Clearer in the Night

by Rebecca Croteau

  “Things have happened since. My friend’s cat scratched my face badly, and I bled all over my shirt, but by the time I got to the bathroom to see how bad it was, no mark. Everything stinks. Everyone is thinking so loudly that it hurts, sometimes. My senses are sharper, my reflexes are stronger, and I’m stronger. I’m scared out of my gourd, but something is happening to me.”

  He stood up sharply, and that comforting touch on my back was gone. “You need help,” he said.

  The tears were back, suddenly, and I didn’t think they were going to be the pretty ones this time.

  “Oh, no, that’s—not what I—” He stumbled over his words while I struggled to contain the part of me that wanted to rise up and prove that I was perfectly sane. God had been pretty decent about letting me hang out for a bit, but if I popped claws and fur and started tearing apart the sanctuary? Well, I did not want the Divine opinion on that course of action.

  “Told you it sounded crazy,” I said, and from far away, my voice sounded like Mom’s, hollow and exhausted.

  “What? No.” He leaned down, his fingers cupping my chin. He held me there for a moment, eyes locked to mine, then leaned forward and pressed his lips, feather light, to mine. It was barely a brush, not even as much as he’d done in that small park by my house, but it focused all my attention with a snap. It was over before it began, and he was that small distance away again. “Are you listening yet?”

  “Why do you keep kissing me?” The words slipped past my cold burned lips before I could stop them.

  He chuckled dryly, and backed up slightly. “Is my technique that bad?”

  “No—it’s not that—I—” My face was on fire, my cheeks close to bursting into flame. “Why do you keep just kissing me?”

  I’d thought he’d laugh, or maybe even flirt back, but his face went to its still and neutral, quiet and serious, expression. “It seemed like a good way to get your attention.”

  I wanted to hide behind my knees again. “Why do you want to get my attention?”

  His brow furrowed, and he studied me for a long moment. “You aren’t digging for compliments, are you?”

  There was no polite response to that question, so I just shrugged and looked away. He sat down next to me again. He reached out to take my hand, but my stomach flipped. It was too much like Shannon’s disappearing grasp, and I dodged him. His expression switched to concern before smoothing back to neutral. He folded his hands gracefully in his lap, like that was what he’d planned to do.

  This was rapidly falling to pieces. “I’m not as great as your Gram thinks.” That wasn’t what I’d meant to say, but in for a penny, right? “In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m kind of a fuck up.”

  He was smiling now, I could hear it in his voice. “You think Gram told me how wonderful you are?”

  “Um. Yes?” Well, that was self-centered. “I mean, she’s been selling you to me, every time she saw me, since you moved to town. She’s even got my mom in on the act.”

  “Uh-huh. And what’s your usual reaction to guys recommended by your mother and sweet little old ladies from church?”

  “Well, I—” Oh. Oh, that was devious. “What did she tell you?”

  His cheeks flushed bright red, to match his hair. “She was very nice. But she said that things would be complex with everything that your family was going through. And that you were not someone who was currently looking to settle down.”

  “She warned you off me, and called me a crazy slut?”

  He shrugged, clearly uncomfortable. “She used more words. And she didn’t mean to put you down. Just to suggest that, from what she knew of you and of me, she didn’t think we’d make the best match.”

  “And what does she know about you?”

  His eyes met mine again, so serious, so intense. Every part of me was listening. “That I tend to be fairly serious in my dalliances.” He reached out towards me, hesitated for a moment, and then touched my hair, just over my ear, very softly. “And I have a thing for redheads.”

  A week ago, that move would have flipped all my creeper switches. But so much weird stuff had happened in the past six days that it wasn’t even a blip on the radar. I held myself back from blatantly leaning into his hand and turning it into a caress. I couldn’t keep myself from closing my eyes, though. If he pressed any harder, if he made any real contact, I would explode.

  He made this low sound, half laughter and half longing. I opened my eyes and looked at him, and he was trembling. When he saw me watching him, he offered a small smile. “Redheads. I did say.”

  “This thing—it doesn’t involve you making yourself a red wig or something.”

  He smiled more broadly. “No. Just appreciating. And if the hair were not attached to an intelligent, charming woman—well, what good would that do?”

  “You don’t know me well enough to say I’m charming.”

  “Well, then, I’ll have to rectify that immediately.”

  Well played, sir, well played. “Even if I am a crazy slut?” It hurt to use that word to describe myself, even if there might be a kernel of truth to it. Stung like crazy, in fact. But I couldn’t even pretend I’d been enjoying myself all those nights, any more than most alcoholics enjoyed their drinks.

  He very gently peeled my hand up from its spot, clutching my knees. He pressed his lips against my knuckles. “I seriously doubt that either of those words actually describe you.”

  The bottom dropped out of my stomach. He would have been such an interesting guy if he didn’t keep fucking it all up. I yanked my hand back from his, ignored the sharp and sudden sense of loss in my belly, and stood up. “They do, actually.”

  “What?” Poor boy, so slow. For all his charm, he was bewildered and lost now.

  “Slut. Describes me. To a T. Crazy, too, probably, but slut, for sure. I sleep around, and I like it, and screw you if you think you get to say something about that when you don’t know a damn thing about me.” There had to be steam coming out of my ears.

  “I don’t know what—”

  “And besides,” I said, totally railroading over him. “If you’re trying to get in my pants, why the Romeo routine? And if you are, then you can stuff the slut shame right up your ass.” I waited for a moment, but he was looking away, silent. I shoved past him. “Make sure to lock up on your way out,” I said, throwing the words over my shoulder. He didn’t say anything. As far as I could tell, he didn’t even move.

  I made it halfway down the stairs before my knees gave way, and I had to brace myself on the railing and stifle my tears. Further proof. I didn’t belong with guys like him. It had been a mistake to forget that, even for just a minute.

  SATURDAY, AUGUST 3

  That night, I dreamed of the way the stars looked filtered through leaves. I dreamed of the wind whistling through the branches, carrying the fresh scents of a thousand things I couldn’t describe.

  I woke to my phone ringing, my legs tangled in the sheets, my breath thick in my throat. I pawed at the bedside table, almost knocking my phone to the floor. I caught it before it fell far, and I stared at the screen for a moment. The way Wes had left, as if it was okay to just walk out like that, after what had happened, it made my heart twist. I mean, I’d done it more times than I could count, but usually when the guy was drunk and wouldn’t remember my name anyway. This was different. But I still swiped my finger across the screen. I couldn’t bring myself to say hello, but he figured it out.

  “I’m sorry,” Wes said, with no preamble. “I didn’t want your mom to wake up and find us all cuddled up on the couch. That felt disrespectful. But I should have explained that, instead of just bailing. Forgive me?”

  There was a glibness to the way he asked that infuriated me. Like he already knew my answer, and was asking as a formality. I wanted to forgive him, though. I wanted to say that it was all okay. Tell him that I didn’t mind, not really. But I had some small dust pile of self-respect left. I could be stronger than that. I stayed quiet. I didn’t hang up, b
ut I stayed quiet.

  He sighed, and then there was a sharp edge to his voice that I hadn’t heard before. “I don’t do family stuff, Caitie. That’s just how it is. I’m sorry you’re upset, but that’s—” It felt like he stopped short of saying ‘not my problem,’ but I wasn’t entirely sure. He took a deep, huge breath, then heaved it out all at once, and I could feel him centering and calming. “I don’t really know what you want from me. This would be easier if you’d say something.”

  “I want a date,” I said, surprised at the sound of my own voice. “I want a date, in the sunlight, where we talk about ourselves and eat food and are awkward and nervous. And without metaphysical revelations or surprises. I want a date like normal girls have.”

  He almost sounded like he was laughing at me. Almost. “Okay. Are you busy this afternoon?”

  “No.”

  “Meet me at City Hall Park at noon. Okay?”

  “Yes.”

  “Caitie?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Thank you for saying something.”

  And it had even worked. Imagine.

  The morning was hot and oppressive, and as the sun climbed, it just got worse. It was the kind of muggy that makes you feel like you need to wring the water out of the air before you try and breathe it in. I showered before breakfast; two hours later, my hair still wasn’t dry, but I felt like I needed another shower. Disgusting.

  I thought about catching a bus downtown—public transportation to save the planet and all that—but the thought of being stuck inside a big metal box with spotty air conditioning made me give up my ideals before they even really got started. I had spent the entire morning not turning on the central air. Surely I got some kind of cap and trade? No, probably not. At least my car was fuel efficient by virtue of being made of tinfoil.

  I found a parking spot, and took my purse down to City Hall Park just as the big clock tower struck noon. We hadn’t really talked about where to meet. I scanned the crowd, thinking about pulling out my phone to text him, when arms wrapped around my waist, snugging me back against a firm chest that smelled of pine. “Hi,” he rumbled, and I couldn’t remember why I’d ever thought of not giving him another try. He pressed a kiss against the side of my neck, and I laughed, hard. I felt dizzy, light, weightless. Sparkling bright. He was the only thing that kept me from flying up into the air, up into the sun. That, and the darkness that was taking over, day by day.

  No. I wasn’t thinking about that today. Today, I was a normal girl, all day long. I turned in his arms and kissed him on the lips, quickly, but deeply. “Hi.”

  “Am I forgiven yet?” he asked, all that cheeky laughter back in his voice.

  “It’s a start.” I thought about kissing him again, but he slipped free of me before I really got the chance.

  “Coffee to start with? Or do you want something to eat?” He threaded his fingers into mine. Our hands fit neatly together, and I liked the feeling, the joined-up nature of it. I was pretty sure it had been a decade since I’d held hands with someone who made my heart skip a beat.

  “Food, I think. Bonus if we eat somewhere that will serve me coffee at the same time.”

  He nodded, and started walking down the street, leading me towards Church Street. The open air marketplace was one of my favorite places to be, although the shops themselves weren’t my favorites. The four-block street boasted three indie coffee shops—one of which I’d been an employee at until very recently—and Starbucks, a handful of restaurants, and more overpriced and upscale fashion boutiques than a fashionista could shake a Coach bag at. Even the used clothing store wanted $75 for a pair of jeans that someone else’s ass had been in. I just didn’t understand the theory. But it was a pretty street, especially in winter when it was decorated with small white lights, and there was snow falling. In summer, there were buskers and small vendor carts, and protesters for and against any cause you could dream up. The road was closed to vehicle traffic, and paved with bricks and cobbles. It was lovely.

  “What sort of food do you want?” he asked.

  I gave him an epic side-eye. “I chose the other night, and see how that turned out for us? You pick.”

  He smirked, thought for a moment, then tugged me in a direction. “Do you want to sit down to eat, or grab and go?”

  “Sit down, please. It’s disgusting outside.”

  “I know exactly the place.” He looked pleased with himself, and as eager as a little kid, as he led me through the busy office workers, stepping outside for their lunch breaks, the college kids hanging around between classes, and the empty-eyed people who didn’t really have anywhere else to be. I followed him, and people watched us go by, and they envied us because we were young and he was handsome, and we were together. It was an interesting change. I was usually the girl that made other women clutch their boyfriends closer even as they smirked and basked in how superior they were to me.

  I could get used to this, given adequate time to prepare.

  He led me to an Irish bar that had a reputation for a great pub trivia night, as well as awesome burgers. I’d never come here, though; no dance floor.

  The hostess showed us to a quiet table, far from the bar. The windows were dark, the glass too thick and brown for anyone to see the street outside, or for anyone from the street to see in. The floor was honey-colored wood, roughhewn; the tables were fashioned to look like slabs of wood on legs. There was, as always, a long mirror stretched behind the bar, and bottles upon bottles of booze on display. There were two TVs up on either corner of the bar; one showed a 24 hour news channel, and the other showed a baseball game. The place was only a few years old, but so much had happened here already. Loves had been lost and won, dreams found and abandoned, lives begun and ended. It had all been poured into every crack and crevice, layered on as thick as the polyurethane on the table tops, only I didn’t think you’d be able to sand this down and refinish it. The miasma of misery and joy—mostly misery—had seeped into every grain of wood, every fiber of fabric. It was twisting up my belly and squeezing my heart, and I thought I was going to be sick, add my own wasted energy to the amalgam that was drowning me.

  Wes squeezed my hand, hard. I glanced at him, then at the chair he was gesturing towards. My knees sagged, and I let myself slip down into the chair. We were the only ones seated, and the waitress was already there with a glass of ice water and menus. I gulped at the cold water, hoping my sour stomach would settle instead of making an immediate reappearance. I didn’t look up when Wes told the waitress, who was eyeing me to figure out how much of a mess I was going to make and if she’d be able to get the bus boy to pick it up, that it would be a few minutes before we were ready to order, and thank you.

  When she was out of earshot, he squeezed my hand again, more gently this time. “How’re you doing?” His voice was soft and gentle, his thumb stroking over my knuckles.

  The taste of other’s peoples’ misery had receded to a slimy sensation at the back of my throat. I nodded; if I said anything, it still felt like more than words were going to hit the air. I pressed the back of my free hand to my mouth, and concentrated on breathing. Slowly and carefully breathing.

  He held on, a smile bending his lips. “You’re the one who said no more metaphysical crises, after all.”

  “True,” I said. The word seemed small enough to experiment with. My stomach didn’t heave, my throat didn’t clench. I could still hear a thousand voices crying out for attention and to tell their stories, but they were a dull roar, blending together, less nauseating. “I’m okay.”

  “Good,” he said, and switched his full glass for my empty one. “Want to look at the menu?”

  A small lurch. “Not quite yet,” I said. More water. “Talk to me, okay?” I wanted to hear a fresher story, no more stale ones; a kind voice to change out these desperate ones. My forehead was still clammy, my hands trembling.

  “What about?”

  “Anything. Did you grow up around here?”

  He sh
ook his head. He was focused on the table, suddenly, fidgeting with his silverware, taking them out of their paper napkins, lining them up perfectly.

  “I don’t know anything about you,” I said. “Tell me about where you grew up.”

  For a long time, I didn’t think he was going to answer me. He kept fine tuning the position of his utensils, and I kept trying not to drown in the residue of all these tiny miseries. And then, finally, he started. “I grew up on my Grandpa’s ranch in Wyoming. The kind of place where you have to drive two hours to get to nowhere. Just him, and me, and all his stories.”

  “Sounds nice.”

  “Lonely. He was an odd duck, some would say, and it was hard to tell sometimes what was real and what was imaginary. And he was a hard man in a lot of ways. It wasn’t easy.”

  “Your parents?”

  He gave a shrug that I knew all too well.

  “Sorry.”

  “It was a very long time ago.”

  “What brought you here?”

  His flashy grin was back, all of a sudden. “Would you believe me if I said it was love at first sight?”

  I felt my cheeks go bright red. “No. Because that might be why you stayed, but you were already here when you met me.” Let’s just skip right over the L-word, okay? Yes, good plan. He raised his hand, brushing his knuckles over my flushed cheeks.

  “I was here on business. Meeting someone. I went out to let off a little steam, and saw the most beautiful woman I’ve ever known.”

  Was spontaneous combustion even possible? For my sake, I hoped not. “You’re just trying to embarrass me now.”

  “Is it embarrassing to hear the truth?”

  Apparently, sometimes, yes. “I’m not pretty,” I said.

  “No,” he agreed. “You’re beautiful. Which is better.”

  “We were talking about you,” I said, but then the waitress came back, and Wes nodded that we were ready to order, so I scrambled through the menu while he rattled off a complex order about burgers and toppings and fries. I settled on wings and a salad, and the waitress left again after giving me another long look. “Tell me more about your grandpa,” I said, determined to get this much, at least, out of him.