East in Paradise

by Tif Marcelo

  Mitchell grumbles and shifts. Unsure what to do, I lift my arms off his chest. His eyes flutter open, lids weighed down so he’s looking through his long lashes. When he finally focuses, a sleepy smile takes up the lower half of his face. “Hey, you.”

  “Hey.” My voice is a breath, caught up in the way he’s looking at me, as if we are together, as if there’s only me in his life. My heart squeezes at this despite feeling silly, because we aren’t anything but two people thrown together who’ve found attraction and comfort in each other. And yet, the way he tucks me into his chest so his heart is against my ear could fool me otherwise.

  But his breathing changes above me, and I realize he’s back asleep.

  I let myself fall back to sleep with him, until the doorbell wakens me.

  Then I hear someone knocking.

  The bed moves next to me as I pry my eyelids open. Mitchell has thrown the covers off him. He slips his shirt on. “I’ll get the door.”

  “I can do it.”

  “Nope. Stay up here.” He leans down and kisses me on the forehead. “I checked the time, and it’s still early, 7 a.m. Let me see who it is.” Mitchell leaves the bedroom door open and pads down the stairs.

  The thought hits me that no one should be at my door this early, especially not on a Sunday. I push myself up to my elbows. Hopefully it’s not an emergency.

  I find my phone under the bedside table, and it shows I’ve got no messages or voice mail, so it couldn’t be anyone from my family.

  A woman’s voice filters up the staircase, and my ears perk up. I scramble out of bed. Mitchell was right, there is absolutely no reason why anyone should be at Dunford, and especially here, at Paraiso.

  I’m simultaneously straightening my clothes and inching my way to the landing above the stairs when I catch the tail end of Mitchell’s voice. It’s loose, easy, with the same smooth cadence of speech as when he’s talking to me, to someone familiar. “My house is up the road. Give me a few minutes.”

  No way. He’s leaving? Now?

  I hear the click of the door, the shuffle of his feet against the wooden floors, and the soft thuds of him coming up the stairs.

  I leap into bed and scroll on my phone as if I don’t have a care in the world. But all I can think of is the possibility that Mitchell has another woman.

  What feels like acid, like the sear of pain, courses through my veins. Why wouldn’t he have another woman? Look at the guy. He belongs in a calendar of half-dressed soldiers. Mr. September. More so, his appeal is huge, because below that sexy I don’t give a shit attitude is someone who definitely gives a shit.

  “Is there something wrong with your phone?” Mitchell asks from the doorway.

  “What do you mean?” I answer, exuding a similar nonchalance. No, I don’t give a damn a woman has come to see you first thing in the morning. Logic tells me it could be one of his workers at the vineyard or a business associate who works on Sundays. Or, it could be a person who expected to surprise him at home. Someone who routinely sees him after hours. Like another woman.

  Except, now that I think of it, maybe the booty call was me. My thumb scrolls and scrolls and scrolls but the photographs and text blur and fuzz.

  “You’re pushing the daylights out of that screen.”

  My thumb pauses over the touch screen. “Yeah, it’s just a little finicky.” My tone comes out sharper than I expected, bringing attention to the fact I’m starting to get pissed for no reason whatsoever. I will myself to relax. “Who was that?”

  With one shoulder leaning onto the doorway, he shrugs with another. “A visitor. They tried this house first because it’s the only one with the lights on.”

  “They? How many people were there?’

  “They, as in one. She.”

  “Cool,” I say, though I never say cool. Cool isn’t my word, but it entails one simple syllable I can utter without breaking out into a fit. It’s not any of my business, right?

  “I’m going to meet them—her—up the hill.”

  An awkward pause settles as I try to find something interesting in my in-box. I wait one, two, three seconds for him to explain who she is and why it’s so important for him to leave right this second, especially after a night when we clearly almost had sex. Or, why he didn’t have me come down to meet this person. Because if the person was just a friend, and I’m playing Mitchell’s girlfriend on the Internet, shouldn’t he introduce me?

  I’m grinding my teeth down to nubs while silence ensues. Finally, I look up at him. “Well, don’t let me keep you.” My voice is wry.

  He sags against the doorway with a grin. “Are you . . . are you mad at me?

  “Me? No. Gonna settle back into bed, turn on another episode, and I’m going to sleep like a baby until noon.”

  “Oh good. Because I can’t imagine you being mad or jealous even. Wait—” His eyes narrow and his grin widens so it spans his face. He saunters toward me as if triumphant. “Are you jealous?”

  Heat rushes to my face, my cheeks, my neck, my chest. Oh no, he’s not taking me down this rabbit hole. I’m not jealous of a damn thing. “Hell no!”

  His shadow comes over me. The bed dips as he sits. He leans, lips grazing against my neck, against my tattoo. “What kind of flowers are these?”

  As his tongue trails up to my earlobe, my body leans into him, betraying my brain. What was I mad about again? “Sampaguita. The national flower of the Philippines.”

  “Sampaguita,” he repeats in a perfect accent. His hand moves up the inside of my thigh. Not gonna lie, that and the fact that he cares enough not to butcher the word causes me to shiver.

  I breathe out a response. “It’s from the jasmine family. It’s supposed to represent simplicity and humility.”

  “So, basically, the complete opposite of you?” he whispers into my neck.

  I push him away, laughing. “Jerk.”

  He catches my hand in his. Presses the top against his lips. “Don’t worry about my friend, okay? There’s no need to be jealous. Not a bit.”

  “I said I’m not jealous.” Though suddenly I’m feeling naive, downright stupid, and vulnerable.

  And this is why we can’t mix business with pleasure, even if part of it is to pretend like we’re together. The bottom line is we’re not. We don’t have a romantic commitment, nor should we have one just because we got a little frisky last night.

  “If you say so.” He kisses me on the cheek. “Because I’ll be back tonight.”

  Pleasure bubbles through me at first, but I catch myself. I paste on a cordial smile—a smile reserved for the customers at True North who gave me hell for every damn thing wrong with their view, food, or menu. “No need. We don’t work on Sundays, and don’t you have to spend the morning with your grandmother?” I climb into bed. “You can show yourself out, right?”

  “Yeah, sure.” He flashes me a hesitant look, which I completely ignore, focusing on the TV and turning up the volume once again. “See you later.”

  Mitchell backs out of the bedroom with a confused expression. He disappears into the hallway. With the final turn of the lock, he’s out the door.

  After counting to ten, I scramble out of bed. I didn’t care to research Mitchell thoroughly, didn’t push to find out more about his past except for his social media accounts, but this woman has piqued my curiosity.

  I type “Mitchell Dunford” in the search bar after I sit down at my laptop. It brings up obituaries, family legacy links, and Facebook accounts.

  “Mitchell David Dunford, Army Captain, Golden, California.”

  An article pops up from the Golden Chronicle, at the top of the list: “Golden’s Hero.”

  I click on the link and skim through the article, picking up words that paint a picture of the man recently in my bed. “Captain Mitchell D. Dunford, known for his valorous service in Kandahar, Afghanist
an, returns to Golden after eight years of active-duty service. A welcome-home spaghetti dinner will be held at the Main Street Firehouse. Captain Dunford will continue to serve with the Sixth Army Reserve unit in Sacramento.”

  Valorous. A hero.

  I stand and go to my window. Shadows reflect back from Mitchell’s side of the world. Of him and his friend, talking about who knows what. But it’s a friend he left me for, someone from his past.

  We’ve spent all of our days together, but I really don’t know anything about Mitchell after all. Before last night, I was fine having a line drawn between the real us and the fake us. But we smudged that line with our blistering kisses, and I’m not sure how we’re supposed to put us back to the way we were.

  Part 4

  STIR

  Mixing one’s wines may be a mistake, but old and new wisdom mix admirably.

  —Bertolt Brecht

  Live Stream Comment Log

  July 4

  Benny Harmon 10:05—

  This is boooooring. All they do is talk.

  Mike Poole 10:05—

  Good Lord, this is a home show. I’m tired of the angst. Tell me more about the damn plans for the deck. It looks like it needs a good scrub.

  Steven Parker 10:07—

  Blokes are all jealous. This, my friends, is what slow and steady love looks like.

  Benny Harmon 10:10—

  Tired of you and your hearts in your eyes, Steven Parker.

  Stephen Parker 10:10—

  Sod off, asshole.

  Kristina Simon 10:12—

  *yawns* Are they this robotic all the time? Give me something to work with.

  Shawna Lewis 10:13—

  Nah . . . I think something’s wrong in Paradise. See what I did there? hehehehehe

  Andi Shelling 10:14—

  I hate to break it to you, Shawna Lewis. That joke’s about as exciting as these two on the screen. Meaning: not.

  Shawna Lewis 10:15—

  Ah well, shit. I tried.

  20

  MITCHELL

  It only takes one thing to change your life. A breath to turn intention to action, a single decision based on a hunch to flip the world so it’s inside out, and one moment to switch what seemed out of reach to a reality.

  And you can never go back. You can beg the universe, wish for the clock to turn back. You can rationalize the reasons for what came to pass, but the only thing you can do is to move forward.

  Which is why I’m slogging up the hill after an emergency appointment with Adam earlier this afternoon. Sunday’s visitor threw my already floundering trajectory for a loop. All within a ten-minute span after waking from a great night with Bryn, the possibility of having peace in this new life was hit by the artillery of my old life.

  But I slipped away without telling Bryn, and I bet she’s losing her shit. I’m already in the doghouse. Ever since Sunday, she’s been in a hell of a mood. Sure, she’s doing the same old things in front of the camera: holding my hand, looking up to smile at me on cue. But those moments when the camera is focused on something else beyond her face? She’s out, closed to me like I’m some salesman at her front door. She won’t speak to me about what’s bothering her.

  I march through the rows of the upper vineyard, hindered by leaves that have grown lush in the last week. I’m headed toward the crew, who wanted to end today’s segment with an artistic view of Bryn and me against the vines, and the annual Fourth of July fireworks. I haphazardly tuck my microphone out of sight after clipping it to my shirt, since I took it off for my appointment. Thankfully, I made it to the clearing just in time for dusk to settle. Bryn’s already seated on one of my Adirondack-style chairs, softly lit by Joey’s strategically placed studio lighting.

  I bend down and kiss Bryn on the cheek—our customary hello. Except she slyly turns her head away.

  “You okay?” I ask.

  “Yep. How was your afternoon?” Her voice is in her sticky-sweet, camera-ready tone. She stands and heads to the closest vine, as if avoiding me, fussing with the leaves.

  It’s like I’m barefoot on a carpet of eggshells, so I turn the conversation to the vineyard. “Good. Productive. Hired a couple of people to help me with the upper vineyard. Want me to show you what we’ve been doing?”

  “Sure. Why not?” The look she gives me is impatient. Bored.

  I frown. “Okay . . . so, these leaves. We can’t let them get out of control, so we train them to the stake. It’s pretty simple. Take the straying leaves and tuck them under others. Never forceful—we’re easing them to grow in one direction. It also exposes the fruit to the wind, helps dry them out to prevent pests and mold.” Her hands mimic mine, gently tucking leaves under vines. Small bunches of dark green grapes show from underneath. Like uncovering treasure, just seeing them puts a smile on my face. “Look at that. I should have you out here with me more often.”

  Under her breath, she sniggers. “So you can leave me hanging like the other morning? No way.”

  What the hell? Abruptly, I turn to demand an explanation, but the first firework whistles and explodes in the sky, startling me to silence. The crew signals for us to sit in the chairs, so I squash my thoughts and park myself next to Bryn while Joel photographs us from behind. The studio lights are turned down, and darkness settles around us.

  Fireworks light up the sky and shower over our view in a multitude of colors, but I can’t think straight, because apparently I’m being ignored. She’s acting like the Bryn I first met, not the one who’d become my partner. It kills me to remain silent until the crew finishes up and leaves, until she and I are alone with the darkening sky and the spotlights of fireworks.

  A fierce gust blows in, and my neck breaks out in goose bumps. I face her. “I hate when you do this, when you fire these one-line insults and refuse to speak to me.”

  “Really?” She throws her head back and laughs. “That’s funny. Because you’re the one with all the secrets.”

  “Secrets? What the hell are you—” My mind clicks on as a firework fizzles and it lights up her face briefly. “Are you talking about Mercedes?”

  “Oh, she has a name? Yes, your old friend. But this isn’t just about her. We almost slept together, and I don’t know who the hell you are. We’re in this in-between place, and it’s complicated, and I hate it. Look, you left me after a night when we . . . you know . . . watched Gilmore Girls. This afternoon, you just upped and disappeared without letting me know where you were going. Not that you need to tell me your schedule, but hell . . . I don’t know . . .”

  My response should be to stop her in her tracks because her questioning is out of line. I didn’t come into this “relationship” asking twenty questions about her past. Our agreement was to be with each other when the camera was on. Simple.

  And yet, the thought of Bryn with another man causes me to lean over the arms of our chairs. As another firework whistles in the distance, I cradle her face and press my lips onto hers. Because even if we’ve got nothing official, were the tables turned, I would be asking for the truth, too.

  The kiss works, and she stares up at me, eyes reflecting light from the last of the fireworks.

  I tell her the most basic of truths. “Her name is Sergeant First Class Mercedes Murray, and she and I were deployed together.”

  “A deployment fling.”

  “No. Not even close.” I shake my head. Discomfort prickles through me, but I peel away another layer of truth. “She was driving through town, and because I hadn’t emailed her back, she decided to stop by. Since it was early, I thought it would be better to talk at my place, you know? But I shouldn’t have left you to wonder, and I’m sorry.”

  Her eyes scour my face as she seems to debate what else she wants to ask. “Wha
t did she want?”

  I hesitate as to how much more I should reveal. Baring myself to Adam had been infinitely easier because counselors and therapists are paid professionals. They don’t see me beyond the walls of their offices. Some anonymity is admittedly a comfort.

  I’ve never discussed the details of my deployment with anyone else, not even my brothers. They only know I sought treatment for insomnia, and never pushed for the reason why.

  I swallow what feels like rocks in my throat. “Bryn, my Army life is another story, for another time. Is it okay I don’t want to talk about it yet? It’s . . . it’s complicated. But I want you to know nothing underhanded is going on. Nothing mean or sneaky.”

  Strands of hair escape from her bandana, and I tuck them back into place out of habit. I reach for her hand. When she entwines her fingers into mine, I relax into her hold as if we can communicate better if we’re connected somehow.

  “Okay. I respect that you have things you don’t want to talk about.” Her eyes rise to meet mine and she grins, lifts our clasped hands. “Don’t you think this is weird? We’re supposed to be together for the camera, and yet here we are, holding hands even when they’re gone. And I think we just had our first real fight.”

  Silence settles for a beat and the moment is a hundred-pound weight on my shoulders. Because yeah, this is fucking weird and confusing. I’m usually in relationships or out of them, and nothing in between. But I’m not able to put words to it, nor am I willing to risk losing the connection I have with her, as fragile as it is.

  Though the thin veil of night has settled around us, I spot an honest smile on her face. I lighten the mood and tug on her arm. “I think the more important question is, did we make up? Am I out of the doghouse? Because I’m dying to find out if Lorelei ends up with Luke. Although I bet things would move along much faster if they all stopped talking once in a while.”