Into the Quiet

by Beth C. Greenberg

  “‘Enjoy’ isn’t quite the right word, but this whole experience made me appreciate that I would, and did, choose Zach all over again.”

  This time, when Quentin met her gaze, his pain pierced her like an arrow through the heart. Why on earth did affirming her love for her own husband feel like the worst breakup ever? It seemed too cliché to voice that Quentin would meet someone far better suited for him than Ruth—someone younger, prettier, single, and fertile.

  Every instinct cried out to touch him, but Quentin had imposed the physical distance between them. Respecting his boundaries was the least she could do. “I feel like I need to apologize to you,” she said.

  “No, Ruthie. Please, don’t.”

  Tears pooled. “You’re very, very special to me.”

  Quentin turned his head as tears streamed down his cheeks. The hand clawed at his chest as if he would gladly rip his heart right out of his body.

  “Quentin, I need to tell you something else.”

  He turned back, a wounded, trapped animal staring down the barrel of the hunter. “What is it?”

  “It turns out Zach and I are going to be selling this house and moving to Washington, DC.”

  “But your sanctuary—?”

  “I suppose the next owners are really going to enjoy it.”

  His shoulders slumped. He shrank three inches. Ruth died a little.

  It was foolish and romantic and selfish as hell, but she couldn’t help the fantasy that popped into her head and exited her mouth. “You might just have to come out to DC and build me a new one.”

  Quentin barked out a dark chuckle. “Oh, Ruthie. If I could, I gladly would.”

  Every syllable of Quentin’s body language reinforced his statement: the downward curl of those beautiful lips, the pain at the corner of his once-brilliant blue eyes, the tense line of his posture, as if he were straining forward against a wall he couldn’t break through. To belabor the point would be torture for them both.

  “If you need a place to live for a while, I can talk to Zach about letting you stay—”

  “No, but thank you. I’m actually all packed up and ready to go.” He tipped his chin toward the car. Ruth fought back her tears. “Pan and I have worked things out.”

  “That’s wonderful. I’m happy for you, Quentin.”

  “Thanks. He even came over to help me set up your computer and hang the new lights. I’m not so great with electrical yet.” Quentin cheered a bit, and Ruth could breathe again.

  “Oh. So, everything is finished, then?” The news would have made her deliriously happy if not for, well, everyone leaving.

  “Yes. Did you want to go take a look before I go?” He turned as if to accompany her inside.

  “No.” She didn’t mean it to come out so sharp, but how could either of them handle standing in that space again together?

  He whirled around, new hurt sketched across his forehead. Shit.

  “Quentin,” she said gently, “I trust you. I’m sure it’s perfect.”

  One of Quentin’s trying-too-hard smiles settled on his face. “Okay.”

  “I owe you the last payment for your work.”

  “No, please, Ruthie. You’ve already paid me more than I would have asked for the whole job.”

  “But you gave up your whole weekend to stay with Pookie. At least let me—”

  “You know I loved taking care of her.” He huffed. “I might even have to get a dog of my own now.”

  “That will be one lucky dog.”

  He met her gentle smile with a shrug. They were quickly sliding from sad and awkward to downright morose. The meter was running now that he had no reason to stay. The kindest thing to do now was to let him go.

  “I really wish there was something more I could do for you, Quentin.”

  “There is, Ruthie. Be happy.”

  39

  Open Mic Night

  Pan slapped a glass onto the pockmarked table in front of Cupid. “I strongly suggest you drink this before Euphrosyne comes out to perform.”

  “What is that?” Cupid asked. The clear liquid looked harmless enough, but the odor was gamier than the comedian-hopefuls waiting their turn for the stage. “Smells like someone set a loaf of moldy bread on fire.”

  The flimsy wood chair beside Cupid squealed against the floor as Pan dropped onto the seat. “That is a double shot of tequila to help loosen your funny bone.”

  “Or dissolve it,” Cupid grumbled.

  “Don’t worry. It’ll grow back.” Pan chuckled at his own dumb fallen god joke and tipped back his beer.

  “Maybe you should get in line so you can share your gift with the rest of the audience.”

  “Nah, that’s my secret stash just for you, bro.”

  “Gee, thanks. So, this comedy club is supposed to be the antidote to my depression?”

  “Should be good for a laugh or two.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Nope,” Pan said, grinning.

  “I cannot imagine why you are in such a cheerful mood. My ass is going numb in this chair, my boots are stuck to the floor, the air in here tastes like terror, and there’s a very unfortunate soul vomiting up what’s left of her insides in the ladies’ room.”

  “Oh, that would be Euphrosyne. She’s a bit nervous.” Pan’s smile widened.

  “Glad you’re so entertained by other people’s misery.”

  Pan rolled his eyes but refused to lose his smile. “Why else would I drag a broken-down, half-starved ghost with a death wish out for a drink?”

  Okay, so Cupid hadn’t eaten solid food in three days. Would’ve just come right back up like whatever the pathetic Grace had put in her belly earlier today.

  “I don’t have a death wish.” Cupid pouted as hard as he could, swirled his glass on the table, and lifted the sour drink to his tongue. “But if I did, I wouldn’t waste my last swallows on this poison.”

  Pan’s glass met the tabletop with a bang. He plucked the lime wedge from the side of Cupid’s glass and shoved it into one of Cupid’s hands. “Hold this.”

  “Hey!”

  “Give me your other hand.”

  Cupid jerked his arm away. “Why?”

  Pan’s eyes turned a dangerous shade of green. He snapped his fingers. Cupid’s heart skipped two beats. In his weakened state, Cupid could not have fought off a sea nymph with two broken arms. Cupid placed his palm on the table and ever so slowly slid his hand toward Pan, who watched it cross the table the way a cat watches the mouse he’s about to eat for dinner: still, silent, focused. Without warning, Pan pounced, pinning Cupid’s wrist against the table.

  “Ow!”

  Pan bent forward and licked a sloppy arc between Cupid’s trapped thumb and forefinger.

  “What are you doing?” This was not Versailles. There were no boys in go-go shorts. And Cupid was in no mood for . . . for being in that kind of mood.

  “Shut it,” Pan warned, reaching for the salt and shaking a crescent-moon onto Cupid’s slick skin. “Here’s what you’re going to do. Lick that salt off your hand, down that drink—all of it, because we’re only doing this once—shove that lime between your lips, and suck. Got it?”

  Cupid nodded. “Lick, drink, suck.”

  Pan chuckled. “Such a fast learner. I love that about you.” He released Cupid’s wrist but stayed right there, a breath away. “Do it, Q.”

  Gulp. Cupid tried not to focus on his tongue meeting Pan’s saliva but instead on swooping up each tiny grain of salt. He fought back a gag and the memory of his first time in the sea. Leucothea had tried to teach him to swim and nearly lost her legs when Aphrodite learned that Cupid had been toppled by a wave. With a deliberate shake of his head, Cupid erased the vision and reached for the tequila. At least the alcohol would rid his mouth of the salt.

  The yeasty odor
crowded his nostrils. Don’t breathe. He tipped the glass between his lips. The foul drink met his tongue like a fireball issued straight from Typhon’s throat. Swallow. Fluid leaked from Cupid’s eyes and nostrils. Swallow. Liquid flames burned the back of his throat. The glass slipped from his mouth.

  Pan shifted in his seat, moved to reach for Cupid’s drink. He’d force-fed Cupid before, and the results were not pretty. Pan was one tenacious son-of-a-nanny. No, Cupid was getting this tequila down by his own hand.

  He poured the rest of the swill into his mouth and swallowed in painful, labored glugs. The fire scalded a path down his gullet and crash-landed in his empty belly. This drink was, by far, the worst of Pan’s Earth atrocities, and Cupid was just forming the words to tell him so when the lime was forced between his lips and held there.

  “You forgot to suck.”

  Cupid mustered an angry glare but did as he was told and worked the juice down to counteract the swamp water burning a path to his extremities.

  “Attaboy,” Pan said with a grin. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

  “Nnnn!” Cupid batted away Pan’s hand and spat the lime at his chest.

  “Ho-ho. I think someone’s been out of touch with his table manners for too long. We’re going to have to recivilize you when we get home.”

  As much as he hated to admit it just then, the concept of home warmed Cupid’s downtrodden heart, not as violently as the shot of tequila but in a different, nicer way. Certainly, Pan’s methods of administering TLC held all the finesse of a cyclops on tiptoes, especially compared to Ruthie’s gracious hospitality and many kindnesses. But Aphrodite had set the bar low enough—the goddess didn’t exactly ooze maternal instincts—that Pan’s tireless efforts made their impression. The least Cupid could do was try to pretend he wouldn’t rather be back in bed with the covers pulled over his head.

  “Excuse me? Are these seats taken?”

  The two pretty girls probably hadn’t seen the flying fruit. Or perhaps they had and decided Cupid and Pan were worth enduring a few shenanigans.

  Pan hopped right out of his seat, pulled out two chairs, and switched on the charm. “They are now.”

  Wonderful. Pan could do as he pleased, but Cupid wasn’t fit to charm anyone tonight.

  The girl next to Pan slid her elbow along the table till it met his. “Are you guys performing tonight?”

  Pan leaned in. “Normally, my friend Quentin, here, would have them rolling in the aisles, but we’re just here to support a friend.”

  Two pairs of eyes shifted to Cupid, waiting for him to say something hilarious. If only he’d shoved that lime wedge in Pan’s mouth.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, let’s give a warm Episode welcome to Grace.”

  Thank the gods, everyone's attention turned toward the first performer, a frail, young woman dragging her feet to the middle of the stage. Grace, my donkey. That was Euphrosyne, barely recognizable with the dark circles under her eyes and the drawn, parched lips.

  She blinked into the spotlight like a bug squinting into the sun. With shaky hands, she plucked the microphone from its stand and cleared her throat. “I told my friend I was a little nervous about coming out here tonight. He asked me if I had stage fright. I said, ‘No, I’m not afraid of the stage. It’s the audience that scares me.’”

  Pan tensed, squared his shoulders against the back of the chair.

  “So, I thought I would try to sit down and write out my jokes with a pencil, but then I realized there was no point.”

  Ghastly silence.

  “The other day, I went to see my gynecologist.”

  Some guy at the back of the room yelled out, “I hear there are several openings in the field.”

  Pan’s jaw clamped shut so violently, he could’ve cracked a walnut.

  “The doctor crouched between my legs—” Euphrosyne’s joke was cut off again by whistles and animal howls, but she pressed on. “While he was down there, he said, ‘My, what a big vagina . . . What a big vagina.’”

  The woo-woos and whistles grew louder, drowning out the microphone, but Euphrosyne shouted above the noise. “Naturally, I was a little upset, so I said, ‘That’s kind of rude, Doc. You didn’t have to say it twice.’ and he said, ‘I didn’t . . . didn’t . . . didn’t.’”

  A communal groan rose from the audience. Pan leaned in closer to Cupid and whispered, “That joke is so much funnier when Echo tells it.”

  The boos started in full force. Euphrosyne bolted from the stage.

  “I thought she’d never leave,” said the girl next to Cupid, with a sneer that turned her pretty face ugly.

  Pan shot out of his chair so hard it clattered to the floor behind him. “I better go.”

  The three of them watched Pan jog after Euphrosyne. The two girls blinked at each other. “Crap. That girl that bombed is your friend?”

  How could this unworthy mortal ever understand that without Euphrosyne, there would be no laughter, no comedy clubs, no joy at all in the cosmos? That if Euphrosyne didn’t return to Olympus soon, humor would be a distant memory for the human race? A footnote found in the history books but no longer felt in the soul.

  At least that nasty smirk on the girl’s face would be impossible, so there was that.

  “If you ladies will excuse me . . .”

  Their apologies reached Cupid’s ears, but he couldn’t be bothered. He found Pan outside the ladies’ room, his head tipped back against the wall.

  “Is she sick again?” The awful retching penetrated the door. “Oh. Never mind.” Deep inside Cupid’s stomach, the tequila rumbled and rolled.

  “This was a terrible idea,” Pan said. “Euphrosyne is wasting away down here. Mercury tells me her sisters are a mess. They haven’t held a single banquet on the Mount since Euphrosyne fell six weeks ago.”

  “Wow. What are you going to do?”

  Pan let out a sigh laced with despair. “I haven’t a clue.”

  Cupid lined up next to Pan against the wall and gave him a gentle nudge. “You’ll figure it out.”

  “Because I’m doing such a bang-up job with you?”

  On top of the Ruthie-ache, Cupid’s heart could not bear Pan’s defeat. “We should get a dog.”

  “What?” Pan pushed off the wall and rounded on Cupid. “Like I need another creature to care for. All you fallens aren’t already a full-time job?”

  “I’ll take care of it.”

  “Oh, you will, huh? What happens when you ascend? I’ll be stuck with the little shit.”

  “Don’t pretend you didn’t like her, Pan.”

  “Her, who? Oh, you mean that little portable poop factory with claws?”

  “They’re paws, not—”

  The bathroom door opened. At close range, the scent of spent stomach innards nearly knocked Cupid off his feet. He could hardly believe this misery of a woman was the same goddess who’d danced in the palace not three months ago, back when Cupid was a mischief-making mama’s boy, trapped in a useless preteen body, with a heart that had neither exulted nor suffered from love. Before Cupid was reunited with his best friend, before he fell in love with Mia, then Ruthie. A lifetime ago.

  “Hey, Euph.” Cupid started toward her with arms spread wide despite her offensive odor.

  She looked at him oddly. “Who are you?”

  “Who am I?”

  They both turned to Pan, who burst out laughing. “Euphrosyne, meet Earth-Cupid.”

  Her sunken eyes nearly popped out of her face. “You’re Cupid?” She stepped back and took a long, hard look. “Wow.”

  Pan snorted. “Basically.”

  “Where are your wings?” She peered over his shoulder.

  “Gone . . . for now.”

  “I heard about your fall.”

  “What are they saying about me?” Is Mother feeling wretched about punis
hing me?

  Euphrosyne rolled her eyes toward Olympus. “Just that you picked the wrong goddess to inflame.”

  Right.

  She gathered steam and bravado. “We both know if Hera had even the slightest sense of humor, neither one of us would be down here.”

  Pan jumped first, pressing his palm to Euphrosyne’s lips as gently as he probably could under the dire circumstances. Pan shook his head, and a second later, Euphrosyne nodded.

  Pan released his grip. “If you ever want to get home, don’t do that again.”

  “Got it. Speaking of getting home”—she turned to Cupid—“what are they making you do down here?”

  “It’s kind of a long, complicated story.”

  “Apparently, I have time.” Reminded of her pathetic performance, Euphrosyne frowned at Pan. “I was awful.”

  Pan opened his mouth to agree, and Cupid stepped in front of him. “I thought your Echo joke was funny.”

  “You did?”

  “Yes. If my heart weren’t completely shattered, I would still be laughing.”

  As if on cue, Cupid’s heart jolted awake like a horse bitten by an asp, just when he’d begun to hope the worst was behind him. He clutched his chest, waiting for the blade of lost love to slice him open once again.

  “I agree,” Pan was saying, “there’s gotta be a better way than stand-up. We’ll put our heads together in the morning . . .”

  Their conversation floated in and out while Cupid battled the force building inside his chest. The Ruthie-pain cleared out, leaving space for the next agony. New love. He didn’t know whether to rejoice or cry.

  “. . . should probably get some food in Cupid’s stomach. Q?”

  Pan took one look at Cupid’s face, and he knew. “Oh shit.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Now?”

  “I’m sorry, Pan. I can’t exactly control it.”

  “Control what?” Euphrosyne asked.

  “Are you sure it’s not just the tequila burning a hole in your stomach lining?”

  “Dammit, Pan, I think I know the difference between my belly and my heart.”