Drowning Erin

by Elizabeth O'Roark

  “No.”

  “Well, maybe it should.”

  I ignore her. Olivia thinks this way because she doesn’t care for Rob. Because she thinks he’s not good enough. What she doesn’t know is that Brendan has irrefutable proof that the opposite is true. And he seems to be getting more proof every day.

  I make the bars for Brendan, struggling to remember why I ever stopped baking as I do it. Even as sleep-deprived as I am, baking fills me with a sort of contentment I haven’t felt in a long time. I leave them in a box outside Brendan’s door, feeling oddly satisfied—a sensation that lasts only until I tell Rob about it.

  “Why’d you do that?” he asks.

  “O-oh,” I stammer. “I made them for Brendan. He’s…been helping out.”

  “Sugar, fat, and flour. The white menace,” says Rob. “You’re sure you aren’t just trying to kill him?”

  I’ve heard Rob’s spiel about this before. I’d like to say it’s never annoyed me until now, but I think it has. This gnawing irritation with him feels far too familiar. I think it might be why I stopped baking.

  “You just dismantled a company and laid off 30 percent of its work force, but I’m the bad guy for making someone dessert?” I snap.

  “Jesus, Erin. It was just a joke.”

  Except it’s not really a joke if he meant it, and he sort of meant it.

  I fall asleep wondering why I gave up what I loved so easily. In order to keep the peace, I think I gave up a lot of things. I’m pretty sure Rob cannot claim to have done the same.

  15

  Erin

  Present

  “I’m worried about you,” says Harper, hopping onto my file cabinet. “When’s the last time you got laid?”

  I laugh and shake my head. “That’s not as big a deal for everyone as it is for you.”

  “Come out with me this weekend,” she says.

  She’s suggested this many times in the past, but I’ve almost always said no. I love Harper, but Harper loves lots of people, and she will choose one to love about ten minutes after we’ve paid our cover and bought our first beers.

  And I’d say no this time too, except I feel like I’m not capable of staying in to watch any more TV. I can’t stay in, period. I’m pretty sure I’m one step away from dressing Mr. Tibbles up in a miniature North Face pullover and taking him out to dinner with me.

  She retreats to her desk after I’ve agreed. “And do me a favor,” she calls from the other side of the wall. “Try not to dress like we’re heading to tea or an American Girl doll party, okay?”

  I flip her off.

  “And stop flipping me off,” she adds.

  I meet her on Friday night at a bar where some band she loves is playing. I’m wearing a tank and skinny jeans, which is probably far less slutty than she’d prefer but appears to suffice.

  While we wait for our drinks, Harper tells me about the guy she met out the night before, who kept insisting they go to her place—something she has a strict rule against—and finally admitted after she consistently refused that he was homeless. I don’t ask if she still slept with him because I think there’s a significant possibility she did.

  We get our drinks, and Harper drags me back to the pool tables, her eyes already assessing the situation, deciding who she’ll take home.

  “How many minutes do I have before you’re pulling some guy into the bathroom?” I ask.

  “I’m not that bad,” she replies.

  “You pulled someone into the bathroom the last time we went out.”

  “Well, I’m not doing it tonight, but… Wow…” She stops midstream, and my eyes follow hers to the guy at the far end of the room: 6’3”, broad shoulders, nice ass. “Unless it’s him. I don’t care what his face looks like.”

  He isn’t facing us, but I’d know those shoulders anywhere.

  And though he’s too far away to have heard us, he turns, his gaze breezing past Harper and landing directly on me.

  “Wait,” says Harper, “Isn’t that…”

  “Brendan,” I say.

  “I’m gonna do things to that man you don’t even know can be done,” she says under her breath.

  I feel an odd sort of panic, something fluttering and desperate. I want to distract her from him like a child, offer her candy or a balloon in his place. “You don’t want to do that,” I tell her.

  “Why? Because you want him for yourself?”

  “No! Of course not.”

  He puts down his pool stick and moves toward us while Harper gives me a knowing look.

  “You sure about that, Erin? Last chance to admit it before I make my move.”

  I’m engaged. I don’t want him for myself. I just don’t want her to have him either, which she definitely will, because all men love Harper. And right now she’s wearing a micro-mini and thigh-high boots, so they’ll super love her.

  Except Brendan doesn’t even seem to notice. “What are you doing here?” he demands, looking only at me. “You never go out.”

  I’m more than a little irritated by his tone, which is undeniably displeased. “I’m not stalking you, asshole. We came to see the band.”

  He eyes my tank top. “And why are you dressed like that?”

  I roll my eyes. “Why? Does this not meet your high standards?”

  He shakes his head, the action so minute I get the feeling it wasn’t intended for me. “You just…normally you’re all covered up. With sweaters and shit.”

  “Brendan, it’s the first warm night in nine months. I’m not wearing a sweater.”

  “Yeah,” he says, flinching, running a hand over his shorn scalp. “I noticed. It’s fine. Just…be careful.”

  “Be careful of what?”

  His eyes meet mine for a moment. I feel certain there’s something he wants to say, but instead he clenches his jaw and sets his empty glass on the bar with a thud.

  “Never mind,” he says. “Do whatever you want.”

  He walks away without even glancing at Harper, which I’m fairly certain hasn’t happened to her since she hit puberty.

  Even she is surprised. “Are you sleeping with him?” she asks. There’s no judgment in her voice, just curiosity.

  “What?! No! I’m engaged, remember?”

  She watches his retreating form and glances back at me.

  “Sure, I remember,” she says. “Not sure he does, though.”

  I’d forgotten how much I used to love going to shows. All in all, it’s a very fun night, aside from the weird fact that Brendan is always within 20 feet of me, like some kind of combination stalker/bodyguard. I only speak to two people other than him and Harper all night, one of them the bartender, and both times he appears beside me and remains there, glowering, until the guy walks away.

  I’m just walking into the house when Rob calls, and for the first time in a while I finally have something worth reporting.

  “I’m glad I caught you,” he says. “I was worried you might be in bed.”

  I tell him I’m just walking in, and he’s surprised, which I don’t fault him for, and displeased, which I do. He asks where we went with a hint of accusation in his voice, as if I’d promised to stay home and pine for him but broke our deal.

  He’s silent when I finish telling him about my night. And though I didn’t expect him to get it—Rob isn’t a live music guy—I did expect that he’d be happy for me. That he’d express some degree of pleasure that I’m not alone every night while he’s gone.

  “Is something wrong?” I ask.

  He says no in a tone that implies otherwise, and I’m not sure how to get around it, or if I even want to get around it, because I’m pissed. I’ve spent three weeks hearing about the restaurants and clubs he’s gone to, but when I finally go out and find something I enjoy, he can’t bring himself to even pretend to be interested?

  He tells me, halfheartedly, some story about work, and I listen just as halfheartedly, putting the phone on speaker and walking into the closet to get my pajamas at one po
int. More and more, our calls are like this: one or both of us irritated, forced to maintain a conversation neither of us cares to have.

  “So if you’re going out with Harper,” he finally says, “I suppose you haven’t had time to look at reception sites.” The words are flat, utterly emotionless. Yet there’s acid beneath them.

  I knew he’d come out with it eventually.

  “Seriously, Rob?” I explode. “I go out one night and you’re on me about this?”

  “Just don’t bother telling me you’re too busy anymore, okay?” he snaps. “Let’s at least be honest about it. You’ve got no interest in getting married.”

  “And you apparently have no interest in any part of my life that doesn’t involve you. Good to know.”

  I’m not sure who hangs up first. I only know that we aren’t people who fight, and we aren’t people who hang up on each other, and lately it seems that’s all we do.

  16

  Brendan

  Four Years Earlier

  By midsummer everything about Erin has turned gold—her hair, her skin. Her mouth is pink like a rose in bloom. Sometimes I catch myself just staring at her face.

  This metamorphosis of hers is a complete pain in the ass for me. It means every time she walks through a bar, she’s getting checked out, and every time she walks away from our table at night, some guy will stop her with the world’s lamest excuse to strike up a conversation. My need to get involved in these situations hasn’t escaped anyone’s notice either.

  As someone accosts her at the bar and I jump to my feet, a few guys at my end of the table start laughing.

  “Let me guess,” says Kirk with a smug little smile. “You really hate Erin, yet you’re going to go over there and tell that guy to beat it.”

  I narrow my eyes. “Someone has to. I don’t see any of you assholes taking care of it.”

  “Yeah,” he says, “because that’s not something normal people do. She’s 22, not 12. She’s allowed to talk to boys. Why don’t you just admit you like her?”

  “I don’t like her,” I say with disgust. “She’s practically family.”

  “Cool,” he says, eyeing me. “Then you don’t mind if I ask her out?”

  “You’re not allowed to ask her out,” I tell him. “Company policy.”

  “That only applies if I’m her boss.”

  Everyone privy to this conversation is watching the two of us like it’s a tennis match. I swallow. Why do I care if she goes out with Kirk? I don’t. And anyway, he’s harmless, because I know she won’t say yes. For some bizarre reason, Erin still likes me. Even though she acts like she hates me, I see it in her face. Every time she walks in the room it’s like she forgets, for just a moment, what a dick I’ve been each minute of this summer.

  When she leaves the bar, I walk out after her. I do this each time she meets us out. People still think of Colorado Springs as a small town, but bad shit happens everywhere, and it happens disproportionately to women. She’s standing by her piece-of-shit car, fumbling around in her purse for keys. That’s when I notice the guy who spoke to her earlier crossing the parking lot and heading her way. She doesn’t even see him, and if I have anything to say about it, it’ll stay that way. I step in his path.

  “Hey, buddy,” I say, folding my arms across my chest.

  “I’m not your buddy,” he says. “Get out of my way.”

  “What’s your rush?” I smirk.

  He glances beyond my shoulder at Erin, who I assume has found her keys by now, and tries to sidestep me. I step in his path again and he takes a swing, which makes my night. Because I was dying to punch this motherfucker from the moment he spoke to her, and he just made it legal.

  17

  Erin

  Present

  Ten-mile runs suck. Running intervals sucks. Combining them, though? That’s a whole new level of suck.

  Were it not for Olivia asking me to run a small portion of her 100-mile race with her, now only weeks away, there’s not a chance I’d be doing this. Even when we ran college cross-country together, enduring grueling two-a-day workouts, she was so much faster than me that it looked like I was walking. And in the years since we graduated, her training has only increased, whereas mine has dwindled to a few casual runs each week. But it’s impossible to tell a woman who has just given birth that you don’t think you can run one-tenth of a race with her. My pride won’t allow it.

  By the time I get home it’s dark, and I’m so drained I barely have the energy to climb the stairs to my door. I shower quickly and slide into the hot tub, already so stiff I’m wondering how I’ll climb back out.

  I close my eyes and lean back against the headrest. Rob and I practically lived in the hot tub when we first moved in, but I don’t think he’s been out here once in the past year. I understood it, because he had so little free time, but he sure seems to have plenty of free time now. Just this past weekend, he and a few colleagues went to Brussels, while I can’t remember the last time he didn’t work a weekend while he was home. That shouldn’t annoy me as much as it does.

  I shut him out of my mind and begin to drift off. I might hate long runs, but this is one of my favorite things—the way exhaustion plus hot water lulls you to sleep.

  “Hello, roomie.” My eyes fly open, catching on the tattoo on Brendan’s right shoulder, the definition of his chest, before I drag them away.

  “Shouldn’t you be out?” My voice is clipped and barely civil.

  “It’s 9 PM. That’s early for most people in our demographic. Not you, obviously. I didn’t know you were such a hot tub super-fan.”

  “I’m not. I’m training to run part of Olivia’s race, and I’m stiff.”

  He looks like he’s considering something, and then sighs. “I rented a car if you need a ride to Squaw Valley,” he says, “since we’re on the same flight.”

  “We are?” My chagrin borders on despair. I didn’t realize Brendan was going at all, much less a day early like me. Even in another freaking state we need to be stuck in the same house?

  He raises a brow. “Rob gave me his ticket to Reno. I thought he told you.”

  My molars grind so hard I can hear them over the sound of the Jacuzzi jets. How could Rob not have mentioned this? As if it’s not bad enough that I have to live with this guy, I now have to sit right next to him for an entire flight?

  “He didn’t mention that,” I reply between my teeth.

  I’m no longer enjoying the hot tub. I only remain because I don’t want to give Brendan the satisfaction of knowing he’s driven me off. He barely restrains a smile, leaning his head back and stretching out his arms. “This is one hell of a set-up you’ve landed,” he says. “Big house, pool, hot tub. Rob’s quite the provider. I can’t believe you didn’t get all this shit locked down the minute he proposed.”

  I’m no longer exhausted. I now have just enough strength to lunge across the hot tub and pummel him, and God knows I’d like to. “Fuck you, Brendan. You’ve known me for way too long to sit there and pretend you think I’m a gold digger.”

  He’s quiet for a moment. “You’re right,” he admits. “I’m sorry.” His eyes close, as if this sudden burst of honesty has exhausted him. “Why are you dragging your feet, Erin?”

  “Who says I’m dragging my feet?”

  “Everyone. Everyone alive thinks you’re dragging your feet. I’m not judging you. I just want to know why.”

  I shouldn’t answer. He just accused me of being a gold digger, and he’s definitely not on my side here. It’s insane to hand him more information about anything. But I appreciate his apology, and he’s also the only person who knows about my dad outside of my family. I guess I just want one other person alive know how I feel.

  “It’s mostly my dad. He’ll drink at the ceremony, even if I ask him not to, and my mother will make an ass of herself trying to cover it up. And he’ll drink at everything leading up to it—any party, the rehearsal dinner. There are so many things that can go wrong, and I’m j
ust…tired.” My voice catches a little, as if grief accompanies the realization.

  I am tired. I’m so tired of those calls at night and the worry and the sense that I have to be on my guard every moment of the day to keep the world from falling in on us all.

  I clear my throat. “It feels like too much right now.”

  He gives me that careful, assessing look I’ve seen far too often. I sometimes get the sense that he hears ten extra words for every one I speak, drawing my secrets from me without my consent.

  “And you’ve never told Rob any of this.”

  I sigh. “No. He won’t understand. He won’t respect it. He won’t respect that my father has so little self-control. He won’t understand why I coddle him by going to Denver.”

  “You spend so much time hiding shit from him,” Brendan says. “Wouldn’t it just be better to let him know who you are?”

  His voice is gentle. It doesn’t sound like an accusation, yet it is one, and I can’t even blame him for it. His best friend is about to marry the biggest liar who ever lived.

  “If I don’t like who I am and what my family is, Brendan, how can I expect Rob to like those things?”

  “You’ve got nothing to be ashamed of,” he insists. “And you shouldn’t be with someone who doesn’t feel the same way.”

  It almost sounds like he’s defending me, as if he thinks Rob’s the one in error, when obviously Rob can’t be because he knows none of this. I don’t get it.

  “Olivia thinks that’s why you haven’t planned the wedding—because you know something’s wrong,” he adds.

  “I can’t believe Olivia is discussing this with you,” I say.

  “She’s worried.”

  “Yeah, so worried that she told the guy who doesn’t want Rob to marry me all about it. That’s extremely helpful.”

  The corner of his mouth tips upward. “She hates me slightly less than you do, so she’s not inclined to think the worst.”