by Nick Pirog
I thought that I’d been in love with Avery, and maybe to some level I was, but this love, this shared lightning bolt I had with Megan wasn’t just in a different world. It was in a different realm.
One I didn’t even know existed.
I watch Megan’s chest rise and fall. I comb a few stray blonde hairs back behind her ear.
As I’m watching her, I see her eyes twitch beneath her eyelids. Her breaths quicken. Her hands flex.
I rub her head and say, “It’s okay, it’s okay.”
Cassie lifts her head next to me, glancing up to see if everything is okay. Cassie was no stranger to nightmares.
Megan’s breath continues to quicken, until she is sucking in breaths spasmodically.
I give her arm a gently nudge.
Her eyes open, then blink a few times.
“You’re okay,” I tell her. “You were having a nightmare.”
She takes a couple long deep inhales. I can still see the terror in her face. Her eyes are rimmed in it.
“What were you dreaming about?” I ask.
“It’s the same nightmare I always have,” she says. “I’m in the lake. And I’m drowning.”
Chapter 20
“SEPTEMBER”
Jerry
“You got something for me?” Chuck asks.
“I do,” I tell him.
“Really?”
“Don’t sound so shocked.”
“It’s just that the last time you texted me you had something, it was that YA mermaid thing.”
“Yeah,” I laugh. “Thanks for not shooting that down too hard.” I think Chuck’s exact words were, “Eh, so what else do you got?”
But now, I really do have something.
“So what is it?” Chuck shouts impatiently. “Young Adult?”
“No.”
“Sci-fi?”
“Nope.” I pause. “Literary Fiction.”
“Oh.” I can hear his disappointment.
As far as fiction goes, mysteries, sci-fi, and YA are where the big money is, but a good literary fiction novel can still be a cash cow.
“Alright, let’s hear it,” he says.
“9/11.”
“9/11?”
“Yep.”
“Okay, I’m intrigued.” He waits for me to continue.
“So, you know how they rerun all the 9/11 stuff on 9/11?”
“I do. I love that stuff.”
“Yeah, well, it’s been a few years since I watched any of it, but when they were playing it yesterday, I stumbled on it. When they started talking about all the first responders who ran into the buildings, I started thinking about if I’d been one of those first responders.”
“You?” Chuck says with a laugh.
“Well, not me, but somebody like me.”
“So a wimp?”
“Exactly.”
“I like where this is headed.”
“Yeah, so this guy, maybe he’s a paramedic, or maybe he’s a cop or even a firefighter; when his entire squad is running into the building, he chickens out.”
“And then when the buildings fall,” Chucks says, “and all those people die—”
“—everyone assumes this guy died too.”
“And?”
“And he’s so ashamed and he feels so guilty, he flees the country. Goes into hiding. Goes down to Mexico or whatever. His family, his friends, everyone thinks he’s dead. And then fifteen years pass and he’s forced to come home.”
“Why does he have to come home?”
“I haven’t gotten that far yet. But for whatever reason, maybe he gets arrested in whatever country he’s in and is sent back to the U.S., or he just figures it’s time. But for whatever reason, he comes back and his whole story comes out. And he has to deal with the fallout from the press, his family, his friends, maybe an ex-girlfriend.” I stop. This is as far as I’ve gotten in the outline.
“Well,” Chuck says, “I definitely think there’s something there.”
“Yeah?”
“Absolutely!”
“That’s a relief to hear.”
I knew the idea had merit, but I never got that magical feeling I had when I first came up with Pluto Three. But I’m coming to find out that magical feeling is rare—super rare, in fact. More often than not, it’s a seed of an idea that is flushed out over time.
“You have a working title yet?” Chuck asks.
“Not yet.” Some authors are adamant about having a title for their work. A title that might change multiple times over the duration of the project. I’m the opposite in this regard. It’s one of the few things I’m patient about. The title will surface at some point—I didn’t have a title for Pluto Three until the fifth draft—you just have to wait.
“Well, I’m excited, buddy. Sounds like you’ve got a winner here. Keep me updated.”
“Will do.”
We hang up.
I lean forward and glance through the window. Cassie is lying on the porch next to the baby pool. She’s staring intently at the water. I glance at her for a long few seconds. Finally, she turns and looks at me. I stick my tongue out to the side and cross my eyes.
Her tail helicopters.
Then I walk to the refrigerator and grab a jar of pickles out of the fridge. Then I sit down at the computer.
I have work to do.
Cassie
I love Jerry’s silly face. He’s been doing it a lot lately. And I know this has a lot to do with Megan.
Megan stays over at our house two or three times a week. That means plenty of rubs for me. And lots of “samples” from her cooking. (Megan is an amazing cook!) And the best part: lots of Wally! (Talk about silly, Wally is such a silly little dog.)
I’m about to go inside and give Jerry some licks when I hear the top of the pickle jar open. I haven’t heard the pickle jar open in a long time. I know not to disturb Jerry when it’s pickle time.
I turn back to the water. Back to the frog babies. Except, they aren’t frog babies anymore. In fact, they are Almost Frogs. They are almost the Chosen Ones.
They look like frogs, but they still have tails. If they make it to Frogdom, their tails will disappear. There are only seven. Of all those hundreds of little tadpoles, only seven of them have made it this far.
One of the Almost Frogs jumps off the side of the baby pool and swims across the water. His grassy green body flutters through the water, then he climbs out onto the pool edge closest to me. He’s no bigger than a piece of my kibble. He has tiny little black eyes rimmed in orange.
I lean forward and give him a sniff.
Hi, Almost Frog.
He jumps off the edge of the pool and onto the porch.
Hop, hop, hop.
I follow him.
He hops off the porch and into the grass. I keep watch on him. He would be a tasty snack for one of the birds flying around. I keep guard until he finally makes his way back to the pool.
I don’t want to name him yet—because he still might not make it to Frogdom—but I can’t help it. I keep watch the rest of the day.
I keep watch over Hugo.
Hugo
The mouse pokes his head out of the small hole in the dirt. His little nose twitches in the moonlight. The mice in the forest are a bit different than the mice in the city and at the farm. They are the same size, but they have slightly bigger eyes and they are darker in color, which makes them harder to see at night. (I wonder how the Maker decides what kind of mouse you become. Is mountain mouse worse punishment than city mouse?)
I hunker in the long grass. My back legs flex. Xanthus’ words echo in my head, “Stealth and patience, Hugo. Stealth and patience.”
I don’t want to make the same mistake I made yesterday. If I pounce too early, the mouse will simply dart back in his hole. I need to wait for him to scurry into the bushes in search of his dinner (an insect or some berries).
But the mouse isn�
��t my only worry. This is my first night alone. My first night without Xanthus by my side. Tonight for the first time, I’m not just the hunter. I’m also the hunted.
I’m at least a couple miles from the shelter den where Xanthus and I stayed last night (and many, many miles from Xanthus’ main den). Once the stars came out, I set out. I headed downwind, then I splashed through a small stream, hoping to mask my scent.
I climbed a few small trees, jumping to the connecting branches. The entire time, I stayed on high alert.
“You can hear much farther than you can see,” Xanthus always said. So I listened to every rustle, every hoot, and every pitter-patter.
It took me a few hours to find the small hole where the mouse lived. I could smell him. He shouldn’t poop so close to his hole.
Now, the mouse twitches his whiskers once more, then he scurries from the hole.
I leap from my spot in the grass, take two long strides, and then I pounce. I can’t jump as far as Xanthus (he can jump ten feet, at least), but I can still jump pretty far, and I sink my teeth into the mouse’s backside. I shake him a few times, then drop him to the ground. He’s still alive and I pin him down with my paw.
There’s a soft rustle, but by the time I snap my head up, I’m on my side and Xanthus has his teeth wrapped around my neck.
“You’re dead,” he says.
Over the course of the next few hours, I die three more times.
Jerry
“What is that?” I ask, peering over Megan’s shoulder at the sizzling pan on the stove.
“Gnocchi, with a sage butter sauce.”
“Gnocchi? What is that again?”
“Potato dumplings.”
“Right. Well, it smells amazing.” Megan has been cooking dinner at my place a few times a week and she continues to astound me with her cooking skills.
I give her a kiss on the neck, then grab a fork out of the nearby drawer and stab one of the small, buttery, gnocchi. Megan tries to slap my hand away, but I’m too quick and I pop the dumpling in my mouth.
“Get out of my kitchen!” Megan shouts, trying to fight back a smile.
I’m tempted to tell her that it’s actually my kitchen, but I like her choice of pronoun.
I retire to the couch with Cassie and Wally and we watch the first quarter of the Sunday Night Football game. I’m not a huge sports fan, but I do like to watch the NFL, and with Wally in my lap and Cassie curled up next to me, the three of us watch the Atlanta Falcons drive down the field and score a touchdown. After a commercial break and a kickoff, Megan yells, “Dinner’s ready.”
The four of us head out to the back porch. Megan has filled both of Cassie’s and Wally’s bowls with kibble and a few pieces of gnocchi and sets them under the table.
The four of us eat as a family.
After we eat, Megan and I play a few hands of gin-rummy, then we grab the dogs’ leashes and take them for a walk. I grab for Megan’s hand and we walk the half-mile to the beach. The sun is in the process of setting, the sky a soft pink and quickly dissolving into a light gray. The lake is as still as I’ve ever seen it, not carrying a single ripple.
We unleash Cassie and Wally and let them romp around as we walk. Megan and I make small talk, mostly about a few movies that are due to come out soon, then she switches topics.
“Who was your first love?” she asks.
Megan and I had talked about our past relationships a few times, but this question had never been broached by either of us.
“Hmmm,” I say.
“Was it Avery?”
“No,” I scoff. “In fact, I’m not sure I was really in love with her. I think, maybe I was in love with the idea of her, but not her really.”
Megan nods, then asks, “Who then?”
“Actually, my first love was this little girl I met here in Tahoe when we used to visit.” I feel a grin crawl onto my lips as I continue, “I was five years old and she was six. We were basically inseparable for the next five years any time I came here. It was different, I mean, we were just little kids, but when I got a little older, eight or nine, there’s no doubt that I was in love with her.”
I consider telling Megan that she died. That she drowned in the very lake we’re standing next to at this very moment. But I don’t. Megan is already afraid of the water. Megan already has nightmares about drowning in the lake. And moreover, it was just eerie: Morgan drowning in the lake and Megan having nightmares about that very thing.
Even though things with Megan and I are going amazingly, part of me keeps waiting for the other shoe to drop. That it’s too good to be true. I can’t control these thoughts; there’s a well-trodden neuron path in my brain wired for insecurity. I’m still nervous about doing or saying something that might send her running for the hills. And though irrational, I fear Morgan’s drowning could be one of those things.
I will tell her about Morgan’s death someday.
Just not today.
I wait for Megan to ask what happened to her, to ask why we were only friends for five years, to ask if she moved away, but she doesn’t. Megan is silent. Almost in a trance.
“What about you?” I say, giving her arm a light shake. “Who was your first love?”
She gazes out on the water, then blinks twice, snapping from whatever reverie she’s in. Then she turns to me and says, “You are, Jerry. You’re my first love.”
~
Indefinitely.
That’s the word my parents used when I asked how long they would be staying in Tahoe.
Indefinitely.
The last time I saw them was two weeks earlier, over Labor Day weekend. Labor Day is usually the signal for the end of summer and I eagerly anticipated my parents heading back to Oregon. But no such luck. Evidently, they were having too much fun here. Having too much fun with Teddy and Sequoia, who, not to my surprise, were in attendance at my parents’ Labor Day barbecue.
Megan and I made a compulsory pop-in, but when the Fearsome Foursome (that’s what they called themselves) broke out the weed Rice Krispy Treats, it was our cue to leave. I can only handle so many “golden age of flying” stories and so many claims about the healing power of crystals.
Currently, Cassie is lying on the couch on her back. Her paws are in the air and the white of her belly fur statics upward. I give her belly a scratch and ask, “Are you ready for this? They’re pretty weird.” The most disconcerting thing about this last part is that I’m not sure if I’m talking about my parents or Teddy and Sequoia.
Cassie wiggles her entire body on the cushion and barks.
“Okay, but I warned you.”
I’ve been dreading having dinner with my parents all day. Mostly because without Megan there—she has to work—I won’t have anyone to help soothe my discomfort. But it’s more than that. Over the past couple months, Megan has become my best friend. (Sorry, Alex.) She’s funny, she’s kind, she’s insightful, she’d even helped me work through a few problems in the outline of my new book. And most importantly, she likes almost all the same shows as I do on Netflix, which I think is the single most important test of compatibility.
I lean down and blow a raspberry on Cassie’s belly, then say, “Okay, let’s go.”
~
“Where are they?” I ask.
“Who?” my mother says, taking a sip of white wine. We’re centered around the kitchen island.
Who? Who do you think?
I almost say, “The ghost of Howard Hughes and Full-size SUV,” but I don’t. “Um, Teddy and Sequoia.”
“Oh,” my mother says. Her eyes cut toward my father, who is feeding Cassie carrots and asking her to do tricks. I have a quick flash of déjà vu from the first dinner with my parents nearly three months earlier.
My father glances up and says, “So, about that.” He tosses one last carrot and Cassie snatches it out of the air, then he wipes his hands on his khaki shorts. “Your mom and I have decided—”
He pauses.
“What?” Please say the words. Please. Please. There’s still hope my parents haven’t done irreparable damage to my psyche. There’s still hope I won’t have to spend thousands of dollars talking to a therapist about “The Dinner.”
“Well,” my father continues, “we’ve decided that an open marriage isn’t right for us.”
I throw up my hands in celebration. “Are you serious?”
My mother walks around the kitchen island and puts her hand on my father’s back. “Turns out that your father’s wrinkly old balls are the only ones that I want.”
This should disgust me, but it doesn’t. “Thank God,” I say.
My dad laughs. “Yeah and there’s more. We’re headed back to Oregon tomorrow.”
“Cheers to that,” I say, even though I don’t have anything in my hand.
On this note, my father goes to the fridge and pulls out a frosty bottle of my arch nemesis and hands it to me. I crack open the beer and the three of us cheers.
Backward Bill’s Buttermilk Beer never tasted so good.
~
“Wow, the tourists have really cleared out,” Megan says a week later.
We’re in the same spot we came to on our first date. The beach was overrun with tourists then, but today there are only a handful of people. Tahoe will be slow for the next two months, at least until mid-November when the ski resorts open and the winter tourist season kicks off.
Megan and I are sitting in the sand. It’s warm out, but the burn of summer is gone. I glance up the beach where Cassie and Wally are splashing at the edge of the water and say, “And good riddance.”
Megan smiles, but it seems forced. She has a tell: her dimple doesn’t surface.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
Megan was supposed to stay over the last two nights but canceled both times. Now she’s acting strange. Dour, even.
