Catch My Fall

by Wright, Michaela

  A moment later, he did just that. He returned to the couch with clear indignation, as far from me as was possible. Given my mood, I appreciated the distance.

  After fifteen minutes of heavy silence, he spoke, offering to put on a movie. I agreed, and we settled in to watch Thor, which I only partially regretted given the hour and a half I had to spend ogling handsome Scandinavian men.

  God damn it.

  I offered conversation a few times, asking about his week, his Thanksgiving. He kept it to one word answers, shrugs, and nods. This was the Cole I remembered. Though the silence was meant as punishment, I didn’t mind it. It’s easier to hold your tongue when your mouth is closed.

  The movie ended around nine, and my eyes were heavy. I rose from the couch and grabbed my jacket. I turned to face him, offering a hug. He remained on the couch, with his most recent beer in hand.

  He looked up at me, exasperated. “You’re not going to stay?”

  I was startled. “It’s Sunday. You work in the morning.”

  “So?”

  I stared at him. “I’ve never stayed on a -”

  “You did the other day.”

  “Yes, but I didn’t realize -”

  He shrugged, taking an swig as though to drive home his indifference. “That’s fine, you don’t want to stay. Drive safe.”

  He hopped up and walked past me to the kitchen, dumping his empty bottle in the recycling. I had so many words that wanted to come out, so many spiteful, angry, venomous things I wanted to say – but I didn’t. I held them in and waited for him to emerge from the kitchen. When he did, he stopped and glared at me with his palms out at his sides. “What are you waiting for? Have a nice night.”

  “Why are you being like this?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because I haven’t seen my girlfriend in days, she’s barely responded to my texts, and now she refuses to even touch me.”

  I realized at that moment that he’d been hoping I’d be easier to cajole into sex if I was lying in his bed. I probably would be. It’s easier to close your eyes and disappear when you’re on your back in a dark room, but making out on a couch like a teenager when the sensation of touch feels like slivers from a twine rope left under your skin – that’s another matter. I understood his upset; I’d lived it.

  “I’m sorry, Cole, but – maybe it’s just too soon - too fast, I don’t know.”

  His arms fell to his sides, and his expression changed. He crossed to me and put his hands on my arms, squeezing tenderly. I did my best not to shirk at the sensation.

  His voice was soft, suddenly repentant. “I know. I know, you’re right. I’m sorry.”

  I shifted my coat in my hands. “It’s alright, I just can’t st -”

  “You don’t need to explain. I know. I need to be patient. It’s just hard – when I know what I have.”

  There was a compliment there, but I couldn’t receive it. He pulled me to him and hugged me, running his hands up and down my back. I let him do it, resting my head on his shoulder. I caught a trace of his cologne, subtle enough to be from another day. I’d hated that cologne when he first wore it, but when I was heartbroken, just the hint of it in a department store or on a man walking by would send me into fits of longing. I remembered when I loved it, because it reminded me of him.

  I didn’t love it anymore.

  My cell sounded a familiar ringtone from the recesses of my coat. I jumped, shaking Cole free as I did. He looked down at my coat, expectantly waiting for me to check the text. Unlike past days when Stellan’s texts would draw his chagrin, he seemed content. I feared the text, what it might say, the affect it might have on me, especially with having Cole watching my every twitch. I reached for my pocket, felt the phone in my fingers, and my stomach turned. Why did I dread messages from Stellan now? What had I done to deserve such a shift in the world? I had to escape this feeling of loss.

  I leaned into Cole, and I kissed him. He received me with a hum of intention.

  I didn’t go home that night.

  Cole drove out of the parking lot, a content smile on his face. I didn’t check the text until he was gone.

  Stellan - Not to be a brat, but can you rework a couple stills for me? I’ve emailed you the files and the details. Thanks.

  I saw the ‘Thanks’ again and almost threw my phone.

  Thanks. Thanks? I’ll show you what ‘Thanks’ will get ya!

  I started up the car and pulled out. I managed to curse every minute detail of his character by the time I got home, then continued the pursuit while I paced around the downstairs looking for something - anything to do that would give me a solid excuse not to check my email and respond to his request. After some tea, a shower, and an attempt to read two pages of the same god awful book I had waiting to punch me in the face with stupid, I caved.

  Fucker.

  The email consisted of seventeen sketches and notes on detail, color. Some stills he wanted me to sketch in a couple specific chimps; a gorilla here, a couple startled capuchins there. Others he wanted me to redo the whole thing without any animals in it.

  I grumbled and swore at the screen, reading his email out loud with additional f-bombs until I heard the front door open. Mom called for me, and I declared myself, turning my chair to face the door. She leaned in, dressed in full work regalia.

  “Hey hon. How are you feel – oh, I’m sorry. I’ll let you work.” And she disappeared again.

  “No, Mom. I haven’t started yet.”

  She returned to the door with a strange smile on her face and hovered with electricity.

  “What you forget?” I asked.

  She sighed heavily. “What didn’t I forget? Just one of those mornings.”

  She took a step into the office and leaned in to inspect the screen. Clearly her glasses were one of the forgotten items. She chuckled. “What on earth is that about?”

  I shook my head. “It’s just a few panels for Stellan’s game.”

  She raised a curious eyebrow, but was in too much of a rush to delve further. “Well, I’m off like a herd of turtles. You can tell me about it later, maybe?”

  She slipped out of the office, and I began my response email.

  Stellan,

  I don’t know how you want me to rework these sketches. I don’t have the fancy sketch pad anymore. Do you want whole new paper sketches?

  Oh, I was being a bitch. I opened the panels side by side and began scanning through what I needed to do, when I felt a gentle pressure on the top of my head. I looked to find my mother had snuck back in to kiss the top of my head before she headed out.

  I felt like I was twelve years old all over again. I didn’t mind it.

  She smiled at me. “I’m so happy to see you drawing.”

  And she was gone.

  I sat there staring at the screen trying not to be a blubbering asshole while I waited for Stellan to respond. Twenty five minutes later, boots stomped up my front steps and the doorbell rang.

  It was Stellan, returning the fancy doodad.

  Really? Really?! You couldn’t just send me a snide email back, you had to make me see you with your tussled hair and your cable knit sweater. You son of a -

  “When do you need them by?” I asked.

  He met my gaze with unwavering intent. “As soon as you can. I’m on the final stretch so it would be nice to get them soon.”

  I nodded, staring him down. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Thanks,” he said. “Let me know if you need anything.”

  Then he turned and stomped back down my porch steps and up Davis Court. I stood in the doorway a while, the cold air creeping in. My grandmother would have screamed from the kitchen by now, and I’d have shut the door, but for now, I just watched him walk up the street and out of sight.

  I plugged in the pad, went for another cup of tea, a quick snack from the cupboard, then settled in to work. Perhaps it was the chill in the air after leaving the
door open so long, but instead of holing up in my tiny little office, I pulled my laptop out into the living room, plugged it in by my favorite chair, set my tea in the windowsill and pulled on my snow boots. I headed out the back door to the wood pile and grabbed as many logs as I could carry. I dumped them on the floor in front of the fireplace and sat cross legged on the hardwood. A few moments later, I had a roaring fire.

  My grandmother always told me I should have been a girl scout.

  I settled into my chair with my pad, my laptop, my tea, and over a dozen sketches. When I finally called it a night, I’d burned through as many logs as sketches, and it was almost midnight.

  Stellan actually broke his emotionless streak when I emailed him that all the sketches were ready, and I could drop them off the next day. I didn’t receive the boisterous ‘You’re fucking wonderful’ email until the next morning, but it was appreciated nonetheless. Appreciated, and painful. I didn’t respond.

  The next day, I packed up the pad and the flash drive, which contained several unsolicited sketches that the muse had demanded alongside those Stellan had. I tossed on my coat and scarf and headed out the door. I was feeling surprisingly light that morning. I’d fallen asleep thinking of Stanley’s comic strip, or the poo flinging Howler monkey with the joyously bulging eyes. The images spilled over into each other like boiling water. It wasn’t until halfway to Stellan’s house that I realized I hadn’t looked at my feet once.

  I spotted a Mazda 3 in his driveway. I didn’t recognize it, and naturally imagined some new, vapid girlfriend I might be forced to meet and be made miserable by. Until the driver hopped out of the car.

  Patty Hannity looked just as button worthy cute in her yoga pants and boat necked shirt as she did in her Ranger uniform. I stopped and watched her.

  Her energy wasn’t right.

  She caught on her seat belt, struggled with the keys, muttered some swears to herself, glanced at her cell phone, slammed the car door when she finally got out and started patting her pockets as she stood there a moment. I stood at the front walkway and waited for her to notice me. She hustled to the back door of her car and pulled a strange bucket out of the back seat. She turned, saw me, and I smiled.

  She did not.

  She glanced awkwardly toward the bucket in her hand, and forced a wave. “Hey Faye, what are you up to?”

  I took a few steps toward her, waiting for her to actually meet my gaze. “Just visiting Stellan. How bout you?”

  She gave one of those smiles that consists of frowning, but fighting to keep the corners of your mouth up. She took a moment, shrugged, and closed her eyes. “Working.”

  It was then that Patty pulled a patented Faye Jensen maneuver, and burst into tears in the Ødegård driveway.

  Well shit.

  I stood there frozen a second, the way any person does when random people explode in untold misery before their very eyes. Yet, that second passed quickly, and I crossed the front lawn and hugged her. She wrapped her free hand around me and apologized into my coat, but she didn’t stop crying. I squeezed her and released her enough to look at her. She didn’t meet my gaze, but she wiped her eyes and apologized again.

  “Do you want to talk about it?” I asked.

  She shrugged. “What is there to talk about? My life’s falling apart, that’s all -”

  And she was off again, tears streaming down her fairy princess worthy face. I hugged her as tightly as I could and said, “Welcome to the club.”

  She stifled a sob. “I’m sorry! I don’t know why I’m crying so hard.”

  “Because that’s what all the cool kids are doing.” She stifled a laugh. “You wanna go for a walk?”

  She glanced to the front door. “I have two more houses to clean this afternoon, so -” She pressed her thumb to the spot between her eyebrows and closed her eyes, fighting off another bout of tears.

  I rubbed her arm. This was the strangest sensation in the world, to be on the giving end of comfort for a change. It almost felt – I don’t know – liberating? As though offering her my shoulder somehow lifted my own troubles. I wanted to hear her vent, to know what could bring the incomparably perky Patty down – and in that desire, there wasn’t a shred of satisfaction in knowing she was suffering. This must be progress.

  Finally, she dropped the bucket on the front steps and turned back with a sudden air of dignity and an air of ‘I do what I damn well want.’

  “Yes, I think I’d like that,” she said.

  We headed for Main Street, keeping a snail’s pace as Patty opened up. Perhaps that isn’t the right word, exploded more like. Tears quickly gave way to a righteous indignation as she described the last six months of her life.

  “So, you know we were living with my folks, yes?” She started.

  “No!” I said with a little more fervor than I’d intended. It was out of a sudden inexplicable sense of camaraderie, but I didn’t expect her to know that.

  Thankfully she didn’t take offense. “Oh yeah. They sold their house and moved in with us last year. So six months ago Geoffrey loses his job, right? Got laid off, he said. So, he starts looking for something else, and I try picking up extra hours at work. And you know how it is, three months pass - no job. So that leaves the mortgage to me and my parents - my retired parents. You can only imagine how that went over. So I picked up some work cleaning houses -”

  And again she trailed off.

  “Honey, there’s nothing wrong with cleaning houses.”

  She jumped. “No! I know! I know there isn’t, it’s just – I just didn’t want anyone to know, you know? I mean, this is fucking Concord, for fuck’s sake.”

  The sound of Patty’s Glee Club caliber voice swearing across Main Street was more than a little awesome, to tell the truth, but she quickly settled herself. “But then things got so bad, I had to take Stell’s house on – he’s the first client I have that I know, you know? I mean, I went to high school with, you know?”

  “And that bothers you?”

  She tilted her head. “Well, yeah. It really kinda does.”

  “And yet, he’s living in his parent’s basement. No offense to him.”

  She seemed to mull that over a moment. “I don’t know. I mean, he’s friends with you, with Evan, who knows who else?”

  I laughed. “No one else, I promise. Liking people isn’t one of Stellan’s virtues.”

  She nodded and started walking again. “He pays me more than he needs to, too. Seriously, I think Linda Ødegård repels dirt or something. Their house is always fucking spotless.”

  I glanced back at her, her eyes on the ground. “Is that what’s bothering you? Just cleaning Stellan’s house?”

  She looked back at me sheepishly, and frowned. “No.”

  We’d gone two blocks when Patty’s tears returned, but this time, she powered through them with an explosion of words. “Three weeks ago, I heard about a contracting job from Peter at the Visitor Center. He said to give Geoff the information - and I did! Geoff said he had an interview with the guy the next day and was gone all afternoon. He came home saying it went great, right? Really great! So a couple days later I ask Peter if he’s heard anything from his friend about the interview and - he looked at me like I’d sprouted horns, Faye! Geoffrey never went to the fucking interview! He’d never even called the guy!”

  I made exasperated noises to show I was listening, but she was off.

  “So I checked his credit card for that afternoon, you know to see if he’d gone anywhere while he was out living a damn lie. He’d been at the bar. That day and I can’t even count how many others. Days that he told me he was out looking for work. He was drinking! The fucker was getting wasted on money I was earning scrubbing fucking toilets! He was having a few pints down the pub! Why I didn’t smell it on him, I don’t know.”

  We’d drawn some attention there on the street corner, but I simply glared back at any disapproving faces, and they moved right along.

/>   “I confronted him, of course. And he denies it, so I show him the credit card statement, and he accuses me of being conniving! Like I’d committed some great crime by pointing out that he was a lying sack of shit!”

  “Did you kill him?”

  The tears overcame the tirade, and she put her face in her hands. “No. He left me.”

  I grabbed her like she was on fire, and she bawled on my shoulder. The passing faces of disapproval shifted now, and instead the looks were those of honest kindness. I waved at a couple of silver haired ladies who mouthed things like, ‘Is she alright? Does she need anything?’ People who didn’t know either of us. I nodded them away with my thanks and held Patty for several moments.

  She recuperated and glanced around in embarrassment, only to find an older woman in a long black coat waiting at her side with a handkerchief. Patty took it and smiled through tears before the woman walked away.

  This was why I still loved my hometown.

  We crossed the street as though Patty didn’t want the same store front to hear the rest of the story. “He said he’d been unhappy since my parents moved in. Said he didn’t want to live like that anymore. That he’d been planning it for a while, but didn’t know how to tell me.”

  “Planning what?”

  She sniffled. “Leaving. His whole family knew. I’ve talked to his mother on the phone so many times the past few months, and she knew…”

  I shook my head. “Knew that he was a douche bag? Would be nice if she mentioned that, right?”

  Yeah, the words just came out, sorry. I didn’t know what to say.

  “He packed up and went home to Edinburgh last Thursday. I don’t know what to do.”

  I hooked my arm with hers, and we continued to walk. It seemed she’d spent the more powerful tears by now, and what was left was a soft sorrow that read like age on her beautiful face.

  “I’d give my friend Meghan’s advice and say fuck anything that moves, but that won’t help.” I know from experience.

  She forced a smile and shook her head. “I don’t know if I could let anyone touch me, even if I wanted them to.”