by S. A. Wolfe
“We both need to be apart from one another for a while, but—”
“Don’t say ‘we’. It’s you that needs to be apart from me,” he says without any hostility. He walks slowly back down the stairs and I want to go after him, but I have nothing left to give him. Dylan picks up the keys to his Jeep from the hall table and walks out the front door without looking back at me.
I sit down on the step and cry, sparsely at first and then it pours out of me. I have never cried over a broken relationship, I’ve never been in this situation where my stomach hurts and my heart aches for something I’ve done, somebody I’ve hurt.
With Dylan’s absence, my bed seems enormous. Bert takes it upon himself to hobble up on the covers and join me. I am awake most of the night, wondering what I could have done better to make things right, however, even a genius can get it wrong most of the time. I get up and find my cell phone. I think about calling Marissa and Kate to make plans to meet them back in the city, instead I text Lauren and Imogene, asking if we can spend Saturday together. I’ll be turning twenty-one and I’d rather have people around me so I can pretend to be happy.
Twenty-Two
On Saturday it rains, bringing with it a cool wind and some relief. It allows me to sleep in and make up for all those late-night wake-ups.
Imogene and Lauren plan to come for the day and spend the night. They show up with overnight bags, junk food, a bag of limes and tequila. “Happy Birthday!” they scream when I open the front door.
“How did you know?” I ask, hustling them off the wet porch.
“Archie told us,” Lauren answers. “He knows everything. He’s like a wizard or something.”
“It’s official; you’re old enough for margarita night.” Imogene holds up the tequila.
“I am so glad you guys are here,” I say with a timid smile before the crying starts.
Imogene and Lauren usher me over to the living room couch and I gladly sit down and bawl uncontrollably.
“I really screwed up,” I say between sobs.
“We heard all about the break up; you don’t have to say anything. These things happen every day. You’ll be fine.” Imogene puts her arm around my shoulders.
“Don’t listen to her,” Lauren says. “You can tell us anything. All we heard is that Dylan has been crashing at Leo’s again. He told us the other day at the diner.”
I wipe my eyes with the tissues Imogene gives me. “Great, now everyone knows.”
“No, only the people at the diner.” Lauren sighs.
“Yep, that’s pretty much the whole town,” Imogene adds.
“Carson was right again. He’s the wizard. I should have listened to him,” I say. “All this time, he knew this would happen.”
“No, he didn’t,” Imogene says. “What did he say to you?”
“I haven’t seen him since Dylan left, but when Dylan first asked me out, Carson didn’t want us to start anything. He said I’d hurt Dylan and I did.”
“Even Carson could not predict this. Besides, you didn’t intentionally hurt Dylan. You look pretty broken up, too, so it’s fair to say that it took two people to make this happen.” Imogene rubs my back.
“Leo says that Dylan hasn’t said a word about what happened. He said Dylan is barely speaking at all.” Lauren’s eyes bug out to emphasize Dylan’s awful state.
“So you finally started talking to Leo?” I ask.
“Oh, God, no. He’s still afraid to talk to me, I guess, but he talks to Bonnie and I stand right there to listen in.”
Imogene shakes her head. “They are so pathetic. They’re both too terrified to ask the other out so they have conversations through my grandmother. Honestly, my grandmother is afraid she’ll have to go on a date with them.”
Imogene and I both laugh at that.
“See, Jess? I’m not doing much better than you. That’s why I have brought the best movies to get over heartbreak.” Lauren digs through her tote bag.
“Like what?” I ask, expecting a slew of sappy romantic comedies.
“I have Goodfellas.” She hands me the DVD case. “I have Dog Day Afternoon, one of the greatest love stories ever told, by the way.”
“Aren’t these bloody, violent films?” I ask.
“Lauren has a thing for mob movies and crime flicks,” Imogene says.
“No, I watch what my dad watches. It’s our thing. I also brought Raging Bull, Fargo, and I have two seasons of Boardwalk Empire. There is a lot of romance in B.E.; all we need are the margaritas and we can get this party started!” Lauren cheers with a jump.
“I don’t think these movies are going to be much help.” I fan through the gloomy DVD covers.
“It’s going to be fun. Besides, it’s not like we can go out. The rain is coming down sideways. We can’t go out driving in this weather,” Lauren says. “The news said the hurricane has turned into a tropical storm and it’s coming inland. It’s going to get worse before it gets better.”
“Fine,” I say as Imogene pulls me into the kitchen after Lauren.
We mix drinks and fill big bowls with chips and Cheetos, a forbidden food in my parents’ home because my father thought the orange powder was unhealthy, this from a man who stocked our home with Oreos and pudding.
Imogene is rummaging through cupboards, which have been re-arranged by Carson and Dylan when they finished the kitchen. “Where are the friggin’ margarita glasses that Gin used to have in here?”
“I don’t know where anything is,” I say.
“The boys did an amazing job on the kitchen, but I want those fucking giant margarita glasses!” Imogene shouts. Then she lets out a loud gasp that causes Lauren and me to whip our heads in unison.
“What?” Lauren asks.
“Oh. My. God.” Imogene turns around and we see the small, velvet ring box open in her hand with a solitaire diamond ring nestled in it.
I’m staring at it, hoping that we find a scrap of information to go along with it, something along the lines of a love letter from one of Aunt Virginia’s former lovers, but I know this cupboard has been wiped out within the last week and anything in there now—groceries or diamond rings—are from recent purchases.
“Shit almighty. That looks real,” Lauren says.
“It is. The bag and receipt were next to it on the shelf.” Imogene hands me the receipt so I can see the proof for myself. She timidly holds the ring box in her open palm.
I study the receipt. The ring was purchased in the city at a jewelry story in midtown Manhattan, the diamond district. It’s dated last week, the night of my blow up with Dylan. He came home and helped finish the kitchen then hid the ring on a shelf where he knew I’d never look because I can’t cook and never scrounge for dishware.
“Dylan bought this,” I say. Imogene holds the ring out to me, but I can’t touch it. I shake my head and step back as if it’s radioactive. “This is worse than I thought.”
Imogene and Lauren huddle and snatch the ring from its velvet cradle. Lauren holds it up to the kitchen light. “Is this three carats? This is unbelievable. What was Dylan thinking? Men don’t propose marriage after a few weeks of dating.”
“Tell that to my parents. You remember them, Pammy and Mark? Our cooks? They got hitched after three dates and guess who was born eleven months later?” Imogene points a finger at herself.
“No one says ‘hitched’,” Lauren adds. “But on the bright side, that’s a great story with a happy ending.”
“No. No,” I say. “This is unbelievable. I had no idea Dylan was thinking about marriage. This is crazy.” I run down to the hall to get away from the ring. I’m getting good at fleeing rooms. Apparently the country life and having so much space to run in my home has taught me how to flee any scene like a crazed chicken. The girls follow me with a tray of margaritas.
“We put the ring back in the cupboard. Tonight we celebrate your birthday. We shall not speak of you-know-who,” Lauren says.
“I can’t ignore this. I’m going to have
to talk to Dylan about this and I’ll have to return the ring.”
“That’s not going to happen tonight, so for now, put it out of your mind, if that’s possible, and bottoms up,” Imogene says.
We slam back the cocktails like shots. After my drama, there seems no point in pretending this is a regular girls’ night out.
I burp. “That was good. I’ll need a bucket of these.”
“Oh no, we forgot the toast,” Lauren says. “Here’s to twenty-one.” As the three of us clink our empty glasses, we hear a popping sound in the house and then we are submerged in complete darkness.
“Shit! A power outage!” This comes from Imogene.
“Where do you keep the flashlights?” Lauren asks.
“I have no idea,” I say to the two dark figures.
The rain outside has turned into a full-on apocalyptic thunderstorm and the only light we get is from lightning strikes close to the house that wash the room with a white haze before going dark again.
We hear a crack outside and something hits the house. We let out blood-curdling screams and laugh at the same time. It’s a like a cheesy horror movie.
“I think one of your trees just lost a limb,” Imogene points out.
“Wait! I do have a flashlight on me. I forgot my dad gave me this for my car.” Lauren stumbles in the dark somewhere by the couch. “Ah ha! Found it.” A little light comes on in Lauren’s hands. It’s a tiny key light, enough to cast a dim glow across her face.
“A key light?” Imogene asks. “Lauren, that isn’t going to help; I still can’t see my hands or feet, all we can see is your mug and you look crazy, lady.”
“It’s not great, but look, we can point it at the floor and use it to guide us to the basement. I bet Gin has a stash of tools down there and there must be at least a few flashlights. She’s lived here forever and has been through a few bad storms, she must have kept emergency supplies somewhere.”
“My phone has a flashlight app,” I say. “Except I have no idea where I left the phone.”
“Perfect,” Imogene huffs.
“Let’s go with Lauren’s idea,” I suggest. “I know there’s more than wine downstairs. There’s a ladder and an old saw, so maybe there are some flashlights and batteries.”
“Fine,” Imogene says. “You lead, Lauren. We’ll follow your itty bitty light.”
Imogene holds my arm and guides me as we shuffle down the long hallway towards the kitchen and cellar door. We jump every time we hear a crack of thunder. Before we’re halfway down the hall, there’s another blinding flash of light coming from the living room windows and a crack follows too closely as if the lightning hit the house. At the same exact moment the front door swings open, banging against the hall console, and we see a tall, hulking, dark figure in the doorway.
Imogene produces another movie-worthy scream and then Lauren joins her. I am too terrified to scream or move. A flash of lightning illuminates the face of the stranger, and I see it’s Carson looking drenched and wild-eyed, but oh so sexy with his shirt plastered to his chest.
“It’s Carson,” I yell. Imogene and Lauren are still screaming as if he’s an ax murderer. I decide that I must remember this moment because, should we ever find ourselves in a similar crisis, at least I now know that these two women are the type to panic first and react later.
“Jesus, stop screaming,” Carson says, walking towards us.
“Carson, how did you get here?” Imogene asks. In the darkness I see her grabbing on to him.
Lauren shines her little light in his face.
“Get that thing off my face,” he says, so she points it at his neck. “Are you all okay?”
“We’re fine,” Imogene says. “We were celebrating Jess’s birthday when the power went out.”
Carson searches for my face and we lock eyes for a second when another flash of lightning strikes. “Let’s get you some flashlights,” he says.
“You’re in a suit; did you come from your house?” Lauren asks.
“No, I was at Mohonk when the power went out. I left the flashlights I had in my truck with some people at the hotel,” he says. “I got a text from Archie, Pam and Bonnie. They all said the power was out down here, too, and they couldn’t call you, but they could text me. I told them I’d check on you. I made Gin an emergency kit and put it in the pantry so it would be close by.”
“God, we’re so lucky you came to our rescue,” Imogene says. “We were going to go hunt around the scary cellar for flashlights. I’m so glad you got here first.”
Carson leads us in the dark back down the hallway to the pantry. “It’s the lower cabinet behind the door,” he says. I hear him banging things around and then a light comes on. It lights up the whole pantry. “These are LED lanterns.”
“Awesome,” Lauren says. “Are there more?”
“There are ten lanterns and at least six flashlights. They’re all LED so they should last a while. There’s also a box of new batteries in every size so let’s start filling these.” He hands out the camping lanterns and handheld flashlights.
We assemble all the lanterns and place one in all the downstairs rooms so we have light in every room. The lanterns give off a ghastly whiteness like moonbeams. We all look like the walking dead.
“Carson Blackard, you have saved the day—I mean night,” Lauren says. “Now we must continue with our party because I sure as hell can’t sleep in this.”
“So my parents called you because they thought you were home and could roll down the hill and check on us?” Imogene asks Carson. “”Hmm, interesting.”
“What?” Lauren asks. She’s refilling our margarita glasses from the pitcher as I eagerly hold my glass out for her. Carson is checking the window frames or something manly that guys think they should be doing in a storm to look busy and productive.
“Carson is in a suit,” Imogene says and at that we all turn to look at Carson who tosses his wet suit coat on the couch to reveal a wet, white dress shirt that clings to his superbly defined muscular chest. His wet locks are disheveled and only help to make him look more attractive. Fuckity-fuck. I can’t be around him without getting all worked up.
“A very nice suit,” Imogene continues. “And he just told us that he was at swanky Mohonk which means he must be on a date. I bet he left a lovely lady up at the hotel where she probably has a nice room and a candle light dinner waiting for him.”
“Who are you two? Cagney and Lacey? The power went out at Mohonk, too,” Carson says which doesn’t sound like much of a defense to me. Little pangs of jealousy are rattling me, thinking of Carson at a nice resort with another woman.
“Ha! But you are on a date and she IS up at Mohonk waiting for you!” Lauren shouts.
“So what?” Carson says and glances over at me. I put on a show of loving my strong drink too much to even consider participating in the conversation. I’m actually seething, thinking of some pretty woman waiting in a hotel room for Carson. What’s his type? Bombshells with boobs or leggy, skinny models?
“Just saying,” Imogene says, a little drunk. “You never bring women to your home. You are a true mystery, Mr. Blackard. You take a date to Mohonk for a fabulous dinner and stunning ambiance. You book a room so you don’t have to share your home with her. Then, to make it less personal, you get a text or call from my parents and you tell your date to make herself comfortable while you go to check on three women, but you’ll be back in time for sex.”
“Yes! That’s it.” Lauren points her finger at him.
“You’re all drunk,” he says, loosening his tie. “Don’t sleep upstairs. Ride out the storm down here, okay?”
“Did you at least get dinner before the power went out?” Imogene grins at Carson. “Who’s the woman, Carson?”
“No one special,” he mutters.
“Is that why you didn’t invite her to your home?” Lauren asks. “You only date out-of-town women? Locals aren’t good enough for you?”
“Do you have everything you need
here?” he asks me, ignoring Imogene’s and Lauren’s taunts.
I nod and he looks at me a moment longer than necessary. My eyes linger on him, too, as I wonder what Dylan has told him. I consider that Carson is probably angry with me and wants to shout, “I told you so!”
“You can’t drive in this weather,” Imogene says to him.
“What are you talking about? I drove down in this weather, I can drive back. I have my truck. I knew the weather would be bad. I didn’t know it would be this rough, though.”
“You can’t leave us now. Besides, I have some things I need to discuss with you,” Imogene says, sounding drunker by the minute.
“Where’s Bert?” Carson directs at me.
“Oh my God, I don’t know.” I put down my drink. “He’s in the house somewhere, but I completely forgot about him when the lights went out. I’ll go search upstairs.”
“No. Don’t,” Carson says. “Come here.”
I follow him into the dining room, which looks more austere and eerie than the living room.
“Look,” Carson says, pointing under the dining room table where Bert is hiding flat out on his stomach with his face buried in his front paws. “It’s his go-to place when he freaks out. Thunderstorms always freak him out.”
“Oh, honey,” I say, bending down to see Bert. “I’m sorry.”
“Put his dishes under there and he’ll be fine,” Carson instructs. I nod and realize I’m afraid to speak to Carson. I’m anxious and worried that he’s pissed off with me and frankly, I’m tired of disappointing people, especially him.
“Come and join the party, Carson,” Imogene says from the living room. Lauren is dancing to a Michael Jackson cassette tape on an old battery-operated boom box that was in the pantry.
“I don’t think so,” Carson says so quietly that only I can hear him.
