by Sarina Bowen
How long does it take to feed a cat? I could birth a cat in the amount of time Ash has been in there.
Yes, I’m aware that I’m not making a lick of sense.
I take a real breath and laugh a little bit, because clearly, I’m not myself. Why the hell am I stretched taut, like a guitar string pulled too tightly? I’m ready to snap at just one touch.
I know why, though. It’s a rare form of PTSD that occurs whenever someone gives me the runaround.
I’m only half joking about the PTSD.
When I was seventeen, I came home to an abandoned house, littered with the evidence of a frenzied move. My parents had made a hasty escape, leaving three things for me to deal with: their mess, their debt, and my brother. Their choice was to abandon their kids or end up in jail.
But it took me a while to understand what was really happening. There was a note and an envelope on the kitchen table:
Sebastian—
We’re having a crisis, so we need you to be a man and help us solve it. Your father’s business has hit some trouble and we need to do some banking overseas. Here’s $500 for the things you’ll need until we come back for you.
This is important—you must not tell a soul that we’re out of town. The only way this works is if we take care of business and then send plane tickets for you and Bramly. But if you let on that you two are on your own right now, the social workers will take you both into custody before we can fix this.
We know we can count on you, son.
Love,
Mom
* * *
I did what she asked. For five weeks I kept everything together without telling anyone. Bramly was only twelve and distraught at this turn of events, so I spent much of the time comforting him.
Then, finally, I picked up the phone one day and heard, “Sebastian? Is that you?”
“Mom?” My voice choked up immediately. For a month I’d been pushing away my own fear, trying to earn my man card the way she wanted me to. But when she finally called I couldn’t take it anymore. “Are you coming home now?” I asked, ending the question with an embarrassing sob.
“Sebastian, stop that. Listen. It’s not safe for us to come home. We want to, but we’d end up in jail. And that’s no better for you than if we’re hiding in Europe.”
Hiding in Europe? My eighteen-year-old brain couldn’t even make sense of that. Except… “We keep getting calls,” I told her. “Dad’s investment partners have stopped by the house looking for him.”
“You have no idea where we are,” my mother said quickly.
That was a hundred percent true.
“And we never had this conversation. I called to tell you that it’s going to take some more time.”
“What is?”
“Your plane tickets. Well—your brother’s, anyway. You’re heading to college, so you don’t really need us. I would take Bramly, but he doesn’t even have a passport. And I can’t come home to get him one. In a couple of months we’ll figure this out.”
“M-months?” I stuttered.
She made more excuses and then hung up on me, telling me to hang in there.
Over the next two weeks, I eventually figured out what happened. Dad had helped himself to a lot of his investors’ money, stashing it in Swiss bank accounts. When his actions were about to be discovered, he and my mother had left the country.
Maybe they really did think they could keep the family together in Europe. Or maybe not. But I turned eighteen and filed for custody of Bramly. When the FBI came calling, I realized I’d helped my parents escape by not speaking up sooner. Horrified, I cooperated with them.
I never heard from our parents again, and neither did Bramly. They chose their liberty and their stolen cash over their kids. A part of me will never get over it.
Fast forward almost twenty years and there’s something about this listing that pushes my buttons. The way the little old lady took off, leaving us to deal? It’s giving me agita.
If Ash would just climb into the car with me, I’d feel better. I know I would. She soothes an ache I didn’t even know I had. Finally the door opens, and she emerges from the house in a hurry. I watch helplessly as she stumbles and almost falls. It’s those fucking shoes. She looks amazing in them, but they’ve been giving her trouble all day.
I imagine cradling her feet in my lap later, rubbing out the knots, my hands moving up her calves…
I’m already breathing easier.
Until she jumps in the car and says “Go! Go! Go!” I don’t even really process her words, I just floor it in reverse and then speed out of the driveway. I see a flash of eyes in the window…or make that I see a flash of a cat’s eye (single) in the window and I get it. “Not a cat person?” I ask once we’re safely down the driveway and speeding into downtown, surrounded by street lights flicking on. A light rain starts to fall. I turn on the windshield wipers and the rhythmic thunking is sort of calming.
“Something like that,” she breathes. Then she says, “Braht…”
There’s something about the way she says my name. I don’t even have a cocky response to her right now. Something’s not right with her, and I want to help her. I need to help her.
“Yeah?”
“Can you just take me home?”
“Of course,” I say, feeling, I’ll admit, a little disappointed that we won’t be having dinner together.
I turn the car around, thoughts of taking her out for wine and tapas abandoned. She’s had her hair in a ponytail, but she pulls on the band and shakes her hair out. I get a quick whiff of her shampoo. I try to focus on driving.
“Can you maybe talk a little bit?” she asks.
“Talk?”
“Yeah. I just need you to…” She takes a deep breath. “Talk to me. Give me some Braht chatter. About whatever is on your mind. The luxury car you want next, or your golf swing. Anything.”
“Why is that, honey bear?” The rain is beating down now, and I slow the car. Safety first. Also, I want to prolong my time with her.
“Just need to hear your voice.”
I chuckle, but I’m so conflicted. She needs me, but she won’t ever come out and say how much. “We can’t both have a meltdown today, okay? Let’s arm wrestle for it. Winner gets to have the panic attack. Loser buys the tequila.”
She makes a soft little noise of surprise. “I’m sorry. I’m such a jerk. I noticed that earlier—that you weren’t okay. What happened to you back there at the house? Something switched. And it scared me a little.” Her voice is so small, so un-Ash-like that my heart shivers a bit.
“No,” I backpedal. “I’m fine. I was simply hungry.”
“Bullshit. You weren’t you. Or maybe that is the real you. I just need to know.”
The word need echoes inside my chest for a moment. I don’t know if telling Ash my story is the right thing to do. But I’m not good at saying no to her.
My hands feel twitchy on the steering wheel. I never tell this story. I don’t like to think about it. And Ash is too silent on her side of the car.
“My parents just…left Bramly and me when we were younger.”
“Left you?”
“Yup. They thought they had better things to do than raise their kids. Bramly was twelve… And they left us with nothing.” I don’t want to describe my parents’ fraudulent activities because I don’t like admitting that I was too stupid to figure out that they were using me to help them escape the country.
Besides, everyone in Western Michigan already knows that part of the story. I’m sure Ash has heard it at some point. My father’s name was in the papers for months. Though my name and Bramly’s name were always omitted, probably because we were so young.
Small mercies. But I changed my name after college even so.
“Anyway, I know our thriller writer can’t actually leave me destitute, but when people dump their bullshit on my doorstep I get stabby.”
“They left you?” Her voice is all high and weird.
“Y
eah. No food in the fridge. No money in the bank. No note from Mommy for their tearful sixth grader.” It’s really a wonder my brother is a semi-functional human. “I managed to stay in the house for a couple of months before the bank took it.” Or maybe it was the feds. At the time, all I knew was that we were in trouble. “And then I was awarded custody of my brother and I had to start from scratch.”
“But…you drive an Audi,” she says. “You have marble countertops.” She’s trying to do the math. “You dress like the Poster Boy for the Rich and Powerful.”
I laugh at that. Must be all the pastel plaids. “Sometimes,” I tell her. “But I’ve earned what I have. It’s taken almost two decades, but it’s just hard work.”
There’s one more thing I want to add, but I can’t seem to voice it. But it’s this—no matter what I do, or how much I earn, I know I’ll never be enough. Not for my parents…and maybe not for Ash. But I can’t say that, so I make a joke. “My good looks, my endless charm, and huge dick are just gifts I was born with…but everything else I have because I fought for it.”
She’s quiet. A quiet I can’t read. Maybe the joke didn’t work. (Though, let’s face it, I’m huge.)
“I just wanted you to know,” I add, lamely.
We’ve reached her place. The rain is coming down harder, and I know it will pull all the fall color off the trees. I feel the same way—like I’ve been drained of color. I shouldn’t have said anything to Ash. It’s better for people to think you’re a god than to know you’re human.
Why would she want me now? Fuck. I’ve screwed up. She’s going to think I’m a loser.
That’s when a miracle happens. She unlatches her seat belt, leans over and she kisses me.
Ash.
Kisses. Me.
Her lips are soft, warm and inviting. I don’t dare breathe. I don’t move. I don’t think I can.
“Will you walk me to the door?” she asks.
I don’t have to say anything. She already knows I will.
Ash
As I let myself into the house, I’m still a little shaky. From the phone call, yes, but also from what Braht told me. It’s like my entire worldview has shifted, or at least my worldview of him has shifted. I was thinking he was too good to be true. And I was right—he’s better.
He walks me to my door and I don’t know what possesses me. Maybe the kiss in the car? The way he looks like a sad little boy right now. Or maybe it’s just that I don’t want to be alone. “Look,” I say. “I’m starving and you’ve got to be, too. You want to order some takeout? And just hang out? Eat? Decompress?” Or, I think, I can help you shower and we can wash the bad day and bad memories off and be all wet and slippery. I clear my throat because ahem.
Braht just says, “Hell, yes,” and walks inside.
I wonder what he thinks of my space. Like my desk at work, it’s carefully coordinated. Everything is white. I like things sleek and bright. There’s no clutter. I have a few plants here and there because living things help with balancing out bad juju.
“What are you hungry for?” he asks, and I almost blurt You.
“Pizza?” I say instead. There’s something immensely comforting about warm and gooey pizza on a cold, dark and rainy night.
“I’ll call. You shower,” he says, almost as if reading my mind.
I kick off my heels on the way out of the room. They’re a lost cause now, all scuffed and battered from today. Then I peel off the sweats Braht loaned me and toss them in the hamper. It’s a shame I have to give them back. I can kinda see myself lounging around in them on the weekend, my head in Braht’s lap, flipping through a magazine.
Gah! I’ve got to knock that shit off now. The last thing I need is any part of my body in his lap. I need to focus, deal with Dwight, and move on.
I raise the window a few inches because the ventilation can’t keep up with my ten-minute-shower habit. Then I turn on the water. While it heats, I unhook my bra. I drop my panties, and then allow my fingers to linger on the skin of my bottom, on the spot that drew Braht’s eye this morning. The tattoo has faded over time. I don’t even know if it’s legible anymore. It’s just a series of numbers. Dwight had asked me to prove my love for him, so I’d tattooed our anniversary onto my ass.
Yes, my ass. What can I say? I was making all kinds of Poor Life Choices. It seemed romantic then. Now, it’s just a reminder of my many deep regrets. I could probably have it lasered off or at least covered over, but now I keep it as a reminder of how not to live. Letting a man take control of my life? It’s never happening again.
Also, it’s on my butt. So unless someone like Braht happens to spot it, I can usually forget it’s there.
The shower is amazing. The hot water sluicing over me wipes all the grime off and eases my aches. Ten minutes later (okay, fine, it’s more like fifteen) I emerge clean and buffed and ready for anything.
And by anything, I mean I’m ready for pizza and Braht, maybe not in that order.
I’m toweling off, thinking happy thoughts, when I open the window a couple more inches. I need to dry my hair, and it’s still like a rainforest in here.
I start the brushing process at the ends of my hair and work upward. A girl can’t rush the brushing process. That leads to split ends and that way lies the abyss. Braht is probably impatient with me already. But maybe he’s sitting in my living room enjoying his first slice of pizza.
We really should have discussed the toppings beforehand. I’m a little nervous to know what Braht likes on his pizza. If he leans toward Hawaiian style, I’ll have to rethink my attraction to him.
I’m debating the merits of pepperoni versus meatball when movement outside the window catches my eye. It takes a second to zero in on it, because the object I’ve noticed is black, and it’s not easy to pick out against rain-dampened tree trunks in the dusk. There’s a seven-foot fence that runs along the back of my tiny yard. The fence is what keeps the house private from the wooded bike trail that runs along behind my property.
Or it’s supposed to. But now an object has risen above the fence level and is peering at me through the gloom. A black box with a shiny round eye, like a giant bug’s. “Holy shit,” I breathe. Because any girl who’s ever binged on a James Bond movie marathon can identify a spy camera when she sees one. She also understands why polyester will never come back in style.
I close my eyes and let out a scream that’s worthy of a slasher movie. It’s epic, and I actually scare myself a little with my volume.
About three seconds later the bathroom door flies open. “Ash! Jesus! Is there a spider?”
As if I could be frightened by something as insubstantial as a spider. I jab my finger toward the window and watch as Braht’s gaze turns in that direction. He grabs a magazine and rolls it up, ready to pounce.
“Um, what’s the matter?” he asks.
I look out the window again and see nothing at all except wet trees and a good, solid fence. “A camera,” I blurt. “Above the fence. It was just there. It was black. Pointy. James Bondish.”
Braht takes two steps, pushing past me. “Nice towel,” he says as he shoves the window open wider. “Is that Garnet Hill? Eileen Fisher?”
I don’t even get a chance to answer because he puts one foot on the toilet and then leaps to the ground below, rolled-up magazine in hand. I’m not sure what he plans to do with it. Slap the peeping Tom? Show him what’s on sale?
A squeak of surprise escapes my throat. That window isn’t even very big. I hear footsteps hustling outside, and I stick my head out to see Braht disappearing around the edge of the fence. Then he’s out of view for a few minutes. I throw on my bathrobe and wait for any sign of him.
Time passes slowly, and I spend it pacing between the bathroom and my living room. I’m a little freaked out and basically showing the world my bathrobe cleavage every time I walk into the bathroom. So I close the window and wait for Braht.
And wait.
He is coming back, right? Should I be calling the
cops right now? What if he’s lying battered and bloody on the bike path, the victim of a serial killer who spies on women before he claims them?
Or maybe he found that asshole Dw…
I can’t even think my ex’s name or something terrible will happen. I know it. And a black one-eyed cat crossed my path today, too. Anything could happen.
Just as I’m working myself back up into a lather, the front door opens and Braht steps inside, magazine no longer in his hands. It’s simply gone. “Honey bear?”
“I’m not your honey bear,” I say automatically, but with no annoyance. It’s a reflex.
He ignores that. “I couldn’t find anything.”
“No?” The camera I saw was substantial, and it was obviously raised above the fence by a tall…stick? Or by someone on a ladder? “Did you go behind the fence?”
“I did. I swear. Whoever you saw was gone.” He makes a slight grimace. “There wasn’t a soul back there. It’s wet and dark. Not exactly a great time to bike or run. But, seriously—location, location, location. Well done, savvy buyer.”
“Thank you.” My shoulders slump. “I’m sure I saw a camera. It was looking right at me.” At least I think I saw it.
Fuck.
“I’m sure you did,” Braht says, but his tone suggests that my sanity may be fragile. “Let’s eat, okay?”
I pull my robe a little tighter and glance out of the living room window. Only a square of blackness looks back at me. Anyone could be standing out there, staring inside. I hurry over to the front window and yank the curtains closed.
“Ash,” Braht says softly. “If someone is spying on you in the bathroom, I don’t know if you should stay here tonight.”
“I don’t know, either,” I admit. Either I’m being stalked or I’m paranoid to the point of hallucination. I really don’t like either option very much. I clutch my robe more tightly against my breasts, feeling eyes on me even though the drapes are already shut.
Braht’s face softens. “Hey, baby duck. It’s going to be okay. If that was your ex, spying on you is probably a parole violation. Should we call the cops? You could start building a case that he’s stalking you, and nail him to the wall.”