It’s the same every time—the feeling of hopelessness. I hate the stranger who ruined everything for me. I hate who I’ve become because of it. And most of all, I hate that on some days, I feel perfectly fine, and then on days like today, I feel like the world is crumbling all around me, taking my sanity with it.
Once people have gone through certain things, felt certain things, and been broken in certain ways, they can’t ever be fixed. I cannot ever be fixed. This is who I am, and I should just accept it. Nobody tells you the truth when you’re young and free—nobody mentions the shitty aspects of growing up. The older I get, the less this fails to surprise me. Everybody is broken in some way or another. Most people just hide it. I find solace in the control with which I slice and dice my skin. It hurts, but bloodletting relieves the pain. It’s a way for me to cope with my life rather than a means to an end.
As they say, what doesn’t kill you fucks you up mentally.
I caress the thin, white lines, and I decide to get out of the shower before I do something stupid. Last month was a slipup. It can’t happen again. The urge to cut my flesh comes every once in awhile. I’m trying to be better. Aren’t we all trying to be better, in some way?
I step out of the shower, wrapping a plush towel around myself like a cocoon. I walk over to our bed—a deluxe California King with the most luxurious linen sheets. I sit down on the edge, the memory foam already molding itself to me. The water drips down from my hair and onto my skin, causing goose bumps to arise all over. I lie back and stare up at the ceiling fan.
They say if you don’t like where your life is headed, change something. Easier said than done if you’re tethered to a mortgage on a house made of stucco, rivets, steel, and bolts. Especially if you’re tethered to a man you’re not sure you love anymore—a man who became your salvation seven years ago. I owe Charlie my life, and because of that, I’m stuck.
How did I get here? How did we get here? I trace the steps of my life with my fingers on the sheets, pretending one hand is me, and my other hand is Charlie.
I grew up in rural Wyoming, knowing I wanted to get the fuck out of there by the time I was seven. At seventeen, I had college to look forward to and a dream to move to California. I only applied to two schools: Cal State Long Beach and San Diego State University. I chose San Diego by flipping a coin—and that’s where I met Charlie junior year.
I always wonder what my life would look like if I’d chosen Long Beach.
“Babe? You makin’ dinner?” Charlie’s voice floats through the crack in the bedroom door, and I shoot upright. He comes in just as my towel accidentally falls to the floor. “Oh,” he says quietly. “Why didn’t you just ask?” He gives me a coy smile, sliding his shorts and T-shirt off. He walks over to me, stinking of beer and vinegar. It takes everything in me not to vomit from the combination of smells. “You’re so sexy,” he growls, coming up behind me and bending me over the bed. I hear him reach over and dig through the bedside table drawer, ripping open a condom packet.
“Thanks,” I say, giving him a smile over my shoulder.
Sex with Charlie was good once. Back in the day, we screwed like animals. We could never get enough of each other. I was so grateful for him. Sex in the morning, sex in the evening, sex at dinnertime. I don’t know when that changed. It makes me sad, knowing I might never get to experience sex with another person—knowing I might never experience great sex again.
I could have it much worse. There are women out there who are abused, raped, and tortured on a daily basis. I can deal with mediocre sex once a week. It’s not the end of the world.
I shouldn’t even say it like that. Charlie loves me—all of me. He loves the hell out of me. That’s why I let him do this. That’s why I stay. Sure, there are things I might modify about him, about us, but right now he’s all I have. So I deal with it. I deal with lackluster sex. I deal with his shitty parents and his idiocy. He loves me despite my flaws, so I can and should love him despite his. It’s not like I have anywhere else to go. He saved me. Simple as that. You should always stay with your hero.
“Mmm, Marlin,” Charlie groans, thrusting behind me. I mimic his sounds—that’s all I have to do—and then it’s over in two minutes flat. I’m always relieved when he finishes. “Baby, that was great,” he says, pulling out. He disposes of the condom, turns the shower on, and hops in. I’ve always wondered why he showers after sex. Even when he smells disgusting, like tonight, I never feel the urge to shower immediately like he apparently does.
While I throw on some sweatpants and a baggy T-shirt, I wonder again about the man from my studio. I wonder if he would take me on a nice date and pay for my dinner. I wonder if he’s a good kisser. I wonder if he would go down on me, something Charlie stopped doing years ago. I wonder if he would fuck me in positions other than doggy. I wonder if he would cook for me, and instead of coming home to a man drinking beer on the couch, I could come home to a man who is considerate enough to cook for me every so often. I wonder all of this, and then I immediately feel guilty.
We’re in a rut—that’s all this is. I love Charlie, and he loves me. We have issues, but none of them are deal breakers. In his defense, I could tell him to do all the things I want him to do to me, and I know he would oblige. I guess it bothers me that I’d need to tell him. It’s irrational, but I want him to already know all of the things he does wrongly. Can’t he see? Doesn’t he get it?
I walk downstairs, thinking for a split second about what it would be like to fall down and break my neck. Slippery stairs and socks don’t mix, after all. I wonder if Charlie would cry right away or would it be after the funeral? One wrong move, and everything would be gone—a get-out-of-jail-free card.
Isn’t that awful? I think of my life as jail, and I think of death as freedom.
I walk into the kitchen, and I prepare for dinner by chopping some vegetables. I hear Charlie walk back into the living room, freshly showered and fucked, and he continues to eat chips straight out of the bag. I bite my tongue.
I begin to sauté the vegetables in coconut oil. I finger the knife in my hands gently, tracing my scars.
Life itself is always teetering on these moments and decisions made in those moments—choices we never thought would have a consequence. One move. One choice. One slip of the foot, one slip of the finger, and everything could be gone. One check on a college application—“attending”—one word uttered when the cute guy from the school newspaper asks you out the day after you’re held at gunpoint.
Is that how I got here? One word?
“Is dinner almost ready?” Charlie asks, just as I turn the stove off. I scoop some rice and veggies onto a plate for him, walking over.
“Yep,” I say, handing it to him. There’s no point in arguing about whether or not we should eat at the table. He always wins.
“Hey. You okay?” He sets his beer down, and I look him in the eyes as I tug my feet underneath me.
He’s genuinely concerned, and I’m genuinely touched. He really can be perceptive every once in awhile.
“Yes,” I say, turning my lips up into a smile. It feels like a marionette tugging on the strings.
“You’re quiet tonight. I wanted to make sure.” He’s still watching me, and since I have his divine attention, I begin to eat.
“I’m fine,” I lie, giving him a cheesy thumbs up.
“Okay,” he says, turning back to the game.
Sometimes I have to pretend everything’s all right. Just for the sake of one night. One night at a time—one moment, one conversation. Because when everybody else thinks you’re all right, sometimes, just for a blissful moment or two, you forget that you’re not.
After dinner, Charlie helps with the dishes, and we make our way upstairs for some reading before bed. After stripping down to nothing and climbing into bed, I flip open a memoir about a yoga teacher who left her life in Manhattan and moved to India. If only I had the courage to do that. Charlie falls asleep in the middle of a Chuck Palahniuk book.
I flip the light off. I bask in the darkness and the feel of the sheets around my naked body.
This is my favorite part of the night—the endless minutes between turning the light off and falling asleep. I’ve always been jealous of the fact that Charlie can fall asleep anywhere in about twelve seconds. It takes me forever to fall asleep. Some nights I don’t sleep at all, and I stay up all night, wondering about what it would be like to walk through the front door, leave, and never come back. I close my eyes and practice some deep breathing—anything to take my mind off of the itch to go into the bathroom and open my scars.
I don’t know why I do it—I don’t know why I cut myself. I only started about two years ago, out of sheer curiosity. I’m sure lots of people have done that, and most of them stopped the minute they drew blood, never looking back, never thinking about it again. I, on the other hand, found relief. Pure relief. I honestly don’t even think I do it because I’m depressed. It doesn’t make me feel something—I feel plenty of things, all day, every day.
I think I do it for control. Some people stick their fingers down their throats after every meal to control their bodies. Some people hit their wives to control their anger. I cut myself to control my life and the fact that it’s too late to change it. I’m stuck here—where else am I going to go?—so I might as well do something interesting. It’s ridiculous, I know. I never cut deep enough to kill myself. I don’t want to die—I just want out.
Drip, drip, drip.
The sink starts to leak.
Drip, drip, drip.
I reach over and poke Charlie. His skin is sticky and hot. He groans, throwing the covers off of himself and walking over to the sink. I hear him twist the handle this way and that until the dripping finally stops.
“We’ve got to fix that fucking sink,” he says, climbing back into bed and falling back to sleep immediately.
I close my eyes, hoping for peaceful slumber tonight. Night is better that way. It’s an escape. Things are so much more intense at night, and when sleep finally comes for me, I feel all of the relief in the world. It makes me think of the Shakespeare quote my high-school English teacher had on one of his walls.
“To die, to sleep -
To sleep, perchance to dream - ay, there's the rub,
For in this sleep of death what dreams may come...”
Chapter Seven
PRESENT
At eleven, Emma comes striding into the cheese shop. I only know it’s her because I recognize her from Facebook.
“Hey, Sexy,” she says, humming a song under her breath and sashaying in like she owns the place. For all I know, she does actually own the place. “How are you?”
I groan. “I’ve thrown up twice already in the last twelve hours, so I’m not feeling so hot,” I admit.
“Oh no!” Emma says, dropping her purse onto the counter heavily and walking over to me. She feels my forehead, and I try not to stare at her beautiful face. She’s pretty—model pretty. But she’s so warm and effervescent that she doesn’t make you feel bad about it. “Jeb had the flu a few days ago. Maybe you caught it from him.”
Emma and Jeb don’t know that I’m pregnant. That makes sense, I guess. I’ve heard you’re not supposed to tell anyone but family until the second trimester.
“It was probably the pasta we ate last night,” I say quickly, brushing it off. “I’m fine now.”
“Okay, if you say so,” she says, her voice singsong. “Has anyone been in yet?”
“Not yet,” I answer, trying to hide the relief. I can’t figure out how to open the cash register, let alone anything else.
“Oh, why isn’t the cheese out yet?” Emma asks, looking into the glass case.
“Right, the cheese,” I say, gently smacking my forehead. “I forgot.”
Emma spins around and stares at me. “You forgot? You forgot to put the cheese out in a cheese shop? Don’t let Gabriel hear you. He’ll fire you.” She walks to the back, and I see her start to dig around the industrial-sized refrigerator. She plops a few wheels of cheese onto a cart and drags it back out to the case. I take mental notes of this for tomorrow.
If there’s a tomorrow.
I watch her carefully as she places the giant cheese circles in the case, arranging the signs to show which cheese is which. Then she cuts a sliver in each one and displays it in front of the wheel artfully.
That doesn’t look too hard.
“Want some?” Emma asks, handing me a square of something labeled “Raw Aged Goat Cheddar 2010.” Something in my brain clicks—pregnant women aren’t supposed to eat unpasteurized cheese, right? If I say no, will she be suspicious?
“No, thank you. My stomach is still a little rumbly.”
“I get it.” She eats her piece and my piece, and then she rubs her belly. “Mmm. So good. It’s a miracle I’m not five hundred pounds, considering I consume two hundred pounds of cheese a day in this damn place,” she adds, walking over to the counter and straightening the front matter. I haven’t known her for very long, but already I can tell she runs the ship around here. She’s slightly anal about presentation. “It’s a miracle you’re not five hundred pounds, since you’ve been here for, what, four years?”
“Almost five,” I say, smiling. I’m proud of the fact that I know that.
“That’s crazy.”
I nod. “How’s Jeb?” I ask confidently. Finally, something I know.
“He’s good. The construction business is busy this time of year. Everyone wants their house renovated in late winter so they can enjoy it by summer.”
“I can’t wait to move into our house,” I add, looking at her and waiting for her to question me. But she doesn’t. She just nods.
“Your house is going to be wicked,” she says, grinning.
I laugh. “I hope so.”
“You know so. You guys did design the whole damn thing…” she adds, and I nod in agreement.
“Right, yeah. But you just never know how it’s going to look in real life.” I shrug. I rock back and forth on my heels and look down at my hands.
“You’re acting weird,” Emma observes, walking over to me. She says it matter-of-factly—in only the way a best friend can say it.
I blow out a loud breath of air. “I’m just…” I look at her, and she raises a perfectly arched eyebrow. I think I can trust her. “You know me well,” I start, pacing behind the counter. “Am I happy?”
Emma laughs nervously. “What the hell kind of question is that?”
“From your perspective. We’ve known each other for awhile, and I just wanted to know what you think.” I don’t actually know how long we’ve known each other. “Am I happy? Here, in Vermont? With Sebastian?”
Emma gasps. “Are you getting cold feet before the wedding, Marlin?” she accuses, jabbing a purple nail into my shoulder.
“Maybe that’s it,” I say, shrugging. I need answers, so if I have to feign cold feet, I will.
“You’ve got this,” she says gently, taking my hands and looking me in the eye. “I remember those months before my wedding. They were terrifying. But at the end of it all, you’ll be married to your best friend.”
“Sebastian,” I confirm, nodding once.
“Yes, silly. Trust me, you want to lock that shit down. Did you know that there’s a crass website that some of his female students started, counting down the days until he’s officially taken? I wasn’t going to tell you—Jeb mentioned something to me the other day—but damn, your future husband is one hot piece of ass.”
“A website?” I screech. I don’t actually feel violated—maybe because I don’t actually know Sebastian all that well. But I’m playing a part here, and I know this should bother me as his future wife. “That’s disgusting.” I laugh, shaking my head. “You have to tell me how I can find it.”
“Sure. Just don’t tell him. Don’t inflate his ego any more than it already is.”
“Oh, he’s arrogant?” I ask without thinking.
“What?” Emma looks confus
ed.
“Nothing,” I say quickly. I shake my head.
After a few minutes of chitchat, some customers come in, and it’s surprisingly busy for the rest of the workday. Emma and I work pretty seamlessly. I don’t even have to use the cash register—it’s just for show. We have a card reader.
Modern-day cheese shop for the win!
I learn all sorts of things about Emma. We’re best friends. She used to work with her mother but couldn’t stand the job, so when a position opened up here, she took it. I didn’t catch the place she used to work, but I gathered it was some sort of hospital. We’ve traveled to Spain together, she hates tomatoes, and she and Jeb helped Sebastian plan the proposal last New Year’s Eve.
By the time I see Sebastian’s Jeep outside, I’m actually disappointed to be leaving. I high-five my alternate-universe-self for handpicking great friends and a hot fiancé.
“Bye!” I yell, grabbing my purse and heading out.
“See you tomorrow,” she chirps, waving and blowing me a kiss.
It’s snowing when I walk outside, and I can’t help but smile and twirl around. Despite the fact that I live in Orange County (or I did), I still miss the snow almost every day. Charlie is one of those native-born Southern Californians who is petrified of any weather under sixty degrees, so we never went to the mountains or to visit my parents in Wyoming. It feels incredibly good to be back in a place like this.
“Hi, baby!” Sebastian says, climbing out of his Jeep and walking over to where I’m spinning. “How was your day?” He scoops me up with minimal effort, gently placing a kiss on my lips.
“It was fun!” I say, eager as a school-aged child. He glances inside and waves at Emma. She waves back through the glass.
“I missed you,” he whispers into my right ear, and his warm breath causes my whole body to heat up. The way his breath inches along my earlobe gives me goose bumps. I can’t control it.
“I missed you too,” I repeat, smiling. Though I may not really know him, I find myself comfortable around Sebastian. It’s inexplicable, because I technically just met him, but his demeanor silences all of my insecurities, and the way he looks at me fills me up like nothing else ever has.
The Realm of You: A Novel Page 6
