeping.” She raised a finger and gave what she hoped was a stern look. “But I don’t like being cornered like this, Dee. Not one bit—”

  “I’ll talk to her, I promise. I just didn’t know how to tell her without breaking her heart.” Expression wounded, Deanne held out a hand and snapped her fingers toward her palm. Paloma relinquished the phone, fighting to dam up the flood of guilt Deanne’s words had released.

  As Deanne stood in the foyer talking to her mother as if nothing were wrong, Paloma wobbled back to the armchair, taking a moment to remove the nefarious action figure before she sat this time. Elbows on her knees, she furrowed her fingers into the front of her hair, and rested her forehead in her palms. Tension pounded behind her temples. This was more difficult than she’d ever imagined.

  Holy shit. She hadn’t considered Rosario.

  Or the rest of the family, for that matter.

  She’d imagined her relationship, the core of it, involved two people: her and Deanne. Wrong. They’d been together so long, their lives and families were tightly woven, bound together in an intricate chain of love and time and promises. This would be painstaking, unraveling their lives without snapping all the threads in the process.

  Her chin quivered.

  God…she didn’t want to lose Rosario.

  She thought of Pep and Teddy’s round, cinnamon-scented Grandma V, and a painful lump rose in her throat. None of this was fair to the family. But should she sacrifice her own happiness just to keep the rest of her fragile world intact? Mom wouldn’t hesitate to say yes, but Paloma disagreed. She’d done that enough already, and look where it had gotten her.

  She listened to Deanne stammer about the football party, selfishly grateful she was on the spot instead of Paloma. Damnit, they needed to talk, make some plans so they wouldn’t run into this again. This was about more than a few packed suitcases and painful, moonlit good-byes. Why were they dragging their feet? Couples separated every day. Other couples. Not us.

  “Okay, Mama,” Paloma heard Deanne say, and she glanced up.

  Mistake.

  Dee looked freshly showered, the short, tousled black hair at her nape still damp. Well-faded jeans hugged her runner’s thighs and ass, emphasizing taut strength and sleek musculature. The off-white chambray shirt molded the sculptural beauty of Dee’s back, and the whole picture of this woman she knew so well stole Paloma’s breath. She knew the feel of those muscles from memory, the smell of her skin, the taste of her.

  God, she loved Deanne’s body. Loved her. Paloma’s mouth went dry from the unfulfilled yearning, and the yoga tank and fitted pants she’d donned felt suddenly too revealing. These days they’d spent apart, the prospect of never being intimate with Deanne Vargas again had jacked Paloma’s sex drive into the triple-X range. She’d always found Deanne’s particular brand of femininity impossible to resist.

  Damn her for a traitor, she wanted Dee. Wanted to make love with her until their troubles faded to moans and shudders, then curl into her chest and sleep against that steady, familiar heartbeat. The signals Paloma’s body were emitting throbbed loud and clear.

  As if she were throwing fists full of pheromones, Deanne spun toward her and thei
r eyes locked. Dee’s expression transformed from confusion to sexual awareness with a subtle darkening. She’d always been able to read desire on Paloma’s face…and elsewhere.

  Paloma crossed her arms over her chest indignantly. Painfully hard nipples didn’t mean anything. She could be cold, for God’s sake. But I’m not. That telltale heat crawled up her flesh to her throat, and she still couldn’t tear her eyes away from Deanne.

  “I love you, too,” Dee said into the receiver, as though sensing Paloma’s thoughts. Her gaze never leaving Paloma’s face.

  Enough! Paloma jerked her attention away and rubbed the goose bumps on her arms, at odds with this bold rush of mixed emotions. Desire. Annoyance. Need. Ache.

  “I’ll get back to you. Promise.” A pause, and then in a lower, huskier tone. “I’ll tell her. Bye.”

  Deanne clicked off the phone and set it on the hall table. Thumbs tucked in the pockets of her jeans, she hung her head. An uncomfortable silence threatened to swallow them both. Paloma cleared her throat, and Dee looked up.

  “T-tell me what?” Paloma’s voice sounded squawky to her own ears. She watched Dee’s throat move.

  “Mom wanted me to be sure to tell you how much I love and appreciate you.” It sounded like an accusation.

  “I didn’t say anything to her about…this.”

  “I know.” With a sigh, Dee moved into the living room and sank onto the couch. Legs spread wide, she interlaced her fingers behind her head, leaned back, and stared at the ceiling. Pent-up tension showed in the rhythmic bouncing of her heels. “God. I hate this, P.”

  Paloma straightened the armrest covers with jerky motions. “Why haven’t you told her yet? What if one of the boys had said something? I thought I was gonna die.”

  Dee’s head rolled to the side, pinning her with a level stare. “Yeah? Well, I feel like I’m going to die a lot these days, so join the club.” Another tense silence yawned. When Deanne spoke again, her tone was lower. “I haven’t told her because I hardly believe it myself. I don’t want it to be true.” There was no vehemence in her tone, just…defeat. Dee closed her eyes. “I’m sorry if you can’t understand that.”