Dan likes to talk with his actions, not his words. And so when I hear his soft tone of voice and feel his arms around me, supporting me, I let the terrible topic fade because I love Dan, and I believe him.
And I don’t ever want to see Erin again.
Countdown to the day of Dan’s departure turned out to be rough. We had another ‘discussion’ about that night. We tried to establish facts that had too many truths to count. And we made up again, his last day hanging over us like a storm cloud. We sought shelter in bed, soaking each other in, until finally, D-Day arrived.
It’s a drizzly, overcast early March morning with out of season June Gloom, a blanket of low clouds that usually form in the summer months and burn off by mid-day. The weak sun breaks through the marine layer in bright patchy spots, but the air is still chilly and damp. Standing in the driveway, I wrap the flaps of Dan’s cozy beach cardigan tight around me and try not to shiver.
Dan’s pickup truck is loaded, almost ready to go. I watch as he puts his combat boots in the front seat and loads the last of his duffle bags in the bed of his truck, feeling like I’m attending a funeral. Then we hold each other one last time, my face buried in the nape of his neck, memorizing the feel of his body against mine.
"I’ll be home before you know it," he says, but his voice cracks. I look up and catch him rubbing his reddened watery eyes.
"Oh, babe," I say, voice breaking. "You’re not crying, are you?"
"Negative." But his eyes sheen, and he pulls me close. "Promise you’ll be here when I get home?"
"Of course I will. Why would you even say that?"
He shrugs his broad shoulders. "I guess that Erin thing freaked me out."
I still have questions. What do you mean, Dan? Why did it freak you out, specifically?
But I’m tired of arguing. I don’t want to squander our last few seconds together raking over pointless details. Dan said nothing happened. I believe him. And that night will soon fade away, destined for bad jokes.
He kisses me, pressing his full lips against mine. Then he whispers against my ear, "I love you, babe."
"I love you too."
As he gets in his truck, I admire how his jeans hug his narrow waist, how the thin t-shirt fabric clings to his muscled shoulders, how he cares about his honor, our relationship, and me. He drives away, waving, followed by one last thumbs up. I wave back, my heart full with love, but heavy with sorrow.
4
BRYNN
Fitness Fun, a small local gym where I teach yoga fusion, is bright and jarring with pink carpet the color of Pepto-Bismol, clanking weights, and a bank of whirring elliptical machines.
But I push on. Dan has been gone for two weeks now, which feels like an eternity. Only five months and two weeks to go until he’s home, I tell myself, feeling like riding one of those elliptical machines to the moon might take less time.
I wave to Michelle, sitting behind the front desk, and make my way over to the busy exercise room. People are putting away their weights from the 9 a.m. previous class. Others are rolling out their mats for mine.
I put my bag and mat down in the front of the studio, sync my phone to the speaker system, reminding myself to switch on airplane mode so that class won’t be interrupted again by my Darth Vader ringtone in case my dad decides to call, and cue up today’s playlist. The room feels like a meat locker so I walk over and crank up the thermostat. Then I roll out my mat, take off my shoes, say hello to a few of my regulars, and sit down to stretch, while the rest of the class fills in.
I’m bent at the waist, reaching over to touch my toes, when I catch a familiar figure in my peripheral vision. I look up.
Erin.
My stomach lurches. What in the hell is she doing here?
But she’s here all right, purple yoga mat tucked tidily under her arm, a big Louis Vuitton bag hanging from her shoulder. She’s attending my class. She gives me a little half-embarrassed wave, finds an open space over by the far wall, and unrolls her mat.
My mind races back to that night. Did I tell her where I worked? I must have because here she is.
The opening song plays. Class officially starts. After the third cycle of sun salutation, I move from student to student and make small adjustments—tuck your tailbone, square your hips. Today, I'm careful to avoid the left side of the studio, where Erin set up camp.
She seems pretty limber, nailing the advanced version of Bakasana. Maybe she didn’t hunt me down. Maybe she’s just a nice fellow yogi who happened to find a Saturday morning class that worked with her schedule, and that class happened to be mine.
Corpse pose concludes. The music stops. Class ends. While my students pack up and make their way out of the studio, I dilly-dally over by the stereo, fiddling with my phone, trying to busy myself while Erin leaves.
Janelle, one of my regulars, approaches me about modified yoga positions for her first trimester. She apologizes for taking up my time, but I’m grateful for the distraction. Erin will have plenty of time to clear out now because I plan on talking to Janelle for a while.
As we discuss Janelle’s pregnancy, her life, and how she broke the news to the proud father-to-be, I watch Erin from the corner of my eye.
She seems to be taking her own sweet time, rolling up her mat and carefully inserting it into its carry case. She thoroughly dabs the perspiration from her face and neck, folds up the cloth, and packs it away. Then she checks her phone, which could take approximately forever.
Unfortunately my conversation with Janelle is coming to a close. "Thanks so much. I’ll do that next time," she says.
"Okay, great," I reply. "I’m so happy for you. If you ever feel uncomfortable, stop what you’re doing. And definitely don’t roll onto your stomach."
"I won’t be able to much longer," she says, patting her tiny bump. "See you next week!"
"See you then," I say to Janelle as she turns to leave.
"Hey you!" Erin calls out in a singsong voice that sets me on edge. She walks over, face flushed, carrying her bag and mat.
Oh. no.
I try to smile, but I’m not feeling very friendly. Doesn’t she live in Newport Beach or something? I think I remember her talking about managing some nail salon up there and employee dramas. Nightmare! She had shrieked that night, laughing, drink in hand. I definitely remember that. "You’re far from home," I say, unplugging my phone from the stereo system and packing up my mat.
"Oh I’m in the area today," she says, smiling and fidgeting with the edges of her rolled up mat. "I have some nail polish suppliers down here and I like to pick up the orders myself. That way I can count everything and make sure they’re not ripping us off. And your class just happened to fit in perfectly with my schedule."
"Right." We got along the night of Dan’s big send off, but booze skews all reason. With her call to Dan in mind and now conveniently crashing my yoga class, I don’t think she’s very fun or cool. I think she’s alarming.
"Anyway," she continues, shrugging in casual sort of way, "you said something about teaching yoga that night we all went out. And then you mentioned that your classes are only sixty minutes, which I love."
Did I say all that?
"And so I hope you don’t think I’m a stalker or anything,"—she laughs and shrugs as if caught red-handed—"but I googled your name."
A shiver races over my skin. "I’m surprised you remembered."
"Brynn Masters? Hard to forget!"
Geez, she has a good memory.
"So . . . awesome class!" She looks around the exercise studio as if she’s amazed with the white walls. Then another teacher walks in, followed by a few students.
"Thanks for coming, but I need to get going now. The next class is about to start." I give her an officious nod, grab my mat and bag, and head out at a good pace. Maybe she’ll take a hint.
"Yeah ninety minutes is so long, especially when you’re sweating like a sieve," she says, following at my heels.
"It can be a bit much," I
say, heading straight to my car, while Erin tails me. That seems okay, as long as she clears out when I get there.
We chat during the minute or so that it takes for me to arrive at my car. I thought about confronting her about The Call, but decided to drop it. That would mean engaging her in meaningful conversation. And I want to get out of here.
"Well, maybe I’ll see you around sometime," I say, reaching in my bag for my keys.
Oouf. Why did I say that? Because I’m nice, that’s why. I’m a people pleaser. Dan always brings that to my attention. He tells me to stop caring so much about what people think, but I can’t help it.
It’s the curse of the oldest child, trying to ride out a terrible divorce, trying not to upset anyone more than they already are, trying to keep the family together.
So I tried to be super good. If I was the best kid ever, then mom and dad wouldn’t separate. Right?
Nope. Dad cheated. Mom cheated. And both descended into a haze of alcohol and work.
Except, old habits die hard. And I still strive to be nice, trying not to step on any manicured toes and all . . .
"Hey, Brynn?"
"Yeah?" I shift on my feet and hug my sweater close. Dark clouds threaten rain. I’m anxious to get going with my big plans for the rest of the day: homemade french toast for brunch followed by a movie binge-fest, curled up with a blanket next to Bear.
"I know this is a little awkward. But . . . I really need to talk to you."
First Dan, now me. This one really likes to talk. "What about?" I ask, wondering if there’s a Stalkers Anonymous hotline. Maybe she can talk to them instead.
A chilly breeze picks up, funneling leaves around our feet. She shifts her weight, glances over at a beleaguered palm tree and back to me. Finally, she says, "It’s about that night we all went out. The night of Dan’s going away party."
5
BRYNN
Erin and I sit down at a small round table in a vegan restaurant, two doors down from the gym. I suggested this place because I’m friendly with the staff, and if things go pear-shaped, at least I’ll have reliable witnesses.
Erin slides into the chair opposite me, stashes her yoga mat, and pulls her bag onto her lap, fidgeting with the long smooth handles.
Martin walks over, three-inch platform Creepers slapping on the faux wood floor.
"Hey, girl," he says. "What’ll it be today?"
I want to make one of my usual cracks about his choice of footwear, but Erin is downcast and edgy, chewing on the inside of her cheek. What does she want to tell me? "I’ll have an orange juice with ginger."
"Super spicy . . ." Martin repeats, writing down my order with a smirk. It’s literally a scribble. Then he looks up at Erin. "And you, hon?"
"I’ll take a water, no ice. "
"Water, no ice." Martin makes a final scribble on his notepad and leaves with a flourish.
An awkward moment of silence stretches between us. Erin looks a little peaked. There are dark smudges under her right eye that I hadn’t noticed before. Her lips are pale. I’m not sure if she sweated off her foundation or what, but she’s not looking so hot.
"So, what did you want to tell me?" I ask.
She picks a ragged cuticle on her thumb, mutely studying the table. "Erin . . . I know you called Dan."
She looks genuinely shocked. Not exactly Oscar-worthy, but respectable. "It’s not what you think," she says.
I look away and lean back. That old line? "Then why did you call him?" I tilt my head to the side, listening. This will be good.
But she doesn’t reply.
"Look, Erin," I say, running my thumbnail along a groove in the wooden tabletop. "I know this is hard for you. Breakups are hard. I’ve had a couple bad ones myself. And I know we didn’t make it any easier for you, but you really need to move on. Find someone else and . . . leave us alone."
That sounds harsh. I swallow, waiting for her to go Psycho Level Ten on me, and glance over at Martin, cutting oranges in half, oblivious to my combustible predicament.
But she doesn’t take offense or try to defend herself. She presses her lips together, brow furrowed. She looks down at her clasped hands, deep in thought. Then she looks up at me.
"You’re right. I shouldn’t have reached out. It’s just that something happened that night . . ." Like a shag? I wonder, but Dan said nothing happened. And I believe him. What else could it be? "And I wanted to talk to him before the police get involved."
The word ‘police’ hits me like a punch in the gut. Is she talking about rape?
She reaches into her bag, pulls out a photo from a side pocket, and slides it across the table toward me.
Carefully, I pick up the photo as fearsome as a snake.
It’s a close-up of Erin’s face with clusters of bruises around her temple and the corner of her eye and mouth. Her bottom lip is bloodied and bruised, her right eye swollen shut. Angry red scrapes like road rash mar the side of her forehead.
I drop the photo, afraid to touch it, and look at the shadows under Erin’s right eye and a very faint yellowish patch—an old bruise?—over her temple that I hadn’t noticed before.
She bites her lower lip and looks down. "It happened that night we all went out."
That night we all went out . . .
My mind races back to that big black hole of a night, jolted back to those foggy memories by this gruesome photo, whirring over as many scenes as I could recall, trying to solve this new mystery, looking at everything in a new investigative light. Who beat her up? And when?
We certainly were wasted. It was one of those rare times when the beginning of the night sparkled with fun and potential, and our thirst for drinks seemed bottomless.
The dead soldiers started multiplying. The empty glasses stacked up. More mysteriously arrived.
The wine went down like water. The music was bumping, my body moving. Everyone was deaf. What? What did you say? But it didn't matter. I wasn't there to blather. I was there to have a good time.
I was out with my lover, his hand on my knee, sending shivers of desire through my body. And then the booze took hold, filling the night with magic and laughter. Even the ex-girlfriend was so nice and fun.
There’s the odyssey to the club. I remember that guy we called the Pied Piper, leading the whole gaggle straight to some VIP section, filled with strangers, laughing and drinking even more. I have no idea how we got in. But we were in all right. Where did the Pied Piper go? Did he do it? Did he beat up Erin?
There was boozing and laughing and dancing. Then the room started spinning, making me feel queasy. My voice came out all slurred and funny. I had to concentrate to say something other than utter gobbledygook.
Disorientation set in. The room wobbled to the booming beat of the music. I remember wanting to go home and lie in Dan's safe arms until the world stopped spinning and my stomach stopped churning.
But he left, following Erin out of the club on unsteady legs. I got up to follow, I remember, but some horny wraith pulled me onto the dance floor. The wraith started bumping and grinding, pecking at my lips like a giant bird of prey. I pushed him away because—because I'm taken! I love someone. Someone who left to go somewhere with his ex . . .
I escaped the wraith and slumped down in the booth occupied by the friendly strangers. Did one of them beat up Erin? What about the wraith? Did he do it?
Who were the friendly strangers anyway? We all mind-melded at some point during the night’s festivities, riding the same wave of drink and euphoria. Probably something else too, I would have realized if I wasn't so trashed.
But I was trashed.
Dan was missing, and I realized that all those fun people weren’t fun anymore. They were on drugs, offering me some if I want to skip on over to the nearest toilet stall . . .
So I bailed, trudging down the sidewalk, shivering and hugging myself. My feet hurt. I needed help. I needed my boyfriend. Where in the hell did he go?
My night turned into a terrible nightmare
at that point, not at all like the fun-filled night I had imagined. I tried to text Dan, but I couldn’t see straight. Then I found him somehow, I guess, because the next thing I can recall is ending up at a house party with Dan, sans Erin.
There are black holes in my memory. Too many to count. How did we get to that house? How did I get home? Where did Erin go? I have no idea, but I made it home all right, feeling grateful that the nightmare had finally ended.
Except now I realize that it didn’t end.
It only just began . . .
"Who did this to you?" I whisper, afraid to ask, afraid of the answer.
Her eyes turn hard and brittle with hate. And she speaks the name that, deep down, I feared all along.
"Dan."
6
DAN
Saying goodbye to Brynn was like a knife to the heart. The look in her eyes. The feel of her body against mine. I’m not exactly sure that I lied to her. I think about a polygraph test, strapped around my chest, monitoring my heart beat, and I think there’s a good possibility that I would fail.
But lying when I have her best interests at heart doesn’t exactly count, does it? I don’t know. All I know is that I feel wretched inside for what happened that night. What was I thinking?
What I wouldn’t give to rewind that one single night and make it go away. What would I do if I had it to do all over again? I’d tell Erin to leave, of course. And if she sat there with that God-awful smirk on her face, making my blood boil, I’d take Brynn by the hand and walk straight out of there.
But I didn’t do that. To my eternal regret, I didn’t listen to my knee-jerk instinct that told me to run. I came back from the bar and found them sitting together, glass of wine in hand, talking. Intently. Then they started to laugh. Brynn, at first, followed by Erin, who brought her hand (I used to call it her claw) down on Brynn’s forearm and squeezed. My hackles rose when I saw that. Then Brynn laughed again and sang that stupid party pooper song and smiled that beautiful smile of hers, and I thought to myself: Relax, man. What could possibly happen?
Keep Me In Sight Page 2
