Deeper into Darkness

by Maria Ann Green

Aidan leaves, taking a moment to lean in to the car first, saying, “I love you, Bumble Bee.” And before I can respond, the door is closed and he’s already inside the house, locking the front door.

  “Sorry,” I mutter, not even sure if I mean it anymore.

  Then I go home, to my house. My thoughts are partially formed, and chaotic. But when I pull into my driveway, my brain finds something to zone in on. It’s stupid, but all I can focus on is that we should only have one house by now. We are engaged, after all. The slowness of our evolvement together is catching up with me, and it just adds to the list of grievances tonight. There shouldn’t be anywhere for me to flee.

  But there is.

  And there’s a broken nose, a detective, an atmosphere of bickering, a layer of anxiety, and too many dead bodies I can’t shake off. There’s too much, and all I taste, all I smell, all I feel is an overwhelming acidity as I unlock my door and go inside, slamming it shut behind me.

  The air feels crisper, lighter, sweeter when I wake in the afternoon, and it’s like someone pumped possibilities into the molecules of oxygen around me or filled the sun with a fresh start. While I slept, my attitude turned inside out, skin on the inside and organs flipped out, so much so that I wake with a smile.

  I feel better.

  Until I don’t, that is.

  I wake with the sun already on its descent, and with zero notifications on my cell phone. That’s all it takes, a glance at that stupid little screen, to know nothing actually got better for me and that I was irresponsible to think otherwise. I call Aidan, but no answer. I leave a voice mail and get no response. I text him. No response. I try not to panic, try to stay relatively calm, but every time I check my phone my heart speeds up just a little more. I call again, and his phone goes straight to voice mail.

  I try not to think about the what ifs. Because they could fill a canyon, with enough excess to spare, flipping it into a mountain. And they’re toxic. The what ifs suck the air from a room, backfilling it instead with poison that rots from the inside out, slow acting enough to keep you around to do the dirty work.

  What if. Two harmless words on their own, but the most dangerous combination capable of total annihilation.

  What if he was arrested while I slept?

  What if he was hurt, again, and is in a hospital bed this time?

  What if he was hit by a bus?

  What if some crazy killer targeted him, preyed upon him?

  What if.

  I, of all people, know of the monsters lurking in the shadows, of the people who choose random strangers, of the people who stalk someone for ages before striking. Predator or stranger, it doesn’t matter—there are other people out there who do what we do, and one of them could have happened upon Aidan.

  What if he ran off with someone else?

  I get out of bed then, utterly disgusted with myself, and no longer able to sit still. I pace.

  What if.

  That’s the one that stings the most, leaving behind a trail of hot red marks inside my head. Because he could have. He was full of shit, full of his own blindness and insecurities and hang-ups when we met. He didn’t take a real look at me until he knew I was smart and could make him laugh. So who’s to say he hasn’t gone back to old ways?

  Grabbing clothes, I head to the bathroom to shower. Leaving the water cold, I hope it will pull me from the line of thoughts I can’t seem to veer from. But it doesn’t. I keep coming back to those two words.

  What if.

  What if he’s mad, livid about his nose and our bet and whatever else? What if he’s found something out about my past, about my omissions, just another word for lies, about who I’ve killed, and the rest—and then he ran?

  After finishing, I brush my wet hair and braid it. I get dressed, but then I feel empty after running out of tasks, so I sit on the edge of the bed.

  What if.

  “That’s it.” I yank my phone from my pocket, fed up and just done, to call Jason. Scrolling through my contacts, I see Mel’s name fly by. And I add another what if to my rising pile, what-if-ing all over the rest of my worries. What if he left me for Amelia, to be with her in secret again, like he was behind Jason’s back before, before the divorce, before we were together? A secret I keep for him, just one more in the growing list to keep quiet, keep separated from all the other half-truths and whole omissions. He left her to be with me, so it’s possible he could leave me to be with her. It’d be a poetic sort of coming full circle.

  What if.

  Clicking Jason’s name, it rings, only once, then he answers. I hear background noise, but don’t take any time to place it; it doesn’t matter and I don’t have enough spare focus to care anyway.

  “Hey,” I say before he has a chance to start.

  “What’s up?” He always sounds so upbeat. It’s exhausting sometimes, when there’s nothing to be happy about, when the world should feel as tied in knots as I do. Sometimes I want to shake Jason and scream.

  What if.

  “Have you seen Aidan?”

  What if I implode? I feel like I’m filling up with omissions and lies and secrets and worries. And anger. And if something doesn’t give soon, it’ll break me, because I can only stretch so far.

  “Huh?” Jason never sounds one-hundred-percent confident, but at the moment he’s wholly confused. Irritation flares, however unfairly. But really, it wasn’t something hard to understand, something that I’ve asked him a hundred times before. So I take a deep breath, twice, before trying again.

  “Can you hear me?”

  Because how else would I be unclear?

  “Yeah.”

  I’m going to kill him, Aidan and their friendship be damned. I’m going to Kill Jason with a capital “K,” and I’m going to throw bleach or acid into his wounds before I do it, just to smile while he suffers.

  What did you not understand?

  Do you want to be ripped apart limb from limb by four separate semitrucks?

  “Have you seen Aidan?” I repeat the words slowly, like he’s high, high and possibly brain-dead.

  “Yeah, I’m looking right at him, Bee. He’s with me. It thought you knew that. Sorry, I swore Aidan said something about telling you.”

  So, there it is.

  Apparently, Aidan is the one hoping to have salt rubbed into a thousand tiny paper cuts.

  I can hear Jason’s clumsy hand cover the speaker on his phone, and I bite my bottom lip to stop myself from screaming. Tugging on the end of my braid, I lean back and let the bed come up to meet my back.

  Speaking quickly, to stop whatever conversation is happening behind my back, I raise my voice to say, “Oh, god. Duh. I completely forgot.” I slap a palm to my forehead, loud enough for Jason to hear. And I fake a laugh.

  It’s an Oscar-worthy laugh, the kind that’s contagious, like in those movies that have music swelling with heartfelt moments. And it works, like I knew it would. Jason’s voice comes back and the smile in his voice is as loud as his words.

  “You’d forget your head if it wasn’t attached, Bee.”

  Then I place what I heard, the tiny sounds. Tiny but recognizable. The sound of glass, the sound of faint notes and rhythm, the sounds of other voices and chewing and high-fiving.

  They’re at a bar.

  I pull my knees up until my feet are on the bed beneath me, and I let my arm, the one not clutching the phone, fall straight out until I’m simultaneously curled into myself but taking up space on both halves of the bed. The inconsistence helps calm me. Sort of.

  They’re having beers at a pretty full dive bar, from the sounds of it. I don’t know which one, but it doesn’t really matter. It could be anywhere, could be any one, all of them. Either way, Aidan knew I’d been trying to reach him, and he ignored me intentionally. He turned his phone off, like a bratty little teenager, to punish me.

  And, you know what, that’s just fine.

  “You know it,” I say.

  For a second he sounds like he’s going to let m
e go, but he changes his mind. With the quick change in tone I’m tempted to do it myself, over the conversation and the consequent irritation. I just feel used, and suddenly tired again.

  “Want to work out later today?” he asks. I hear a faint noise, like Aidan saying something to him. “It’s been too long,” Jason adds, ignoring Aidan.

  Then I have an idea. A wonderful, horrible, perfect idea.

  “Jason, my sweet.” I say it loudly, and with so much sugar in my words he’s already developing diabetes. I can feel him melt, and I smile. His breath heats up my ear through the phone, or maybe that’s just the anger turning them red, as he lets out a laugh. “I would love nothing more.” I pour just a little more honey into my voice, adding a hint of that husky breath that makes guys hard. “What time?”

  “Six?” It was probably meant to be a statement, but it’s all question marks and hopeful notes.

  “Sounds absolutely perfect,” I say, then hang up right after, leaving everyone wanting more of me.

  And I wait.

  I set my phone down, face to the comforter; I stand and walk away. But I don’t even make it to the fridge before my short ringtone is calling me back to the bedroom.

  The little burst of notes that means I have a text is even more satisfying than expected.

  I flip it over and see his name.

  Aidan.

  Aidan: Dinner?

  Me: Probably not, something came up and I’ll be too busy to get together tonight.

  Me: Maybe tomorrow

  And I wonder how karma tastes, assuming it’s bitter.

  ***

  My pants are too tight, and my pinky toe is rubbed half raw.

  But I keep running.

  There’s so much sweat between my cheeks that I’m absolutely positive my butt is squeaking as I run.

  But I keep running.

  Jason keeps looking at me like I’m crazy, like I’m going to haul off and deck him from two machines over.

  But I still keep running.

  I keep my headphones in my ears, and I watch the tv screen in front of me. And I run. I run hard. I run, stomping on my frustrations, on my rage. I run because I’m mad, not even sure if it’s helping. Mad at Aidan for acting the childish way he did. Still mad at myself for hurting him last night, accident or not. Mad about Harwell and Eva and the Parkers and everything that’s still making me anxious, everything that’s still twisting my stomach and making me look over my shoulder too often. Mad at Jason because he’s incredibly annoying tonight, and he refused to shut up until I put my headphones into my ears. I think he may have tried a few times after anyway.

  And I run until I can’t run for another second, until my toes are going to fall off and my face will melt if I run one more step.

  Though I’m not done yet.

  Hopping down from the machine, no cooldown, I start to walk toward Jason. Clearly, he thinks I’m headed for him, as he opens his mouth to say something, when in reality I’m shooting for the ab machines past him, and he closes his mouth again when I rush past.

  “Where’s the fire?” he asks over the music in my headphones.

  “Up your ass,” I snap, and I instantly regret it—Jason didn’t do anything. “I’m sorry,” I say, pulling the buds from my ears and tipping my head back in annoyance at myself. “I’m just in a crappy mood.”

  I’msorryI’msorryI’msorryokayI’msorry. Is there a limit before a word loses all meaning?

  He nods, then hops off of his treadmill, following me to the machines. He doesn’t say it, but he’s going to spot me as necessary, which usually means he’ll be on his own machine near me, only jumping in as required.

  He’s talking, but I’m not even trying to listen to him, to his words.

  I add weights and I move; I push through the fatigue, through the strain. I do rep after rep, with more weight than normal. And it feels good. The burn, the focused transfer of energy, feels really good. It’s even starting to clear my mind a little.

  So, as Jason prattles on, I start brainstorming, utilizing the time at each machine, to try and come up with ways I can get my life—with Aidan, with all the suspicions around us, with everything—back to normal, back to the way I like it.

  Jason goes on. I nod and smile occasionally, throwing out a few “yeahs” and “sures.”

  But then I stop mid-repetition, with red cheeks and my arms above my head.

  “Wait. What did you just say?” I ask, very sure I couldn’t have heard what my brain is trying to process.

  “I know, right?” No, I don’t know, say it again. And of course he does. His smile is a little smug, and I think he was hoping to repeat himself. “Mel asked to get back together, to try it one more time, to do it right this time. She wants to do the whole counseling thing and start fresh. She said she wants to get back to us, that she misses me.”

  “Wow.” I don’t know what else to say.

  He nods, and suddenly I realize I haven’t moved and my eyes are still wide. Taking a moment, I right my face as well as my posture and return to my workout. “What are you going to do?” I finally ask after he supplies no other insight into his thoughts.

  “I’m not sure,” he admits.

  And I’m surprised to find I’m surprised.

  Jason was always, almost pathetically, in love with Amelia. She was the center, the ruler, of his universe. The sun rose and set with her, and when she left he was broken. I’d never seen someone so devastated. So, while I understand the need to protect oneself, I’m shocked he isn’t jumping at the chance, but I hadn’t realized I’d expected him to still be the person he was when she left him.

  This is tricky, though. When someone is undecided, someone as important as Jason is in my life—if only by association—picking any side could prove unwise. If I say he shouldn’t take her back and then he does, I’m the jerk who badmouthed the mother of his children. And if I tell him not to do it, then he may always wonder what could have been and possibly blame me for stopping him.

  So I say nothing, and I wait for him to go on. This isn’t like the conversation with Harwell, where I felt the need to fill the silences with my own voice. There’s nothing to lose by waiting, and that’s just what I do.

  “I don’t know what I want to do. On the one hand, I will always love her. She made my girls. We were together for forever.”

  We switch machines, and Jason pauses so long I think he might be finished. With our backs to each other and clanking weights between our machines, I open my mouth to say something incredibly vague and noncommittal, but he starts again before I get any sounds out; I return my lips to their standard position.

  “I loved her so much, for so long.”

  Loved. Past tense.

  “But…” Jason pauses again. “I don’t know. I don’t know what I want to do. I feel bad when I think about saying no. But I feel bad when I think about saying yes.”

  We stand again, moving onto another set of muscle groups, and again I add more weight than normal. I hate to admit it, but I’m happy for the distraction. Knowing we aren’t the only couple with hardships, with issues, is helpful. And I don’t want to, but I feel a little bad for how I left it with Aidan.

  “It sounds like you’re on the fence. That’s really hard.”

  “Can I be totally honest?” His eyes don’t meet mine; in fact, they’re also avoiding the mirror across from us, and it makes me want to know whatever he has to say even more.

  “Always,” I say.

  “I wonder if I can do better. I deserve to be treated better than she treated me.”

  I want to say I agree, but again the catch-22 hangs above my head like a finger on the trigger.

  Once more he gives me the out and continues, saying, “And then I feel guilty for thinking that. She fucked up, true.” I nod.” But I wasn’t blameless either. We have a long history and I wasn’t putting in one hundred percent all the time. We have those long years, and the babies, I mean she’s barely back at work. Maybe I should let
her mistake go, so we can start over.”

  “Well…”

  I have no idea how to finish that sentence, so I don’t.

  There’s nothing I can say, no way I can save him unless I crawl into his brain and make the decision for him. And while I’m sure he’d appreciate not having to do the hard work, he’d still have to do the hardest work by living with the results.

  “I know,” he says. “I’m torn. I have no idea what to do. It’s crazy,” he adds.

  “You can say that again.”

  “It’s crazy.” Jason laughs at his stupid joke, and I laugh at him for thinking it’s funny. But none of it really lightens the mood for long, and soon we’re just sitting on the benches without doing any work.

  “I can’t make the decision for you, bud.”

  “I know.”

  “You have to do what’s right for you.”

  “I know,” he says again, sounding fully dejected.

  I feel bad for him, and maybe I shouldn’t have said it. It’s better than saying what I really want to. I’d never want to be Mel. I can’t imagine being pregnant and alone like Mel was after she left. It’s horrifying to think she was voluntarily pregnant four times, and chose to leave Jason while she still was the last time. I’d never want to be pregnant and lonely, or just finished with being pregnant and wanting someone who doesn’t want you.

  It was her choice to leave him, and even if it was a mistake it’s one she made. Maybe she has to live with it.

  ***

  Jason went on for a while, until I had to leave him, saying goodbye over my shoulder as I walked into the locker room. He could have talked for hours.

  He could have talked until I told him what to do.

  Only I didn’t leave when he did. In front of my locker I stripped, but instead of my sweatpants I put on my swimsuit and went to the hot tub, then to the sauna. And after rinsing off I put my shorts and tank back on to do one more round. I needed just a little more. The stairs were effective, and the elliptical was even better.

  But eventually I did finish and now I finally feel spent walking toward the doors. Spent, but accomplished.