by Cassia Leo
“Okay, you’re going a little too far with the military metaphors.”
I try not to laugh. “This is serious. I need help.”
“All right, all right. There’s only one way she’s going to take you back.”
“How’s that?”
He flashes me a smug grin. “You have to give her the one thing she wants most in this world, other than you.”
I’m seized by fresh panic. “I don’t know what she wants. I mean, wait! I know what she wants. She wants to finish her book, but I can’t finish her book for her.”
Kenny scratches his chin as he ponders this. “Hmm… You can’t write her book, but maybe you can do something even better.”
December 5, 2014
“Sorry I didn’t call you back yesterday.” I begin my conversation with Kenny with an apology. “We were on the road until late, so we just crashed as soon as we got here. Are you moved in yet?”
Kenny sighs. “Yes. I got all my stuff into the storage unit this afternoon, with some help.”
“Great,” I say, taking a sip of my slightly over-sweetened coffee as I stare out the kitchen window onto our plain backyard, where Skippy and Sparky are chasing each other around like a couple of kids playing tag. “I’m so glad you found someone to help you. I know I sprang this on you kind of quickly.”
“Yes, you did. And yes, I did find someone to help me. Someone you might know. Someone who may have left you a heartfelt voicemail yesterday, which you seem to have completely ignored.”
I sit back in the spindly metal dining chair with the white plastic seat. “What are you talking about?”
“Oh, I think you know what I’m talking about. Houston helped me move my stuff into storage today after you completely ignored him yesterday.”
I choke on this news, literally, as if the air in my lungs has become toxic. “He what?”
“Have you gone mad?” Kenny responds, not waiting for me to recover from my hacking fit. “Did you hear the voicemail he left you?”
I let out a few stray coughs and gulp down some coffee to soothe my throat. “No, I deleted it. But wait a minute, he helped you move?”
The thought of Kenny and Houston together, without me, fills me with a deep physical ache in my chest. I don’t know if it’s jealousy or just that I miss them both terribly, but I suddenly feel my soul folding in on itself with regret.
“Yes. Houston came to my apartment asking about you,” Kenny says, sounding both exasperated and consoling. “And I was there when he left that voicemail for you yesterday. Rory, just talk to him. For the love of David Beckham’s boxer briefs, hear him out.”
“You were with him?”
I clamp the lid on my curiosity, throwing away the key to my mouth to stop myself from asking Kenny what Houston said in the voicemail I deleted. Or why the hell the two of them were hanging out in the first place. Part of me wants to know the answer to both of those questions, but a larger part of me knows that, in the grand scheme of things, it doesn’t matter. Kenny and Houston both want me to go back to my old life, where I’ll be surrounded by lies and painful memories.
There’s nothing wrong with wanting to start over.
Kenny sighs. “Yes, I was with him. He poured his heart out. It was beautiful. Oh, so beautiful… God, that man is gorgeous. Get your ass back here, young lady.”
Why is everyone trying to protect me? Why can’t anyone just support me?
“Okay, I’m hanging up now. I don’t need another lecture. I’m a grown woman, Kenny. I’m allowed to make life-changing decisions.”
I close my eyes and the gray winter sunlight pouring through the kitchen window becomes dark crimson on the backs of my eyelids. I visualize my life as a book. And all the pages in this chapter have been glued together. I’m trying to turn the page, but it’s stuck. And the harder I try, the more torn and messed up the pages become. But I’m going to keep trying. So help me, I will get to that next chapter.
“Okay, okay, I’m sorry,” Kenny replies. “Don’t hang up.”
I take another sip of coffee and clench my teeth against the crabby remarks resting idly on the tip of my tongue. I swallow them down and let out an audible sigh so he knows I’m holding back.
“Aurora?” Kenny says after a minute of silence, though his voice sounds a bit far away.
“What?”
“I’m sorry, gorgeous. I just put you on speaker so I can kneel before my phone whilst begging your forgiveness, m’lady.”
“Shut up and take me off speaker.”
He chuckles as he comes back on the line crisp and clear. “Change of subject. How do you like Techlandia?”
My mind flashes to my lackluster evening with Liam. “I haven’t really seen much of it,” I reply. “I took the dogs for a walk around the housing tract this morning. Liam unpacked everything last night while I was in the shower, so I haven’t had much to do. I’ve just been lazing around in my yoga pants all afternoon, contemplating doing some writing or looking for a job if I should get a burst of motivation.”
“You should write. Or hop on your bike and go get yourself a barista job.”
“I need a new bike. I feel like my vintage ten-speed isn’t techie enough for Silicon Valley. I need a bike with a jetpack.”
“Your green bike is totally hipster. Roll up to Starbucks on that green machine, whip that gorgeous hair over your shoulder, and just bat your eyelashes as all the men flock to you.”
I roll my eyes. “I don’t need men to flock to me. Anyway, I want to get a nice bike, but I don’t want to dip too far into my savings. I’ll have to wait until I assess the job market around here, to see if my cash will be better served sitting in my bank account rather than under my ass.”
“Honey, that money would be privileged to sit under your ghetto booty.”
“You always know what to say to make me feel special.”
“That’s my job. But I do have another job I need to get to. I have the six-to-eleven shift tonight. We’ll talk later, snookums.”
“Goodnight, handsome.”
I wash my coffee mug and leave it upside down in the sink to dry, then I take my laptop to the sofa and open up my book file. I’ve written another hundred-some pages in the book since Houston came back in and out of my life. I finally got caught up with the most recent events two nights ago. Now I need to write about the road trip and my first night with Liam.
After staring blankly at page 349 for a few minutes, I type my first sentence: Saying good-bye to the things that cause you pain sometimes means saying good-bye to the things and the people—the addictions—who once brought you pleasure.
“Hey, babe.”
I jump at the sound of Liam’s voice as he appears before me in front of the sofa. “Holy shit. I didn’t even hear you come through the front door.”
He laughs as he sits down next to me. “What are you writing?”
I slam the lid of the laptop shut. “It’s my book!” I shriek, as if we’re both ten years old and he just tried to take a peek at my diary. Though, I guess this book sort of is my diary. “It’s not ready yet.”
He rolls his eyes then leans in to plant a kiss on my cheek before he rises from the sofa. “Are you telling me you’re never gonna let me read it?” he asks as he walks toward the kitchen.
I tuck the laptop under my arm as I follow him. “Not until it’s finished,” I reply, though I’m not sure if that’s true.
Do I really want Liam to read the story of me and Houston? And, if this is the story of Houston and me, why am I still writing it if we’re over?
No, I can’t show the book to Liam. I don’t want him to know how dysfunctional Houston and I were together. But that means I just lied to Liam by telling him he could read it when it’s finished. It seems Houston has rubbed off on me in many ways.
I turn away from Liam and look out the kitchen window, trying not to smile as I imagine Houston rubbing himself on me.
“What are you smiling at?” Liam says as he gra
bs a jug of organic orange juice out of the fridge.
I was shocked to find that Liam’s new assistant at SaltMedia had stocked our fridge and pantry with the essentials, from skim milk and orange juice to peanut butter and my favorite ice cream, Häagen-Dazs Swiss Almond. I mentioned my favorite ice cream flavor to Liam only once, when I was complaining how they were out of it at Zucker’s. But I think it was even weirder to know that his assistant had been in our house, opening our cupboards, before we even arrived. Maybe I’m just being silly, or maybe just a touch jealous.
“I’m just smiling because I had a good day off,” I reply. “How was your day? How’s your new assistant?”
Is she pretty?
“Sonia is cool. She got me up to speed. As far as how my day went, I had a bunch of boring meetings about a press release that’s going out next week to our investors. What did you do?”
I think back on my day of leisure and my conversation with Kenny. “Not much. I was a little truck-lagged from the road trip, so I took the day off. I think I’ll ride my bike downtown tomorrow. Maybe hook myself a barista job.”
“You don’t have to rush to get a job,” he says, setting the orange juice down on the counter so he can grab my waist. He wiggles his eyebrows as he pulls me close. “You can work from home.”
“Like a sex slave?”
He throws his head back with laughter. “I meant like a writer. Writers work from home, don’t they?”
I narrow my eyes at him as he leans in to kiss my neck. “Sure, that’s what you meant.”
His lips skate softly over my neck, sending a shiver down my spine. He grabs the laptop from me and I tighten my hold on it instinctively.
“I’m just going to put it on the counter,” he assures me.
I relax my grip and he slides it out from under my arm, then sets it down on the counter next to the orange juice. His lips quickly return to my neck. I raise my hands tentatively to lay them on his chest.
“You know, I get a two-hour lunch break every day,” he whispers in my ear as I coil my arms around his neck and breathe in the woodsy scent of his skin. “Maybe you should stay home tomorrow and I’ll bring you some lunch. We can have a picnic outside with the children, then… who knows?”
I swallow hard as I realize he’s suggesting I not leave the house so he can come home and have a picnic with me and the dogs, followed by a quickie. Like he’s trying to entice me not to leave the house.
I push him away and grab my laptop. “I think I should look for a job,” I say, heading back toward the living room.
“Do you want to borrow my truck?” he calls out behind me.
I turn around and the sweet lumberjack smile he’s wearing makes me realize I’m just being defensive. He’s not trying to trap me here. He’s just horny.
“You can drop me off at work then go job hunting,” he continues.
I smile at him. “No, I’m fine. I need to get out for a bike ride. Thanks.”
He nods. “Let me know if you ever need the truck. What’s mine is yours.”
My stomach twists into a mass of heavy guilt as I remember how I lied to Liam about my book earlier. Apparently, what’s mine is not his.
December 6, 2014
“Hi, Mrs. Charles,” I say when Rory’s mom opens the front door.
She flashes me a tight-lipped smile. “I go by my maiden name now, Hensley, but you can call me Patricia. No need to be formal. I haven’t stepped foot in a classroom in four and a half years.”
I pull off my slightly damp raincoat as I step inside her apartment in the Pearl District, which is just around the corner from the apartment I shared with Tessa until four months ago. It doesn’t surprise me that Patricia’s place is impeccably clean and more modern than Rory’s apartment in Goose Hollow. I never spent time with Patricia while Rory and I were together, but her perfectionism was one of Rory’s favorite topics of conversation. Rory never squandered an opportunity to express how happy she was to be at UO, away from the scrutiny of Mrs. Charles, the grammar Nazi.
“What brings you here on this dreary Saturday?” she says, taking my coat from me so she can hang it on a hook near the front door.
“I can’t stay long. I have to go visit my mom. But I wanted to talk to you about Rory… and James.”
She presses her lips together at the mention of his name. “I don’t know what I can say that will make this easier for you.”
“I don’t need you to say anything. I need you to do something.”
Her face puckers a bit as her gaze falls to the floor. She’s not comfortable with the direction of this conversation. Finally, she turns on her heel and heads for the kitchen.
“Did you want a cup of tea or cocoa or something to warm up?” she asks. “You must be freezing.”
I follow her into the kitchen. “I’m fine, thank you. Can we talk about this?”
She reaches for the cupboard above the coffee machine, but she doesn’t open it. Standing silently with her hand clasped around the silver door pull, she lets out a soft sigh and turns to face me.
“Houston, I know you want me to help you bring Rory back. And believe me, I want her back just as much as you do. But we have to let her figure out what she wants on her own.” She stands up straight, putting on her dignified teacher expression. “And she deserves that after everything she’s been through.”
“You mean, after everything we put her through?”
This takes the air out of her sails and her shoulders slump a bit. “Yes. I guess we deserve to be left behind.” She clasps her hand over her mouth as she begins to cry.
I take a step toward her and she shakes her head.
“I’m fine,” she insists, her fingers swiping clumsily at her tears.
“No, you’re not.” I take another step forward and beckon her to come to me.
She stares at me, dumbfounded, then she lets out a gut-wrenching sob as she buries her face in my chest. “How could we be so careless with her heart, Houston?” she pleads.
I wrap my arms tightly around her slight shoulders. “We thought we were protecting her.”
“What if she never comes back?”
“She’ll come back,” I reply fiercely. “She has to come back, or I’m going to have to move to California.”
She chuckles as she pulls away, still wiping a few stray tears. Looking up at me, I’m struck by how she has the same round hazel eyes as Rory and the same cute button nose. This is probably what Rory will look like at Patricia’s age.
“I apologize for always working against you,” she says, though she doesn’t appear very apologetic. “It’s just… you made it so easy to hate you.”
I let out a soft puff of laughter. “Thanks. I’ll make sure to add that to my dating profile.”
Her smile disappears. “Houston.”
“I’m kidding. I’m not dating anyone. Rory is the only woman I want, but I need your help getting her back.”
She crosses her arms over her chest. “I don’t know how I can help you. She’s not very keen on speaking to me either. She called me yesterday from her new place, but she seemed to remember halfway through the conversation that she’s still angry with me, so she ended the call quite abruptly. She’s still so angry. I’ve apologized a million times. I don’t know what to do anymore.”
“There is something you can do. Something big.”
She narrows her eyes at me and I laugh.
“Sorry. That came out wrong. Just please hear me out.” I clear my throat and take a deep breath as I prepare to put phase two of Operation Gay Agenda into action.
December 23, 2014
After almost three weeks of testing out all the cafés and quiet zones in Mountain View, I’ve finally settled on my perfect writing spot: the Good Bean Café. I’ve yet to submit any job applications, since I wanted to make sure my first application was submitted to whichever café turned out to be my favorite. But my plan is to hang out at the Good Bean for at least a week, get to know the staff a little, le
t them get to know me, before I spring my desperation for employment on them.
I lock up my bike outside the café and head inside to order my usual skinny latte. The scrawny guy working the register doesn’t smile as he swipes my card, but I don’t mind. I don’t need constant kindness. I’m from Portland, not Mayberry. But when I turn around to look for an empty table, the woman behind me flashes me a warm smile. I return the gesture and set off toward a small table in the corner.
I set up my laptop, plugging the charger into the outlet on the wall behind my chair, then I head back to the front of the café to grab my latte off the bar. Sitting back down at the corner table, I take my first sip and cringe. This is not a skinny latte with no syrup. This is a full-fat mocha. I’m about to stand when the woman who smiled at me earlier turns around in her chair and holds up the cup of coffee in her hand.
“I think I may have grabbed yours,” she says, her eyebrows screwed up under her black fringe in what appears to be a sincere expression of apology. “Sorry. I can buy you another… whatever this is. I can’t really tell. There’s no sugar.”
I try not to roll my eyes. “It’s fine,” I say, holding out her mocha. “We can just swap if you’re okay with that.”
She smiles as we exchange cups. “What’s in there, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“Skinny latte. No syrup. I’m trying to cut back on sugar.”
She nods as if she totally understands. “I tried the whole black-coffee movement in the ’90s and could never stick with it. More power to you.”
“Thanks,” I say, setting my coffee down next to my laptop and opening the lid to start writing.
But the woman doesn’t seem to be turning back around, so I look up again.
She smiles as she takes a sip of her mocha then reaches her hand out to me. “I’m Hannah.”
I shut the lid of my laptop so I can reach forward and shake her hand. “Rory. Nice to meet you.”