The Long Weekend

by Mimi Flood

  That was over two years ago. Back then, I used to find his arrogance somewhat appealing and I had misinterpreted it as confidence. Now, the look that had once made me attracted to him was instead making my blood boil.

  Facing him, quite literally standing up to his tall figure—as much as my short stature could allow—I let the words spill out.

  “I can’t keep up this shit anymore!” I snapped. “I am not here for your pleasure, for you to just throw to the curb once you’ve got your fill,” I took a deep breath. “Too much has happened over the weekend and—,”

  “I know, Liz, I know.” He said, interrupting me. He took me into his arms, catching me completely by surprise. “I understand how close I came to losing you for good and it freaked me out.”

  I felt him breathe in. My cheek pressed against his chest, I could hear his heart thumping. This was the first time Paul had ever shown so much emotion and it shook me. It seemed honest, but it was so unlike him, I couldn’t be sure it was at all genuine.

  “You’re the one who ended things.”

  “I know and that was stupid of me.”

  He pulled away a little, his eyes meeting mine. The sincerity in them, if that’s what it was, reached into my gut and tugged at something. Maybe it was our history together, maybe it was just the culmination of the entire weekend’s unrest, but I found something strangely comforting in his presence.

  “I don’t know, Paul,” I said, my words laced with legitimate uncertainty.

  I saw visions of Devon, felt his weight on me, his lips on mine.

  Should I tell Paul?

  It would inevitably break his heart. Then again, wasn’t I finished with Paul; hadn’t that ship sailed, to say the least? Why was I yet again even remotely considering taking him back?

  “Liz, please give me a second chance,” he begged. “At least let me come with you tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow?” I looked up at him, confused.

  “The funeral.”

  Of course, the funeral. With all the distractions I’d had, namely because of Devon, I had completely let it slip my mind.

  Paul hugged me again and this time I didn’t feel the immediate need to push him away. The entire town would be at the funeral and so would Devon. What difference would it make if Paul was there too? It would prove to be a tough day, regardless of whose company I was in. Plus, I still didn’t know what to do about the orchards and that was a much more pressing issue than whether or not Paul stuck around.

  My mind raced a mile a minute. Paul leaned in for a kiss and I thought of Devon again, imagining him watching us. I felt guilty. I should have told him about Paul. Then again, I had truly believed Paul was history. There wasn’t anything to tell Devon about.

  I felt my temples pounding, the stress bringing on the worst headache. Paul’s lips brushed against mine, desperately wanting a kiss but not forcing it. I hesitated, not knowing what to do and hating myself for it. His sudden show of affection had stirred everything, setting my world even more on its edge. I didn’t know what I wanted anymore, didn’t know why the universe was sending me so many curve balls. I felt entirely lost.

  “Are you coming in to help with dinner or staying out here all night?” my mother shouted from the house.

  Paul pulled away, looking disappointed, but I felt a rush of relief flood over me.

  “Let’s go in,” I said.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Paul was uncharacteristically cooperative as my parents cooked dinner. Being my usual unhelpful self, I sat at the kitchen island, watching them. Paul cut some vegetables and made a salad, all while chatting, and charming as much as he could.

  I couldn’t recognize this person that stood before me. In all our years together, he had never cooked me anything, had never been so delightful. If I didn’t suspect his motives, he would have won me over.

  I thought back to what he had said outside and wondered if he was being honest with me—was he really worried he’d lost me?

  It was true that I was glad he was being so nice, but I was also aware that this was probably just a way to lure me back in. We could easily get back together, but once we were back in Montreal, in our regular day-to-day, he would without a doubt go back to the way he always was—arrogant and dismissive. I was sure we would end up broken up, yet again, within a matter of weeks, that’s assuming we even made it that far.

  Since I had returned home, and obviously since being with Devon, I couldn’t for the life of me understand why I had invested so much time with Paul. Maybe my self-esteem was to blame. Maybe I didn’t think too highly of myself.

  But as we all sat for dinner, Paul squeezing himself next to me, I realized that I deserved better. And thanks to Devon, I now knew I could get better.

  Paul’s arm rubbed against mine and made me feel stifled, but I held back from pushing him away. Instead, I went after some answers to questions that had been bothering me.

  “Why didn’t you tell me the Barretts had died?” I asked blatantly, as my mother passed the mashed potatoes.

  “Why does that matter?” she replied, her hands dropping to the table. “You didn’t even know them.”

  “They were our neighbours. Why didn’t you mention it at some point?”

  “It’s not like you would have been interested. Would you?” she hissed, her eyes piercing straight through me.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I knew exactly where this was headed.

  “You know,” she waved a hand in the air, flippantly. “What with being busy with other things.”

  “Other things. Right,” I pursed my lips. “Don’t tell me you’re still mad I didn’t come home last Christmas.”

  “To be fair, Alex, Corinne,” Paul interrupted. “That was entirely my fault. I got a great deal on these tickets to Cancun and I wanted to spoil her.”

  He reached over and wrapped his arm around me, squeezing. I glared at him, wishing that looks could kill.

  “That’s incredibly thoughtful of you, Paul,” my mother said, beaming.

  “Hang on a minute,” I snapped. “Why am I the bad guy for missing Christmas, but he’s a darling for taking me on the trip?”

  “Elizabeth, let’s not fight,” my dad said.

  “I’m not trying to start a fight, Dad,” I replied, looking at him. “I’m just looking for answers, but as always, I get the double standard in this house.”

  “You’re father’s right. Let’s not fight,” my mom said calmly, dismissing me.

  Her eyes looked down but it seemed to me that she had a small grin on her face. I knew she was thankful for my father’s interruption and was just hoping I would let it drop. But I wasn’t about to.

  “You’re right,” I said, still angered. “It doesn’t matter what I do. No matter what, I’ve always been the one who’s in the wrong.” They looked at me with uncertainty in their eyes. “And let’s face it, Mom. You’ve never stopped being mad at me since…” I stopped myself, thinking maybe I was going too far.

  “Go on, say it,” Corinne challenged, trying to call my bluff.

  “Since what?” my father asked, casting inquisitive glances at my mother and me.

  I shook my head and closed my eyes. I knew I shouldn’t answer him and that I should let it lie, but I had brought it up and the urge to get it off my chest was greater than me.

  “Since Mom’s affair,” I said.

  I could feel the air get sucked out of the room. Paul shifted in his seat, clearly uncomfortable.

  Good for him.

  My father leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “Let’s not talk about that tonight. We have a guest and—,”

  “Elizabeth, I’ve paid for my mistakes,” my mother interrupted, defensively. “And in many ways—ways you don’t even know about—I am still paying.”

  She hung her head defeated. Pieces started falling into place as if an unsolved puzzle had finally been completed. In that instant, I knew, deep down inside, what she meant.

  “Gra
ndma? That’s why she didn’t give you the business?”

  It now made perfect sense. My grandmother was fully aware of the affair but had told me to stay out of it. She knew that I resented the fact that my father had stayed and that it had all been swept under the rug. I had always assumed Dolores had done the same, but now I could see that clearly, she hadn’t.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Tell you what? That because of a mistake I made years ago, your grandmother would do something like this?” My mother’s eyes began to swell up with tears. “How do you admit such a shameful thing to your daughter?”

  Her question lingered in the uncomfortable silence.

  I didn’t know what to say. I couldn’t believe my grandmother would do something so spiteful. It was true that my mother and she had never been very close. But still, to go so far as to withhold something this important and which was rightfully theirs or at the very least my father’s? Why was he being punished for my mother’s actions? I suddenly felt very cold.

  My father reached over and took my mother’s hand. The fact that he could still love her, still show affection toward her after what she had done never ceased to amaze me. I looked at Paul who seemed incredibly confused and uneasy and I knew that no matter what, I could never love him the same way my parents loved each other. Suddenly, it all became clear to me. We definitely didn’t belong together. I didn’t even want to stick around and pretend any longer.

  “I’m sorry to have brought all this up,” I said, getting up. “I’m going to go lie down. I’m not feeling too well.”

  “Paul,” my father said, clearing his throat. “You’re welcomed to sleep in the guest room tonight.”

  I waited to hear Paul’s answer, curious if he would be bold enough to accept when him and I both knew he should drive home instead.

  “Sure, that would be great,” he said, winking at me. “Thanks, Alex.”

  I winced and walked away, amazed at how quickly Paul had become so at ease with my parents and repulsed by his obvious desire to torment me a little while longer.

  In the quiet solitude of my bedroom, I sank onto the bed and stared at the ceiling. I could hear my parents and Paul talking downstairs, their muffled voices and laughter telling me the mood had lightened considerably.

  For me, unfortunately, it wasn’t the case. I was still irate with Paul for showing up unannounced—a fact, I now realized, he had never apologized for—and I was also completely stunned by my grandmother’s actions.

  I understood her mistrust of my mother, but to keep the business from my father as some sort of twisted punishment for what my mother had done? That seemed so unlike Dolores. And then to top it off, she had given me the business, almost as if she was rubbing it in my parents’ faces. Shoving my head into the pillow, I screamed out my frustration.

  I could still hear them downstairs, moving their conversation from the dining room to the den. I needed someone to talk to and the only person I could think of was only a few hundred feet from me but in an entirely different house. All I wanted to do was to see Devon and explain it all—why I left town, why I didn’t want to come back. I needed to tell him about Paul and how I felt about our messed up relationship. More importantly, I needed to be clear and tell Devon how I felt about him.

  I looked out my window hoping for a glimpse of his house, hoping to see what he was doing, but the view was just shy. It was past ten o’clock, so I assumed he’d be home, but I had no idea. The more I thought about him the less I was able to sit still and the more I wanted his touch, desperate to have his arms around me. I began pacing the room, impatient.

  I had to see him.

  After a while, I heard my mother go to bed. Opening my door just slightly, I listened and heard my dad and Paul chatting downstairs. Paul was droning on about some wild Peruvian adventure he had taken in his twenties. It was a boring and over-rated story that I had heard far too many times, but to my benefit, I knew it was a long one. They would be busy for a while, giving me the perfect window to escape through.

  As quietly as I could, I tiptoed past my parents’ bedroom, went downstairs, past the living room and went out through the back veranda.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  I reached Devon’s door and paused. Much to my dismay, the resolve I had felt had all but vanished during the walk over. I could see a light on through his windows and hoped he was still awake. I tried to imagine how things would go. In my mind, I would speak my peace and after everything had gone according to plan, he would take me in his arms and lead me inside. I could almost feel the warmth of him, of his arms wrapped around me, of his deft fingers making their way across my skin.

  With a shiver of excitement combined with some serious trepidation, I knocked meekly. The seconds ticked by like hours. There was no answer. I thought that maybe he hadn’t heard me when, finally, after what seemed like an eternity, he opened the door. He was shirtless, his jeans hanging off his hips. He had paint on his fingers and hands, plus a little smudge on his cheek.

  “Hey,” he said, his face neutral.

  “Hi, can I come in?” I asked, sheepishly. There was a quick glimpse of something, maybe annoyance, but I couldn’t be sure. “Unless I’m interrupting?”

  I tried to peek inside, but he kept the door only slightly ajar, blocking my view. He paused, and, after what I took as some genuine consideration on his part, he stepped aside, without saying a word. I followed behind him as he made his way down the hall, the whole time getting a distinct impression that I wasn’t quite welcome.

  We stepped through two sliding doors into a room I hadn’t even noticed earlier in the day. Canvases were strewn all over the room, varying in sizes. There were landscapes, both local and exotic. I saw this was an art studio—his art studio—and I felt as if I was being let in on a huge secret.

  Each painting, vivid and captivating, amazed me. He had a definite talent. Passing a large wooden work table, which was covered in paints, brushes, and rags, I touched the worn, old wood. Beside it sat a large canvas on an easel. Though it appeared to be a portrait, it was still incomplete. He was standing in front of it, his back slightly turned to me.

  “I didn’t know you were an artist,” I said, approaching the unfinished work. Was there anything this man couldn’t do?

  “I paint as a hobby. Artists get paid for their work.”

  “Sure, but usually not until they’re dead,” I joked, hoping to lighten his dark mood, but his face remained indifferent. Clearly, he was upset, but I had no idea why. I chose to ignore it and continued talking. “You’ve got an amazing eye, Devon,” I looked closer at the canvas, appreciating each brush stroke. “Who’s the subject?” My assumption went straight to Nicole, though the hair colour didn’t seem to match her shade.

  “No one,” he said, brusquely. I felt a coldness in his words, in his body that brought a chill to my bones. Something was definitely off. “Why are you here, Ellie?”

  It bothered me that he hadn’t called me Elle. Strangely, I found that I had become used to the nickname and not hearing him use it stung a little.

  “I wanted to talk to you, but clearly it’s a bad time.”

  I waited.

  “Actually, it is a bad time. I’m not in the best of moods.” His tone was curt as he returned to his painting, his back to me again.

  “And are you going to tell me why or just keep up this bullshit?” I crossed my arms. “If you want me to leave, just say so.”

  He let out a long sigh.

  “Yeah, maybe you should go back. You wouldn’t want to keep your boyfriend waiting.” My heart sank into my stomach as he turned to look at me, his eyes filled with anger and hurt. “I saw you kissing him.”

  So I had been right. He had seen Paul and me together. I thought back to earlier and how I had wanted to push Paul away. Why hadn’t I?

  “That’s Paul, and he’s not my boyfriend,” I let out a nervous giggle, immediately regretting it.

  “I don’t find this
funny.” He went back to painting. “Why did you tell me you weren’t seeing anyone?”

  “Because I’m not. Not really,” I was exasperated, letting out a breath filled with frustration. “We’re not together, not anymore. There was nothing to tell you about.”

  “It sure didn’t look like that to me.”

  “Look, Devon, I’m sorry for what you saw,” I said, feeling the inadequacy of the words. “I had no idea he would show up. I didn’t even tell him I was here. I’m sure it surprised me just as much as it did you.”

  “Don’t presume to know how this makes me feel.”

  His brush was assaulting the canvas now, paint streaking across its surface. I could see his neck turning red with anger. I couldn’t believe this was happening.

  “You’re right,” I replied, guilt-stricken. “Again, you have no idea how sorry I am—”

  “I heard you the first time. Stop apologizing. There’s nothing to apologize for.”

  “But there is,” I got closer to him, stopping just shy of touching him. “I need you to believe me. There is nothing between Paul and I and there hasn’t been for a very long time.”

  “I might find it easier to believe you if you had just told me about him in the first place,” he said, facing me now. I nodded, filled with shame. He was right, absolutely so, and I couldn’t even bear to look him in the eye. “And, if there really is nothing between the two of you, then what the hell is he still doing here?”

  “I’ve been asking myself the same thing. Unfortunately, I can’t just send him home,” I said, knowing very well that I could have. “He’s kind of an immovable force.” Devon kept painting, his intensity not diminished in the least. I watched him work, mesmerized and suspended, waiting for him to speak. When he didn’t, I continued. “You need to understand that I never thought he’d show up here.”