Jade

by Sarah Jayne Carr

  My phone beeped, an interruption to my thoughts. I reached into my bag and touched something rectangular, cold, and unfamiliar. When I pulled it out, I realized it was Miles’s cell phone. I thought back to the night before when I’d only partially emptied my tote at home. His keys, meds, and wallet were on my table and up for grabs when he’d made his mad dash, but he’d left his phone behind. The screen was dark. Guessing his passcode would still be impossible and likely grounds for him to file a police report. I reached back in and pulled out my cell.

  “Crap,” I mouthed, reading over the text messages from my dad— one from last night and a follow-up a few minutes ago.

  Sperm Donor

  Don’t forget about tomorrow.

  Don’t forget about tonight at Poseidon’s. 6:30 p.m.

  I’ll be there.

  I shipped the three-word reply before anything else could intervene and get me into more trouble. From miles away, Cranston’s disapproving stare pressed onto me because I’d ignored him, and I’d wasted his time with fifty extra keystrokes. My fault. I’d skipped past his initial text. In my defense, a hospital trip trumped meaningless, hollowed conversation.

  Once a month, I met up with Cranston Nash for dinner. Once a month, I dreaded the outing. So much awkwardness got jammed into two hours of silent eating. With the wedding ruling my life, I’d forgotten about it. Or maybe I’d wished it away. As much as I hated the obligatory meet-ups, a lot rode on dinners with my dad— in regard to his chiropractic practice.

  Most of the time, I kept those thoughts tucked away in a tiny box, under a dozen locks and keys. Since my first day in massage school, he’d promised to keep the business in the family, passing the torch down for me to manage when he retired. The wrinkles spanning his face and his balding head told me the time drew near with each passing month. Roxy and I wanted that influx of clientele so badly. His Seattle practice thrived on its own, but Rox and I knew it’d be an incredible opportunity to expand our brand. Silently, I’d toyed with the idea of moving back to Seattle and escaping Cannon Cove. Countless opportunities waited outside of the tired town. I hadn’t vocalized that dream to anyone yet— not even Roxy.

  I pushed thoughts of Cranston to the side and returned to my last unaddressed text. What I assumed was one message turned out to be six.

  Anal Eyes

  Where are you? Our lap dances are in fifteen minutes. VIP lounge! Hurry!

  If you need money, it’s okay. I can spot you some $1s for the strippers.

  You don’t have to be embarrassed. I’ll pay your cover charge too.

  What happened? Eli said Seth and Bo didn’t show either.

  Would you stop ignoring me?

  Bonfire. Tomorrow night.

  Shit. The bonfire. And by the last line, she’d stopped speaking in complete sentences, which likely wouldn’t bode well for me. I stared at the time stamp on her message. Her “tomorrow” equated to my “today.” Next, I pulled out the itinerary and ran my finger down the page. Annelies’s schedule overlapped with my dinner plans. Double shit.

  I didn’t know how to reply to my future step-monster. What would I say?

  So, I know I no-showed at Viper Vick’s, but this MOH’s gonna bail tonight too. Cool?

  Hey, I know you get married tomorrow, but your fiancé hit on me outside The Salty Seaman. Wanna meet up real quick to rationally discuss it?

  Sorry about last night. Kinda got stuck in a real-life game of Frogger. Kinda won. Kinda didn’t.

  None of those would work.

  I decided to deal with Annelies later instead of responding. There were other pressing matters— like Miles’s cell phone. The bitter half of me wanted to throw it at his face and yell “Dick Giblet” until I went hoarse. The responsible half wanted to ensure he wasn’t lying unconscious in a ditch. After all, I was the only one who knew a doctor used office supplies to fix his noggin. Regardless of which half prevailed, it meant going through with my plan.

  After my millionth pep talk, I made the long drive toward Chestnut Avenue. Even if he wasn’t there, maybe someone could tell me where Sienna lived since Miles clearly wasn’t staying at Lucy’s. Without knowing Sienna’s last name, I couldn’t go directly to the source. Getting rid of his phone would be cathartic, a necessary gesture of goodbye.

  I frowned at my watch. Between my date with Barry, going to the McCullough’s, painting my office, dinner with Cranston, and the bonfire, I’d barely have time to breathe.

  * * *

  Thirty minutes later, I found myself knocking on a door along the outskirts of Steele Falls, the sound matching a rapid beat in my chest. To be honest, I’d lost mental footing on why I stood on the McCullough’s doorstep or how I got there. My mind blanked.

  But it was too late.

  Faint footsteps paired with a creak of aged wood behind the dilapidated door, and I practically felt an eye peering at me through the peephole. Judging me. Staring deep within me. Berating me. Then, that splintered door with peeling paint swung open, and a man appeared. A haze of cigarette smoke clung to the air around him like a filthy aura. Even through the stagnant veil of Riverdales, he resembled an older version of Miles. Gray hair. Forehead wrinkles. Leathery skin. What I noticed most was the smoothness around his eyes— no laugh lines. He offered a gruff, “Whaddya want?” with a single nod.

  “Is… Miles here?”

  “I… I’m…” the man said. “Seth?” His tone sounded both annoyed and confused, like I’d challenged his intelligence.

  Backpedaling began. “Maybe I have the wrong—”

  “Oh. That Miles,” he replied. “You a friend of his or somethin’?”

  That Miles?

  I’d come full circle to not knowing what to say or how to act, so I clung to brevity. “Yes.”

  Miles’s father rubbed the stubble on his chin while he fought off a smirk. “The fact you’re standin’ here on my porch tells me you don’t know my kid good at all.”

  “Cell… I…”

  “Let me give you some advice, sweet cheeks. That boy’s a disease, a cancer to this family. Do yourself a favor and steer clear of him.”

  It wasn’t the greeting I’d expected, not by far. But it wasn’t the goodbye I’d predicted, either. I opened my mouth to reply but was cut off. For the second time, in the town of Steele Falls, a door slammed in my face to end a conversation. I didn’t have a chance to mention the phone or Sienna. My life’s newfound theme hit again. While seeking answers… I left with questions.

  Most of my drive to The Triple C was another done without thought; I couldn’t tell you the roads I traveled. Highways, side streets, detours; maybe all of them. My mind reeled in fifty different directions by the time I pulled into the empty parking lot. A few days ago, I couldn’t wait for my solitude to paint, but that excitement vanished. I had to suck it up and be responsible, though. The opportunities to finish the project before Roxy came home and the office reopened were running out.

  I shut the main door, turned off the alarm, and let the tote fall from my shoulder to the desk. Drawing a deep breath, I took a last look at the bubble gum-colored walls in my office. Good riddance.

  My stomach cramped to state its hungry opinion because I didn’t eat any of the seventeen meals Barry ordered that morning. I pulled a jumbo candy bar from my bag and noticed the corner of that dumb K-7 napkin stuck under the edge of the foil wrapper. I set both down on the end table and took my tote bag to the cubby behind Gwen’s desk. The snack and ripping the napkin into tiny pieces could be my reward at breaktime. I folded up the massage table, put my chair in its case, and draped a plastic sheet over my desk. Then, I swept the few rogue dust bunnies off the hardwood floor and propped the broom outside my office door before fluffing the drop cloth. Yet, a nagging feeling from the universe told me painting was a bad idea.

  “Ma
ybe I need music,” I said aloud, brushing off the sensation. That always cleared my head. I flipped the switch and cranked up the volume to the first notes of Matchbox Twenty’s Push, letting a playlist of ‘90s songs distract me.

  “I won’t miss you, pink eraser color.” I used a screwdriver to pry open the can and stirred the indistinct tint of green with a wooden stick. The label read frostiest mint, which worked— therapeutic for my clients and a far cry from legit lime. It looked like white to me. I poured thick paint into the disposable tray, coated the roller, and got started. Each streak on the wall said goodbye to my old office. Somehow, I said goodbye to the newest old me, too. See you later, lists.

  I’d climbed up the ladder and stood on the third rung with a brush to work near the ceiling line when my office door slammed hard enough to rattle the windows. “What the…” I spun around and lost my balance. The ladder wobbled, the paintbrush smacking me in the face. A streak of wetness was left on my cheek and down my shirt all while I landed on the ground with a thud.

  My neck seized, competing with a sore hip as a red-faced Miles appeared. Glowering. Chest heaving.

  I stilled from the floor. “We’re closed.”

  “Didn’t ask.” He yanked the cord from the wall, the room tanking to soundless from Push.

  “Nope. This appointment isn’t on your dime. Music stays on.” I got up, stomped across the room, ripped the cable from his hand, and fumbled to plug it back in. The tail end of Push played out before guitar notes from Oasis’s Wonderwall started. The intensity behind his eyes was paramount, and a tidal wave of negative energy radiated from his body. I suddenly understood why the universe didn’t want me backed into a corner a few minutes ago.

  “Did you or did you not go to my folk’s house today?” he demanded. “Because whoever showed up fit your description.”

  News traveled fast. My mouth went dry and my heart hammered faster, but I refused to back down and become timid in his presence. “Sure did.”

  “Why?”

  I wasn’t sure I’d seen him that angry yet.

  “How many times have you violated HIPAA today?” he continued.

  “How do you even know what HIPAA regulations—”

  “That doesn’t matter.”

  “Zero,” I said. “No one knows the details on your massage file.” Not even me. No one can read your soggy paperwork.

  “And what about last night?” he asked. “The hospital. Who’d you tell about that?”

  “I didn’t tell anyone anything,” I defended myself. “What’s with you?”

  “Nothing.”

  “What are you so afraid of me saying, Miles? You were in a car accident. Maybe someone has a right to know you got hurt.”

  “You don’t understand a damn thing about my life!” he yelled.

  “All I’m saying is if the roles were reversed—”

  “You don’t get it.” He put forth a condescending laugh. “The roles aren’t reversed. You probably come from some loving family where everyone gets along, there’s a white picket fence, a golden retriever, the whole nine. I didn’t have that.”

  “A golden retriever?”

  “Really? That’s what you’re focusing on? A poodle then.”

  “This isn’t about my family, so quit flipping the tables. Are you saying your parents—”

  “My dad isn’t even in the picture! He split when…” Miles paced, taking a deep breath. “And…” He shook his head. “You know what? It doesn’t matter. None of it fucking matters.”

  It was official. I’d overstepped my boundary by miles. Yet, curiosity rivaled manners, which didn’t stop me from meekly pushing the limits and tiptoeing a few inches farther with another question. “Who was the man at the door?”

  “How many times do I need to say it doesn’t matter? What does matter is you told the doctors you were my wife. That’s a criminal offense. Fraud.” He pointed in the direction of the police station, his defenses raised again. “I could have you arrested. Is that what you want?”

  I locked eyes with him and felt the need to protect myself return while I refused to blink. “Did you just threaten me?”

  “Maybe I did.” Miles’s eyes gleamed like glassy, volcanic rock.

  Our stare down continued onward and into the silence. I flinched when the orchestral riff that never let up from The Verve’s Bitter Sweet Symphony began.

  A swell of defeat in his voice crashed into the wall of rage he reserved for yours truly. “This is getting nowhere. I’m out.”

  “Well, we are closed,” I retorted. “Breaking and entering is a criminal offense, too.”

  “Forget this entire wedding! I’m sorry I ever got involved to help…” He turned around and grabbed for the doorknob, wrenching hard.

  Nothing.

  “It’s locked.” He glanced at me and jostled the handle.

  “That’s impossible.” I stepped between Miles and the door to prove him wrong. “It can’t.”

  “Go ‘head, Doc. Show me how your brute strength will save the day.”

  He was right. The handle barely jiggled. Miles McCullough and I were trapped in a confined space. Together. I pulled the knob with both hands, hoping it might help. Negative. Universe, you are a cruel, cruel bitch.

  “It doesn’t…” I looked up at the top of the door and realized something. “The broom propped against the wall. It must’ve fallen and pinned the door handle when you slammed it.”

  Miles groaned.

  “No big deal,” I said. “Use your cell phone and call someone to let us out.”

  “You still have my phone. Use yours.”

  “Oh. Right.” I crossed my arms, cheeks warming. “Mine’s in my bag.”

  “So?”

  “It’s behind the front desk,” I quietly added, “with yours.” The flames of my frustration fanned. “Which is the whole reason I tried to hunt you down. You know, that and to make sure you weren’t face down in a ditch somewhere. So much for Scout’s honor.”

  He focused on a high window and ignored my justification. “There’s a ladder. I’ll climb out.”

  “Not happening unless you’re a contortionist,” I said. “They only open a few inches.”

  Miles rubbed the back of his neck. “Awesome.”

  I glanced at him and saw a glimmer of that complicated human lurking below the surface again, hidden under a rugged exterior. He leaned against a pink wall and slid down to a seated position. The swift surrender was unexpected.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  He tilted the paint can and read the label. “Even with low VOC, it’s a bad idea to paint with the door shut unless you want to get high off fumes. I don’t think we have a whole lot of options but to wait.”

  I hated to admit he had a point.

  “Who else is here?” he asked.

  “No one. Just me for a couple of more…”

  “What? Minutes? Hours?”

  “Days,” I said.

  “Days,” Miles repeated before adding a string of swear words under his breath.

  I grabbed my candy bar and walked over to sit on the ground next to him. “Someone will look for us if we’re not at the bonfire tonight. Right?”

  His lack of reply didn’t reassure me.

  “Right?” I repeated.

  The only sound was a country one-hit wonder in the background, but the lull between its beats played loudly.

  I peeled back the wrapper and saw him glance at me from the corner of his eye. His stomach growled.

  I rested my head against the wall and broke it into two pieces, handing him the bigger half without glancing his way. “Here.”

  He hesitated. “Did you poison it?”

  “In your recent words, ‘Maybe I did.’”


  It didn’t stop him from accepting. “Thanks,” he mumbled.

  We sat in quiet during the next two songs, eating chocolate cookie wafers and avoiding conversation.

  “Shih tzu,” I said while the second verse of R.E.M.’s Losing My Religion finished.

  Miles’s head was resting against the wall and his eyes were shut. “Gesundheit.”

  “I didn’t sneeze. That’s the kind of dog I had growing up. His name was Achilles because he bit everyone’s heels.” I almost didn’t continue. “For the record, there wasn’t a picket fence, and calling everyone ‘loving’ is a stretch. My family is messed up, too.”

  For the entire duration of Candlebox’s Far Behind, neither of us spoke.

  As the song disappeared into the air, he rested his forearms on his bent knees and looked at me. “That guy? He’s my uncle.”

  “Okay.” I lolled the back of my head on the wall until I could see him, waiting for the snark or biting remarks to follow. Neither happened.

  He shook his head and forced away a smirk. “You still don’t get it. My dad took off when I was a kid. Less than a month later, his brother swooped in on my mom. Uncle Miles. Motherfucking namesake.”

  I stared at him, my jaw slightly fallen, unsure of how to respond.

  “It’s why I go by Seth, not Miles. Every time I hear his name…” He balled his hands into fists and then relaxed them. “I can’t stand being linked to him.”

  If I didn’t know better, I’d have assumed someone punched me in the stomach. I tried to reply a few times but failed. It made sense.

  “Is… Miles here?”

  “I… I’m…” the man said. “Seth?” His tone sounded both annoyed and confused, like I’d challenged his intelligence.