Desperately Seeking Epic

by B. N. Toler

  “I don’t remember them. But . . . it’s still a sad day for me.” I studied his expressionless face. Did he know? Did he know it was his uncle that took my parents’ lives? I really couldn’t tell. His lack of any response could mean many things. Maybe he did know, or maybe he didn’t and he just felt sorry for me.

  “My soon-to-be ex, Kurt, had the separation papers delivered today, of all days, of course,” I continued. “Then Marcus decided to act out against me. So I got drunk. Something I usually don’t do.”

  “Shit, Clara,” he sighed. “Did the guy that hit them die too?” Out of all I said, he was centering in on my parents.

  My throat tightened. He didn’t know. He had no idea what his uncle had done. Anger rose up inside of me. Marcus and Paul thought Dennis was such a great guy. He’d left them this adventurous legacy with this notion that he was a good man. He’d moved here and hid from his past. They didn’t know him at all.

  “He was forced to go to rehab. Some probation.”

  I wasn’t sure what I expected Paul to do or say. What could he really do or say? Stories like mine sucked dick. They’re sad and it’s hard to spin it with a bright side, which was what everyone wanted to do when they heard a heartbreaking story like mine. I had no expectation of him. He could have said nothing. I wouldn’t have taken it personally. After all, we weren’t really friends. He owed me nothing. So when he approached me and encircled me in his arms, I was shocked. So shocked in fact, I let my arms hang limply at my sides as he squeezed me.

  “The way a hug works,” he began, his chin resting on the top of my head, “is both parties wrap their arms around the other. See how I’m doing it?”

  I rolled my eyes where he couldn’t see. And slowly, I wrapped my arms around him, too. A second later, I melted into the hug, burying my face into his chest. I couldn’t recall when the last time I’d been hugged was. Like, really hugged. Paul and I may have shared some awkward, lightning-quick one-armed hugs, but nothing like this. Probably when Ally and Vanessa left to head back to Texas months ago was the last time I’d been really hugged. Wow. I was pathetic. I realized that. And alone. So, so alone.

  Pushing away from Paul, I wiped under my eyes. I wasn’t crying. I was tougher back then. But my eyes were a little moist. “Thanks for the ride, Paul. Sorry I ruined your night.”

  “You didn’t,” he assured me. Liar. But I let him slide on it. “You want me to make some dinner?” He looked around my kitchen for signs of food that could be cooked, which there was none, so he didn’t look long.

  “I really appreciate it, Paul. But I think I just want to be alone now.”

  “Oh, uh, sure,” he sputtered, shaking his head. “Right.” I walked him out onto the porch and we said good-bye. He climbed in his truck and was gone in a flash.

  When I went back inside, I stood at my counter, munching on dry toast as I scanned the separation papers. Kurt was pressing me. He’d offered me way less than half of our assets. My lawyer was ready to pounce him for such an insult. Now, his new tactic—he would seek a payment for the skydiving business. I’d inherited it while we were still married and he claimed he was entitled to part of its value. He was going all out.

  In our last conversation, Kurt had informed me that he’d ‘made me.’ He told me if it wasn’t for him, I’d have nothing. Apparently I owed him everything.

  Not going to lie. That hurt. To have my contribution belittled was like a kick to my face. I’d walked beside this man while he’d pursued his dreams and ambitions. I’d loved him even when he was insensitive, selfishly putting himself first. Maybe I wasn’t perfect, but I’d loved him and gave him my all. I was loyal, and there is no one on this earth that would have fought for or beside him more than me.

  No one.

  Not even Daisy, the future mother of his unborn child.

  There in those few pages was the end of my marriage. Summed up and written in cold, unfeeling terms and sentences. Not a trace of the love, laughter, joy, tears, and contentment we’d shared was included. Now it was broken down by numbers and the legalities of who got what. I felt so jaded. I felt robbed. I’d given so much to this man and this was how it ended, so callously?

  When I was a child, my grandmother, who’d raised me, told me sometimes the best way to get something out is to write it down. Sometimes words poured from our fingertips in a way they couldn’t from our mouths. I was pained in that moment, and I needed to get it out. I’d purged my body in the physical sense that day, now I needed to purge my feelings. Grabbing a piece of paper and a pen, I sat at my kitchen table, the one Paul made for me, and wrote my heartache on it.

  Today has been a bad day.

  Today, my parents died twenty-five years ago.

  Today, Marcus acted like a gigantic dick face.

  Today, Kurt took another step away from me, from our life together.

  I think I miss him.

  I shouldn’t.

  Maybe I just miss us—who I thought we were.

  He’s a bad person. I know this. Maybe not entirely bad, but mostly bad. He tossed me aside. Don’t I deserve better? Did I not love hard enough? Did I not give enough? I think I did. I really do.

  I’ve made peace with my parents passing. Being that I was so young makes it a little easier to bear.

  But Kurt is a fresh wound.

  I need to let him go. But hearts don’t work like light switches; they don’t just flick on and off. They swell rapidly with love and bleed out slowly with pain.

  I should be stronger. I should be able to shut myself down to his memory. But I’m not strong enough yet.

  They say the opposite of love isn’t hate, but indifference. I hate him. I hate him so much I feel it seeping out of my pores, toxifying everything around me.

  I don’t want him back. I don’t. Not who he is now. I want my life back. I want the safety I felt in my marriage back. I want the days where we held hands and dreamed a millions dreams together back when I believed him when he said I was his forever. When he told me no one could take my place. I want that man back. I want that type of love in my life.

  But he’s gone.

  And now, given his cruelty and seemingly unfeeling actions, I have to wonder . . . was he ever really there? Was it all a façade? Was I a fool the whole time seeing only what I wanted to see?

  I want to be happy.

  I want forever.

  I want . . .

  I want a baby.

  Pushing the paper away from me, I lay my head in my arms on the table and cried. I cried hard. When I finished, I shoved the paper in one of my empty kitchen drawers and kept the pen.

  Then I signed the papers.

  I left them on my counter and went to bed.

  Ashley stares at me.

  “You wanted to know what happened after I puked,” I point out with a smirk, trying to lighten things up again.

  “I did,” she admits.

  “Did you think he’d take me home and we’d make wild, passionate love?” I jest.

  “Maybe,” she admits.

  “Did you miss the part about me yacking up a monster chilidog all night? Wasn’t exactly sexy.”

  “That’s true,” she laughs. “Are you okay if we keep going?”

  I check my watch. “I’ve got thirty minutes.”

  “So . . .” She motions her hand. “What happened next?”

  I smile because I have a feeling I’m about to tell her something she’s really been wanting to hear.

  The next day, I ventured out to the post office and dropped the separation papers in the box. Once these were filed, our divorce could be finalized in a few months. I decided to stay home that day. I left a message on the office machine, not sure anyone would even get it if Marcus didn’t bother to show up. I knew Paul definitely wouldn’t check it. I took a long, hot bath, ate some ice cream, and painted my toenails. Basically, I took a me day. And it refreshed me. While I’d dreaded signing those papers, I felt like a weight had been lifted. I didn’t have to drea
d it anymore. I didn’t have it hanging over my head. And oddly, I felt like everything was going to be okay; that I’d taken a huge step in moving on, moving forward.

  Eight o’clock rolled around and I was lying down on my couch, watching the only channel I could get on television. They were playing reruns of Married with Children. Don’t judge me, I absolutely loved that show. I nearly jumped out of my skin when someone knocked on my door. It actually sounded more like they kicked my door. Rushing to my purse, I grabbed my revolver and plastered myself against the wall beside the door.

  “Who is it?”

  “It’s Paul. My hands are full! Open the door.”

  “What the hell is he doing here?” I mumbled softly to myself as I unhooked the chain and flipped the dead bolt.

  Holding a bottle of red wine under one arm, and balancing five containers of Country Crock in the other, he grinned. “Thought you might like some dinner.”

  “You brought five containers of butter?” I asked, confused.

  He pushed by me and walked to the kitchen. “No,” he called over his shoulder as I shut the door and followed. “My mother likes to reuse these containers as Tupperware. Not too bad unless you’re at her house looking for some kind of butter.” He gently slid everything on the counter. “It takes twenty containers until you can butter your bread.”

  I laughed a little. “She sounds awesome.”

  “I just left her house. She’s moving to Florida in a month so I’m trying to get my fill of her awesome cooking before she goes.” His gaze turns to me and his eyes widen. “Have you been holding that gun the entire time?”

  I glance down at my hand. “I didn’t know who was at the door. You kicked it,” I defended. “You scared the shit out of me.”

  “My hands were full. Damn, Clara,” he murmured. “Put that thing away.”

  “Okay, okay,” I agreed. “Don’t be such a baby.”

  “I prefer responsible adult and gun safety advocate.”

  I pursed my lips. “Yeah, well I prefer supermodel and wealthy divorcée.” I shrugged. “We are what we are.” I hid the gun in a kitchen drawer as he peeled the lids off of the containers.

  “So your mother gave you enough food to feed an army and you decided to share it with me?”

  “Italian food is the best hangover food.”

  My stomach grumbled at the thought. I wasn’t sure what I thought about his unannounced arrival. We were so weird together then. We started off enemies. Then we called a truce and proclaimed peace in the name of our business partnership. Were we becoming friends now? Really? Did he do things like this for all of his friends; bring them tables he built with his own bare hands, help them work on their house, protect them from themselves when they’re drunk in a bar, bring them dinner when they’re hung over?

  He must have noted my perplexed look. “Wasn’t just for you. I wanted to have dinner with a good friend tonight.”

  “We’re friends?”

  He gave one curt bob of his head. “Yes, we’re friends.”

  I didn’t question it. I didn’t have the energy to. And the truth was, I needed a friend. Desperately. Even if said friend was seemingly a giant man-boy that called himself Epic. Beggars can’t be choosers.

  We plated out a feast of lasagna, stuffed shells, meatballs, and salad. I could not stop eating. I might as well have shoved my face in the Tupperware of lasagna like a horse with a trough. It was so good. I had a glass of red wine with the meal, because Paul insisted it would be the best I’d ever had. And it was. Among the adventurer, skydiver, and lady slayer, I discovered he loved to cook and though he enjoyed alcohol of all kinds, he considered himself a wine connoisseur.

  After we did the dishes, which was only the forks because we ate our food off of paper plates—I hadn’t really stocked up on home essentials just yet—we took our wine and sat on the top step of the front porch. It was sturdier now. Crickets chirped in the dark as we sat, not speaking. The quiet between us made me nervous. Friends should be able to talk. Right? Why weren’t we talking?

  “I signed the papers,” I blurted out. I didn’t know why. I just needed to tell someone. Anyone. He was there. And no one else was saying anything. Why not me? I needed to feel how it felt to say it . . . to really start owning that I was single and would soon be divorced. Or on my way to divorce.

  Paul nodded a few times before holding his glass up to toast. “To moving on.” I clinked my glass with his and we both sipped. “You holding up okay?”

  I darted my tongue out and wet my dry lips. “It’s just scary. Being single again. It’s hard to imagine doing something as simple as kissing another man. And as you know, I tend to overthink everything. It’s going to be a disaster.”

  “Maybe not,” Paul replied. “Sometimes things just happen. Maybe you won’t have to think about it.”

  I let out a long sigh as I laughed. “Maybe I need a practice date and kiss. Ya know? Like someone to get me back on my feet.” I stared at my glass in thought. “Why isn’t that a thing yet? Someone should create that service.”

  “It is a thing,” he snorted. “They’re called escorts.”

  I scrunched my nose up. “Yuck. This would be different. Strictly helping people get back in the saddle for dating.”

  “Is that a new business model you just created?” he joked. “You could make millions.”

  I smacked his arm as he laughed at me. “We’re not all blessed in the art of attracting the opposite sex like some people, Paul. You just give a sideways glance to women and they fawn over you.”

  “No they don’t,” he argued, playing his hand at modesty, but failing miserably.

  “Shut up. You know you’re good-looking.”

  “Am I now?” He grinned, scooting closer to me, and smooshing our sides together. “Tell me how good-looking I am.”

  My cheeks heated as I laughed and tried to keep him from knocking me over. “I meant other women think you’re hot, not me,” I falsely clarified.

  He settled down and sipped his wine, still grinning the entire time. “I mean it. I was not saying you’re attractive.” At least that wasn’t what I meant to say. But it was true. Paul was handsome, in the most classic sense of the word. However, I did not want to admit that to him.

  “Whatever you say,” he chuckled.

  I sipped my wine. “So why haven’t you found a woman to settle down with, Paul?” I asked as nonchalantly as I could. I didn’t want him to think I was asking because I was interested in him.

  He twisted his mouth in thought before saying, “I don’t do happily ever after. I don’t do babies and white picket fences.”

  I fought the urge to roll my eyes. His answer annoyed me. Those were two things that I happened to want desperately. “Why not?”

  He shrugged. “It’s just not who I am. I’m not the kind of guy to settle down.”

  “Maybe you’ll change your mind one day when the right woman comes along,” I mused.

  He snorted. “Doubtful.”

  We finished our wine and Paul took the glasses inside to the kitchen. When he returned, we stood awkwardly, neither of us knowing what to say, which meant it was time to say good-bye. I patted his shoulder . . . so weird . . . and said, “Thanks for dinner.”

  His mouth was tight as if he was trying not to laugh as he patted my shoulder back. “No problem.”

  “See you . . . tomorrow?” I questioned as I slid my hands in the back pockets of my shorts.

  “See you then.” He made his way down my stairs and toward his truck. When he opened his door, I spun around to go inside for the night.

  “Clara,” he called, causing me to turn back. He was at the bottom of the steps, climbing them, and before I could respond with, what? he picked me up by my legs and pushed me against the front door. My mouth dropped open. I was stunned. What was he doing? The muscles in his jaw and neck ticked as his dark eyes burned into mine.

  Then he kissed me.

  I didn’t move for a second or two, my b
rain unable to catch up with my body. Then he swept his tongue between my lips and my blood pumped harder as my mouth moved against his.

  It was a hard kiss, but it was gentle, too. His lips were soft and his tongue tasted like red wine. His hips held me pressed against the door while my legs were wrapped around him, his hands holding my ass, squeezing gently. It had been so long since I’d felt something so . . . erotic. I felt like one of those inflatable Christmas decorations that people put outside—they lay limp all day, but at night the lights come on and the air starts pumping and they come to life.

  That kiss breathed life into me.

  Paul James’ kiss made me feel alive.

  When he pulled his mouth from mine, he took a little nip at my bottom lip that made me gasp. We were both breathing hard, our chests heaving up and down. I clutched his muscular shoulders as he slowly lowered me to the ground, holding me for a moment to make sure I got my footing, which took a minute because my legs felt like jelly.

  I swallowed hard as I looked up and met his gaze.

  “You don’t have to think so hard about that first kiss now.” With a small, mischievous smile, he added, “I’m lucky I got to be the first man to kiss the woman starting a new life.”

  Moments later, I was still plastered to the door when he drove away.

  Ashley is leaning forward in her chair, her eyes, painted in thick, black eyeliner, fixed on me. “So it was a good kiss?” She’s practically drooling.

  A smile creeps across my lips. “It was the best kiss of my life,” I admit.

  Ashley nods as she watches me, seemingly pleased with my answer. Then she collects herself. “Same time next week, Clara?”

  “Sounds good.”

  Two days later, I’m about to knock on Neena’s bedroom door when I hear her talking from the other side. I listen for a moment, wondering if she’s talking to herself, but quickly realize she’s on her phone.

  “I’ll bring it today and give it to you,” she says.

  Pause.

  “Hey, you wanna grab some food this afternoon?” she asks, her tone hopeful.