by Cat Mason
Who the hell thought up the idea of falling in love, and who the hell was stupid enough to keep it going? The one thing all this has taught me is the only thing your heart should ever be used for is to pump blood through your body. Feelings are useless and should never be mixed with something intended to keep you alive. A broken heart, a truly broken one, leaves you feeling like you’re dying. While your heart attempts to force blood through your veins to keep you going, your brain can do nothing but focus on the pain, leaving you wondering why that bastard just won’t let you lie down and die. Your brain laughs and tells you to give up, but your heart, broken and all, tells you it’s forbidden with every beat.
I feel bad for everyone that has to be around me on a daily basis lately. I’m moody, depressed, and half the time I can’t catch the tears before they fall. Thankfully I manage to only cry while I’m at work. And in the car. And the shower. OK, so pretty much anywhere I can do it without Gunnar seeing it happen. He’s not stupid though. He knows something is wrong with me. Something more than the shit going on between us. The night Dixon told me to leave I showed up at home and Gunnar was already there, waiting. It was almost as if he knew something was going on and he wanted to catch me in the middle of a breakdown to confirm his suspicions.
I pulled myself together, making sure my makeup was cleaned up the best I could before I walked through the door. When he asked where I had been, I shrugged, unable to lie and tell him I was with Lynsey because dragging her into this even more isn’t OK with me. He didn’t like my silent answer so he stood up and spun me around, noticing the fact that I had been crying right off the bat. The excuse I gave him was the only one I could think up on the spot that would be believable enough to put me in tears. I told him that my mother had called and I needed to get out for a while, but couldn’t get her words out of my head.
Not entirely a lie, but the words and voice that was running through my head wasn’t my mother’s. Well, unless you count the fact that I could hear her telling me that I wasn’t good enough and that’s why he told me to get out. That rings clear through my mind almost every day when I look into the mirror. I’ve never been good enough for Gunnar in her eyes, and everything that I’ve done lately proves it.
Sliding my fingers through my hair, I pull it up and tie it in a messy knot. Taking a chance, I lock eyes with myself in the mirror, hoping to see something other than what I’ve seen lately. I’m sadly mistaken if I actually thought anything would be different.
I’m disgusted by the person staring back at me. Her messy hair, red face, and puffy eyes show me one thing. Weakness. It leaves me hating myself as I turn away and make my way back to the kitchen where I grab a cup of coffee, hoping today is the day I can turn myself around and make things better. Better for myself so I can be better for Gunnar.
Grabbing my sunglasses off the counter by the door, I head out to the deck and drop into a chair. I prop my feet up, rest my head back, and close my eyes while I sip my coffee. Maybe the sunshine will help with the depression. I think I read somewhere that the vitamin D you get from the sun helps with shit like that. Maybe it’s the sun’s way of telling the feelings to fuck off and leave people alone.
Behind me the door slides open, but I don’t say anything. Instead, I wait for Gunnar to speak so I can judge the mood he is in this morning. He sits down next to me and grabs my coffee from my hand, taking a sip before he hands it back to me. The silence spans between us for a few minutes before he finally speaks up.
“Any idea on when I’ll be gettin’ my wife back?”
I’ve been waiting for this conversation yet I have no idea how it will go. Pulling my legs up into my chair, I draw aimlessly across my bare skin with my finger. Without looking at him I open my mouth and say the first thing that comes to mind.
“Haven’t seen her, but if I do I’ll make sure she knows you’re looking for her.”
Out of the corner of my eye I see him shake his head in frustration and I can’t blame him. I’m frustrated with myself. “Yeah, please do that. I feel like I’ve missed somethin’ along the way because she’s never gone missin’ like this after talking to her twat of a mother.”
Talking about myself in third person is starting to piss me off, so I snap myself out of it in hopes that he will follow my lead. “Maybe I’m finally realizing she was right about everything. You deserve a hell of a lot better than me.”
“This again?” he gripes. “How many damn times do I have to say it? I didn’t settle for you, Kennedy. If I wanted someone else in my bed, I would have found someone else. I chose you, damn it. Why can’t I get that through your head? I chose you… but I’m beginnin’ to wonder if you’re still choosin’ me.”
Finally I turn to look at him, but he’s no longer watching me. His eyes stay glued to the tree line. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothin’,” he says after a minute and shakes his head. “It didn’t mean anything. I’m just in a bad mood and didn’t think before I spoke.”
I let it go even though I know inside that I shouldn’t. There’s something in the tone of his voice that leads me to believe there is something else on his mind that he isn’t saying, but I don’t push it. Settling into the silence I’ve become friends with, I let myself get lost in memories of when everyone sitting at this table would be laughing.
If I could go back and stop myself from bringing Dixon home that night, I would. I would keep myself from letting my marriage fall apart and keep my heart loving only Gunnar. Maybe then our group would still be five. Now every time I turn around Dixon is missing. The times I could always count on seeing him, he’s effectively dodged. The usual group dinners, football games, get togethers with George… he’s no longer a part of them. He’s practically missing from life, and if I didn’t see his truck at the station on my way to work, I’d be worried instead of hurt.
“Have you talked to Dixon lately?” Gunnar asks out of the blue. All this time and he hasn’t said a word other than saying he must be busy when Mark or Lynsey asks where is he is. Busy my ass. He’s avoiding any time that would be spent with me. Part of me hates him for it, while the other part wants to thank him for trying to make this easier on me even if he isn’t meaning to.
I clear my throat. “No. Not in a while. Then again, like you said I’ve been missing too so who knows.”
“Huh…”
“Why?” I ask, curious as to where this conversation is going even though the thought of Dixon hurts and the sinking feeling in my stomach is telling me to run.
“No reason,” Gunnar says calmly. “I just haven’t heard from him and neither have Lynsey or Mark. I figured maybe you had talked to him. Didn’t think he’d hide from every one of us.”
“Sorry.” I shrug, going back to watching the leaves dance in the breeze.
Reaching over, he pats my hand before stealing my coffee again. “No big deal, baby.” Setting the cup back on the table after a drink, he leans back in his chair and sighs. “Maybe I should call your mom and see if she talked to him around the same time she called you.”
I narrow my eyes behind my sunglasses. “Why would she call Dixon?”
“No real reason that I can think of, Sunshine. I just figured since he went missin’ around the same time that you started getting’ depressed, that maybe she had a hand in that too.”
Warning signs flash in my head but the train wreck I saw coming a long time ago in the distance is now right in front of me. The brakes to keep it from crashing into me have been cut, making it hard to breathe as it barrels toward me. Never, in ten years of marriage and over twenty in my life, has Gunnar ever called me Sunshine. Even after getting the sun tattooed on me, I was still Kennedy, babe, or baby. The only person to ever call me by that nickname is Dixon.
I swallow hard, forcing myself to calm down before I freak out and make things worse than they are. He can’t know. There’s no possible way, right? I mean, neither one of us have said anything to make him think otherwise. Me being depre
ssed because of my mother isn’t impossible. It’s actually a common thing so that can’t be how he came to the conclusion of us being together if that’s where he is at all. Taking a deep breath, I shrug again.
“Pretty sure his truck’s at the station when I go to work for the most part. Maybe he’s picked up extra hours. Hell, maybe he’s got a woman finally. I mean, he did bring Carli with an i over here. Maybe it was more serious than we thought.” The words physically hurt to even say, but I force myself to keep going, rambling on more than I know I should but I can’t stop the monotone word vomit. “Good for him. It’s about time he moved on from Ivy. She was a bitch for leaving him like that just because of his job. Who does that? He risks his life because he knows how it feels to lose people to the flames, and she can’t even suck it up and support him. Never liked her, Lynsey either.”
Shooting out of his chair, Gunnar finishes what is left of my coffee and hands me back the empty mug. I stare at it, wondering why he didn’t get his own cup from the full pot that I made before coming out here if he wanted some that badly. He must see the question that I’m not asking because he storms back toward the house, but his reaction shocks me.
“I would’ve made my own, but you used the last of the milk Kennedy, and you forgot to pick some up on your way home,” he yells loudly, nearly making my teeth rattle.
The front door slams before I even realize that he’s through the house. His yelling was loud enough that he sounded like he was standing right behind me even though he was already on his way out. His truck starts, revving for a second before peeling out of the driveway.
After all that did he really just yell at me for forgetting milk?
Who the hell gets mad about something small like that? It’s milk. It’s something so tiny and fixable that I could laugh about him getting upset over it. Compared to all the big things going on that would really upset him, milk should be irrelevant. Gunnar never raises his voice so this has me replaying the conversation over in my head, trying to figure out what in the hell has upset him. I manage to make my way back inside and set my cup in the sink before everything hits me.
My hands shake like the leaves on the trees I was just outside watching. Here comes the train wreck, Kennedy. The sound of that damn train screeches as the headlight blinds me. It shines it’s judgmental light on every bad thing I’ve done, and I swear the bastard driving laughs at me the closer he gets to plowing me down along with destroying my entire life as I know it. Gunnar knows. I don’t have the damnedest clue as to how he knows, but he knows.
There’s no way someone as even-tempered as Gunnar would flip out over something as minor as milk. When the team was brought down by a drug scandal— something that would have pissed off the Pope— he was more upset that he didn’t see it coming to help Cody sooner than he was mad about it. When a clearly half-lit guy totaled his truck a few years back because he was too fucking stupid to let his girlfriend drive, Gunnar simply shrugged it off. The only time I’ve seen him angry to the point that tiny stupid things set him off was when his mother cheated on his dad and left them.
Oh fuck me in the ass with no lube. I’m screwed.
Rushing to the bedroom, I grab my cellphone off the charger and dial Dixon’s number as fast as I possibly can. It doesn’t even ring before it goes to his voicemail, telling me he either has it off, or has my number set to direct forward so he doesn’t have to worry about accidentally answering me if I call.
I watch my feet as I pace the floor and finally decide to call the station. At least calling there will give me a chance of catching him. That is, if he’s even working. The phone rings three times before someone answers and I have to pull the phone away from my ear because the noise in the background is so loud. Whoever answers says their name, but I don’t catch it and have no desire to waste time and ask what he said.
“I need to speak with Dixon Hale.”
“Can I ask who’s callin’, sweetheart?”
“My name’s Kennedy,” I say before rushing out the rest of my words. “If he tells you to hang up, let him know it’s an emergency.”
He’s silent for a second and I almost wonder if Dixon is standing there telling him he doesn’t want to talk to me. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s had someone on his crew blow off a chick calling for him. When he finally speaks up and yells for Dixon, I breathe a sigh of relief when he just tells him he has a call instead of who wants to talk to him.
“Hale,” he says cheerfully, but I can tell it’s forced.
For a second I let myself get lost in his voice, imagining for a brief moment that we’re a few weeks back and he’s whispering in my ear while he touches me. I snap out of it quickly when he says hello again.
“It’s Kennedy. Don’t hang up.”
I hear him blow out a breath. When I close my eyes I can see him dropping back against the wall by the phone and dragging his hand through his messy hair before scratching the stubble on his jaw. “So close,” he mutters.
“So close to what?”
The background noise dissipates before disappearing completely so he must shut himself in one of the offices. I repeat my question, forgetting the whole reason I called for a minute.
“I was so close to not thinkin’ about you for more than an hour, Kennedy. If I had made it five more minutes I would have beat my best time in months.”
“Sorry to ruin your record breaking,” I whisper, trying my hardest to conceal the fact that all the feelings for him that I’ve been trying to hide for weeks just hit me straight in the chest. My breath catches knowing he’s still been thinking about me even though this separation was his doing. Reaching up, I wipe the tears away that have started making their way down my cheeks.
“Kennedy, I can’t—I just can’t. Can’t dance around with you anymore. Hearin’ your voice is killin’ me since I know I can’t touch you. You can’t just call to talk to shoot the shit anymore, OK? I can’t do it.”
Snapping out of the haze again, I realize that I haven’t told him why I’m actually calling. When I finally manage to get my mouth open I blurt, “Gunnar knows. I don’t know how, but he knows.”
Silence is all I get. If this were a movie, there would be crickets in the background, mocking me. The faucet behind me drips, splashing in the puddle that has formed on the coffee mug that we were drinking from a little while ago.
“What?” he finally whispers. “How the fuck? When the hell?”
He continues to speak but never gets a full question out so I take the initiative and tell him everything that has happened since the day he broke my heart at the station. He mutters as I speak but I can’t seem to understand any of it.
“Shit.” That’s what I finally understand and I hear it right before my ear gets filled with people yelling again. I try to make out everything being said in the background, but it’s so loud and there are so many people yelling at once that it’s impossible. Hollering over the noise, I try to get Dixon’s attention to find out what we need to do, but the line goes dead, leaving me talking to myself.
Cue panic.
Gunnar
The second I’m inside and spot Dixon, I see red. As soon as I’m close enough, my fist hits his face twice and he goes down. I know it was only that easy because I caught him off guard, so I take advantage of it. Reaching down, I grab him by the collar and pull him back up to meet my fist again. Again, and again, and again.
The red I saw before is replaced with blood. His, mine, hell I don’t know it could be from his face and my fist for all I know. I don’t really care as long as I keep hitting. This guy, this piece of shit under my fist right now, is someone I’ve never contemplated hitting before. He has been my best friend, my brother, for longer than I can remember. I never had a reason to want to hit him before today. He’s always been the person doing the hitting because he knew I wouldn’t. It was never because I didn’t want to fight for what I thought was right, or mine. It was because I didn’t see the point of getting riled up and h
itting someone because of something that could be overlooked.
Until now.
Right now I understand why hitting someone is sometimes a good thing.
Now I get why people say that beating the shit out of someone is therapeutic.
Did I hesitate before hitting him? You’re damn right I did. There’s only one other person in the world that has me this twisted up inside and I just walked away from her so I didn’t take this aggression out entirely on her or the house. Every hit that connects with his face digs more of the grave I plan on burying the relationship we had in.
I continue swinging when people grab me and pull me off of him. Everyone is yelling, trying to figure out what the hell is going on while getting me to calm down at the same time. Every breath I take right now is fueled by rage, so I don’t see calming down happening anytime soon. Not when my entire world has fallen apart and it feels like my heart has been ripped from my chest. The only thing I can do is make his face hurt as much as my heart does.
Dixon stands to his full height and wipes the blood from his split lip and nose. When he finally looks at me, I expect to see anger built up from me hitting him, but it’s not there. There’s nothing but vacant pain filling them.
Lifting his hand, he waves at everyone. “Let him go, guys. Let him hit me all he wants. I deserve it.”
All of my suspicions get confirmed with those last three words. I was hitting him with no real proof, but I needed to. I knew deep inside that everything I thought was going on, was actually happening. My wife, the woman I’ve loved my entire life, cheated on me. I know it would hurt no matter what, but I don’t think I would be this worked up if it were someone else. Anyone else. Why did it have to be Dixon? Why the hell did my best friend have to be the one she ran to? The knife they stabbed me in the back with couldn’t be deeper if they had fucked on the kitchen table while I ate dinner.
