by Amelia Wilde
Michael would be living in San Diego visiting his family only when necessary if he was still here. He wouldn’t take over the ranch. Michael lived for his country, loved his country and wouldn’t let anyone or anything come between the two—not even his family. Scarlett’s big question is always ‘what would Mike do?’ My answer usually arrives in the form of, he wouldn’t give a shit about it.
I knew my fiancé better than I knew myself. Sipping another glass of wine, I wash the sadness away, at least until I go to bed.
“A couple of weeks. My conference starts next Monday. Will you bitches have time for me?”
“Yes, we have the weekend off. I propose we party like we used to back in college.” I gather the last strands of energy and spring off the couch, then help Brooklyn. “We’ll kick it off tomorrow. Brunch at Maria’s, then we can plan the day.”
“You’re moving too much. I’m going to kick you out of my bed,” I warn Scarlett. Sleepovers with my two best friends means sleeping in the same room—like when we were in college. Brooklyn chose the couch, leaving me with the hyperactive one. “What’s going on?”
“Mom’s organizing a big event to celebrate Mike’s birthday,” she blurts at lightning speed.
Mrs. Reynolds and I don’t see eye to eye. After Michael died, we barely exchanged pleasantries. Don’t count me in.
“He’s a hero, a martyr, he died young. He deserves a party in his honor to remember everything he meant to all of us.” My heart thumps fast as she speaks of him. My mind screams loud, shut up, shut up. I’m about to kick Scarlett out of the room—the house, or the country even. “She plans on going through all the boxes where she stored his stuff.”
The ones I fought to take with me, or at least go through? Mrs. Reynolds, the bitch, didn’t allow me to see them. I wasn’t anything but a girlfriend.
Bite your tongue hard. Stay quiet while listening to your best friend. She needs you.
“She wants me to help her. I can’t do it.” Scarlett pushes all the blankets away.
I pull them back up; this conversation is scary, and I don’t want to continue listening to her. “Sorry, your mother is being pushy with you.” I want to say she's a bitch, but I rather avoid confrontation. Everything to avoid her Mrs. Reynolds. “Just don’t do it. Could you please go to sleep? I’ve been awake for too long.”
“Do you mind giving us the pictures that you have of him, that will help me.”
I uncover my head turning on the lamp next to me. “No!”
Her blue gaze so much like her brother’s finds mine, her lips twist to the side, and she’s ready to say something I’m so not going to like. “Don’t be selfish. It’d be easier if you can give me his stuff, maybe she won’t make me go through the boxes.”
“What is with you tonight?” Impossible. My limbs lose strength. Air. Where's the fucking air? Inhale, exhale. Don't let this push you to the ledge. “No, the few things I have from him are mine. If your mother wants to go through his stuff—which might belong to me—let her do it. Tell her you won’t help. You want to know what Mike would say?”
“Don’t put words in his mouth!” She jumps out of bed walking back and forth.
“You shouldn’t either, Scaredy.” Scarlett halts as I used his pet name for her. “First of all, Michael wouldn’t be working at the farm, he’d be on a mission. We’d be living in California. Your brother would hate to see what you’re doing to yourself to make up for his absence. He hated big parties, why would your mother throw one? Mike would tell your mom to fuck off and let him rest in peace.”
Scarlett stops right in front of me, her hand lifts, I flinch as she’s about to slap me.
“Stop!” Brynn who is the patient, reasonable and quiet one of the three of us yells and springs off the couch holding Scarlett’s elbow. “Mike died years ago, Scarlett. I’m sorry you lost your big brother. In case you haven’t noticed, Aspen lost her fiancé. She tries so damn hard to be there for you, but sometimes I swear you push her too far.”
“I don’t understand why she makes up shit about my brother.”
“See what I see,” Brynn points out. “You try to pick the same fights you used to pick with your brother. Aspen isn’t Mike. Nor is she a substitution, or your punching bag.”
“Every time you do this it hurts,” I whisper. “No. I won’t give you the little things I have left of him. In case you ask, I won’t be going to the party. Please, don’t mention him. I can’t deal.”
Brynn walks over to me, hugging me hard. We talked about this exact thing only a few days back. To remain in one piece, I need Scarlett to either stay away or stop invoking him.
“Sorry. For some forsaken reason, you can’t understand that I lost him too. We all have different ways to cope, but yours is killing me, Scarlett,” I murmur swallowing the clogged tears. “You know I love you, you’re my best friend, his sister who he adored. I’m trying so damn hard to be the person you need, I can’t do it today. For now, let’s pretend he’s overseas.”
She nods, her eyes filled with tears. Walking around the bed, she tucks herself in. “Sorry, I’m trying, Aspen. Some days I miss him too much.”
His absence left a big hole in our lives and our hearts. The years haven’t helped. Where’s the wine? I turn off the light and rest on top of my pillow pushing the sadness, the stress of the day and everything else away. Except his blue eyes appear as my eyelids close. They show tenderness and love. My heart squeezes at the memory of the last time I saw him leaving my house for another mission.
Only a few more months and we’ll be together forever—husband and wife.
“Why are you here?" Michael leans against the old oak tree where he carved our initials long ago.
“I miss you—mostly at night," I confess walking closer to our tree. Stopping only a few feet from him.
“We've talked about this. You shouldn't come back,” he reminds me, as if it were that simple. No such luck, every time I'm lost I want to have him close, holding me in his arms. “It pains you, and I hate when you hurt.”
There are many things I loved about him including his compassion, understanding and caring personality. “Go home, Aspen. There's nothing here for you.”
“I don’t want to. Scarlett came to visit.”
“Did she now?” He marches to where I stand, taking my hands. “How are things with Scaredy Cat?”
“She changed so much since you died. We all did…” I study Michael from head to toe trying to imagine him older. Would his blond hair be longer? It’s hard to see him older. He hasn’t changed from the twenty-six-year-old man I last saw.
“Go home, baby. It's cold here. I'd hate for you to get sick.” I suddenly realize I'm wearing a pair of tight jeans and a tank top. The snow on the ground glares with the sunshine. Where are we?
“If you were alive we'd be celebrating your birthday and our anniversary and discussing the possibility of having a tiny you—our first baby,” I blurt as if that explains why I'm losing my mind and overworking myself. “Yes, I shouldn't be here. I shouldn't think of you, but …”
I shrug. “But I do. Today a boy came to the ER with a broken arm. His blue eyes, devilish smile and funny voice reminded me of you, of what I thought our son would look like.”
“Aspen,” he hugs me tight. “Stop torturing yourself, baby. Life changed, we—.”
“No, don’t say we don’t belong together. You’ll wait for me, right?” Swallowing the tears, I continue, "I... hate that I’m letting the memories escape from that place I locked them in years ago. I moved on, didn't I?”
“What's going on?”
“I don’t know… all I know is that I want you by my side.” Pitiful, I am so hung up on him that I am confessing my issues to a nobody I created.
“You're stronger than you want to admit, Aspen.” He grabs my chin gently, leaning closer and taking my lips. It's a sweet, slow kiss. Possessive, yet gentle. He releases me, his eyes filled with love. “Let go of those fears.”
I
sit up, breathing erratically. Droplets of sweat run down my spine. The tightness in my chest continues. I work to even my shallow breath. But it’s hard when the stitches of the old wounds are opened and the pain in my soul feels raw.
2
Aspen
Sleeping next to Scarlett after my dream is impossible. She’s my best friend. There’s a code somewhere where it says I have to be supportive when she’s having a bad day. A bad month, or a year. I get it, she grieves the loss of her brother. I recognize her need for comfort. But I refuse to be her floatation device while I fight to stay afloat. What she doesn’t understand is I lost the love of my life. If she continues with this behavior, the next two weeks might be my new little hell.
Pushing myself out of bed, I decide to make myself some tea to calm my nerves. After that vivid dream earlier, my body continues to shiver. Ignoring the lack of feeling in my limbs, I walk outside the room toward the kitchen.
Breathe in and out, Aspen. Control your body and your thoughts, don’t let this be another full-blown panic attack.
Why do I keep going back to that place—to him?
I should go back to therapy.
Therapy helped with the sorrow. It’s been eleven long years without him. The first days I couldn’t breathe. The following weeks I couldn’t get out of bed. The stages of grief hit me in a strange way. Pain comes and goes. Denial and anger stuck around for a couple of years. Those were dark days when I had no idea what I was doing with my life. I went to school, passed my classes and stayed numb. Brynn insists I created a new stage of grief, perpetual numbing. So what if I date a guy who’d rather have a root canal than marry again?
We’ve been together for two years, and I haven’t interacted much with his children. Our relationship works for the two of us, and outsiders don’t matter. We have a good time when we are together. Don’t we?
The kettle whistles, distracting me from my past and my present. Nothing I think or say would bring Michael back. For as long as I live, I plan on dedicating my life to saving lives. I turn off the gas and search for my mug and a bag of tranquility peach tea. Carefully I pour the hot water, adding a few drops of honey to sweeten it.
Breathe, it’s almost over, Aspen. The dark emotions inside me continue spiraling, pushing my mind into a dark place. My body is having trouble coping, but I won’t let the nothingness win. I’ve followed the stages to avoid a panic attack. So far nothing has worked. Stopping in front of the medicine cabinet, I open it to search for my pill bottle—it’s almost tomorrow I can take it now. Wait, did I forget to take my medicine? Fuck, the bottle is full. When was the last time I swallowed my anxiety pill? No wonder I’m losing my shit. Brynn is going to kill me when she realizes I’ve been skipping doses. Using my shaky hands to fight with the safety cap, I take a pill and swallow it without water.
Before turning off the lights, I walk to the coat closet grabbing a thick sweater and fishing out my iPad from my purse. The weather in Tacoma during summer is nice enough to be outside, inviting me to use the backyard as my second living room—after lighting the fire pit. Unfortunately, for most of the year this area is like the coast of Maine, where I was born, or Boston, where I grew up. The breeze only switches during winter to freezing winds. Staying in bed wasn’t an option; plus, I love the idea of fresh air and a good book. Tonight, I’m in the mood for something romantic. A good love story where they serve me a tall order of happily ever after.
Anxiety’s followed me ever since I can remember; the panic clustering in my abdomen, the rapid breathing, and the hammering of my heart against my ribcage. I’m feeling sick as my throat tightens, asphyxiating me. Mom blames my father for it. At the age of six, he moved us from Rangely, Maine to Boston. Everything I knew for the first years of my life disappeared within days, without explanation. New school, new neighborhood, new friends. Austin, my older brother, adjusted quickly, but I didn’t. It was hard for me to make new friends, keep up with the rhythm of a new Catholic school and understand why Daddy wasn’t home as often as he used to be.
I could blame my mother and her loud voice. She’s part Greek and part Puerto Rican. Unfortunately, her entire family lacks volume control. They scream “how was your day, sweetie?” the same way they yell, “pick up your room before I turn your hide red with my belt.” Needless to say, my room was always clean, my closet tidy, and I tried to make sure that her voice remained leveled. Not that it happened. Mom can’t control her tone just like I can’t control my nerves.
Air, I gasp for air. I switch off the lights, tiptoeing toward the backyard. Control yourself, Aspen. As enticing as tea and a book sound, running might burn the built-up anxiety I have streaming through my veins. There’s a need for me to jump out of my skin, drift away, numb the pain and sadness. I’d go for a run if I didn’t hate running. Think of something good, something happy.
The summer before college, we received our roommate assignments. Brooklyn, Scarlett, and I would share a room for the next year. I emailed them both, we met over Skype, and Scarlett invited us to her ranch in Texas. Mike came home, he’d just graduated from the Naval Academy. To celebrate he threw a party in the barnyard. We had square dancing, country music, and even an electric bull.
“City girl doesn’t know how to dance?” This tall, blond man with sparkling blue eyes teased as I stood in a corner watching my friends square dancing.
“Nope, I have two left feet.” Telling Michael that I wanted to crawl under the table and hide from strangers sounded lame. He rolled his eyes. “Laugh at me all you want, but my mother can attest to the fact that I have no coordination. They kindly advised her to pull me out of ballet after the first month. My eye, hand coordination wasn’t up to their standards.”
“I can teach you.” He tilted his head, smiling as he lifted his hand, and caressed my cheek. I jolted by the surge of electricity it provoked, a spark that hit me right in the chest and made me giddy.
“What are you planning on teaching me?” My limbs tremble as his index finger held my chin, as he leaned forward and brushed my lips with his. “To dance? It might take you a lifetime.”
“Yeah. It might take a lifetime. It’s all good. I like long-term challenges.” His husky voice promised more than stolen kisses.
Forever.
Why is it that remembering the good times brings back the agony of his absence?
Move on, just move on.
The house is dark, but the full moon allows me to march to the backyard without tripping on the nook chairs or the big plant next to the glass door. Ah, there he is, crazy dog. Hugo lays inside his dog house. Silly boy, he didn’t come home before we went to bed. When I slide the door open his pointy ears perk. As I step outside the floodlights turn on, and he sits up watching me.
“Hugo,” I call him after turning on the switch of the gas fire pit.
“Hey there, handsome,” I greet him, setting my tablet and mug on top of the table. Reaching down to scratch behind his ears, I bend to kiss the top of his head. “When did you get here?”
“I’ve been here all along.” A deep male voice startles me, the baritone of his voice reverberating through my bones. “The question is where have you been all this time, beautiful?”
Turning to my left to Ms. Hawkins’ house, I spot him. The owner of the intimidating, confident and yet friendly voice saunters toward me. We need to talk to the leaser. We need a fence between homes. Anyone can cross through the backyard. He’s rugged, a little taller than six-feet with broad shoulders. The man has a perfectly fit body. His dark hair hangs over his eyes, loosely framing his face. He has the kind of face that stops you in your tracks. Handsome but not in a pretty boy kind of face. Masculine with chiseled cheeks, a strong chin, and a prominent nose. He sports an arrogant half-smirk and a taunting look in his eyes.
“Ruff, ruff,” Hugo pounces in front of me peeling his teeth to the uninvited guest.
The man shoves his hand inside his pants, reaching for… a dog treat? “I thought we were friends, Hugo.
”
“You’re acquaintances with this man?” I give a suspicious glance to Hugo who ate the treat and is now licking the hand of a stranger.
Hugo gives a small bark as if saying, “I know people, and he’s not as bad as he looks.”
“My mother introduced us yesterday,” the stranger responds.
His mother?
“Who are you?” I study the friendly visitor closer. Three-day stubble, worn out jeans, plain white t-shirt accentuating his sculpted body, some ink peeking out of his sleeves, combat boots, and that cocky grin. There’s static in the air, making the little hairs on the back of my neck stand up. An obscure sensation rocks my mind. I want to pull away and run inside the house, as much as I want to stay in place losing myself inside his eyes. His gaze reminds me of the forest during dawn—peaceful, vibrant and calm. Just looking at him brings my soul into a sweet, peaceful bliss. My breathing is a silent whisper.
He wipes his hand with his jeans extending it toward me. “Anderson Hawkins. You must be…” Anderson narrows his gaze holding my hand longer than required. Something flickers in his eyes, whatever it is makes him smile widely. The touch of his fingers creeps into my soul, warming my heart. I want to pull my hand away as much as I want him to hold it all night. “Aspen?”
“You’re Sophia’s youngest son,” I declare. He releases my hand. I step back, trying to find my footing and shake the giddiness away; mask how affected I am by his touch and his presence.
“That’s me,” he confirms smoothly, his thick brow raises. “Should I be worried that you know about me?”
“No. Your mom talks plenty about you. We’ve met Carter.” I can’t help but scrunch my nose and roll my eyes. The smile disappears, his face casting a deadpan glare. “Sorry, not a fan.”
His brother is a sleazy snob who hits on any woman who crosses his path—in front of his wife. The resemblance between them is minimal, except for the dark hair. Glancing at him one more time, I confirm the fact that they have zero in common. We haven’t seen any pictures of the boys, as she calls them, as adults. Well, no. There’re a few of Carter’s wedding photos. I laugh, remembering the candid pictures Sophia has of both boys around her house. Most of them from when they were very young. Although, there are a few of their teenage years.