Autumn in New England is my favorite time of year – the leaves, the breeze, the smell of the air and the familiar whir of tourists sailing by on their mountain bikes. I reached Concord Center, crossed the rotary and headed down Main Street. I passed the Mill Dam that still traveled just under the street. My grandmother had once told me about the scores of musket balls they found when the town dug up the Mill Dam to lay a parking lot - hundreds of tiny musket balls once dumped there by villagers who refused to let the Red Coats have their munitions. Concord was an interesting town for stories.
I slipped into the Main Street Café for a cannoli and a coffee. Yes, it cost ten dollars – no I wasn’t working. Luckily, and much to the chagrin of my pride, I had a very generous mother.
I snacked at one of the corner tables, and listened to the voices around me. Someone had left a newspaper at the table, and I borrowed a pen to do the crossword. When I was stumped by four down, I found myself sketching a nearby child in the borders of the paper. I perused the Police Blotter for any criminals I might know, finding several reports of a quite possibly rabid raccoon roaming the neighborhood one street over from me. Apparently, Monument Street was turning into Wild Kingdom. Stellan and I would walk down that very road to climb trees at the State Park when we were young. Stellan climbed far higher than any non-primate should be able to, only to jump down from an outrageous height when it was time to go. Stellan was once reprimanded by a grandmother for pulling such a stunt.
‘You should know better! My grandson thought that was the most spectacular thing he’s ever seen. I’m sure it’s only a matter of time before he breaks a leg trying to emulate you. You should be a role model at your age, not an idiot!’
She stormed away with her sheepish grandson, and the dare devil side of Stellan almost died. He might be huge, and he might be snarky, but put a screaming grandmother in front of him and Stellan shrinks like cooked plastic.
These memories made me feel drawn toward old haunts, and I found myself heading down Rabid Raccoon way toward the National Park. I stopped on the North Bridge to gaze down at the water, still and glassy today despite the passing kayaks and canoes. My Grandmother Jensen brought me there many times, even before my mother and I moved in. She was proud of her hometown, having grown up with a Historian for a father and a raging bitch for a mother (her words toward the end of her life when she stopped worrying about manners and decorum). To impress her, I’d managed to memorize the inscription on the Monument there.
By the crude bridge that arched the flood,
to April’s breeze their flag unfurled,
here once the embattled farmer stood and
fired the shot heard round the world.
I glanced toward the monument a dozen or so yards away, but couldn’t quite make out the inscription. Oh well, I thought. It goes something like that.
I followed down the path, past the monument. It was the time of year when the fields were overgrown, the stalks of grass long and light, snapping and swaying in waves across the fields. The breeze kicked up, and I leaned my head back. I was growing fond of leaving the house with my hair still wet.
“Is that Faye Jensen?”
I startled, searching for the source of the voice. I met the gaze of a small park ranger with the cutest little button nose I’d ever seen.
“Patricia Hannity?”
She beamed, obviously pleased to be remembered. Of course I remembered her – she was one of the sweetest girls in school before she transferred to Concord Academy and points beyond. She looked almost exactly the same – tiny little upturned nose, perfectly curled dark hair that never grew past her ears, beauty mark on her right cheekbone. If you can imagine, the Ranger outfit just amplified her cuteness. “Oh my god, you look so great!”
“Oh, thank you! You too!” She said and smiled.
She laughed and it was as though pixies had scampered by. I had never imagined that the button of a little girl I’d once known would have turned into a button of a woman. Somehow, I felt cuteness of this magnitude was probably against nature.
I stuffed my hands in my pockets. “What are you doing around here? Last I heard you moved away?”
“I did. Went to college in Edinburgh.”
My stomach tightened. Somehow, whenever anyone mentioned living somewhere exotic and far off, I felt a pang of envy that was nearly overpowering. I’d never so much as seen Canada.
“Wow! That must have been something!”
“Oh yeah! Met my husband Geoffrey there,” she said and displayed a hand to me. That pang I mentioned before? Yeah, now it was downright excruciating - a Charlie horse of envy, if you will.
“Are you kidding me? That’s amazing!”
She smiled and her perfect, pearly white teeth glistened. My cynical mood of the past few weeks desperately wanted to hate her, but she was just so damn cute. Then the dreaded moment came – the one I’d found myself desperate to dodge in conversations like this for the past five or so months. There’s a reason why I don’t leave the house.
“So what are you up to?” She asked.
I fumbled for an appropriate response. Oh, you know – living at home, vegging on Soap Operas and Cheetos, buying my coffee and cannolis with Mom’s money or letting my best friend buy me lunch when he isn’t holed up in his parent’s basement.
“Well, I got laid off a few months ago, so I’ve been in between things.”
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. You home with mom these days?”
That bitch. “I am, actually. Yeah.”
She nodded. “Nothing wrong with that. It’s been happening to a lot of people, recently. Damn economy, you know?”
“Don’t I?”
She smiled again, a pleasant redirection prepared. In the split second that I realized she wasn’t going to press further, I fell madly in love with her and decided she needed to be my new best friend.
“So, is there a lucky man in your life?”
I wanted to cut her face. “No. Just me for now.”
She puckered her lips in an exaggerated frown. It was so fucking cute I wanted to punch her.
“Well, are you still in touch with Stellan Ødegård? Oh, or Evan! Weren’t you friends with him?”
Evan Lambert. The lady had a damn good memory.
Evan Lambert was the third member of Stellan and my trifecta. He was the only son of one of the wealthiest families in Concord, and we’d spent much of high school together. Last I heard from him was three months after he went live with his website, made more money than God, and became a local celebrity.
He wasn’t just a local celebrity anymore. Being a billionaire will do that to you.
“I am, actually. Not Evan, but Stell, yes.”
Where are you going with this, you demonic sprite?
“He’s a handsome guy. And as I recall, he’s always loved you.”
“Yeah, not like that though. Besides, I can’t imagine myself the den mother of giant, mulleted Swedes.”
She laughed, and somewhere a fairy was born. “Doesn’t sound so bad. I could totally see you as Mrs. Faye Ødegård? Has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?”
“You know what? It does. I’m going to call him now and demand a ring, now that you mention it.”
She laughed and wished me well, heading back to the Visitor’s Center. I turned back toward the bridge and Monument Street, silently promising myself that I would become an insane hermit and never leave the house again.
I was halfway back down Monument Street when my phone buzzed in my pocket. It startled me. The most likely culprit had left my company to go ‘plow through’ some last minute work. I pulled out my phone.
I miss you, baby.
My stomach turned. Three weeks, two days – nothing. Now, on the first day I’m even capable of leaving the house…
I’m pretty sure Cole Blanchard has asshole clairvoyance.
I stood there on the side of the road staring at my phone as cars whizzed past on thei
r leaf peeping day drives. I wasn’t ok. Any feeling of relief or joy I had while spending the afternoon with Stellan, or walking through town was gone. It wasn’t just fucking gone; it was like it never was. I swallowed and started to walk, watching the ground just inches in front of my feet, oblivious to the oncoming cars. I got home, clenching my hand around my phone, half ready to throw it.
“You all right, honey?”
I startled. “What are you doing home?”
My mom shuffled in from the kitchen and watched me. She was wearing one of her trademark flowing dresses of every color. I didn’t know why she was home, but at that moment I’d never been more grateful for her presence. Still, I wasn’t going to tell her what was wrong.
“Just not having a great day.”
“Did you see Stellan?”
I nodded and quickly ended the conversation by turning on the TV.
Despite my better judgment, I texted Meghan and told her of the new contact.
You are NOT going to respond, right?
I don’t know.
She was calling three seconds later.
“Faye! You can’t respond!”
I wanted to fight that logic, but deep down, I knew I needed to hear someone say it. “So what? I should just ignore it?”
“He cheated on you!”
“We think. I haven’t actually let him explain anything. Maybe -”
“What?!” And that was it; the sound of Meghan’s righteous indignation practically splintered the earpiece of my phone. “The fucker has a picture of someone else’s va-jay-jay on his phone and you think maybe he came by it innocently? That’s bull shit!”
“What if one of his friends texted it to him?”
“Then not only does he hang out with scumbags, but he kept it! Then – THEN, when you discovered it and clearly assumed the worst, he waited three fucking weeks to make any attempt to talk to you about it – or anything for that matter? Hell no! Fuck him!”
“Maybe he was busy…” I cringed, even with the words only half spoken. God, I sounded pathetic.
“Yeah, even you know that’s just not going to fucking fly. Seriously!”
I turned to find my mother standing by the stairs. Shit.
“Sorry Mom.”
“Your Mom is there? Can she hear me? Mrs. Jensen! Back me up!”
Mum could hear Meghan. I wouldn’t have been surprised if Mr. Hodges across the street could.
“I can’t say that I know any better than Faye, but I will say -” Mom stalled a moment almost fearing her next comment would meet with an adverse response. “- he doesn’t seem to know your worth, honey. And I don’t think he ever did.”
She was right to expect a response.
“What does that mean?”
Even I could hear the tension in my voice.
“I just don’t think he’s ever showed you the kind of consideration he should.”
My jaw shifted. “You’re just saying that because he never comes by the house.”
“Yeah, let’s just talk about that!” Meghan said, ready to run with it. “Let’s put the poontang pic aside and talk about that. Why doesn’t he come over?”
“I think he’s just uncomfortable with the situation.”
“Has he even met your Mom?”
“Yes, of course!” I said.
“Once,” my mom said. Then she quietly turned and headed back into the kitchen. This wasn’t helping. I was tense, but what most bothered me was they were right. Believe me, I’d spent three weeks making an inventory of just how big a schmuck he was, but this text somehow managed to scribble over that inventory, like a shopping list that has been half purchased. Maybe there was a reason, an explanation, an exit strategy from this near month long depression I’d been wallowing in. He’d caused it. Maybe he could fix it?
Having my mom leave the room only offered a moment’s relief.
Meghan took a deep breath on the other line. “You deserve better, Faye. You know you do.”
I sighed. “I do, but what if he is willing to offer -”
“You can’t be serious. People don’t change, girl.”
“That’s not true.”
“No, it’s fact. If you’re thinking of talking to him, or worse, fucking getting back together with him, you need to do some serious fucking soul searching. He is what he is, and the woman you were three years ago when you met this asshole would have never, I mean fucking never tolerated half the shit he’s done, let alone a twat shot on his fucking phone! Christ!”
I wanted to hang up. I loved Meghan, but I needed to process. She hollered and swore until my mother came in to offer me dinner. I took the opportunity to end the call, and despite not being the slightest bit hungry, I sat with my mother and pushed food around my plate.
An hour later I was in bed, fondling my phone. It buzzed again in my hands and my heart leapt.
I opened it to find a quick text from Stellan.
I’m here if you need.
My brow furrowed, but I smiled. I knew he was. My oldest and best friend always was. No matter how long I’d been gone, too busy to be anyone’s friend really, I always knew he was there. Sure, he had a mullet, but otherwise he was the greatest man I’d ever known. Still, his text wasn’t what I wanted.
I opened the text from Cole and stared at it.
…I miss you too. I responded.
Two weeks went by. Cole didn’t respond.
CHAPTER THREE
School started up in mid-September, pulling Meghan away for a good amount of the time. At the age of thirty one, Meghan had decided to return to school to become a nurse, and she was halfway through her studies at the local Community College. Her life was entirely dictated by the pursuit, and she’d often suggested I follow in her footsteps whenever we discussed my futile job hunt. After that text incident, and not hearing from Cole again, I spent a bit more time with Jackie. I was ready to go out of the house and despite Stellan being my closest friend, he worked every chance he got – and watching Stellan programming in his basement, be it iPhone apps or for work, was not as exciting as it sounds. When he wasn’t working, he was ensconced in the newest installment of Fallout, and I was still too depressed to play video games. I needed more distraction than watching him play while swearing in Swedish.
Jackie was married to an old fashioned guy who was content to be the lone breadwinner while his ‘little woman’ stayed at home and baked cookies all day. He didn’t require a housewife by any means, he loved his ‘strong, independent woman.’ He just also loved baked goods, and Jackie’s last job had caused her such crippling depression, Kevin finally one day grabbed her car keys and refused to let her leave the house. After a couple hours of argument, tears, and Kevin himself calling in to work, Jackie agreed to quit her job. She’d been unemployed – and happy – ever since. That was enough for him.
She liked that just fine. That’s right, a feminist who enjoyed being a housewife. Eat that, Gertrude Stein!
I rolled into Jackie’s driveway for lunch and found her fully ensconced in a recipe for lemon cake with raspberry mousse. Despite my new life decision of becoming a svelte and gorgeous version of myself, I was fully prepared to eat that whole cake.
“So you haven’t heard back from him?”
“No. Nothing.”
Unlike anyone else in my life, I felt safe telling Jackie I’d responded. Jackie had more patience for love inspired action, given that she actually had the castle and the prince, and she’d gone through hell to get it.
Let’s just say, Kevin was a miracle compared to the men that came before him.
“How do you feel about that?” She asked.
“Miserable!”
She nodded.
“I mean, did he text me just to see if I’d respond? What the hell?”
She pursed her lips. Jackie didn’t always speak her mind. Probably because when she did, you usually spewed truth, and you usually hated her for it.
“I think you’re doing the right thing,” she said, spooning lumps of cookie dough onto a sheet of parchment.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, you’re taking care of yourself now. You haven’t texted again, have you?”
“No.”
“Good. Just focus on you, what makes you happy. You sign up for a gym yet?” Jackie asked.
“No. I’ve just been exercising at home. Going for walks.” I was lying.
“That’s great! How are you doing otherwise?”
This was the moment of truth. I didn’t feel ashamed to tell Jackie exactly what I was thinking. I was so grateful to have her, despite secretly hating her for having the kind of love I’d yet to find. Well okay, I admit it wasn’t so secret. I actively told her I hated her. She seemed to appreciate it.
I paused. There were words poised to be said that I wasn’t sure I was ready to hear, let alone say. I’d spent every waking moment regurgitating thoughts of Cole over and over until I was sick to death. Perhaps if I said them out loud, I could purge them. Perhaps.
“Well, I guess I’m scared I won’t find someone else who -” I stopped.
Jackie set two slices of cake in front of me. I was literally floating in a sugar cloud from all the baking she was doing. She assured me there was no bake sale coming. Jackie’s answer to boredom was confection.
“You’re talking about the sex aren’t you?”
Jesus, Jackie. Do you read minds? “Yeah, I guess I am.”
“Honey, sex doesn’t make for a healthy relationship on its own.”
“I know that!”
Yet that knowledge didn’t change the fact that I was truly worried. I’d been with a few guys before Cole and a couple had managed to get the job done, but it was different with Cole. Cole had succeeded at least twice as often as every man who came before. That is – when he was ever in the mood to touch me.
“Did you ever think that maybe it was the affection you had for him that made it so great? When it was great.”
Again, I paused. “Maybe?”
Point taken. I’d never really been all that fond of the guys that came before.
Catch My Fall Page 3
