by Emerson Rose
It’s Edith’s day to clean, and it’s laundry day. I texted her earlier and told her not to change the sheets on my bed. I would have stripped the bed and started the wash before leaving this morning, but we were rushed, and now I’m glad. I want to lay on the sex permeated sheets and inhale Violet’s lavender and vanilla scent one last time before I throw the sheets in the wash and cleanse my memory of the magnificent woman who reminded me how to feel again.
At home in my garage, the door closes behind me with a strange sense of finality. I sit in the dark and slide my phone from my pocket. I squint when the glow of the screen lights up the inside of the car. I scroll to Violet’s phone number and pull it up. My thumb hovers over the green dial button. Fuck, I want to call her. It’s only been a few hours, and I’m craving her touch, her sweet laugh and carefree smile. She made me feel human again. I’ve become a slave to my self-imposed rigid life, my lists and my excessive attention to detail. I haven’t made a list for over forty-eight hours, and I’ve been more flexible with my schedule than I have been in years. The crazy thing is that it was effortless. I didn’t have the urge to stay on schedule. No one has ever dominated my every thought the way Violet does, not even Katie.
I slip my phone into the breast pocket of my dress shirt and go inside the house. I won’t call her. She deserves better than me. On my way through the kitchen, I remove the salt and pepper containers from the counter and place them in the pantry where they belong. I take out a piece of paper and make an organized list of the things I have left to do today and what time I’ll be doing them. Then I write a list of things I need from the grocery store. I take the clipboard off the hook inside the pantry and check the items on the expiration list. I open the cupboards to check if Edith has thrown out expired items. When I’ve opened every cupboard and the refrigerator, I move on to the living room. I’m feeling especially anxious in here, what with having had a stranger sleep on my couch last night, but there isn’t anything out of order per say. I head upstairs to change to go for a run at exactly 1830. I should have run inside on the treadmill. I thought the fresh air would do me good, but the damage from the earthquake is everywhere. The cracks in the pavement start to make me crazy, so I give up after three miles and turn back home.
I spend the rest of the evening grocery shopping and cooking dinner. I thought I wanted to go to bed and think about my time with Violet, but now I’m finding excuses not to. I dust the already dustless furniture and clean the glass on the coffee table. I work in my office for a while and finally head upstairs.
I’m not three feet down the hall when it hits me. I have a superior sense of smell, and Violet’s scent permeates the air around me. In my room it’s stronger, and the smell of sex on my sheets is unbearable. I strip the sheets off the bed and remove the pillowcases. Her towel is still hanging in the bathroom. I snatch that off the rack as well and stomp down the hall to the laundry room. On my way back, I grab a bottle of Febreze and spray everything in my room down—the mattress, the pillows, the decorative pillows, my chair, everything. I remake my bed with perfect, tight military corners and lie down. When I shut off the light, I try like hell to block out my thoughts of her, but it’s impossible. I miss her. I can’t sleep.
I fucking miss her.
It’s for the best. She’s a good woman. She deserves more. She deserves a man without the heavy baggage that comes with me. I don’t want to hurt her. I repeat my reasons to stay away from Violet over and over a hundred times. My mind is convinced, but there’s not a ghost of a chance at persuading my heart. I’m fighting a losing battle when it comes to atoning for my sins, and I won’t allow Violet to be another casualty in my war.
14
Just let go already
Violet
The drive home wasn’t easy. It took an hour longer than usual after being sent on detour after detour. I’ve never been happier to see my bed. I dump my bag at the door and walk straight to my room and flop onto the mattress.
Mom hounded me for at least fifteen minutes when I left her house. She thinks I’m not handling this ‘breakup’ well, if you can even call it that. What she doesn’t know is that Major worked me over so hard all night that I’m more tired than sad. At least, that’s what I keep telling myself.
I am upset. I had feelings for Major, deep feelings, but I’m not going to do anything stupid, and my Mom knows that. I think she’s more concerned about being alone herself. She’s been going on and on about aftershocks since we checked her house for damage, of which there was none. I finally talked her down and convinced her that she would be fine by herself. I drove myself home on autopilot. I’m probably lucky to be alive. I can’t even remember pulling into the parking lot.
I still have the rest of the week off, and now, with no wedding plans, I’ll be able to rest. After the past few days, God knows I need it.
I roll over and look at the clock. It’s dark. I wonder what day it is—Monday? No, Tuesday . . . well, that depends on whether it’s six a.m. or six p.m. I’m so disoriented. I grab my phone and turn it on. Six p.m. Oh my God. Well, now I can honestly claim I’ve slept for over twenty-four consecutive hours. Who does that? I flop back down onto my back and wince when my muscles protest. After being still for so many hours, I’m feeling the effects of my night with Major more than ever.
And there it is. As all bad things do in that moment between sleep and awake, it all comes rushing back to me. The drinks, the bathroom in the restaurant, the sex, the long talks, the tenderness, and then . . . the betrayal. I can’t hold back the tears any longer. The moment I heard Major apologize to someone for spending too much time with me, I’ve been suppressing the urge to cry.
I cry and sob—hell, I downright blubber—and I feel sorry for myself. I snatch a wad of tissues out of the box next to my bed and blow loudly. It feels good to be alone at home where no one can judge my emotions.
I need to shower. Get up, Violet. It’s time to get living. I need to forget about the fairytale weekend I just spent with Major Steele and focus on work, friends, something—anything but him. I take my time rolling to the edge of the bed and stand up, stretching my aching muscles. I peel off the clothes I’ve been wearing for two days now and turn on the shower. My eyes feel like sandpaper, and even after all the crying, I swear I can hear myself blink. I’ve got to get these contacts out. I pad through my dark apartment and retrieve my bag from the floor next to the door where I dropped it when I got home. I unzip the pink duffle and dig around for my contact case. The only one I can find is the one Major let me borrow in a side pocket. I take it out and close my hand around it, squeezing it tight. Why is such a mundane, everyday object making me want to sit down on the bathroom tile and bawl?
Because that mundane, everyday object was sweetly given to me by a man I thought I was falling for. So stupid.
I take out my contacts, shower, and cry some more. Usually, when something upsets me, I’m fine after a good cry. I get it all out of my system and put it behind me. But Major is like a stubborn flu virus that refuses to leave my system. Putting him behind me is heartbreak instead of positive forward progress. I feel like something’s missing or lost when I never had it to begin with.
When I have my shit together, I go to the kitchen to fix something to eat, but there isn’t much to choose from since I had planned on being gone for a week. I eat a bowl of cereal and vegetate, binge watching Netflix all night.
Now it’s late morning and I need to get out of here. If I’m alone another minute, I’m going to start stalking Major online—or worse, call or text him. I’m strong, but enough is enough. I miss him. I miss the faint smell of starch and Irish Spring soap, the feel of his five o’clock stubble scratching against my thighs, his strong hands tugging my hair, his mouth . . . God, I have to stop.
I call Kimber to meet me for lunch. Choosing her out of all my friends for a distraction isn’t the smartest idea since she and Garcia are hitting it off so well. But it’s Tuesday, and all my friends are at work. The g
roup I’m closest to at work doesn’t typically break for lunch. We’re workaholics, and when we get on a roll, we don’t quit until the project is done.
Kimber told me she had just moved to San Diego when the divorce was final a few weeks ago, so she hasn’t had time to make new friends or explore the city. I can help her with both.
“Hey there, you look gorgeous,” I say, holding her at arm’s length to look her over. She really is the most beautiful pregnant woman I’ve ever seen. She’s always impeccably dressed, and her pregnant belly looks like she swallowed a small watermelon. You wouldn’t even know she was pregnant from behind.
“Oh, yuck, I’m fat. You look great though.”
We hug, and she holds on a little longer than your average casual lunch hug. She feels sorry for me. I hate pity.
“You’re not fat, you’re pregnant. There is a big difference, and I know it’s cliché, but you’re glowing. A certain Marine named Garcia wouldn’t have anything to do with that, would he?”
She shifts her eyes away from mine. She’s uncomfortable.
“Hey, it’s okay. We can talk about him. I’m fine.” I’m such a liar, but I believe if you tell yourself something enough, it starts to feel true.
“Are you sure? I mean, I don’t know what happened between you two, but Julian says Major has been really grouchy and withdrawn since you left Oceanside. He won’t talk about it with him though. Julian says he’s not that kind of person.”
I open the door for her and we step inside my favorite bistro and wait to be seated.
“Grouchy, huh? And I’m assuming Julian is Garcia.”
“Oh yeah, I guess nobody calls him that, huh? I can’t call him Garcia. It feels weird.”
I smile and imagine Kimber yelling out “Garcia!” during sex. Then I think of the alternative, and I chuckle. Julian isn’t much sexier, but I don’t see Garcia that way, so it doesn’t matter.
“Well, I’m glad you two are hitting it off so well, and I’m sure Major will be just fine.” I can’t help but put a bitter spin on the word ‘fine’. It’s hard knowing that he’s not spending all his time alone pining over me. He’s got his girlfriend to keep his bed warm at night. I can’t believe I fell for that crap about me being the only woman he’s ever brought into his house. What an idiot.
Kimber touches my shoulder. “Violet, tell me what happened. Maybe I can help. I could have Julian talk to him or something.”
“No, don’t worry about me. Really, I’m fine, and there’s nothing to talk about. We had a couple of fun nights and now I’m back home. It wasn’t serious.” I hate lying. First, I’m no good at it, and second, I have a deep respect for the truth. Unless it’s going to hurt someone unnecessarily, I almost always stick to honesty.
The hostess interrupts us, thank God, and we follow her to a small booth in the back. I eat here often and the staff recognizes me. They know I prefer to be seated against the wall so I can see everything. I’m a people watcher. If that could be a career, I’d be a pro.
“So what are you doing all week now that we don’t have a hundred obligations and a wedding to go to?” she asks.
“I haven’t really decided. I’ve been asleep since we got home Sunday. I guess everything just caught up with me,” I say.
I unroll my silverware and smooth the napkin across my legs. Our waiter stops by to take our drink orders and I watch an old man help his wife out of her chair. I wonder if I’ll ever find someone to grow old with. No, after this weekend, I should know better than to have thoughts like that. I’m destined to be alone. Smart, beautiful women with good game have snatched all the good men up, and I’m still the jerk magnet.
Kimber takes a long drink of water and follows my gaze to the old couple.
“Violet, please let me ask Julian to help.”
I look into her big round eyes and take a deep breath. “No, Kimber. Whatever was there is gone now. I need to leave it in the past. Let’s talk about something else.”
She sighs and we chat about work and babies. She updates me on Mattie’s and Belle’s condition. Matt’s fine. He’s been discharged with a full cast on his broken leg and he’s staying with Belle in the ICU. Belle hasn’t woken up yet. She’s still got a lot of swelling on her brain and her family is starting to worry that she may never wake up.
“I can’t believe it. They are so perfect for each other. How does something so horrible happen to such good people?” I say, slouching back in the booth and eyeing a young couple that just walked through the entrance. They remind me a little of Mattie and Belle, handsome and totally in love.
“I know. I wish there was something I could do to help. I stayed to help her parents pack her things from the hotel, and Julian loaded up all their gifts from the shower and took them to their new house.”
“They bought a house? Oh my gosh, that’s so depressing.”
“Yeah, her parents helped them a little. They didn’t want Belle to have to live on base.”
That doesn’t surprise me. Belle comes from money. It’s surprising that she isn’t more hoity-toity than she is. Her mother acts like she’s royalty with all of her overly proper etiquette and ultra-conservative opinions.
“That was nice of them.”
Our food arrives and our conversation runs dry. We eat and exchange casual comments about the weather and whatnot. When we’re finished, we hug goodbye and I watch her get into a newish Volvo. She either cleaned Caleb out in the divorce or her parents are taking good care of her. I’m leaning toward the latter.
The rest of my week was dull and boring. I was ready to go back to work. In fact, I had already started working from home. Saturday night was miserable. I could think of nothing but the date. Major and his girlfriend were out having dinner, and when they were done, he would take Sabrina back to his house so he can do all the things he did to me . . . to her.
A group of friends from work asked me to go for a drink, and I went, but my heart wasn’t into it. I decided to go home when I hallucinated Major sitting at the bar across the dance floor, scowling at me. I even braved the thick sea of people to see if it was him. It wasn’t. There was no one sitting on the bar stool when I arrived. I chalked it up to being a little drunk, so I called a cab.
Sunday night at ten p.m. I lay my head down on my pillow and get ready to go back to my regular schedule in the morning. I’ve never wanted to go back to work more desperately than now. No matter how many sheep I count or how relaxed I try to be, I can’t get his face out of my head. He’s an unwelcome intruder holding my heart hostage, and I’m going to war tomorrow to force him out. I may pack a bag and sleep in my office just to saturate myself with work. I’m going to immerse myself in every project like my life depends on its perfect completion, because to be honest, it just might.
15
Yeah, I know, I am an asshole
Major
“You said ten o’clock!” I yell. “It’s scheduled at ten and I was ready at ten. Now you tell me I’m supposed to be there at one?”
“Sir, it was changed last week. I updated your itinerary two days ago.”
“You should have reminded me. I have a lot of shit going on right now. I need to know where the fuck I’m going and when. Do you understand, Staff Sargent Jamison?”
Jamison’s body tenses when he replies, “Yes, sir.”
I sit down at my desk and press the power button on my computer and adjust the tape dispenser a centimeter to the left. The last two months have been straight hell. People are walking on eggshells around me, and with good reason. I’ve been an asshole.
Ever since I let Violet walk out of my life without a fight, all I want to do is fight—about anything, with anyone. People see me coming, and if it’s not too obvious, they turn the other way to avoid me. I am impossible to be around, and I don’t give a fuck.
I had no idea of the effect that woman had on me until she was gone. I’ve almost called or texted her a million times. I even went to San Diego and followed her into a bar the fir
st weekend after she left. She was so close, I even brushed against her when we passed in the crowd, but when I thought she might have spotted me, I did the fucking right thing to do. I left.
I have been torturing myself, imagining her in someone else’s arms at night, another man’s bed. I want her so badly I can feel it in my bones, but then I remember what happened with Katie and I rein in my selfish desires. I am proficient at one thing in this world, and that’s being a Marine. Being a husband was the biggest fail of my life, and I refuse to repeat that disaster. Losing my chance with Violet is one of the worst punishments I’ve endured, second only to losing my wife.
An attitude adjustment is long overdue, and there is only one person who knows how to handle me. I take my phone from a drawer in my desk and call Sabrina.
“Hey, you busy?” I ask when she answers out of breath.
“No, just off the treadmill. What’s up, love?” she says in her beautiful British accent.
“I need some company. Can we meet?”
“Of course, what do you have in mind?”
“Well, since you’ve already worked out, why don’t you let me feed you?
“All right, give me an hour, will you? I need to shower.”
“Meet me at Gilly’s.”
“Don’t go bossing me about, Sawyer. I’m not one of your little plonkers, you know.”
“Yes, I know. I apologize. Let me start again. Will you please honor me with your presence at Gilly’s for lunch?”
“I would love to. See you soon then.”
“Goodbye, Sabrina,” I say, but she senses something in my voice is off because she pauses before hanging up.
“Sawyer?”
“Yes?”
“I love you, you know.”
“I know. I love you too.”
