by Zoey Castile
Patrick: It’s a home gym.
Me: Exactly.
Me: Do you happen to have any punching bags?
Patrick: Yeah, why? You box?
Me: I used to. My dad did. He taught me.
He types and stops. Types and stops. I head to the bottom of the stairs and take one step before my belly is gripped with a tightening sensation. He has boundaries, but how can he have me live in his house and avoid me like this?
Patrick: The bags are in the garage. I never set them up.
Me: No worries. Dinner will be ready in an hour, then I’ll go back to the pool house.
Pat: Okay.
* * *
“Would it kill you to say thank you every now and then?” I mutter out loud before I hit play on my music.
I set everything up on the counter. As I listen to the soundtrack of my childhood, I chop onions and garlic and sauté them in oil. There’s something about the hiss of searing vegetables that soothes me, a combination of heat and transformation. I drain the ground beef and season liberally with fresh black pepper and coarse sea salt. I dance around the kitchen island, singing my way through the song.
My mother’s favorite songs were in Spanish and I never really understood why she couldn’t be one of those moms who just cooked in silence like our neighbors. But my mom was herself—always too big, too loud. At least, that’s what she was like when she was at home. It was different at work, in houses and apartments that could fit our whole world in their living rooms. She’d change into the humble, demure, quiet foreign woman who would clean toilets and kitchen sinks and ignore the couples fighting. She worked.
When I think of Patrick in this house by himself, I can almost understand the need to hide. The need to be a different person than the one you might be elsewhere. Isn’t that what everyone is doing anyway? We walk through the day putting on a brave face, going through the motions until we can get to the safety of our homes. We’re just trying to get home.
Maybe Patrick is already in his safe place. He is literally in his home, after all. I feel guilty for trying to get him to move out of that just because I was hired to make sure his house is clean and he stops eating like a college kid. Though to be fair, his frozen meals were way better than what I was shoveling into my face before trying to get to classes every morning.
I slide across the kitchen in my socks to stir the tomato sauce. This beef Bolognese is a recipe my mother taught me. I still rolled my eyes when he asked me to not make anything with “weird” flavors. But the minute I was walking through the greens of the grocery story I felt a strange melancholy I haven’t in a while. I’m starting to wonder if maybe being out here isn’t as good for me as I initially wanted it to be. Maybe I shouldn’t be alone, either.
The timer dings, and I make a plate for Patrick and take some in Tupperware for me.
But before I leave the kitchen, I find a Post-it Note and leave it next to the dish.
PAT
Bon appétit! Lena :)
She has the kind of handwriting that reminds me of old-fashioned calligraphy. Each letter is elegant and clear, but the ink pressed down hard enough leave an imprint in the paper. It’s the kind of handwriting that can’t be rushed.
This is the problem with having someone in the house. It smells like onions and garlic. The last time my house smelled like this was when my parents were still alive and my brothers and I were little. It’s going to fuck with me and make me feel things I don’t want to feel. Before I can wallow in those memories, I pull up a barstool and eat.
I have to shut my eyes because this might be the best thing I’ve ever put in my mouth. I burn my tongue, but I keep eating until the plate is clean. There’s more in the fridge, arranged in three Tupperware containers. I heat up two more before I’m disgustingly full.
I pull out my phone and do the familiar dance of scrolling through the numbers. Aiden. Fallon. Jack. Ricky. I feel like a fucking reject waiting for a phone call on a Friday night.
Just call them, you big ijit.
But I don’t.
I click on my messages and find Lena’s name.
Me: This is good. Too spicy but good.
I regret it the instant I hit send. Why couldn’t I just have left it at “good”? Why couldn’t I have said what I wanted to, which is, “This is almost as good as how my dad used to make it”?
Lena: I guess coming from you that’s as much of a compliment as I’m going to get.
Me: I guess.
I groan and slap my own damn forehead. She thinks I’m an asshole and I haven’t done much to discourage her. From the moment I saw her shitty little car making its way up the road, I wanted her gone. Part of me still does. Scarlett is wrong. I’m not ready to be around others.
Try.
Me: Where’d you learn to cook?
Shit, maybe she’s pissed because she hasn’t even read it. Half an hour passes as I scroll through the news—everything is terrible—and Google search my name—everything is still terrible but at least all the information is outdated. I’m a has-been, a never-was.
I walk to the back of the kitchen and look out the window. The pool house windows are all lit. She could be in the bathroom. She could just not want to talk to me and I’m being a fucking creep. I pull the blinds shut.
My phone dings.
Lena: My mom. She worked for this Italian family for a year and the grandma that lived there taught my mom her favorite recipes.
Me: My dad’s family was Italian.
Lena: LOL I figured.
The left side of my face hurts right over my cheekbone. I shut my eyes and see the beams of a car, the glitter of broken glass. My face hasn’t hurt in a while, but I ignore the feeling for now.
Me: Right. The name gives it away.
Me: My dad was the one who liked to cook. My mom was great, too, but there’s only so many casseroles we could eat.
Lena: I’ve never had a casserole. What’s in it?
My face hurts again. Worry drives into my chest and I move on to the bathroom down the hall she was working on earlier. I don’t think I’ll ever be used to the guy staring back at me. For an infernal second, I blink enough times that maybe the next time I see myself I’ll go back to the way I used to be. The scar tissue is a mess over the entire right side of my face. When Jack saw me, he was so hopped up on pain drugs that he laughed and said I looked like I’d gone two rounds with Edward Scissorhands and I said, “At least I can fucking walk.”
I shake my head. I am not a good guy. A good guy would never have said that to his baby brother.
I touch the mound of my cheek, but it doesn’t hurt when I put pressure on it. What the fuck? The last thing I want to do is call my doctor, but what if there’s something wrong with my scars?
I can hear my phone beeping from the kitchen, and honestly, I can’t keep staring at this reflection. This is the face of a stranger. This can’t be my face. I ball my fingers into a fist and it’s all I can do to stop from smashing it into the glass.
Lena: Any preferences for breakfast?
Me: No whatever you feel like.
Lena: Good night Patrick.
Tell her she can call you Pat. Tell her thank you for making a meal that you had three servings of. Tell her something more.
Words are meaningless. I’ve known that for years. People lie. People tell you what they want you to hear. How many times did I do that? How many times did I tell a woman I’d call her back just to spare her feelings? How many times did I tell myself everything would be all right?
Lena is going to leave here at the end of August. But that’s over two months from now. Until then? She has enough in this house to keep her busy. She doesn’t need to actually pretend to be my friend. What would Scarlett tell me in this moment? She’d tell me to do something nice. But Scarlett writes about the kind of men that don’t exist.
Lena needs to keep busy. That’s the idea. She mentioned she liked boxing. I guess I could let her use the gym when I’m not in
there. The problem is that the punching bags are in the garage. The plan was to turn the garage into my own gym but that didn’t work out, did it? I had the movers bring everything inside. All I’d have to do is lift a hundred-pound bag and hook it up to the metal rings in the ceiling.
That’s it.
That’s fucking doable as a thank-you for this meal, isn’t it? Keep her out of my hair and maybe she’ll be too tired to sing off-key inside the house. It’s a win-win situation.
I slip on a pair of sandals in the foyer and open the front door.
The evening air is chilly, the sun bleeds orange over the tree line. I gulp down the crisp, clean air. I grew up running down these slopes, back when the ranch was a piece of shit that was falling apart because my dad made some bad investments and we never really recovered even if, in the end, we were happy. My mother loved us and my brothers and I grew tall and strong, and then there was Ronan . . .
“I can do this,” I say out loud.
For the first ten steps, I keep my eyes shut, but I make it outside. When was the last time I even opened a window? I don’t look back at my house because I know if I do, I’m going to want to run inside, like when you’re climbing a great distance and they tell you not to look down. I shouldn’t look.
“Keep walking,” I say, and my words get lost in the sweep of cold air.
The garage is perhaps one hundred feet away, give or take, but it feels like it isn’t getting any closer, like I’m in one of those optical illusions where the road beneath me widens and elongates at the same time. I get about halfway before I look back.
I stop and get on my knees. My pulse has multiplied to every part of my body, so much that I’m vibrating, shaking until I press my hands on the gravel and lower my face down. I shiver as I close my eyes because I’m positive I’m dying. A numbness runs across my shoulder blades and moves to my chest, my arms. Is this a heart attack? Memories are flashing across my mind faster than I want them to.
There was the night of the accident. The grill of that truck smashing into Jack’s side of the car. We spun so many times that the only thing that stopped us was a metal post, shattering my window right against my face.
There was the ambulance. My throat hoarse because I was screaming for my brother, who wasn’t moving beside me. They put me under and I woke up in the dark to voices, to people touching my chest, stitching me up like a stuffed toy split down the middle.
Sometimes when I wake up, it’s because I can hear the heart rate monitor beeping as if it’s right in my room. Other times, I wake up because I dream of the last time I saw my brother six months ago at the rehab clinic in New York, and it’s his voice that wakes me. “I fucking hate you, Pat. I hate you so much.”
It was my boys who drove me all the way back to Montana. Two thousand, one hundred and ninety-five miles over two days. Two days of me cursing their names, their wives, their loved ones. Two days of me asking them to leave me the fuck alone, to drop me off in the middle of a highway in North Dakota. For the life of me, I don’t know why they didn’t do it. When we got here, I locked myself in the house for a week and they went to get Scarlett. I didn’t even say goodbye the day they left.
When I open my eyes, it’s only to vomit in the grass. Everything comes out painfully, violently until I’m exhausted. But at least I’m not shaking.
Lights come on from somewhere, and every part of me is an alarm. She can’t see me like this. Somehow, I crawl all the way back inside. Drag myself up the steps and into my shower.
I sit there for a long time, shame burning my skin despite the handle being turned all the way up to the cold side.
When I go to sleep, I don’t dream.
4
Dime Store Cowgirl
LENA
“I have emerged from my writing cave!” Scarlett says when she walks into the room I’m working in. Her auburn hair is in her usual messy bun, and she’s wearing a white blouse with tiny red roses printed all over. She gives the room a once-over and her eyes widen. “Now, I know I parked in front of the right house, but you wouldn’t know it from this. The guest rooms almost look like they should be in one of those coffee table magazines in Massachusetts.”
I laugh hard. A surprising sense of pride settles over me when she says that. Sure, it isn’t painting, but I can call it interior design to make myself feel better. “I’m just arranging things around. It would be nice if all the walls weren’t stark white.”
“You know, that would be nice. I just have to talk to Pat about some paperwork,” she says, letting her hair down in waves that come up just below her shoulders, “but I’m sure he won’t mind.”
“Really?” I ask, arching an eyebrow. As if thinking the same thing, we both look up at the ceiling where Patrick is doing—well whatever he does up there during my hours in the house. “Won’t he want to pick the colors?”
“Tell you what, I’ll run it by him right now and if he says no, then the walls will stay White Walker white. You go get your stuff just in case.”
I don’t really have any “stuff” to get, but there’s a chill in the air. It’s summer for Christ’s sake and the end of June. Mari told me that during her freshman year it snowed right up until the end of June. I go to my little pool house, retracing the steps I take at least six times a day, then wait for Scarlett by her mud-splattered silver truck.
“No complaints from Groucharella. He said as long as it’s not pink or orange he doesn’t, ahem, give a rat’s ass.”
I snort. “Do you think rat’s ass comes in a swatch color?”
“I happen to like a guest room in a nice shade of salmon.” She hops in the truck, and it’s almost comical seeing her sling herself up in the giant truck.
I follow suit and, then we’re driving down the Damn Hill that gives me so much trouble. It’s quite a different experience in Scarlett’s metal behemoth. “Holy shit, is this what it feels like to drive on this road when your shock absorbers are working?”
Scarlett’s big belly laugh fills the car. “So, tell me, just between us girls. How’s my boy doing? He treating you okay?”
It’s such a loaded question because everything is okay on paper. It’s been two weeks since I’ve arrived and the last time Patrick had an outburst was the day that I quit. Maybe Scarlett can give me an insight on the subtle change in Patrick. I tell her about cooking and singing. I say nothing about our texting for some reason I can’t quite explain to her or myself.
“He did mention he has to listen to his music at eardrum-shattering volumes when you’re around, but I know he doesn’t mind.”
“It was like, for a minute, I thought we could be friends. He liked my food and he’s been eating everything without complaining. At least, not to me.” With the windows halfway down, I can’t help but turn my head toward the sun and breeze.
“Seems like a prince.” Scarlett turns onto the empty highway. “But you think something’s wrong?”
“Did he say anything about me?” I ask, and instantly regret it because I sound like I’m in high school. “Like if I did something wrong. Or is he always just surly and doesn’t say please or thank you?”
Scarlett sighs and purses her lips together in a defeated sort of way. “I’m going to be honest with you, Lena. Patrick has a lot of healing to do. Not in his body but in his mind.”
“You still wouldn’t be able to tell me what happened, right?”
“I can’t.”
I nod, understanding.
“Just know that it isn’t you,” she says. “When I went there to have him sign some checks, he grunted his way through a conversation, but he’s always like that.”
“His texts were kind of funny for a couple of days,” I say and laugh. Then realize my slip.
“He was texting you?” Scarlett takes her eyes off the road to glance at me. “Like the schedule?”
“No, just asking me to play country music, which I don’t have. He asked me about casseroles, which I’ve never eaten before. Like I said, it a
lmost felt like we were starting to be friends.”
Scarlett taps her chin. “Interesting.”
“What’s interesting?” I ask.
“Well, I just know that Patrick hasn’t been very chatty with anyone. Except Jack, his brother. And even then, he’s done a fine job of shutting people out.”
“Six months is a long time to be alone,” I say, but feel a tug at my heart because that’s right about the amount of time that I’ve been here.
“Sounds like you miss home,” she says. “I don’t mean to pry. Who am I kidding? I actually can’t help myself. I know you’re here for school, but why Bozeman? New York City seems like the perfect place for art.”
I give her a kind smile. “It is. I was working at the Met for a little while actually but at the coat check. When my dad got sick, I had to help around the house. My sister, Ari, she was so little and my stepmom was no help.”
“You’re just a Cinderella story, aren’t you?” she asks, turning into the hardware store parking lot.
At that, I have to chuckle sarcastically. “Maybe just the stepmother part and dead parents. Instead of cute mice, I just had big old subway rats and pigeons at my window. This job will help me get to see my sister for Christmas. That’s the plan at least.”
Scarlett puts the car in park and looks at me, her light-brown eyes joyful and full of mischief. “Maybe there’s a fancy ball waiting for you after all. As in, there’s a July Fourth party in town. We should go together. Might as well have a little fun since you’ll be stuck in the house all summer.”
July Fourth back home was always my favorite holiday. My friend’s parents threw a huge party with a pig roast and illegal fireworks. Her dad even built a tiki bar from the shack his Harley used to be parked in. At the end of the night, only the mosquito torches would be lit while all fifty cousins gathered around to do shots and eat cake.
Maybe it’s the overwhelming longing for a past that feels just out of reach, or maybe it’s because Scarlett is the kindest person I’ve met while I’ve been out here, but I say, “I’d love that.”