Once Upon A Midnight

by Stephanie Rowe

  How he rubs his forehead reminds me more of sanding a board than massaging his head. I’m tempted to scream “Runner!”—to call out his transparency point blank—yet I stop short of telling him he is just like me, and that we started out the same and now he is sinking to the pathetic level I have. His nobility gives me hope. If he decides my way is the right one, we may drown together.

  “I hate this,” he mutters. “I hate acting the macho man so much it is turning me into an absolute jerk. None of this is why I came here.”

  Finally, we are getting somewhere. “Why did you come here?”

  “Because every day I wake up alone and either go to work or hang out with you and Shane. I need something different, but the different I want isn’t this. I can’t stop thinking about how my life would be if Amber hadn’t died. We had the date we were going to get married. We knew exactly when we would start having kids. Together we had goals, and alone I’ve got diddly-squat. I should be singing my kid to sleep. Instead, I’m in a bar with a guy who lives a completely different lifestyle than the one I want.”

  My heart drops down a well, sending my wall skyrocketing. That barrier is what stops my inability to catch my dreams from eating me up. There is nothing so wrong with me that should keep me from finding the right woman.

  Is there?

  If my wall is so strong, why can’t I even look at Brandon? It’s easy to forget walls keep things out as much as they keep them in.

  “I’m sorry, man,” Brandon continues. “I just want life to work out. I need to get past the image of what could’ve been and create a new reality. The thing is, I don’t want some ordinary girl; I want someone who is ideal. Is that so wrong?”

  A Cobra just struck my gut. After the jolt, the venom sinks in, spiraling its way into my system. Burning slithers into my throat, making it hard to spit out words, yet I know I have to. I have to take the first step at tearing down my barriers somewhere. “No, it’s not wrong at all.” Reflexes have me pushing my emotions down. When I can’t do it with a dry swallow I do it with a swig of beer.

  “I want what I was supposed to have,” Brandon continues. Deep in the calm recesses of his voice, a fire burns—blazing through being jaded and showing his determination to endure. “I want a woman to face each day with me as a team. I don’t want to help her up the stairs after she’s had a baby; I want to wait on her hand and foot because she has already done so much. When the baby cries, I want to drag myself up with her and change the kid’s diaper. While she’s feeding him, I’ll make cocoa to help us get back to sleep. When morning comes, I’ll be in charge of the coffee and toast while she makes the eggs.”

  His shattered dreams nearly tie a knot in his throat, intensifying the pain in his words. I fight losing it right along with him, because nearly every morning I stand at a hotel’s breakfast bar, dreaming of a white picket fence and someone to make another waffle for. Brandon’s reality is shredding both of our souls as if I have said every word right along with him.

  “It was all within reach,” he says, “and someone took it away.”

  How Brandon’s words could be my own sends my vision of a perfect world into convulsions. His venting continues, and as much as I wish he didn’t feel such pain, I am grateful I am not alone. He would feel the same if I opened up, but Amber was an innocent accident victim, not a smuggler. Abby’s indiscretion is not so easy to admit. I know there is more to why I haven’t told him, but that reason is unclear to me.

  “When I interviewed for my job,” he says, “my boss asked what life’s big picture meant to me. Instead of keeping my answer professional, I conceded to telling her how, despite the pain of losing the person I thought was destined to make my life complete, I dare to dream for my future. Imagine how much hope it gave me when she said when I need flexibility, she will have my back. Everyone at Endeara is family, and family helps you build your dreams.”

  My boss loves me being single, often saying, “It takes a person with no ties other than to his pocketbook to succeed in this game.” Based on what I did a few nights ago to get a sale, I can’t argue.

  Brandon shakes his head like he feels guilty because what he strives for is a betrayal to the life he knows he is lucky to have. “The truth is, I took a job marketing a product I hate, and I don’t care about partying and getting laid, because I dare to seek happiness. That’s who I really am. Besides, what is my ideal woman going to think of a bunch of notches on my bedpost?”

  The Cobra must have brought a friend who likes to strike in the same spot. I always thought my playboy image was a joke. Now Brandon has thrown up a mirror, revealing there is nothing funny about how people see me. I think of myself as someone who refuses to get brought down, so he lives it up. Instead, the only thing up is my wall. Is it keeping the pain in, or am I keeping what can help the pain escape out? Up or down, I still hurt.

  I often think I know what would do Brandon a world of good, but the truth is, he is forcing me to admit something I don’t want to face: there are far too many notches on my bedpost. I claim each one marks another attempt at happiness. While there may be some truth in that, the rest of the picture is ugly. Condoms may keep your body safe, but they do nothing to protect from how fooling yourself destroys your soul. I need to make changes, because hiding failure behind sex is destroying me from within.

  Finally, I brave facing Brandon. “You’re right. I get it.” My gaze goes back to my beer. How I secretly idolize him is not just hitting my gut, it’s burning in my eyes. We have the same problem, yet Brandon can face his. Me, I’m just a runner—a tired, defeated runner. “I really get it,” I confess. “This lifestyle is for the birds. Hell, even they shouldn’t go through this.” I’m quick to take a swig and look away. I’m more screwed up than I ever thought.

  I go for my cell phone, gripping it tightly so Brandon can’t tell my fingers are jittering from the revelation slowly hitting. This night started with him wanting to be me; but it will end with me turning into him.

  I toss him my phone with a movie app open. “Pick something. Apparently you are my date tonight, so I’ll treat you to dinner and a movie.” What I am really saying is, I would rather be real with him than hiding with anyone else.

  Years ago, I loved a woman who was true perfection until she sold herself. For years I have felt if I saw the good in people who sell themselves, then I could see good in Abby again. I treat whores like ladies because of PTSD. Now I know why I have never told Brandon about Abby. If I get close to a good person, I fear he will change—just like Abby, and just like me.

  “Abby, I’m sorry, honey. I finally see you are not the only one who sold yourself. I forgive your indiscretions. Can you forgive mine? I’m not the person you loved either.”

  I take another sip of beer, hoping the diversion will give my eyes a moment to stop embarrassing me. The relief is short lived as Brandon picks, “Whatever is showing at The Kingsway.” Going to a vintage theatre for my benefit is his way of acknowledging my pain and that I need a smile too.

  My stop-signed hand halts him from going for his wallet, and I toss down enough to cover our tab along with a decent tip. “I said you were my date. Just don’t get any funny ideas about putting out.”

  As we exit, lime and musk fill my nose. I whip my head around in search of Fedora Guy, then find him leaning against the bar. My neck cranes as we pass, and he tips his hat. The surprise of him acknowledging me for the first time nearly has me spinning towards him, but he fades before I can switch the direction of my feet. Why would he tip his hat now?

  Outside of the hotel, streetlights shine down, making the damp sidewalk appear sprinkled with silver. Their hum reminds me of the sound I heard the night I visited a psychic a year ago. As much as it should give me the chills, I feel greeted by an old friend.

  I begin to hum the song that won’t stop following me. Brandon recognizes the tune and chuckles before joining in, humming our way into the night, looking up, and serenading the moon.

  Straight
en Up And Fly Right

  BAILEY

  Stupid, freaking, man slut Carlos. Of all the Saturdays for him to be home, why this one? How ironic is it that if he fails to go away this weekend, I might be screwed? If he sticks around, I can’t pack and ship my things to Darla right under his nose. However, knowing Carlos like I do, once this plan gets kicked into gear, it will be weeks until he wants to set foot in here again.

  Kelly Green paint smears off of the brush and onto the bedroom wall—bright, vibrant green that fails to blend with the decor. If I’m going to be sneaky, I’m going to do it in style.

  After cleaning the brush, I repeat the process with Electric Purple, then follow with Eggplant and Forrest. When Carlos steps into the bedroom, the colorful stripes cause his eyebrows to knit. Though his lips part, nothing comes out. I can only imagine the questions attempting to form in his dried-up walnut no scientist would deem worthy of calling a brain: Is that paint? Is this some weird woman thing? Oh no, is it that time of the month already?

  “What do you think?” I ask. “I’m leaning toward Eggplant.”

  “You’re painting?”

  As predicted, even the obvious escapes him. I stroke his fragile, male ego by blaming my recent behavior on female moodiness instead of reality. “I think I’ve been edgy because I need a change of scenery. Since the lease has us stuck here, we might as well make the best of it.” I slink my arms around his waist and force a dirty smile while pretending he is pretty much any other guy on the planet. I’d rather cuddle an aardvark. “Besides, it is long past time we worked on our relationship—starting in the bedroom.” His lips curl like those of a smug predator until I drive home what I am actually talking about. “What color shall we paint it?”

  His nose compresses like a spring. “The whole room?”

  Yes! The greater his disdain, the more likely I am to pull this caper off. I eye the place with equal disgust. “I was thinking one wall as an accent, but you have a point.” Brush in hand, I walk across the room and make a Forrest smudge before flicking my head back and forth and taking in both walls. “Nah.” I proceed to do the same on the remaining walls, implying the whole room should look like a mossy cave.

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  I shrug. “Trying to figure out how many walls to enliven.”

  “Enliven?” His head twists, jerking from wall to wall. He looks like a broken robot with its nose locked in a crinkle. “Now you have to paint every wall no matter what we decide.”

  We? That’s funny! “Eh. Whatever we don’t paint green, we paint neutral. Every wall in this place needs help.”

  The robot freezes with his wide eyes locked on me. “When were you planning for us to do this?”

  I love the tension in his tone. Dare I think this idea may actually work? “Tomorrow and Monday, my days off,” I say casually. “Since neither of us has plans, we can knock it out.”

  The hamster in Carlos’s head is scrambling to get back on the wheel of thought. I have to give him credit. It only takes a beat for the look to appear—slightly tilted head, softened eyes, and parted lips creating a ghost of a smile. “Baby, why would you want to spend what could be a nice, romantic few days painting?” He slinks his arms around my waist and pants in my ear, “I can think of better things to do in this room. How about body paint instead?”

  A twitch hits my spine at the thought. I need to get him on track. Sick builds in my throat as I nuzzle into his shoulder. “Honey, I know life has been rough for you. Maybe things will be better if we wake to a cheerier place. You do want me to feel happy and secure, don’t you?” Of course he does, else Sugar Mama may bail.

  “You know I do, but we can do it without a few gallons of paint. Besides, I hate green.” His hand glides down my caboose and grips. “Leave the walls as they are, and let’s do something better with the time we have.”

  I make sure to slump my shoulders and sound defeated. “Too bad you didn’t suggest that before I glopped paint everywhere.”

  He’s quick to jump in. “Just match the old paint and touch it up. It’ll be fine.”

  I love how the emphasis is on me doing the work. This is exactly what I need. “You hate green that much?”

  “Yes!”

  “Thank you, Carlos. You just gave me the excuse to repaint in the right color to get my deposit back!”

  “Okay,” I say, “we can keep the walls the color they are.” I eye the room while nodding agreeably, that is, until my eyes land on the wall with four stripes. “I think I screwed up. There is no way to cover that with touchup paint. I’ll need primer. Plus, this wall is so scuffed I’m stuck with painting the whole thing.” I turn back to him and let my features sag. This time it is not an act. My devious plan requires a lot of work, but it will be worth it. “Sorry, I guess I roped us into repainting anyway. You don’t mind, do you?”

  I scarcely wait a moment before latching his hand in mine and racing for the kitchen. I stop dead in front of the stove and point at the grease-splattered area behind it. “Hey, while we are at it, let’s get that wall too. This place is a mess.”

  Carlos is wide-eyed as he bobs his head in faked approval. I can feel his brain racing. “Hold on.” He whips out his phone, opens a calendar, and then smacks his head as if he is an idiot. At least he is acknowledging the truth for once. “I knew something seemed wrong. I forgot I promised Bob I’d take a look at a plumbing problem at the cabin.” He turns to me with a look of despair so genuine a tug hits my stomach. “You know, since I haven’t been able to find work, I’m paying my way with everyone the best I can. I’m sorry, baby, but I really need to stay good to my word. I should have left this morning.”

  Yes!

  Yes! Yes! Yes!

  The corners of my lips droop, and I catch myself nearly over exaggerating false sorrow. However, my sigh comes deep from within. As much as I am experiencing victory, I’m tired of a lonely existence. “That’s okay. Since you will be away, I won’t have anything to do anyway. I’ll stick to the plan of painting the bedroom. Maybe Katherine can help.” Man, I wish. Not only is she away for a few days so she can sort out her problems with Jason, I need to face this alone. I’m not just embarking on a plan to get out of here; I’m exploring my head. No one can help with that.

  His compressed lips serve as an apology, and I shrug.

  “Do you have to leave tonight, or can you wait until tomorrow morning?” I ask.

  His eyes widen. Man, that hamster has got his little paws scrambling! Carlos grabs a duffle bag out of the closet and starts cramming clothes into it. “I really should have left already.”

  Awesome! I am completely in the clear this weekend!

  My deep breath conveys I am resigned to doing a job I stuck myself with. “Well, since you won’t be around, let’s get the furniture moved now.”

  Carlos shakes his head and chuckles while walking to the dresser. “Yeah, okay. Take advantage of having a man here while you can.”

  Seriously? I want to slap this jerk on the head. Even if the dressers were not twice my size, he should be chivalrous and offer. “Hold on a sec,” I tell him while walking to the closet and tapping on my chin. “On second thought, I should tackle this first.”

  “You are going to paint the closet?”

  Of course. It is the easiest way to hide I am packing much of the contents. “I can’t paint the whole room and not the closet. Hmm … that kitchen wall is really bugging me now.”

  Carlos groans. “If you paint the kitchen, you have to take all the stuff off of those walls as well. You can’t do everything at once.”

  Good, I already have his head spinning. The foggier he is on what is happening, the less likely he will notice things missing. “You’re right. I’ll start with the kitchen. If I have time, I’ll also do the closets. Next weekend, we can tackle the bedroom.”

  His words come at me so fast I fight the urge to dodge. “I am away next weekend, too. That one I know is on the calendar.”

  I’m dar
n aware of it, but I wanted insurance. Regardless, I sigh like I forgot. “It’s no big deal. Maybe I will start with the bedroom and call it good.”

  Carlos rubs the back of his neck. I was counting on him knowing me well, and it looks like he does. “Honey, I think you are crazy, but I also know you won’t let this go until it is done. Why don’t you plan on the kitchen and closet now and the bedroom next week? That’s the only way you’ll ever rest.”

  My sigh is half faked for effect and half true over how right he is about my nature. “You’re right.” I give him a fat peck on the cheek. “You always know exactly what to say.”

  This is perfect! All that kitchen needs is spot washing. A bit of reorganizing will further clutter his brain. I need him as scattered and running from the chaos as much as possible.

  I finish selling my mission with a sniff loud enough to grab his attention. “Oh no! I forgot about dinner.” I dash into the kitchen, lift the lid, and stir the vat of chili. “Whew! Seems fine.” I hold out a spoonful for Carlos. “Careful. It’s hot.”

  When the chili hits his palate, the look on Carlos’s face makes me feel appreciated for the first time in months. “Damn! I’m all for some of that. Why’d you make so much? Expecting company?” His tone is both leading and ridiculous. He knows darn well I am faithful and will thus spend my weekend alone.

  “Well, I had planned we would be busy for a few days, so I didn’t want to worry about food.”

  He bites his lower lip with guilt painted on thicker than the makeup I use to cover tattoos. I brush off the urge to call him out and instead grab some bowls. If I want him to believe my story, I’ve got to appear sincere. “It’s fine,” I tell him. “What I don’t eat, I’ll freeze. You should have a little something before you make that drive though.”

  Carlos takes pause when I hand him a full bowl. “Sometimes I get so wrapped up in other parts of my life, I forget how thoughtful you are.” Upon hearing his reflective tone, my throat squeezes. That was a glimmer of the person I fell for. For a long time, I wondered if I fabricated his existence.