Hey, no worries. It’s Sunday...that voice again in my head. Another kaleidoscope of butterflies frolicked in my stomach, and a heat spread across my cheeks. Placing my cool fingers against the skin of my face, I concentrated on the coffee. A quick inhale of the fragrant brew should have helped. But still, thoughts of the man distracted me—his eyes, his arms, his smile, his...
The quiet lull of NPR always guided my mind in the right direction, so I flipped on the kitchen radio. And for a while, the distraction worked. Between bites of cereal and sips of coffee, I finished dishes from the night before, threw a load of laundry into the washing machine, and scooped the cat litter. After finding all the documents I’d need for work and placing them in my briefcase, I looked at the clock. Time to wake the children. Charlie, Delia, and Lexie would anchor my mind in the right place. And if they didn’t help, a conversation with Theo about paying his share of the latest in a long line of bills would do the trick.
But my encounter with Grocery Store Man haunted me the rest of the day—at work and at home—and well into Tuesday. That evening, after the kids were tucked into bed and Theo was busy watching sports in his portion of the house, I called my friend Kate, hoping her kind, familiar voice might push my thoughts back on the proper track.
“I’m not sure what to say,” Kate said. “Is there something I don’t know? Something going on with Theo? With you? Is everything okay?”
“No, nothing’s going on. I mean, we’re status quo. Living together but not living together. Same old same old, really.” Unconventional situation? Yes. But it worked for us.
“Hmm.” Silence from Kate never boded well.
“I’m human, right? Maybe it was just the moment.” I twirled the ends of the light afghan wrapped around my legs for warmth against the ceiling fan’s cool currents. My mind drifted to images of the man—pictures I’d never seen, but somehow formed in my imagination with ease. A rippled chest. A pair of muscular thighs. A broad, naked back. How had my thoughts become so tawdry so fast? How unlike myself: Were Theo and I all right? Was this situation working for us? For me?
“Or it wasn’t...” Kate’s clipped voice admonished me from afar.
“We might not be officially divorced yet, but I’m not dead.”
“I know.”
Kate’s simple words had touched on something poignant. Was the universe trying to tell me something? Distracted by a handsome man in one moment. Was I ready to move on? Was Theo? We hadn’t talked recently about moving on, or moving out, for that matter, but the topic seemed to follow in the natural progression of things.
“If we aren’t into each other any longer, why can’t we be into someone else?” I said.
“I never said you couldn’t...”
What a daunting thought, to start over again, hoping to find love when you weren’t confident in your abilities to do so. If I had trouble finding it the first time, what made me think I’d find it this time? Would I repeat the same mistakes?
“I’ll chalk up the rise in blood pressure to the heat, okay?” I fanned my face with my steamy April Wilson novel and kicked off the blanket, heated from the thought of Grocery Store Man. Crap. “This has been a warm June, right? And it won’t matter. I won’t be seeing him anytime soon. Coincidences happen here all the time, but Kettering isn’t that small of a city.”
Kate and I said goodbye, and I sat there, thoughts tumbling in my head. Over the years, young children, a full-time job for me, a job and military service for Theo, and the daily grind of chores had taken up most or all our time. We had embodied the two proverbial ships in the night. He’d get home, and I’d swoosh out the door, usually with a child in hand. Or, I’d be ready for bed, eyelids drooping shut, and he’d be coming home to eat dinner. It wasn’t that I hadn’t wanted to spend time with Theo, but I was too tired to do so. During those times when I had so much to do with the kids and with work and when I tried to get everything done at home, too, we’d grown apart. And then we’d been hit by Theo’s PTSD.
Was I a different person now? Could I balance everything, including a new relationship, not comprehending what that might entail? Gah, jumping ahead of myself again. A simple flirtation with a stranger at the grocery store meant nothing. What didn’t mean nothing, and what I needed to answer was, what did I want?
Even though Kate and I had known each other for years, I hadn’t been ready for the conversation she and I should have: the one where we discussed what might be going on with me. This flirtation, while new, was the last of a series of new behaviors indicating my dissatisfaction with my current life. Behaviors like having highlights traced into my hair, buying knee-high leather boots, and wearing leggings at work instead of traditional slacks. Doing something radical with my look—such as getting a nose ring—had appeared on my radar, and I passed my evenings after the kids went to bed sipping wine and reading romance novels. Deserted beaches, margaritas, and olive-skinned fan boys dominated my thoughts while driving into work. And I noticed men at the grocery store and stalked them in the parking lot.
The Sadie I’d always been was missing, it seemed. But instead of owning up to those behaviors, I’d convinced myself they were mere whims—at worst, a midlife crisis. On that overstuffed chair, thinking of Grocery Store Man and everything else, I understood something bigger, more profound, loomed at the root of those behaviors. Maybe I wasn’t happy. Maybe this situation—mine and Theo’s—wasn’t working for me.
Tired of my thoughts, I folded up the afghan, then padded into the kitchen to get myself ice cream—a habit I’d started before the kids were born any time my stress level increased. The frosty air from the depths of the freezer rushed at my face as I searched for the quart of ice cream living there, beneath the bags of frozen vegetables, toaster waffles, and ice packs. My favorite mug sat on the top rack of the full dishwasher, waiting to be cleaned. Shaking my head about my inability to get everything done, I reached for a glass bowl that belonged to Charlie.
A simple bowl, made of thick, clear glass, it sported a hint of blue tint, much like the color of Charlie’s eyes. The bottom of the bowl fit into Charlie’s hand, and a blazing sun—a perfect symbol for the child—embossed the side. As I scooped the raspberry cheesecake ice cream into it, the day eight years before, when Theo gave Charlie the bowl, came to mind. Charlie, three years old at the time, hadn’t adjusted well to Theo’s time away from home. One day, on a visit home during his first deployment to Afghanistan, Theo brought the bowl, nestled between his strong fingers. He explained to Charlie he wouldn’t always be there, but the bowl would be—all Charlie had to do was use it, and Theo would be with him. From that day forward, nothing separated Charlie and the bowl, at least when it came to his morning cereal.
Despite the importance of the glass bowl to Charlie, he wouldn’t mind sharing. After finishing the ice cream, I washed and dried it. As I reached to put it back on its shelf, the still-damp bowl slipped from my fingers and tumbled toward the quartz countertop. It landed in the crook of my elbow, which saved it from destruction. Inside my chest a storm brewed and sweat beaded on my brow; had I broken the bowl, Charlie would have never forgiven me. I turned out the lights, placed a hand to my beating heart, and thanked the universe for lucky saves.
Tiptoeing across the wood floor of the hall, I glanced at Theo, sound asleep on the recliner, the flicker of the television in the background, and my thoughts turned to my conversation with Kate. Those thoughts accompanied me to the bedroom, where cool sheets welcomed me into their embrace; sleep could not come too soon.
That night, a dream sequence so vivid, so detailed and colorful, occupied my mind. Flashes of skin, warm lips on my neck, kisses trailed down the column of my throat to my breasts and below; chocolate-brown eyes under a full moon, a human heart cracked in two pieces; drops of scarlet blood collecting in a p
uddle on a blue- and white-tiled floor. I awoke with a start in the dark, heart bumping, breathing ragged.
When I stepped into the shower the next morning, I wasn’t certain where I was or to whom I belonged. My mind envisioned the trappings of a campy Harlequin novel: Grocery Store Man and I would meet again, realize we belonged together, and despite all the odds, certain obstacles, and assumptions, end up together as true soul mates.
“Fate isn’t that kind, you dimwit,” I said to myself. Clenching my eyes shut, I hoped to force away the images that still danced in my mind and wash the dream down the drain. My life might fill the pages of many a book, but it was not, had never been, and never would be, a romance novel.
Chapter 3: Theo
“Something has changed with Sadie. I just know it.”
Doc narrowed her eyes at me. “What do you mean by changed? You’re still living together at home?”
“Yes, that’s the same. What I mean is...” How to say it? Something different in her posture. Something different in the flush of her cheeks. She hadn’t mentioned anything to me or the kids, but she’d been more... “She’s been more distracted. Less focused on us.”
“And how does that make you feel?”
Why did therapists always use those words? Those terms—spoken over and over—were so cliché, and what did they expect the person to say? Did she think I’d tell her everything as I sat in the suffocating air of this cave? While the dusty blue walls were soothing, the lighting...well, it could stand to be improved. How did it make me feel? It made me feel...
“Angry.”
“About what?” Doc asked.
Angry summed up my life since being discharged—honorably, but still discharged—from the service. Angry I’d been in Afghanistan in the first place. Angry I’d seen what I had when I was there. Angry that Sadie and I didn’t make it. Angry I couldn’t hold onto my old job as a web developer because too much screen time set me off. Angry, angry. Fucking angry. No other word sufficed. “Everything.”
“Theo, one-word answers will get you nowhere in this office.”
Maybe, but so far Doc hadn’t kicked me out. Biweekly therapy appointments—one-on-one, addressing cognitive behavioral therapy—had been on my schedule for the last six months. I kept some of them; others, I didn’t. Everything would get better once I’d worked through it. I knew that, but days existed where I didn’t care. Life was too painful sometimes. That’s partly why Sadie and I had split.
Doc tapped her fingernails against her clipboard, a sure sign she was debating about where to go with the conversation. Always the type of therapist not to push—I appreciated her approach. But she also knew I would sit and say nothing for the remainder of the hour if I felt like it.
“If you’re not ready to talk about your anger, then let’s get back to Sadie. How is she doing?”
Sadie was an independent woman. The sort who gave birth naturally in the morning and was home, doing dishes, writing emails, and dragging kids to the library by the evening time. Nothing stopped her. Nothing bothered her. At least in my estimation. Her resiliency, her competence, her strength: those qualities had been attractive early on. They’d also been why I had to walk away, why we had to end the marriage—not that we had gone through with it yet. I didn’t want to hurt a woman like her any more than I already had. She deserved so much more than I could give to her then or now. More than I could ever give her.
“She seems to be holding it together. As usual...” A piece of lint on my jeans drew my attention, and I flicked it to the floor.
Doc finished my sentence for me. “But there’s something different about her.”
“Yeah. Maybe next time I come in, I’ll know what.”
Understanding what was wrong with Sadie meant I’d need to “spend time self-reflecting”—Doc’s words, not mine. I faced more time at home now, only working part-time at a local fitness center’s front desk (thank goodness for old friends and a bit of structure), but that didn’t mean Sadie and I had reconnected. A huge gap still existed between us. And since we were no longer together, no incentive existed to bridge it.
Doc’s voice cut through my thoughts. “Are you finished for the day?”
“I am.”
Sometimes Doc went with it and let me call the shots. Another thing I appreciated about her. She sighed, closed her notebook, and cocked her head to the right, a slight gesture I’d learned to interpret.
“Game on,” she said and rose from her chair.
Most of my life was atypical now. Living with a woman who wasn’t quite my ex-wife (but would be if I signed the papers). Spending time with a therapist who used ping-pong as part of her repertoire. They both fell into the “atypical” category. So be it.
The paddle’s cool wood tingled against my hand. It gave me something tangible to take my anger out on. Doc lifted the ping-pong ball and shook it in the air, helping me focus. I knew the drill: breathe in through my nose and out through my mouth five times, and then we’d begin. Lame, but a process that helped, especially on days when I couldn’t (or wouldn’t) talk and let out what was inside. Doc raised her paddle and tapped the ball once. She didn’t know it yet, but she was going down.
. . . . .
The next morning, I clocked-in at eleven. Being employed at the fitness center had taken time to get used to. Web developer hours and gym staff hours varied widely, and my deployments had brought variety—albeit the dangerous kind—to my days. At the center, life ran at a different pace, more like corn syrup than water, and nothing screamed urgent! on a daily basis. Except for a broken workout machine or an out-of-order water filter. In the summertime, the number of clients depended on the weather. On those days when the humidity hung like a haze in the air, more people sought shelter from the air-conditioned space. On other days, the lazy, sun-high-in-the-sky-so-blue kind of days, the whole city seemed to have gone away for vacation, leaving the place with so few clients, each hour took so fucking long to get through. Starting a shift so close to lunch time meant the day should be busy—we saw an uptick in patrons for the noon hour—but the more I had to do, the more my mind would be occupied.
Just as I’d logged myself on to the fitness center’s employee system, a thwack near the front doors drew my attention. My gaze flicked from the doors to the windows, to the right hallway and the conference room on the left, back behind me and then again in front of me. Under the glare of the sun streaming through the windows, someone had dropped a backpack, and another person had stopped to help, something too few people did these days. I’d seen the guy with the backpack before. He came to the gym each day to lift weights and run on the treadmill. But the other guy was new. Dressed in a suit, almost as if he didn’t quite belong there, he finished helping with the pickup and then headed my way.
“Morning.” The man tipped his head in my direction.
“Morning to you as well, though there’s not much left to it.”
The man wriggled the watch on his wrist and smiled. “You’re right. Thank goodness, because it’s been a long one.”
He had to be here for only one thing, so I got to the matter at hand. “What can I help you with?”
“I’d like to check out my options. I have a bit more time these days. The kids are getting older and easier to manage, and you know how it is.” He patted his abdomen. “I need to stay on top of this.”
I’d never been into free weights and all that, but as a reserve military member who faced who knew what when deployed for six months every two years, I had always kept in pretty good shape. Plus, the gym had been a sanctuary of sorts many times since leaving the service.
“What type of membership are you looking for?”
“I need a place to come and work o
ut with hours that fit my schedule. I’m not one for classes or training.”
“The basic plan is your best bet then.” I handed him a brochure with the fine print and spaces to fill in his personal information and signature. “It’s twenty bucks a month, plus taxes and fees, and we’re open twenty-four hours a day. The basic plan doesn’t give you more than entrance, but it sounds like you might not need any extras. And of course,” I added, “we have free Wi-Fi. I like to point that out because people tend to call back and ask us about it.”
The man smiled again. “That’s great, but honestly, I’ll be coming here to get away from work. Maybe you get that.”
“I do.” Over the last few months, I’d learned to be polite to the clientele. Part of Doc’s reason for approving this job involved the low-stress environment. She also appreciated I’d be forced to speak to other people each day. “Let’s bring you back to the land of the living,” she’d said.
Without my prompting, the man went on, something that happened often in this place. “I own a company that helps other companies be better. We look at their branding, their workforce, their mission, web design, all that stuff. Try to make them do what they already do, but better.”
“Huh.”
“It’s going quite well, and we’re expanding...so much we’re hiring right now. If you hear of any web or software developers or marketing professionals, please tell me.”
A shiver began to crawl underneath my skin. I had enjoyed my former job, but it was too interwoven with my time overseas. “In a former life, I could have helped you.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.” I left it at that, but this guy, while not pushy, told me what he was looking for and why, then dropped the subject. I’d likely never pass the information to anyone else. In fact, the info would worm its way into my brain and stay there. I should have cut him off before he’d given me the details.
Rewrite the Stars Page 2