Falling in Deep Collection Box Set

by Pauline Creeden

  The ocean is angry today, breaking against the shore with a determined vengeance, as if the sand has somehow offended.

  Each time I am here, my sandaled feet planted against the graying wood of the dock, I think about how the beach wears away, one grain at a time, disappearing into stormy waters, just to be refreshed when high tide builds again, allowing the salt water to encroach further inland.

  It is a give and take. A relationship. My arms are crossed against my body and my hands grip my elbows more firmly.

  “Lena?”

  The person says my name four more times before I am yanked out of my reverie. A hand is on my shoulder. At first I expect it to be Truman, even though I know it is not his voice.

  When I am able to focus, dark brown eyes and matching hair that is pulled back into a long ponytail come into view. I am surprised by who it is; I’ve seen him so many times—we’ve even exchanged a few words—but I had no idea he knew my name.

  “Connor?” I force a smile. “I didn’t expect to run into you.” That was stupid. Why wouldn’t I see him here? He works only around the block at the small café and book shop called Deacon’s Place. Truman and I have been there together before, but we never sit and talk. Truman rarely has time for that sort of thing.

  Connor seems unsure of himself for a moment, shuffling his feet left and right, his large and tall frame hovering over me.

  I notice the large to-go cup of coffee in his hand. Pointing, I smile wider—or I attempt to. “I would think you’d never want coffee outside of work. You must get sick of the smell.”

  He smiles also now and his teeth are straight and bright white; they make his face joyous. I always notice people’s teeth, because mine used to be so shabby. “I’ve never been fond of coffee, but this,” Connor holds the cup out to me, “is for you. I saw you out here walking and you were kind of holding your arms and looked cold.”

  I reach out for the coffee and our fingers brush. The sensation sends an unexpected jolt of electricity through my body. It travels from fingertips to toes. I don’t know what to make of it. I’ve never felt such a feeling before. I experienced the butterflies when I first met Truman—they used to flit about in my stomach—but then they had died, fluttering down to the pit of my stomach to rot along with poorly-chewed food and soda and that piece of gum I’d swallowed in tenth grade that would take so many years to dissolve.

  Taking a sip of the coffee, I can’t help but smile again. It is wonderful. Just the way I like it. “Thank you. It’s perfect.”

  “Well, you’re my only customer who takes it that way. Most people prefer butter on the scones, not in their coffee.”

  For the first time since meeting him so long ago in the café, I look at Connor closely. He is older than I am, maybe more than a decade older; the crow’s feet along his eyes tell me that. His dark brunet hair is only just kissed by silver. I find I don’t mind it there. It’s reassuring. He is unquestionably handsome. I find him more handsome than Truman, even. It’s not right to think that. My smile falters. As my expression changes, so does Connor’s, as if his happiness depends on my own. That makes no sense. He barely knows me, really.

  We stand for a while, each shifting about and unsure.

  I want to fill the silence that has come between us. “How long have you worked at the coffee house?” Really, Lena? You couldn’t think of anything better to say?

  Connor tries to run his fingers through his hair, no doubt a nervous gesture, but he only succeeds in mussing up the espresso brown strands, pulling some from the neat ponytail. “Almost five years now. I opened it with my twin brother.”

  “You own it?” I sound surprised, but why should I be? Because Connor doesn’t look like he’d own a business? Because I pegged him as a lowly barista? I’ve been around Truman and the “usual” crowd too long.

  But Connor takes it on the chin. He would never fit in with Truman and his friends. I find that this fact makes me like him even more. “My mother says I look like a hippie and is always threatening to shave my head while I sleep. I’m just not the suit-wearing type.”

  “Does your brother work with you still? I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone that looks like you there…” I trail off, because I see the way Connor’s face falls, the smile disappearing, the crow’s feet around his eyes dissolving.

  “He died two years ago—not too long before you came into the café for the first time actually. That big fifteen-car pileup near Garden City on Route 15. No one should have been on the road, the rain was coming down so hard you couldn’t see your hand in front of your face, but Deacon was stubborn.”

  The morsel of happiness I’ve felt talking to Connor is gone. I’ve caused him pain. I hate myself. “I’m… I’m so sorry, Connor. Was he… did he… I mean, did he die instantly?” God, I’m being so insensitive.

  “This is going to sound strange. It still sounds strange to me. Deacon drowned.”

  I look at him, puzzlement changing my expression. “Drowned?”

  “Yeah, when emergency response got there, his entire Porsche was filled with water. I mean, the car was banged to hell, but he drowned. Only my brother would drown in a car accident. But he did love the water.”

  “God, that’s awful. I can’t even imagine. Is it hard for you?” I blush, feeling the heat rising in my face. “Of course it’s hard for you. That was stupid.”

  “No, it’s not stupid. I’m okay now. I moved Mom in afterwards. She was pretty torn up. And I keep in touch with Deacon’s girlfriend still.”

  “You moved your mom in?”

  “She was living with Deacon before. Dad left her when we were in college—just disappeared. Mom says he never really wanted kids, not really, and she always knew he was a tad relieved that they weren’t able to conceive. Adopting us was for her, mostly. I don’t even think she resents him for finally leaving.” Connor pauses, his eyes trained on the water, his expression a thoughtful one. “Doesn’t the ocean just sing to you some days? Or is that just me?”

  I look where he is looking, at the sea and all its roiling and cresting, and I agree, it does sing to me. It is singing to me now.

  When Connor clears his throat to speak again, a smile follows. “Anyways, he didn’t leave her with much and she never really worked. I told her she can live with me forever, as long as she keeps me swimming in her lasagna and fresh bread. I’d let just about anyone live with me if they made a mean lasagna.” Just like that, his smile returns.

  “Oh, is that right?” I banter back playfully, and somehow I am even more drawn to him now that I know he is like me: an orphan. At the same time, I am also slightly jealous—at least he has a mother who loves him. And a father who abandoned him. And a brother who died. I chide myself mentally, feeling all sorts of childish and selfish.

  “Yep. I’m a happy man as long as I have a full belly. Say… don’t suppose you’ve got a knack for Italian? Mom could use a sous chef.”

  I laugh loudly, my head tilting backwards of its own volition. I am reminded of the chorus of bells when I laughed underwater. When I dreamed I laughed under water. I swallow the sound, afraid I might snort and look foolish.

  Connor is looking at me, almost into me, as if my laugh has opened the way to my soul. “You’ve got a great laugh.”

  “Thanks,” I respond awkwardly, not knowing what else to say. Nervously, I down the rest of the coffee in one go. It is still quite hot.

  Connor is staring at my neck now, at the starfish there. It has captured his attention and I know why: the silver and pearls of it are no doubt sparkling in the sunlight. I love it so much, even though it is a material object that can easily be destroyed, which makes it somewhat meaningless in the scheme of life and love. But sometimes even the most trivial objects can hold meaning that is infinitely dear and important.

  Connor’s fingers move to it and he holds the little sea creature between pointer and thumb. “This is really beautiful. Did…” His voice trails off, and I wonder if he is going to ask if Truma
n has given it to me. I want him to know that it is mine by right, that no one has given it to me.

  “It’s the only thing I have from…” From? “… wherever I came from, I guess.”

  His eyes meet mine and they cut into me; he is searching for the soul beneath the skin and it makes me both scared and elated.

  I begin to walk. I’m not sure why, but standing still is not an option now. I do not expect Connor to follow, but he does. As I pass a trashcan, I pause to throw away the empty to-go cup. This gives Connor time to catch up and we continue walking side by side until we find an empty bench. A foot of space exists between us when we sit down. And we talk. We talk for hours, inching together until the foot of space is no more, until the sun begins to set and the sky is an eye-assaulting parade of bright colors.

  ***

  It is when the pinks are fading, melting into stoic dark blue, that I realize the time—realize that Truman will be at home waiting on me and wondering where I am. Subconsciously, I’ve kept my left hand in my pocket most of the time that I’ve been with Connor. It’s only now that I let the dying light sparkle against the engagement ring on my finger.

  It catches Connor’s eye and I can see that he’s confused.

  Sadness fills me.

  “I have to go,” I murmur, averting my eyes.

  Connor’s hand reaches out and sets gently against my left forearm. “Life is always going to be too short, Lena. All we can do is find our own little pieces of happiness.”

  I can’t look at his face, because what he says stings my heart. I think of his brother. I think of death. I think, not for the first time, that dying would be preferable to leaving Truman. To leaving the family I’ve craved for so long. I don’t want to be an orphan again.

  “Today has been really nice, Connor. I can’t believe I’ve been coming to your shop for almost two years and we’ve never really talked. Actually, I really can’t believe I’ve lived here all my life and your coffee shop was open three years before I even discovered it.”

  “We’ve talked and I’m just glad you found the shop at all.”

  “No. We really haven’t talked.” I look at him; I want him to feel what I am feeling.

  “Well… we have now, and I hope we can talk again.”

  “Truman asked me to marry him.” I drop the truth on the bench between us and the weight of it causes the metal to bow downward. I am sad to realize that the foot of space is back, that we have moved away from each other again.

  “I sort of figured that. Ring’s a dead giveaway.”

  “I wasn’t trying to lead you on.”

  “I know that.”

  “Why did you sit here with me all day?”

  “Why did you sit here with me all day?” He repeats my question back at me.

  I only have one answer, and it is not one that I’ll voice. Because I haven’t found my little piece of happiness yet.

  Standing up, I brush my pant legs, trying to smooth out some of the wrinkles from sitting too long. “Thank you again for the coffee.” I try to smile, but I can’t manage one this time.

  Connor says nothing. His hair is fully out of the ponytail now; dark, shiny strands dance around his face playfully and streaks of bronze-brown come alive and highlight the few strands of silver. His lips part, as if he has thought of the perfect goodbye. But then his mouth closes and I feel a twisting in my heart.

  “Bye.” The word is a whisper that floats behind me as I walk away, a tiny grain of sand carried on a wave that may not return to shore.

  Chapter 9

  It Shimmers

  “Where the hell have you been?” The words greet me as I walk through the door and into the condo.

  I am not startled. I expect this reaction. “I just lost track of time, Truman. You could have called me.

  “Called you? On what?” He holds up my black smartphone; his grip on it is so tight that I expect the screen to crack at any moment.

  “Truman… I’m sorry. I thought I had it with me.”

  “I was worried sick, Lena. You just got out of the hospital. I thought… I thought the worst.”

  “You thought I’d tried to kill myself again.”

  “No, Lena. I thought you’d succeeded.” He drops my phone onto the sofa cushion and then collapses onto the dark tan material beside it; one hand covers his face as he leans forward. I think he is crying. Surely, he isn’t. Truman does not cry.

  I am right. Truman sheds no tears. He is leaning back now. His head resting against the top of the couch, his hair somehow splays out above his head in a perfect semicircle of gold. He is picture-perfect. “I don’t know what to do with you, Lena. What else can I do? Just tell me. What else can I possibly do to make you grow up and see that what we have is worth your time? This is the best you’ve ever had. I want you… but wanting you isn’t going to keep us together. Don’t you want this? Don’t you want a home?”

  There are the words that punctuate Truman’s most callous flaws. This is the best you’ve ever had. I want you. Don’t you want a home? Love doesn’t highlight the sadness of the past; it revels in the beauty of today and tomorrow. Love doesn’t want, it cherishes… it… it wraps its arms around you and holds you loosely, so that you’ll always know that it is there, ready and waiting whenever you have need. And, in turn, you offer your own embrace, freely given and without threat of abandonment.

  He wasn’t always like this. Our first months together were wonderful. Our first months together… and, yet, I have stayed with this man for years, well past those blissful initial months.

  “I won’t stay with you forever, Lena. You have to show me you want this as much as I want it. You can leave. I won’t stop you. You can go out into the world and find whatever it is I’m not giving you. You’d be a fool—a damn fool, Lena, but I wouldn’t stop you.” When he claims that he won’t stop me, there is an undertone of falsehood in his voice.

  Love does not strangle you with strong hands and staple you to the floor with harsh words.

  “I do want this, Truman.” I try to look at him, but his eyes are the color they get when he is concealing anger with a façade of apathy. They are piercing and icy. So I look at the white porcelain sculpture atop the sideboard. It is hideous, shaped like an elk, the antlers dipped in silver. Another encroachment by the tasteful Peggy to go with her oil diffusers and tiny guest soaps shaped like seashells. My mind goes to that small sterling dish in the guest bath, now filled with realistic conchs and moon shell soaps. I realize I actually don’t mind those. I find them darling.

  I hate that I find them darling. Stupid Peggy and her posh little knickknacks that make me want to hurl. I have the urge to walk over to the elk, pick it up, and smash it into the display case which holds Truman’s various work awards and degree plaques. It is like a little worship temple for his ego. The espresso shelves, each lit with a string of LED lights, each hold a piece of his confidence.

  But I know that if I attack the case, I will then walk into our master closet and take all of his precious suits, color-coordinated shirts and pocket squares, elaborate ties and expertly-shined shoes, and I will toss them all off of our large balcony, watch them float toward the busy street below and be devoured by oncoming traffic. It would cause an accident; I had no doubt about that. Cars would pile up, horns would honk like angry geese…

  My thoughts trail off and I find a vision of a face replaces the anger.

  Connor. His brother Deacon. A fifteen-car pileup that changed everything.

  So, no, I will not destroy anything tonight. Tonight I will be Truman’s Lena, simpering and apologetic.

  “You’re right, Tru. Please forgive me. I will keep trying.”

  He stands; the smile that is plastered across his face is forced. When his arms embrace me, I want to push him away but I do not. When his fingers trail down my back and play with the loose material of the palazzo pants, I do not stop him. The ring on my left hand is laughing at me.

  I can hear the diamond’s voice as it
shrieks with joy. It is not my best friend. It’s a monster, expertly hand-cut and incredibly ugly. It is proof that all that glitters and shimmers is not gold and precious.

  ***

  We are in the bedroom now. I only wear the billowy blouse and life-worn starfish necklace and Truman wears nothing at all. His body is beautiful—perfect, even. But I do not want to touch it, not like I once did. It does not blind me to his faults—that taut stomach, the muscled thighs and calves… they are not enough of a shield. Even when he turns around, wanting to catch a glimpse of himself in the floor-to-ceiling mirror inside our walk-in closet, I feel no fluttering from the long-dead butterflies he used to make come alive with only a smile and “hello.”

  I wait for him, my body resting against the plush comforter, my lower half exposed.

  He is at the foot of the bed. His lips brush against my calves. Higher. His teeth nibble at my inner thighs. Higher. As much as I do not want it, I still feel the tingling of my body responding to his touch. It is in rebellion, wanting things that my heart and mind do not want. I shudder as his mouth works hungrily.

  An unwanted ecstasy. A disturbing desire. A climax that feels so wrong.

  He is lying beside me now. His hands pulling up the material of my shirt. Sitting up, I let him pull the blouse fully over my head. My bra is already long gone.

  “Take this off.” His fingers play with my necklace.

  I shake my head; I don’t want to remove it. It crossed my mind on the drive home that perhaps it is magic; perhaps it is the thing that is taking me from one reality to another. That is silly, though. Stupid.

  He doesn’t ask me a second time to remove my starfish; he allows me this small show of boldness.

  “I don’t know why you love me, Tru.” I am shivering now, suddenly cold, fully aware of my nakedness. Naked in so many ways.