by Cassia Leo
“Sweet baby Jesus,” he said striding toward me and taking a seat on the cushion next to me. “You look like you’ve either had too much wine or not enough. But judging by those two bottles there, I’m guessing too much. Is that…?” He gasped as he reached for the wedding album I’d dropped on the floor, carefully closing it as he set it down on the table. “I told you to stop looking at this thing. Laurel, you need to stop torturing yourself. Have you eaten?”
I stared into his brown eyes through his stylish black-rimmed glasses and nodded.
He cocked an eyebrow. “Wine doesn’t count. Have you eaten any solid food today?”
I hugged my knees to my chest and shook my head.
He sighed. “Get dressed. I’m going to take you to get something to eat.”
“But you don’t have a car.”
“But I have a five-star passenger rating on Uber.”
I smiled despite myself. “I’d rather eat in.”
He shrugged. “Okay, I’ll order something. What do you want? Pizza, Indian, Chinese, Mexican, Thai?”
I drew in a long, stuttered breath. “Can we just have, like, a salad or something?”
“Of course,” Dylan replied cheerily as he pulled his phone out of the front pocket of his jeans.
Inside, I died a little. If Jack were here, he would have understood and acknowledged my Nacho Libre salad reference. I wanted to close my eyes and fall into a permanent sleep where I at least had a small chance of seeing Jack in my dreams.
When Dylan was finished ordering our food on the Postmates app on his phone, he stared at me for a long time, seemingly lost in thought.
“How’s the new job?” I asked to break the silence.
He smiled. “It’s actually pretty fun,” he replied, sitting back. “I didn’t think I would know the first thing about marketing beer, but it turns out it’s not rocket science. I work with an amazing team and I just met Houston’s wife the other day. She’s gorgeous.”
“Houston is the guy who owns the brewery, right?”
“Yeah, actually…” He cocked an eyebrow as he stared at me for a long while. “You know, I overheard him talking to the marketing director yesterday, and they were talking about creating some fun apps to promote the brand. Don’t you have a degree in computer science or something like that?”
I waved off Dylan’s suggestion. But when our salads arrived on our doorstep, I eagerly ate mine as I turned the idea over in my mind. What kind of app would a brewery need? Then, it dawned on me. I could write a drinking game app.
I was pleasantly surprised when Dylan’s gorgeous face lit up at the mention of this idea. I was even more surprised when he offered to help me come up with some cool drinking games. We decided to engage in a brainstorming session with a little experimentation.
It was a few minutes past eight p.m. as Dylan helped me collect the wine glasses and coffee mugs we’d been using to play wine pong — due to a serious lack of beer. As I stood from the kitchen table, the room began to spin around me.
“Oh, my God. I’m gonna be sick. Swim away!” I managed to shout as I raced to the kitchen sink, where I vomited a greenish-beige stream of wine and half-digested salad into the porcelain basin.
Dylan jumped back, to avoid the splash zone, then he cackled with laughter. “Make sure to put a warning on your app,” he said, setting the glasses and mugs on the counter. “Consuming too much alcohol may cause extreme party foul.”
I spit a few stray bits of lettuce out of my mouth as I turned on the tap. “Please drink responsibly,” I muttered before I splashed water into my mouth and swished it around to rinse away the sour ribbons of vomit slithering over my numb tongue.
Dylan laughed as I flashed him a lazy grin. “You are just so gorgeous, even when you’re shit-faced and smiling at me with half-chewed lettuce on your teeth.”
I laughed as I cupped my hands under the running tap again to catch more water. Slurping it down, I spit it out almost immediately when the sound of Dylan’s drunk laughter evoked a fit of uncontrollable giggling. It took a few more attempts, but I finally rinsed away as much leafy detritus as I could before I attempted to navigate through the maze of hallways toward the downstairs bathroom. I swished some aggressively minty mouthwash, knowing there was no way I could make it upstairs to get my toothbrush.
When I returned to the living room, Dylan was facedown on the sofa, his glasses askew as he snored softly. There went my plan to collapse onto the couch. I would have to climb up the stairs after all. But as I made my way toward the bottom of the steps, I spotted a fluorescent pink Post-It note affixed to the banister. The four words on the note were written in my sober handwriting.
TAKE OUT THE TRASH
My eyes widened as I realized I hadn’t taken the bin out to the curb yet. Due to my recent aversion to all things domestic, including cooking, the bin was full to the brim with takeout containers. If I didn’t take it out, it would be overflowing in a few days. Then, I’d have to deal with the trash pandas spewing garbage all over my backyard.
I giggled as I imagined those cute little raccoons with their grabby little fingers picking through my half-eaten salad.
Shaking my head, I resolved to do this one task before I went to bed. As drunk as I was, I could definitely navigate my way to the backyard and lug my bin to the curb. Taking out the trash wasn’t rocket surgery.
A few minutes later, I mentally patted myself on the back as I lined up the gray bin with the edge of the curb in front of the house. But as I turned around to head back inside, I twisted my ankle and fell flat on the sidewalk. In my drunken state, I had managed to at least hold my hands out to break my fall. But the heels of my palms had not faired well.
As I turned onto my side on the cold pavement, I watched tiny droplets of blood bubble up on my scraped skin and I couldn’t help it, I laughed. Hysterically. I laughed because I couldn’t feel even a smidgen of pain from the fall, but I knew I would feel it in the morning. I laughed because I was lying on the pavement in front of my house and there was no one around to help me up. I laughed because I was seriously considering just falling asleep right there.
I managed to catch my breath and perform the Herculean task of pushing myself up onto my knees, so I could use the garden gate to pull myself upright. As I clutched the iron fence and carefully stood up, a flicker of movement caught my eye. Turning my attention toward Isaac’s house, I saw his father standing on the porch, watching me. In my drunken mind, I couldn’t tell if he was deciding whether to help me or if he was utterly disappointed.
I waved clumsily. “Good evening, Mr. Evans!” I called out as my other hand fumbled with the latch on the garden gate.
He didn’t respond. He watched as I struggled to figure out how to flip open the latch and push the gate open. As I walked down the pathway toward the front porch, I flinched when I heard the gate slam shut behind me with a loud clank.
“Sorry,” I whispered in Mr. Evans direction.
My head pounded an incessant beat against my skull as I realized my front door was locked. I tried to be as quiet as possible as I made my way to the backyard, entered through the back door, and made the conscious decision to not attempt to lock up the house. I needed to get upstairs as quickly as I could, so I could vomit again, away from Mr. Evans’ judging eyes.
After vomiting a small mouthful of bitter bile in the upstairs toilet, I splashed water on my face and stared at my reflection in the mirror. I cried as I wielded my toothbrush and awkwardly attempted to brush my teeth without further activating my gag reflex. Then, I reached into the back pocket of my skinny jeans and sighed with relief as I found my phone.
Collapsing onto the bed in my mom’s old bedroom, I hugged her pillow against my chest as I curled up into a ball and dialed Jack’s number. It rang four times before the voicemail came on and my heart sank at the sound of a young woman’s voice.
Thank you for calling Halo. You’ve reached the desk of Jade Insley, executive assistant to Jack Stratto
n. You’ve reached this number after hours. Please leave a detailed message or call back between the hours of nine a.m. and six p.m. If you’re attempting to reach Mr. Stratton, please be aware that he is out of town and is currently unreachable. Please leave a message and it will be relayed as soon as possible. Thank you!
“Jack? I… I’m so alone. I lie here every night, hugging my pillow. Oh, God. I’m so drunk. I… I hug my pillow and stare at our wedding photos and wish I had done everything differently. I know I hurt you, but…”
I pulled the phone away from my mouth before I confessed every depressing thought in my head to Jack’s assistant. In fact, I had to delete this message.
I pressed the pound sign to call up the menu where I could append the message or erase it. But as soon as I tapped it, I heard a beep followed by a horrifying automated voice.
Thank you for your message. Goodbye.
Chapter 7
Jack
Jade sounded tired. In the four years I’d worked with her, Jade had never sounded tired.
I didn’t get personal with my coworkers. It was a rule I had. Personal relationships at work only muddied the waters when someone needed to be reprimanded or promoted. Which was why I often turned down invitations to go golfing and drinking with Kent and the other partners.
All I knew about my lavender-haired assistant was she had a boyfriend with more artificial than natural holes in his head. I didn’t question Jade’s attraction to facial piercings. Her personal life was none of my business. But that didn’t mean I could ignore when something was different about her.
People don’t usually change who they are overnight. When that happens, it’s usually a change that was forced upon them. Like how Laurel and I changed after our son was killed. As much as I wanted to keep my relationship with Jade strictly professional, I couldn’t help but worry that someone or something may have forced this change in her.
“Jade, are you all right? You sound a bit tired,” I said as I took a seat in the aqua-green velour armchair in my hotel room in Boise.
She was silent for a moment, probably taken aback by this question. “Um… yeah. I didn’t get much sleep. I’ll grab a cup of coffee in the café and I’ll be fine.”
I contemplated letting this line of questioning go, but something had shifted inside me. I no longer felt like the man who cared about nothing but revenge. I felt like a single point of connection in a web of existence, inexorably linked to everyone and everything I’d tried to push away. The people in my life no longer felt like distant shadows existing in the periphery.
“Jade, you know more about me than anyone else in that office. If there’s something wrong with you, you know I can handle the news.”
She sniffed. “My grandma died last night,” she replied in a small voice, very different from the confident, assertive Jade I was accustomed to. “She raised me.”
“Jade, take some time off. As long as you need. I’ll make sure HR knows it’s paid leave.”
“But your messages. I haven’t given you—”
“Don’t worry about that. Just gather your things and go be with your family. I’ll have someone else handle the messages,” I insisted, though inside I worried that there was no one else in the office I trusted to forward my voicemails. With the exception of Jade, my thirst for revenge these past two years had alienated me from almost everyone in the office.
The Local was a tapas bar in downtown Boise with a fairly quiet ambiance. According to Sean, we were here for the killer tacos and the privacy provided by a mostly empty dining patio on a Thursday evening. The patio was surrounded by a waist-high wooden fence, which was topped with chest-high planter boxes overflowing with lush pink and white flowers. Laurel would know what kind of flowers they were.
As the waitress brought out our first round of beers, my burner phone vibrated in the breast pocket of my sport coat. Sliding it out, I saw a text message from an unknown number. But as soon as I read the words, I knew the identity of the sender.
Unknown:
Laurel’s not doing well. Are you sure you’re doing the right thing? Have you considered you might actually be pushing her right into his orbit again.
I stared at the words on the screen for a moment, taking them into consideration before I shot back a hasty reply.
Me:
The last time Laurel and I separated, I didn’t use my time wisely. I don’t intend to make the same mistake twice.
I was about to slide the phone back into my pocket when I decided to shoot off one more text.
Me:
But thanks for your concern. I appreciate your help and your advice.
I turned the phone off before I slid it into the inner pocket of my coat.
Sean cocked one of his thick silver eyebrows. “Is that your spy?”
I shook my head. “Not a spy. Just someone who cares about Laurel and wants the best for her.”
He nodded as he brought the pint of beer to his lips and took a sip, then smacked his lips. “Just be careful you don’t fall into the habit of thinking you need to watch over your wife like she’s a piece of property. You can’t put alarm systems on people, my friend.”
I took a sip of my lager as I allowed Sean’s words to seep into my consciousness. It was hard to distinguish between knowing I owned Laurel’s heart and feeling as if I owned her body. When I was inside her, when she was begging me to make her come, it was easy to feel ownership. But maybe it wasn’t Laurel’s heart and body I owned. What if it was only the moment I possessed?
This meant my work would never be done. Every day of the rest of our lives, I would have to earn each moment with Laurel, as she would have to earn each moment with me.
“Don’t end up like me,” Sean continued. “So I had a sit-down with Ava Robinson, and—”
“How?”
He smiled at my interruption. “How what?”
“How the fuck do I not end up like you?”
He chuckled at my blunt delivery. “Simple,” he replied, looking me straight in the eye. “Never let her forget that you’re better together.”
My meeting with Sean proved productive. Every meeting I had with him got me one step closer to finding the bastard who took my son from me. But there was one thing Sean couldn’t do without me. One thing I didn’t know I needed to do until now.
I slid a manila envelope across the table and Sean eyed it warily. “Forget your meeting with Robinson. That’s what you’re looking for.”
He glared at me. “What the hell is that?”
“It’s the adoption decree, but don’t ask me how I got it,” I said, remembering how I’d hacked into the Multnomah County adoption records database last night. I was in and out of their system in less than an hour, and I was one hundred percent certain no one would ever know I was there, but I couldn’t tell him that without incriminating him.
Sean shook his head as he folded the envelope and tucked it into the inner pocket of his coat. “You better know what the hell you’re doing, kid, because if this thing goes sour, I’m looking out for myself. I may be an ex-cop, but I still play by the same rules.”
I took a sip of beer and looked him in the eye. “Trust me. I know what I’m doing.”
Chapter 8
Isaac
Eight days and seven nights in a hospital was enough to make going home to find my ex-fiancée in my living room feel like I’d won the lottery. I was so damn sick of getting permission to get out of bed and take a piss. And I was thrilled to no longer have to choose between a wheelchair or a walker, so I wouldn’t bust open any of the forty-two stitches in my right thigh.
I had a million reasons to be pissed at Laurel’s husband and her bodyguard. But I’d spent enough time holding grudges to know I was ready to let it all fucking go. I just wanted to feel normal again, if that was even possible.
I laid my single crutch against the arm of the sofa and sat down gingerly. “Thanks for picking me up,” I said as my dad closed the front door behind me.
/> My mom didn’t hesitate to take a seat next to me, forcing Boomer to lie down at my feet. “Are you sure you should be sitting down?” she asked. “Shouldn’t you be lying down with your leg elevated?”
I tried not to roll my eyes. “Mom, I’ve been lying down for a week. Besides, I didn’t break any bones. I have a tissue wound. I won’t even need to use this crutch much longer.”
My mom turned to my dad for support. “Bill?”
My dad laughed as he took a seat on the other arm of the sofa. “Give him a break, honey. If he feels like he needs to lie down, I’m sure he’ll lie down.”
My mom scowled at me. “You had to have part of your vein grafted onto your femoral artery. That is a very serious procedure. You need to rest.”
“I’m going to go wake up Ethan,” Nicole said, disappearing into the downstairs hallway, clearly trying to escape the oncoming argument.
I sighed as I turned to face my mother. “Look, Mom. I’m really grateful you all flew out here to help me when I needed you.”
She narrowed her eyes at me. “But?”
I chuckled. “But, I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself from here. You remember I was shot in the shoulder in Afghanistan. This is no different. I’ll be up and doing everything I was doing before in less than a week.”
She shook her head in dismay. “You are just as stubborn as ever.”
I shrugged. “I learned from the best.”
She rolled her eyes at me. “Well, our flight leaves in about five hours, so I still have time to make you something to eat before we leave.”
“Mom, I can feed myself. In fact,” I said, grabbing my crutch and using it to help myself up from the sofa, “I have to go next door and thank Dylan and Laurel for taking care of Boomer before you all got here. I’ll be right back.”