by Lisa Sorbe
Daniel smirks and grabs my arm, tugging me to his side. “When you asked me to come upstairs, I thought it was to give me a real hello.” He runs a hand from my lower back all the way up to my neck, pausing in a not-so-innocent detour to caress the side of my breast as he does.
And…I’m annoyed. Annoyed that he thinks we can so easily clear up our bitter words and few weeks of separation by immediately jumping in the sack. There are still issues to be addressed. And maybe my trust levels have dipped several degrees since coming to Lost Bay, but I’m still not so sure Daniel’s apology is genuine.
This was our first big fight, the first time we’ve disagreed on anything. Or, rather, the first time I made my opinion known. Made myself a priority over him.
I gently remove his hands and round the bed, putting it between us. “Let’s just get this thing downstairs, okay?” I grab the handles on either side of the mattress and motion for him to do the same. “That way, when the guys come with the new one on Thursday, they can take this with them when they leave.”
Daniel bends down to grab the handles on his side but then proceeds to stoop lower. When he rises, he’s holding up a see-through orange bottle, the kind prescriptions come in, sans cap. “What’s this?”
I release the handles and lean against the bed, propping my elbows on the top of the mattress. “Probably one of Lenora’s pill bottles. Just set it on the nightstand. I’ll toss it later.” Resuming my position, I bend my knees, getting ready to lift. “Now come on, Rodriguez. Back to work.”
Daniel does as I ask, though confusion wrinkles his forehead. “I thought your grandmother’s name was Lenora.”
I huff and puff against the heavy weight as we rise, lifting the mattress off the box spring. “It is.”
Daniel’s breath is even and smooth, as if his end weighs no more than a feather. “Then who’s Andrea Cook?”
My muscles are straining with the effort of holding onto my end, and I can barely focus on his voice for fear of dropping this thing. “Who? What are you talking about? Let’s just…” I groan, trying to shift my hands around as the mattresses handles begin cutting into my palms. “…get this done.”
We crabwalk across the room and then, with one final heave, lift the mattress and tip it to rest on its side against the wall nearest the door. Gravity and wear causes it to sag, and I press my back against it to keep it from falling over. “Damn those pillowtop mattress,” I say, shrugging out of my sweater so I’m wearing nothing but a white tank top. “They’re freaking heavy.” Plucking a hair tie from my wrist, I pull back my curls, twisting them into a loose bun. “You ready to lug this thing downstairs?”
Daniel, of course, has hardly broken a sweat. Propping an elbow on the mattress and crossing one foot over the other, he ignores the question. He places a hand on his hip and frowns. “If they’re not coming until next week, why are we doing this now?”
Like his appearance, his voice seems distorted here. As if the vaulted ceilings and cavernous rooms have somehow made the pitch higher, whinier.
Or maybe I’m just used to Ben’s gruff voice. The deep tone, the rough timbre, the richness with which he speaks.
“We’re doing this today because I have to work all week and won’t have time to do it later. Besides,” I say, thinking back to my run in with Ben when I was clad in nothing but a damp towel that was practically see-through, “I want to get this done. Sooner rather than later.”
Daniel’s laugh is mixed with just as much sarcasm as amusement. “Work? You mean at that veterinary clinic you told me about? You’re still going to do that?”
Now I laugh, bemused. “Why wouldn’t I? It’s a job, and I have to make a living.”
Daniel raises a shoulder, up and down, one finger resting casually in the belt loop of his designer jeans. The calm, cool, and collected image he’s exuding is like a mirage, a sheen covering up so many things I never noticed before.
“I just figured that since everything is back to normal between us, you’d let me take care of you. Lenny, baby.” He dips his chin, like he’s a parent trying to coerce his toddler into eat her vegetables. “You don’t need to slum it behind some desk at a veterinary hospital.”
The comment makes my jaw drop, inspiring images of all the people he’s insulting: Ben and the selfless staff at the clinic, who more often than not forgo breaks so they can tend to the needs of others. All the clients, like Doris, who treat their pets as if they’re family, providing for them the best possible home that they can.
And Lenora, who loved animals so much she conspired with Ben to build a place where they could be cared for and safe long after she was gone.
“Considering your line of work,” I say evenly, trying my best to keep the conversation from escalating into an argument, “you’d think any establishment that promoted healing would be worthy of your respect. Doctor Rodriguez.” The mattress starts to sag, falling heavy into my shoulder as I push it back. “And that includes Ben’s clinic.”
Daniel shakes his head, like he can’t believe we’re having this conversation. “I do respect establishments that promote healing, Lenny. But Ben,” and he emphasizes the name with a sneer, “treats animals. I, on the other hand, treat people.” He huffs. “There’s a big difference. It’s not even a comparison.”
I think of Rodolfo, who was thankfully cleared of cancer, but is now starting to present with other issues. His level of comfort depends on Ben, on the people who treat him as more than simply an animal.
“Okay, okay,” I say, and now I’m not even trying to hide the fact that I’m riled up. “At least Ben heals his patients. Saves their lives. You,” I snort, “provide cosmetic surgery to people who are so superficial that they’d rather shell out money to make themselves beautiful on the outside than take the time and energy to work on their insides. None of your patients are on Death’s door. None of the services you provide save lives. You’re just a beautician with a license to cut skin rather than hair.”
Okay. That that was a low blow. And the ripple of shock that momentarily crumbles Daniel’s features proves it.
Now I—we—are just fighting fire with fire.
“I’m sorry,” I mumble, because even though I truly am sorry, I’m still hella pissed.
We stand in awkward silence for what feels like forever, the only sound the old floorboards creaking beneath our feet as I shift my weight from one foot to the other, doing my best to keep this king size pillowtop monstrosity from toppling over.
When he finally speaks, his voice is cool, even. No trace of anger colors his words, which somehow makes things even worse. “Let’s just get this thing downstairs, all right?”
• • •
The coffee is hot, the fireplace is crackling, and Ben still isn’t back from the clinic.
We haven’t said much to each other in the last hour, aside from Daniel tossing out directions—“Push! Nope, nope…stop!”—as we slid Lenora’s heavy mattress down the stairs and through the foyer. It’s now propped up against the wall by the front door, held in place by an old leather arm chair, where it’ll stay until my new bed arrives on Thursday.
Since then, we’ve retired to the living room, Daniel on one end of the couch and me on the other, the space between us spanning more distance than a mere sofa cushion.
The dull light pressing against the room’s many windows is brightening, the sun doing its best to burn off the cloud cover that’s been hovering over Lost Bay all day like a shroud. Taking a hint from the weather, I tuck my knees under me and shift in my seat to face Daniel. “I don’t want to fight.”
It’s a simple declaration, but it’s the truth. I’ve been with this man for over a year, the longest I’ve ever stayed with anyone, and despite the tension between us now, the closeness we once shared can’t be denied. Nor should it be so easily abandoned.
“I’m sorry about what I said. About you being, well, you know. It’s not true. I don’t believe that, of course. I was just angry. Not that that’s an
excuse or anything.” I tighten my grip on my mug and wait. This is new territory for me. For him. Prior to Lenora’s passing, our relationship was smooth. One of ease and simple pleasures. Unlike his clients, Daniel never seemed high maintenance; he just as easily enjoyed spending a night in and watching a movie as he did glamming it up and going out to an expensive restaurant where the atmosphere cost more than the food.
“Do you know why it bothers me that you won’t accept my help?”
Daniel’s question throws me so much that I can only shrug instead of hazard a guess.
“It’s because you’re the very first person not to accept it.”
I must appear dumbfounded because he continues without waiting for my response, the words rushed like he has to push everything out now or risk having them forever stuck in his throat. “Do you know how many women would jump at the chance to be taken care of? Who would easily accept my offer of providing for them without a second thought? I’ve never had anyone deny my help when it was something that could be taken care of by a simple check. And hell, Lord knows I’ve always had the means to do it.” He stares down into his own mug for a beat, almost as if it’s a crystal ball and, in admitting all of this, he needs to scour the blackness, searching for something to give him the nerve to go on.
Because as close as the last year and a half has made us, we’ve never gone this far, gotten this deep. Our conversations have never touched the cornerstones of our minds, pulling from them our most intimate thoughts—the fears we’re too afraid to speak of and the desires we’re too superstitious to reveal. To hand over such an admission in this way, painting himself into such a vulnerable corner, reveals a side of him I’ve never seen before.
“But I’m not someone who wants to be taken care of.”
“I know, Lenny. Believe me, I’m more than aware of that. But for the life of me, I don’t…” He pulls in a breath, trying to contain the frustration that’s threatening to boil over, before releasing it with a sigh. “I don’t understand why. Is it a trust issue? Is it some moral high road that you feel you need to take? Sometimes I just wish you weren’t so goddamn independent.”
For a moment, I divert the conversation, because in order to tell him my truth, I have to show him. “Were you going to propose? That night, at your parents’ anniversary party? Or, well,” I amend, “maybe…after?”
He runs a hand down his face and then shrugs. “Yeah, as a matter of fact. Since we’re being honest here. I was.”
Instead of feeling excited by this, I’m saddened.
“Okay,” I say slowly. “It’s like this. Say we got married and I only had you to rely on. And then say, God forbid, that it didn’t work out. That years later we got divorced? You’d be fine—”
“Lenny,” he interrupts. “Jesus, I would not be fine.”
I hold up a finger. “You’d be fine financially. You’d still have your career, your income. A way to maintain the lifestyle that we had—hypothetically—been living. But me? I’d suddenly be out in the cold, on my own, with no real skills to support myself. No way to keep up the life that, up until that point, I’d been living. If I molded myself around you and your world, Daniel, where would that leave me? I don’t ever want to rely on someone else for my security. Even though, you were right. That’s exactly what I’ve been doing with this inheritance, with Lenora’s money. Relying on it.”
Now my deepest fear has been released, my darkest confession purged from the murkiest depths of my soul.
Daniel doesn’t think much of this admission, however, because relief tempers his laugh. “But baby, all of that is a moot point. Your reason hinders on our getting a divorce. Which would never happen.” He leans forward, placing his mug on the coffee table before sliding across the couch, across the expanse that’s been separating us this last month and a half. Taking my hand in his, he brings his forehead close to mine and smiles. “I promise you, none of what you’re worried about would ever happen.”
How easy it would be to take comfort in his touch. To just put my worries, my doubts on the back burner and succumb to his way of thinking. Because yes, it would be so nice to be taken care of. To have a man like Daniel walk me through life, capable of providing for the both of us while I, in turn, didn’t have to toil away at job I hated, knowing that the future was set regardless of what I did or didn’t do.
But life doesn’t work that way. The future isn’t set. And as time goes on, the ones who say they love us now may later eat their very words.
Love, lust. Maybe there really is no difference. Maybe they’re just one in the same.
And maybe it doesn’t really matter.
Because, in the long run, neither one of them last.
I don’t think Cliff ever loved me. Or my mother.
But he convinced us that he did.
He seduced us with roses. He courted us with fancy dinners and sweet treats. He wooed us with toys and jewelry, with charm and promises.
I’d just turned seven when he proposed to my mother. He flew us to one of his luxury resorts in Northern California to do the deed, probably figuring the ambience of the west coast would help seal the deal. It was the first time I’d ever seen the ocean, the rugged Pacific with its wild waves and craggy beaches. I was in awe, as was my mother, and the three of us spent seven happy days in our designer cabin by the sea. Cliff grilled hamburgers as big as his hand while my mother and I frolicked on the beach, collecting shells and laughing at the swoony sensation we’d get as the waves sucked the sand out from under our feet. There were nighttime bonfires with roasted marshmallows and hot dogs on a stick. In the mornings, my mother lounged on the beach while Cliff took me hiking along the shore, teaching me about tide pools and pointing out various fauna, all so different from anything I’d ever seen before.
To this very day, that trip to California with Cliff and my mother was the happiest I’ve ever been.
It was the first time in my life that I’d ever seen my mother fully awake, bright-eyed and alive in a way that she never was back home. The long hours and late-night shifts she put in while working the front desk at The Beaumont—a grand hotel two towns over from ours —took all of her time, leaving little for me. But it was where she met Cliff and, for a while, it seemed that all of those years of bad babysitters and tasteless microwavable dinners were worth it.
Because, in the beginning, the man swept us off our feet.
In the beginning, I believed everything he said.
Later that night, when Daniel and I walk into Jasper’s, Mimi’s jaw drops.
Then, when Ben files in after us, she slaps a hand right over her mouth.
I make what I hope is a discreet cutting motion across my throat with the side of my hand. In a silent, wide-eyed plea, I beg, beg, beg her to keep it together.
Which she does—for a whopping two whole seconds.
She immediately makes for us, weaving through the tables with purpose, her expression fit to burst. Ben mentions something about catching the game and peels away without a backward glance, heading for a seat near Chevy by the overhead TV above the bar. But Daniel is still here, by my side, and completely unaware of what happened last night, just steps from this very spot.
How I melted in another man’s arms. How I was ready and willing to give myself over wholly and completely after just one magical, earthshattering dance. And how foolish I felt when I realized that man doesn’t feel that same way.
I’m still reeling from Ben’s apathy, from his brush off.
Because if his mood this morning was any indication, I only imagined the sparks between us last night.
But when Mimi plants herself in front of us, arms folded over her chest and a what-the-fuck look on her face, I know that’s a lie.
“Well,” she says, her voice uncharacteristically cold, “isn’t this is a surprise?” Not waiting for an introduction, she sticks out her hand. “I’m Mimi.”
“This,” I say, tossing a thumb over my shoulder and trying to look relaxed, “is
Daniel. My, uh…” I’m not really sure what to call him at the moment, because despite his sudden appearance in Lost Bay and our last few hours together, I can’t seem to spit out the word boyfriend.
Daniel, however, has no problem with it. “I’m Lenny’s boyfriend.” He takes Mimi’s hand in his, turning on the charm as he does—sky blue eyes scrunching up at the corners and pearly white teeth flashing against tanned skin. It’s such a fluid response, a personality trait that comes so naturally I doubt he even realizes he’s doing it.
Mimi’s eyes snap to mine, her gaze searching, questioning.
Burning right into my damn skull.
Next to me, Daniel shifts. “Hey, you’re the girl from the video, aren’t you?” He turns to me. “Your last one. The makeover, right?”
Mimi answers before I can, her voice a barely contained squeak of excitement. “You saw it?”
“I did. And you looked absolutely beautiful, by the way.” He winks at me. “Both of you.”
And just like that, Mimi’s tough façade crumbles.
Daniel acknowledges her with a nod before turning back to me, his eyes sparkling, no doubt amused by her enthusiasm. “I watch all of Lenny’s videos, actually.”
“Oh, my God,” she breathes. “That is so sweet.”
I roll my eyes. “Yes, it’s beyond precious. How about we find a table, ‘kay?” Then, before either of them can answer, I rest a hand on Daniel’s arm and motion toward the bathroom. “Actually, would you mind finding one for us? I’m just going to run to the ladies’ room real quick.” I flash Mimi a look and, tilting my head in the direction of the bathroom, start to walk away.
She throws one last goopy smile at Daniel before following.
Jasper’s is busy this evening, being one of the only two restaurants in town open on a Sunday night, and we have to wait for two women to finish washing their hands and fluffing their hair before getting the room to ourselves.
