by S. A. Wolfe
“I never think that and you shouldn’t, either.” His fingers trace lightly up and down my arm.
“I can’t help feeling that way. I have something so good here and most people would envy my situation. I’m squandering my good fortune, but I can’t make myself fall in love before I’m ready.”
“Or ever,” Dylan says.
True. Sometimes I feel smothered by Dylan and I know I wouldn’t if my feelings for him weren’t waning or based on something more solid than our sex life.
As much as I want to help Dylan and keep thinking I’ll eventually fall in love with him, I’m not as happy as someone should be in my situation. I spend an awful lot of time daydreaming in my country home. Most of the images that loop endlessly in my brain are homey scenes of me painting and relaxing on the porch with friends. The only man in every single scene of my domestic tranquility is there because I put him there. Carson.
Twenty-One
When I wake up, Dylan’s side of the bed is empty. He usually leaves for work before I rise, but today there is no cute little note on the kitchen counter with his plans for our dinner or night out. He didn’t even leave me a fresh a pot of coffee.
I feed Bert and shoo him outside so he can do his business. Then I check in with 5 Alpha to tell my team that I’ll be out for the morning, but that they can reach me later in the afternoon. I put on a tank top and some running tights, which I bought last year when I thought I’d become a runner, only to discover that I can’t run unless I’m trying to catch a cab or get the last muffin at Magnolia Bakery. I grab one of the yoga mats Aunt Virginia had stowed in her closet and head out. Bert refuses to walk with me so I let him back inside to wile his hours away in blissful slumber.
I make it to Beyond The Pants in time for the nine o’clock yoga class with Imogene and Lauren. The instructor is a striking woman in her forties with silver hair and deeply tanned skin. Lois is up front, following the moves at her own graceful pace while I like to hide in the back of the class.
The yogi’s voice is deep and smooth; she manages to make her way over to me frequently to adjust my hips or put a palm on my back to guide me into a better position. She has me contorted into some kind of pretzel move that requires quiet breathing and that’s when it occurs to me that it’s conceivable that I really don’t fit in Hera. As much as I have come to love my new little town and how my life seems to be better, maybe I’m a poison for the town, or rather Dylan. I contemplate this and replay last night’s conversation in my head when I realize I can’t move.
“Sweet mother of nuts,” Lois says, bending down to look me in the face. “What the heavens are you doing there?”
One of my legs is tucked under me and the other is bent across the front. I can’t move because the leg under my ass has fallen asleep and that crazy, painful, tingling sensation of paralysis makes me stay put. “I think I did it wrong,” I say.
“Well, if you could see your purple face you’d sure as heck know it isn’t right.” Lois laughs. Imogene and Lauren burst out laughing, too. The class is finished and everyone is milling out with their rolled mats under their arms; except for me, pretzel girl. The instructor comes over and gently removes my bent leg and massages both so I can stand with minimal pain.
“I didn’t get much sleep last night. I think I’m having trouble following directions this morning.” I rub my leg.
“Dylan must be voracious,” Lauren says in low voice as we exit, but loud enough that Lois looks back at me and grimaces. I smile and hurry the girls outside.
“Did you have to say that in front of Lois?” I ask Lauren. “You made it sound like I’m the town hooker.”
“No, I didn’t. I only said—”
“I know what you said. Everyone heard what you said. Did you see Lois’s face? She looked pissed.”
“She’s not mad at you, Jess,” Imogene says as she lights a cigarette.
“How can you smoke after yoga class?” I ask.
“Easy, I keep the cigs and lighter in my yoga bag. Just light, puff and blow.”
I cringe. “What is going on with Lois?”
“She’s not a fan of you and Dylan dating,” Lauren answers. “Actually, she told us a couple of weeks ago that she didn’t think it was a good idea for you and Dylan to date, but I suppose now she’s aware you’re sleeping together. Thanks to me, I guess.”
“I thought Lois liked me. Are you going to tell me the rest of the story? Why is she opposed to me dating Dylan?”
“Oh, sweetie, it’s not you. She’s opposed to anyone—”
“Lauren!” Imogene scolds. “Jess, Lois is concerned that you and Dylan may be rushing things. That’s her problem, not yours.”
A look passes between the two women with Imogene winning the stare down battle and ultimately whatever it is they are keeping from me.
“I don’t believe you two. I don’t have time for these guessing games. I have work to do,” I say and then head down the main street for my long walk home.
I make it as far as The General Store when I see Carson coming out with a bottle of water.
“How’s the yoga going?” he asks with a forced smile.
“Oh, geez. Not you, too,” I say, trying to pass him on the sidewalk.
“What?” he laughs and intentionally blocks my path.
“I came down from my crumbling house on the hill to get my Zen on and relax for a change and I’ve had nothing except the weirdest encounters with everyone this morning. Go ahead, make your crack so I can be on my way.” I stand my ground with my yoga satchel in one hand and my New York Yankees cap in the other.
“Hera has Zen? How do you get that on?” Although this is a rare moment for Carson and someone should record it, I’m too annoyed for anymore evasive or humorous conversations at my expense.
“Step aside, cowboy. I need to get going.”
“Where’s your car?”
“I walked.”
“Ah girly, you and your citified ways,” he says in a Hillbilly accent and I have to laugh. “We don’t walk here. Come on, cowpoke; let me give you a ride home.”
I’m actually relieved that he offers to drive me. I’m not cut out for long, hot, country walks. I climb into the truck’s cab and Carson turns on the air conditioning full blast.
“That’s heaven,” I mumble and close my eyes, letting the cool air chill the sweat on my face.
“Can I ask you something?”
“If I say no, you’ll ask anyway.” I look over at him as he drives with one hand while the other one does that Blackard tic of stroking his chin, which means he’s ready to be all serious again. “What?”
“Has Dylan been acting a little different?” he asks. This is not an impromptu question. Carson has been thinking about this for a while and is trying to say it as delicately as possible without causing me to be alarmed. He’s a planner and I can see that it is difficult for him to ask someone else about his own brother; the boy and the man he has been raising for a lifetime.
“In what way?” I ask in a meek voice I haven’t used in a long time.
Carson glances at me and then back at the road in front of us. “He’s been too low key. Very quiet and distant.”
“Doesn’t his anti-depressant medication do that? Calm him?” I ask, hopeful that maybe Dylan is secretly getting treatment, but wasn’t ready to tell me.
“It calms him, but it doesn’t make him indifferent,” Carson answers. “Jess, I told you he went off his medication and hasn’t been very stable since then.”
“I know. I was just hoping you were going to tell me his behavior was a good sign.”
“Do you think he’s doing well?” Carson asks me. “He’s quiet at work. He does his job, although he’s less talkative. He uses his lunch hour to go running, and before he used to hang out with the guys and eat and shoot the shit. Now he runs like a maniac. Excuse me, poor choice of words. You see him more than I do. That’s why I’m asking.”
“No, I don’t think he’s doing well. He
told me last night that he doesn’t want to go back on any treatment program. It’s a sore point between us.”
“I’m sorry,” Carson says under his breath. He parks his truck in front of my house.
“Well, thanks for the ride.”
“Yeah, about that. Sorry to tell you, but I’m coming in. I’ve got my equipment in back and I have to rip out some of the kitchen cabinets we can’t save, so we can slide in your new appliances which will be arriving on a delivery truck in approximately two hours, or less.”
“It’s a good thing I don’t cook or I’d be really pissed off at your lack of notice. I have to get to work anyway.”
“How is that going? Working from here?” Carson asks as he begins unloading equipment from the truck bed.
“Pretty good. I like the quiet of the library. It’s kind of lonely not having my colleagues around and people to eat lunch with, but it’s a pretty good trade-off with the views and the peacefulness. Other than Bert, I have very few distractions.”
“Except for Dylan,” Carson says. “Have you given him his own set of drawers and a closet yet? He spends more time here than anywhere else.”
One minute Carson is concerned about his brother, the next he’s taking jabs at me as if he’s resentful of me or Dylan, or both. I’m too stunned to reply. Carson carries a toolbox and a small ladder, and I follow him into the house.
“Wait a minute,” I say. Carson sets his equipment down on the kitchen floor and turns back to me. “Do you think I’ve caused Dylan to behave this way? Do you think this is my fault?”
“No.” Carson shakes his head in exasperation. “Forget I said anything.” He leans down to pet Bert.
“It’s hard to forget when you keep bringing it up.”
Carson gives me the once over and shakes his head. Then he retrieves Bert’s food dishes to give him fresh water and the dry smelly pellets he eats.
“I was going to do that.” I point to the dishes.
“Don’t be so defensive. I’m trying to help out; I’m not blaming you for Dylan or for Bert’s dirty water dish.”
“Jesus. Something is going on. Between you and Lois and the others, I swear something is going on and no one is telling me. I feel like I’m the star in some crazy Fellini movie, except I’m the only one who doesn’t have a script.” I swing my arms in frustration and whack my hand unintentionally against the doorframe. “Fuck!”
“Are you okay?” Carson comes towards me.
“Leave me alone.” I hold my hand up so he doesn’t touch it. “I have work to do.” I leave and jog up the staircase to my bedroom, pounding my feet as hard as I can.
After a shower and an hour of sitting in front of my computer screens, I realize I never ate breakfast or lunch and my stomach is gurgling. Carson is making a racket, demolishing part of my kitchen, though, and the last thing I want to do is slink down to the kitchen to grab some food while he’s there.
I continue to work, plodding through code that I should know well, yet my thoughts are distracted so I might as well be translating a foreign language. I should be celebrating after what Tom has offered to do with my paintings, but other than Dylan, I haven’t told anyone my good news. The fact that Dylan did not mention it again last night and did not congratulate me or seem happy in the least strikes an unsettling chord.
By late afternoon the house is quiet. The demolition has stopped and I see a large delivery truck pull up in the front yard. I let Carson handle the order since it’s been organized by him and I’d only get in the way. I sit in the bay window and watch the delivery men roll the stainless steel appliances off the truck ramp, Carson directing the way.
I go back to work, joining in a late afternoon conference call with Nathan and my team to go over changes they want to make in one of our software programs before a final product is presented to the client. I listen, but say little. I’m too busy doodling on my notepad, thinking I’d rather be in the studio right now, playing with my paints and inks. I hear the delivery truck drive away and Bert perks up from his place on the couch as I get off the conference call.
“I think it’s safe for you to go down and eat now,” I tell him. He cocks his head and then does a wobbly stand before stumbling off the couch and running out of the room.
I stare past my computer monitors to the large tree outside the bay windows, mesmerized by a swaying branch. I don’t even notice the plate being put in front of me until Carson speaks. “Thought you must be hungry.”
He made me a peanut butter and jelly sandwich with apple slices and a glass of lemonade. This is the same meal he used to serve Dylan and me when we were kids.
“Thanks. I’m famished,” I say, finally looking at him.
“The kitchen is almost done. You can use it now, though. I still have to put the new cabinet fronts on, but the appliances are all hooked up.” He perches on the edge of my desk while I eat. His great ass is awfully close to my keyboard. Talk about a distraction.
“Did my Aunt’s trust cover the expense and did Archie already pay you for everything?” I keep my eyes on my plate.
“Everything is in order. You don’t have to do a thing.”
I nod and hold up an apple slice before biting into it. “Really? You think you have to cut up my apples like I’m a five-year-old?” I smile.
Carson shrugs and chuckles. “Habit. I still slice my apples, too.”
I nibble the apple while he watches me, and it seems an odd turn of events that Carson is here instead of Dylan, and that we can be close to one another in this pleasant state without any friction bordering the edges of the air between us as it does when I’m with Dylan.
Being with Carson, I don’t sense that I’m on the verge of something disagreeable taking over. He’s black and white, easy to read. He’s either pissed or pleasant. I may not know why, but I can always read his emotions. By comparison, Dylan is made of many hues in between that I can’t interpret. Dylan is a palette of paint that I don’t know how to brush on paper, no matter how long I stare at the various color combinations. Nothing clicks with Dylan, unless it’s sex.
“Did Dylan tell you my good news? About the art show I’m going to be in this winter.” I say it joylessly.
Carson senses my disappointment. “No. He didn’t say anything about it. Congratulations, Jess. Gin would be very proud of you.”
I want to stay in this lovely room with its warm wood, smells of worn leather and old books and keep talking to Carson. This is where I want to be, but I have to remind myself that he is not mine. I have chosen to be with someone else and it’s a mistake that is entirely my fault.
Dylan arrives with Leo and Daniel from the shop, and they help Carson finish the new cabinets in a matter of hours. I spend the time painting in the studio. In the evening, Dylan brings me down for the unveiling of the new kitchen.
“A dishwasher!” I exclaim and the men laugh.
They even transferred the old food to the new fridge and cupboards and mopped the dust off the floor. Carson is right; I don’t have to do anything.
They crack open a few bottles of beer and talk for a while about business and then Leo and Daniel load the tools into the back of Carson’s truck.
Before he leaves, Carson stops at the front door, turns to me and puts his hand on my shoulder. “Congratulations, Jess. Your show will be great.”
“Thanks, Carson.” I want to do more. I want to hug him for this, but I can’t. Not in front of Dylan.
Dylan closes the door. “You told him about the show?”
“Yes. I wanted to share it with someone. I was surprised you didn’t tell him this morning at work.”
“I forgot, that’s all,” Dylan says, but his dejected expression says otherwise.
“Dylan, this show is a big deal to me and I thought you’d be happy for me. You’re acting like I’ve been called for duty and I’m going off to war.”
He doesn’t say anything. I follow him around the first floor as he shuts off lights. “Dylan, what’s going o
n? Is this because of our conversation last night? Is this because you’re depressed again and you won’t get help?” I ask, pleading.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” he raises his voice. “You and Carson both, lay off.”
“I’m sick of you acting like this doesn’t affect the rest of us. It has everything to do with me and Carson and your friends,” I say. He avoids eye contact with me, closing windows, shutting off lights and locking doors. I’m right behind him because I need to resolve this.
“Let’s go to bed.”
“You can’t fuck your way out of everything, Dylan!” I shout. “I’m sick of you being so glum, and your answer to avoiding your problem when you’re with me is to screw. You can’t decide that you’ll be happy only during sex and then miserable the rest of the time. You may think that works for you, but it doesn’t work for me.”
Dylan stands on the first landing and stares at me, shocked by my rant. I try to run past him up the stairs to get to my bedroom, but he grabs my arm and pulls me back to him. “I don’t want to make you miserable,” he says. “I thought we were becoming closer. I want to live with you. I thought you’d want me to move in.”
“What? Live together? Dylan, we can’t even work out the problems we have now. You think moving in together and combining our belongings will solve our problems?”
“I practically live here as it is.”
“Yes, I know. And we don’t seem to be doing very well outside of the bedroom.” It’s too late to take back my harsh words. “I shouldn’t have said that.”
Dylan lets go of my arm. “I haven’t done everything the way you think I should, but I do love you. I know if we live together, I’ll get back on track so my—my mood swings are under control.”
“No, Dylan, you have to do that anyway, whether you live with me or not. You have to get professional help. I can’t live with you. Not like this. This is how wrong the situation is; you were thinking of moving in together and I was thinking we need to take a break from us.”
“You’re breaking up with me?” He looks down. His whole body seems to deplete whatever energy it has left. He’s not the Dylan I met two months ago, the gregarious personality that took over a room. The strength and effervescence is seeping from this Dylan. He’s becoming hollow and muted and he won’t let anyone help him.
