by Lisa Sorbe
“I’m a bad mom.” My voice is heavy, the words surprisingly clear despite my inebriated state. They cut me, slicing right through the alcohol-induced haze.
He doesn’t say anything, although he’s seen me with Emilia so he has to suspect. I listen to him breathe and flip over onto my back. The pillows throw me off kilter, but my body is too heavy to move. So I just stay this way, one hip higher than the other. “But I’m sure you already knew that.” My eyes feel hot, staring into the darkness, and I have to blink a couple times just to clear them.
Just when I think he’s dozed off, he clears his throat. “I was engaged.”
I draw in a breath. “I’m a fake.” It comes tumbling out of my mouth before I even realize it.
Miles fires back. “My friend’s dad made me shoot a rabbit when I was eleven and I cried in front of all my friends.”
I smile. “I’m scared of snakes.”
“I’m scared of snakes.”
“I miss painting so much it hurts.”
“I got beat up by a girl in grade school.”
“Working for you is the first job I’ve had in almost ten years.”
Miles is quiet for a moment, and just when I’m worried he’s going to revoke my employment due to severe lack of experience, he sighs. “I had a son.”
Had. I heard it. Had means not anymore. My thoughts are turning murky, but I swim through the sludge. “Miles…”
“Your turn.” He voice is firm, but gentle.
I bite my lip, digging my teeth into the soft flesh. “I just found out my ex-husband is dating a prima ballerina who’s prettier than me.” The tears finally break through, burning rivers of shame down my fevered cheeks. But I’m quiet; I don’t even sniffle. I became a pro at silent crying during my last year with Julian.
“You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met.”
My heart skips a beat. A cloud passes over the moon, throwing the room into a darkness so thick it’s practically tangible. I kick off the blankets, suddenly hot. Too hot.
“Jenny?”
I realize it’s my turn. “You’re not as awful as I first thought you were,” I mutter.
Miles just laughs. I hear the springs on the old pull-out squeak as he rolls over.
We’re quiet for a while, my eyes growing heavier with each second that passes.
Miles eventually mumbles something, but I can’t make it out because it’s too dark. Wait, that doesn’t make sense…
This bed is the most comfortable bed in the whole wide world.
“’Night, Jenny.”
Miles. I heard that.
His voice sounds far away.
G’night, Miles.
I’m not sure I said that out loud.
The tears eventually dry up, and I sink.
I always suspected Julian had flings on the side, even before our marriage. Women who meant nothing more to him than a fuck. An island to conquer, somewhere to stick his proverbial flag. Or some metaphorical bullshit like that.
But, back then, I felt the pros of being with him outweighed the cons. He loved me. I know he did – at least, in his own way. The only way he was capable. And he did put a ring on my finger. I was the one he wanted with him in the limelight. The desirable image he attached to his. I was the one who got to reap the rewards of being Julian Kinraid’s wife: the salons and spas where people bowed to my every wish, the best tables and service in the hottest Chicago restaurants, the invitations to parties and events the majority of the public could only ever dream of attending. I even modeled a bit; fashion designers who were diehard fans of Julian’s work requested me by name. They fussed and fawned over me while the flashing cameras ate up my image, splashing it across magazines and websites that spanned around the world.
I craved all of it. The admiration, adoration, respect. It was my drug of choice, even topping the addiction I had for Julian.
And then, of course, there was the money. All the money. That, however, was only a small part. A means to an end. It was a tool to maintain a lifestyle that promised me my deepest desire.
The security of being wanted. Of never going out of style.
Being cast aside for something better wasn’t a worry I allowed my waking mind to contemplate. But with Julian’s rise – and subsequently, mine – it was a fear that took hold and haunted my dreams. A nightmare I’d wake from drenched in sweat, chest heaving, and stomach rolling.
The desire to be wanted, to be a someone? It’s a need you can never quite quench.
I don’t go out with Victoria the next night, like we planned. I tell her I’m too exhausted from a work function – which is sort of the truth. But in reality, I just don’t have the energy – or even the desire – to put on my personality suit and make catty chit-chat about the goings on around town. Pointless gossip I could give a shit about. So instead I stay home and, with Emilia’s urging, wander out to the pool and get pulled into an intense game of Marco Polo. Turns out my daughter is pretty spirited when it comes to competitions like this – bending the rules with the sort of persuasive argument that would sway even the toughest jury. We whittle the hours away enjoying the sort of lazy summer day I used to love as a kid and haven’t experienced since: hot sun, cool water, tangy lemonade, holding our noses while we dive for an old hockey puck we still have from my brother’s one year on the ice, swimming lap after lap after lap, and eating way too much junk food.
It’s the most time I’ve spent with my daughter in one sitting since she was born.
Now, after a long day of swimming, Emilia is out like a light, curled up by my side on a puffy chaise lounge. I’m feeling mushy from being in the pool all day, and her rhythmic breathing is making my own eyes droopy. The sun set over an hour ago, and even though the heat and humidity from the day hasn’t faded much, the cool water from the pool has dropped my core temperature enough that I’m not uncomfortable.
My dad stayed out with us for most of the day; he’s been working less lately and I sense retirement is just around the corner. We didn’t see much of my mom, which is unusual as during the summer she spends more time outside in the pool and garden than she does inside. And on a gorgeous day like today, her absence was noticeable.
The night is quiet, the silence interrupted only by the occasional cricket or the buzzing hum of cicadas. It’s a setting that provokes contemplation, the fresh air loosening my body and clearing my mind, pushing thoughts of my mother and her recent behavior to the surface. And… I can’t help but feel like something’s off. A niggling concern is just starting to twist my gut into a pretzel when my phone buzzes.
It’s Miles, and suddenly the niggling twist is gone. Instead it’s replaced by a swooping feeling, deep down in my stomach, and it reminds me of when I was younger and would leap off the high dive at the public pool after getting a running start.
I loved that feeling of free falling, of being entirely untethered and airborne. When my laugh would bubble up from the pit of my stomach before gravity would catch it in my throat, letting it warm my insides as I plunged below the water’s surface. It was such a rush – exciting and scary at the same time.
Seeing Miles’s name on my screen now gives me that same rush.
It’s a simple text, making sure I’m feeling okay after the spectacle I made of myself last night. He doesn’t use those words, doesn’t even elude to it. But I wasn’t so drunk on our walk back to his loft that I lost my sense of awareness. I remember everything that was said.
I told him I was a bad mom. He told me he’d had a son.
I’m fine. Thanks for asking.
It’s a quick text, and I hold the phone in my hand for a full minute, wondering whether or not he’ll reply.
Cool. Then, thirty seconds later: If you’re available tomorrow, I have a project I’d appreciate your help with. Might chip your nail polish though, so be warned.
I fire back an answer immediately, which is something I rarely do. I usually prefer to make most people wait. But then again, Miles
isn’t most people. Very funny. And I’m in. What’s the project?
I bite my nail, waiting for his response. I love that he doesn’t use abbreviations or acronyms, instead choosing to spell every word, allowing that annoying wit to shine through.
What can I say? He’s growing on me.
I’ll fill you in tomorrow. Be here at 8. And be prepared to get dirty.
His text makes me laugh, an innuendo that only those who have a truly warped mind would recognize. It’s been a while since anyone’s promised me that. I hold my breath.
What do you know? Jenny has a sense of humor. Then: Actually, things might just get downright filthy.
I laugh out loud, a girlish giddiness overwhelming my usual nonchalance. Emilia stirs next to me, and I reach down and soothe a hand over her damp hair before I reply. Whatever, Casanova. Challenge accepted. See you tomorrow.
Night, Jenny.
I clutch my phone, rest my head against the fluffy cushion, and smile up at the stars.
The project that Miles was referring to took more than an afternoon. In fact, making over the front of the shop took an entire month of practically round-the-clock work to complete.
It started with ripping down the nasty wood paneling put up sometime during the seventies that covered up the gorgeous brick walls I suspected were hiding underneath, and then whitewashing them to match those of the loft upstairs. It felt good to be working with paint again, even if it was on a wall instead of a canvas, and I’d doodle little caricatures of Miles on the back of cardboard boxes and old paneling during breaks. He’d laugh whenever I showed him one, the corners of his eyes crinkling up and getting all squinty. His humor is usually dry, so to see him let loose the sort of uncontrollable, full-bellied howl that my squiggly little paintings pulled from him was enough to make my own laugh lines deepen. I painted him with a wrench, a blowtorch, in his Charger, one with Lucy (which he took and said he wanted to frame) and one with George (which he didn’t have much to say about at all).
The next phase – at my incessant urging – was tackling the floor. Betsy, George, Adair, and a few other friends from Miles’s softball team joined us for this project, and we pulled and plucked and scraped those disgusting tiles off the battered floor to reveal an even more disgusting mess of congealed, tar-like gunk beneath it.
While working together, I noticed that Miles and George don’t act very much like a couple. In fact, they don’t act like they’re dating at all. Which, of course, leads my mind speculate on all sorts of scenarios. She’s flirty, to a point. He jokes with her but, then again, he jokes with everyone, so that’s not really a tell-tale sign of infatuation. At the very least, he’s polite when he ribs her – unlike me, who seems to bear the brunt of his smartass remarks and juvenile pranks.
Once we had the tiles up, I suggested we get new counters as well because the old ones had been around almost as long as the flooring and were looking pretty damn shabby. Miles immediately hesitated, confirming what I suspected – that time and money were a concern. Remembering some pieces I saw in Fox’s woodworking shop when I was at his place for Emilia’s birthday party almost a year ago, I promised Miles I could get him a fantastic deal – and then held my breath while I made my first overseas call to my brother. After giving me shit about only calling him when I wanted something, he agreed to let me have the counters at no charge, claiming “that poor mechanic deserves a break after working with you for a whole month”. But there was a joking lilt to his voice when he said it, an underlying pride that let me know he was proud. I still told him to fuck off, though.
Now, after just over a month of hard work, we’re opening the front up for the first time. All the sweat, backbreaking labor, and youtube tutorials paid off; the place looks incredible.
“I still can’t believe your brother gave these to us for free.” Miles runs his hand over the countertop, the fresh smell of mahogany overpowering the stench of burnt Cheetos that, alas, will eventually find its way in here from the back. The wood has been weathered to give the counters a rustic feel, and the front side facing the lobby is fitted with corrugated metal, which accents the polished concrete floors and brick walls.
“What can I say? My twin brother soaked up all the good in uetro.”
“That,” Miles says, “explains so much.”
He crosses the room to my refreshment station and pours himself a cup of coffee. I lean against the counter, prop my elbow on it, and rest my chin in my palm. “Look at you, taking advantage of my brilliant idea.”
Lucy, who’s sprawled out at the other end of the counter, lifts her head at the sound of my voice and hisses. I flip her off.
“Har, har,” he says, using a pair of plastic tongs to pluck two peanut butter cookies from the tray my mom sent in with this morning. The station itself isn’t much, just a bar table with coffee and cookies, but I’m learning it’s the simple things that make the biggest impact.
Then again, the big things are pretty fucking great, too. I grab my mug of coffee (this one claims I’m kind of a big deal in Kentucky in cursive red font) and cross the room, sliding into one of the two new chairs I ordered and just arrived yesterday. They’re made up of recycled bench seats from a ’57 Chevy Bel Air and, unbeknownst to Miles, cost me over a grand each. The designer I found them through is an old acquaintance from my days in Chicago, and I knew they were perfect the moment I saw them. Reupholstered in distressed brown leather and held together by a sleek metal frame, they’re the epitome of vintage sheik. At least, as sheik as you can get when decorating an auto repair shop.
Of course, I didn’t use the word sheik when I hauled them in here and presented them to Miles. I called them badass.
Miles flops down in the other, spilling coffee on his coveralls as he does. A few sprinkles land on the leather, and he swipes at the spot with his sleeve.
I frown. “A few more accidents like that, and I’m not going to allow you up here.”
Miles takes a bite of his cookie and follows it with a swig of coffee. “As amazing as this place looks – and yes, you were right – it’s still no swanky salon. Or one of your high-end art galleries. Princess,” he jokes.
“Tell me about it,” I mutter, lifting my own mug to my lips. The obnoxious Beer Runners softball trophy sitting behind the counter is proof enough of that.
No, Wright Auto Repair isn’t swanky. It’s not an art gallery or even a place that needs to look like this. Truth be told, Miles could have probably continued on with his shop remaining just the way it was – gummy floors, out-of-date wood paneling, and pockmarked counters – and done just fine. Because he’s right; this is just an auto repair shop, after all. And the clients don’t come here for the ambience.
But all in all, it didn’t cost much. What with Fox giving us the counters for free and me buying the car-bench-couches (I told Miles they were a gift and something I found for fifty bucks total at an art fair a few towns over), most of the expense came in the way of labor – which Miles paid for in beer and takeout after our late-night work sessions.
“Speaking of art,” Miles says, eyeing the naked walls, “I’m thinking we need to get some.”
I nod, draining the last of my coffee. “Sure.” I threw sugar in it this time, and the soupy mixture sticks to my lips. While I lick it off, I ponder his use of the word we and realize I like it. “I can browse art.com. Find some prints of cars or something…”
But Miles is already shaking his head. “Nope. Do you really think I’d go through all this” – he waves a cookie around, flinging crumbs every which way – “to put up posters of hot rods and classic cars with girls sprawled on the hood?”
I nod. “Yeah, that’s exactly what I think. Which is why I’m not asking your opinion when I pick them out.”
Miles pops the last bite of cookie into his mouth and grins. “Actually, I’m thinking about commissioning some work.”
I arch a brow. “Oh?”
“Yep.” Miles slowly sips his coffee, brushes a few crumbs of
f his lap and onto the floor (that I’m only going to have to sweep up later), and sighs. “This coffee is amazing, by the way.” He holds up his mug, which displays a colorful beach scene and has the words SUN YOUR BUNS IN FLORIDA above it in bright bubble letters. “The flavor. It’s just so round and robust…”
He’s rambling, stalling, and he’s doing it on purpose because he knows he’s getting to me. So I kick him, because I want to hear more about this so-called work he’s commissioning.
He laughs. “Fine, fine. It’s a local artist who, from what I’ve seen, is an amazing painter. Her work really,” he places a hand over his chest, closes his eyes, and makes a ridiculous swoony face, “moves me.”
I feel a jolt, like I’ve been hit in the back of the neck with something – sort of like that time when Clark told me I wasn’t going to be pretty forever. The shock hits me like that, but burrows even deeper this time. And instead of a tire iron, it’s more like a bolt of lightning; the electricity rippling out from between my shoulder blades and pinging every nerve down to my toes.
It’s shame, this repulsive feeling. Shame that there’s some other artist out there catching Miles’s eye. Another artist who’s practicing her craft, wholeheartedly and without trepidation. Who isn’t letting the heartache from her past stymie her creativity or stall her brush.
Not like I have.
“Well, that’s great to hear.” I tap my nails on my mug, the clink of my chipped manicure against the ceramic betraying my indifference. “What’s her name? Maybe I’ve heard of her.”
Miles is sitting back in his seat, watching me with the most amused expression on his face. Happy and serene, like everything is going so right in his world.
Well, fucking fantastic for him.
Any pride I felt at the reformation of this place is seeping right out of me, replaced by the darkness that always hits when I think about the dream I gave up. And very willingly gave up, I might add. All for a man who, in the end, I wasn’t enough for anyway.
It’s like there’s a dull roar in my head, a buzzing in my ears that makes Miles’s voice sound like it’s filtering through a vacuum.
