After All I've Done

by Mina Hardy

  Toward the end of the hour, my right shoulder has started humming. My mood is dimming.

  In the parking lot after, I’m trying to juggle my purse, which is too damned big—why do I need such a big purse?—also my keys, and the fresh painting, still damp. A fresh, bright flare of pain bursts through me as I attempt and fail to hit the correct button on my keyless remote. I drop my bag, which hits the asphalt with a crunch. The picture tries to float from my grip, and clutching it tighter makes it all hurt worse.

  I mutter a curse and lean against the car with one hand. My picture crumples. I’m about to do the same.

  “Hey, are you okay?”

  I don’t want to turn at the sound of a concerned male voice. I’m embarrassed. Then I see it’s the guy from last week. The one I met in the coffee shop next door to the rec center, and an inexplicable sense of relief washes over me. I’m still mortified, but I don’t mind so much.

  “I overdid it. My shoulder’s really hurting, and I’m trying to get my car unlocked. I feel so stupid.”

  He shakes his head and bends to pick up my purse. Gently, he holds out a hand for the picture, which I hand over. This gives me the chance to use both hands to press the remote to unlock the car.

  “Driving home’s going to be the real bitch,” I tell him.

  “Hope you have some good pain meds or at least a nice glass of wine waiting for you, then,” he says and shifts both my bag and the watercolor into the same hand with an effortless ease I envy. He offers his hand to shake. “I’m Cole, by the way. I don’t think we introduced ourselves the last time.”

  “Diana. Thanks again. I promise you, I’m not usually so helpless.” I don’t owe him an explanation, but I guess it’s not for him. It’s a reminder for myself.

  Cole grins. “I wouldn’t have thought so. We all need a hand now and then.”

  We stare at each other for a minute or so. Too long. I’m embarrassed again. He’s easily ten years younger than I am, with that purposely unkempt style I usually find so pretentious, but on him the faded jeans, battered black work boots, and matching leather jacket work. So does the long reddish hair he’s got pulled back, not quite in a man bun, but something close to it. Cole’s eyes are the color of bittersweet chocolate, and they hold mine until I look away.

  “It’s this car. I’m not used to it yet.” I’m forcing my voice to remain casual, light.

  “Ah. The car you hate, right?” He steps back to look it over.

  I know what he sees. A steel gray Volvo. Brand-new, shiny. Expensive.

  “It’s not awful,” I say for him.

  Cole tips a smile my way. “It’s no bright red Camaro.”

  “Okay. It’s awful. It’s new—that’s the best I can say about it. My husband picked it out. It’s just like his, only slightly less nice.” I pause. “How’d you know it was red?”

  “Lucky guess. You look like a red car kind of lady.”

  For a tiny, indulgent moment, I think that maybe I shouldn’t have mentioned a husband. Cole might be younger and scruffy and not my type, but he’s also good looking, and to be blunt, the last few months have left me feeling anything but desirable. There’s nothing wrong with looking, I think, then frown, hard, at my justification for something nobody could ever really argue is even bordering on being unfaithful. Thoughts are nothing without action.

  “Thanks for the help,” I add when it becomes obvious he’s not going to say anything more.

  Cole nods and steps back. “Any time. How’s the class going?”

  “You should take it and find out.” I’m not sure why I’m being so bold.

  “Maybe I will. You need any more help?”

  I decline and watch him walk away, half-hoping he will turn around to wave goodbye and relieved when he doesn’t. I’m still thinking about him when I get home, fifteen minutes later than expected, because my arms and shoulders are aching so much I had to drive slower than usual.

  A quick glance in my rearview mirror shows only my eyes. My makeup is a little smudged, and the crow’s feet are undeniable, but there’s a light in my gaze that I try to quell. I’m not a cougar, I tell myself. I’m not in the market for a boy toy. I’m not in the market at all.

  I don’t announce myself as I come in through the laundry room. I mean, it’s my house. Why, then, does my mother-in-law whirl around looking like she’s expecting a serial killer in a hockey mask to be attacking her with a machete?

  “Diana! You startled me. What are you doing here?”

  “I … live here. What are you doing here?”

  From here I can see a platter of pasta glistening with what my nose tells me is garlic and oil. There’s also a basket of dinner rolls, still steaming, and a big bowl of salad. A pan simmering on the stove smells like meatballs.

  “Making dinner.”

  “I wasn’t expecting you.” Slowly, carefully, trying not to show that I’m aching, I put my purse and coat on the hook by the door and affix my watercolor to the fridge with a magnet Jonathan and I got on our honeymoon. I look at the magnet for a moment longer than necessary. It’s a reminder of what we had when we started out, which is nothing close to what we have now.

  But all the same, we do have something. Don’t we? His boots are still in closet, as my grandmother might have said. He’s here now. Nothing is ever ended until it’s over.

  And why isn’t it over?

  Jonathan has still been coming home at a normal time since the beginning of December. There’ve been no late-night, furtive phone calls that I’ve overheard. No buzzing texts calling his attention away when he’s home. I’m still trying to track down a copy of the prenup, but that’s as far as I got. I think he and Val might have ended things … and I think that’s why I have not.

  “What’s that?” Harriett is trying to get into the fridge, but I’m blocking her way.

  “I made it in Intro to Watercolors.”

  She whirls, eyes wide. “What? You’re taking a class?”

  “I told you the day I registered.”

  “You didn’t tell me! You told me yesterday afternoon you’d be out with Trina tonight. After your appointment with Dr. Levitt.”

  “That was weeks and weeks ago. I don’t even see Dr. Levitt anymore.”

  Harriett’s eyes narrow. “What? Since when?”

  “Since before Christmas.”

  “I didn’t know.” Her voice hitches. “Now that you don’t need me to drive you around anymore, I guess I just don’t know anything about your life.”

  I didn’t tell anyone about quitting Dr. Levitt, but I did tell her about the painting class. I’m sure I did. Didn’t I? Is not being able to remember the same as forgetting?

  Chilly fingers trip up and down my spine, and my bones throb. I was feeling so good earlier today. So up. I’m crashing now.

  “I guess you just don’t need me around at all,” Harriett says in a tearful voice.

  Before I can tell her that’s not true, Harriett engulfs me in a hug. Her face burrows against my neck. The heat of her tears splashes my skin. The sudden embrace rocks me, and I have to take a step back to keep from staggering.

  “Harriett—”

  She sobs. She shudders. Worse, she squeezes. Hard.

  I gasp out a curse. Harriett lets go of me, stepping back, swiping at her face. She turns away to grab a dishtowel to wipe her eyes. I’m reeling with nausea from the sharp pain arcing through me after being manhandled.

  “If you had children, you’d understand,” Harriett says, “how hard it is to let go.”

  It’s been over a week since the last time I took any pain pills, but I need to get ahead of this. The bottle in the cupboard doesn’t rattle when I shake it. It’s empty. “When’s the last time you refilled these?”

  “I thought you quit taking those,” she says.

  The nausea is fading. The ache is no longer sharp, but experience tells me it’s just settling in. “I’m trying to.”

  “You overdid it today,” Harriett says firmly.
“You sit. I made meatballs for you. We’ll have a nice dinner, and after we can snuggle up on the couch and watch Runner together, the way we used to. I’ll run out and get your refills tomorrow for you.”

  “See?” I say, but weakly. “I do still need you.”

  And then I burst into tears.

  Immediately, she launches into “mom mode,” bustling me into a kitchen chair, murmuring words of comfort, handing me a tissue. I tense when she puts a hand on my shoulder, but her touch is deliberately light and brief. She pats my hair a moment after that and leans to smile at me.

  “You’ll feel better with some food in you, and my goodness, you need some meat on those bones. You sit tight,” Harriett says from the oven as she bends to check the meatballs.

  “I’m not happy.” The words slip out of me, too late to call them back.

  Without turning, she answers, “Healing takes time.”

  “No, Harriett. Listen to me … it’s about Jonathan.” I draw in a breath, trying to find a way to tell her about everything that’s been going on. I’ve shared my deepest sorrows with her in the past, but those were about my mother. Not about Harriett’s son.

  Harriet straightens. Faces me. Her cheeks are blotchy and pink from the heat of the oven or from her earlier tears.

  “You know, Diana, out of all the women he’s ever dated, you’re the only one I’ve ever loved.”

  How do I break her heart?

  I need a glass of wine for this. In the fridge I find a bottle of the Briar White with only an inch or so of golden fluid inside. It looks like even less poured into the glass. A few swallows at most. How could I have finished that much of the bottle without noticing?

  Both of us look up as the door to the garage opens.

  “I’m”—Jonathan pauses like he’s surprised to see us both—“home.”

  “Just in time for dinner,” Harriett says. “Why don’t you run downstairs and grab Diana another bottle of her wine. She seems to have finished the one that was up here.”

  When the door to the basement closes behind him, Harriett says, “When the two of you got married, I was so thrilled to have the chance to be the mother you’ve always deserved. If something were to happen with the two of you, Diana, I’m not sure what I’d do. The two of you were made for each other. Absolutely made for each other.”

  I don’t have to time to answer her. Jonathan’s footsteps on the stairs alert us a second or so before the door opens and he appears, bottle in hand. Harriett turns back to the stove, pulling out the pan of meatballs and fussing with the bowl of pasta.

  We are all seated at the table some minutes after that, and I’ve said nothing. Jonathan has poured himself a glass of red wine, and I have my white, both in the crystal glasses Harriett pulled quickly from the cupboard. Our wedding crystal. When’s the last time we even used them?

  So. Awkward. So, so weird.

  Harriett also has a glass from the crystal set, hers filled with sparkling water. She lifts it. “To family.”

  “Pinkies out.” Jonathan lifts his glass.

  That’s mine and Val’s saying. Did he hear it from me? Or from her?

  “To family,” I say as our three glasses clink.

  Harriett beams. Jonathan smiles at me across the table, and for the first time in a long time, it feels good to be here with him. We share a look, and if there’s something like guilt in his gaze, I look away before I have to admit it.

  I don’t want my marriage to be over.

  All the years, the small and subtle slights, the chronic and grinding wearing down of love. And still, I don’t want us to end. We were never perfect, but I loved him once. Now, here, even though I know it’s over, I do not want it to end.

  Harriett ladles pasta onto Jonathan’s plate and then does the same for me, adding a few meatballs.

  “I always loved your meatballs,” Jonathan says wistfully and acts like he’s going to stab one with his fork.

  His mother slaps his hand away. “I made those for Diana!”

  “She won’t mind,” he says but withdraws his fork.

  “I mind,” she says firmly with a nod and a smile at me. “If you’re going to suddenly start eating meat again, you let me know, and I’ll make enough for you both. But right now, tonight, these are just for her.”

  She pats my hand.

  By the time I’ve eaten my third meatball, the single glass of wine has started me spinning. That warm buzz. The glow. It’s so easy to fall down this rabbit hole, but when Jonathan offers to refill my glass, I wave him away. He pours one for himself and waves the bottle in front of his mother, who huffs and puffs but doesn’t seem too offended that he’s trying to give her some.

  “You know I don’t … Jonathan! You’re so naughty!”

  She actually said naughty, which makes me laugh, and then he laughs, and we’re all laughing. In this moment I’m happy. It’s not all perfect, but it’s what I have.

  Later, Jonathan comes into the bedroom. His kisses taste like ground beef. His hands roam. I push him away.

  “You sneak,” I tell him. “You ate my lunch for tomorrow!”

  “Don’t tell my mom,” he whispers, and his hungry hands and mouth devour me.

  His hand on my breast, thumb passing over my nipples. His hardness pressing my thigh. My world has gone lazy, hazy, blurry. Syrup. Sweetness. Kissing. His hands on me and mine on him.

  We are naked. Touching. Stroking. The sex is rough and fast. He takes me from behind. Pulls my hair a little. This is never how I liked it, but when he pushes me back against the bed, I let him. His thickness, pressing inside me. I gasp his name. He covers my mouth with his, muffling my cries. I don’t come; he does.

  As Jonathan starts to snore, my mind fills instead with images of Cole’s smile. His eyes. The sound of his voice.

  What would I do if I could be in the market, after all?

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Cole

  I signed up for Intro to Watercolors, and it was worth it to stand there in front of my easel with fifty bucks worth of brushes and supplies, because when Diana walks into the room, all I can see is her. Yeah, I know it’s kind of fucked up. Kind of like being a stalker. I don’t have an excuse for it.

  She doesn’t notice me at first, which is fine by me. I’m playing it cool, you know? Yeah, she’s the one who suggested I take the class, but now that I’m here, will she think it’s weird? She takes a spot closer to the front of the room and pulls out her paints and brushes from her bag. She looks like she’s having a little bit of trouble with the paper, which is on a large roll attached to the top of the easel. Her arms, I think. Her shoulders are still hurting. The instructor comes over to help her. They laugh at something Diana says, and in that moment she glances over her shoulder and catches me staring.

  What can I do but smile and lift a brush toward her? She smiles back, then returns her attention to her easel. The instructor goes back to the front of the class and starts talking. I figure I’d better pay at least a little bit of attention.

  After fifty minutes, we’ve all shared our pictures. We clean up, and the instructor takes a few minutes with each person to talk about our progress. She likes my picture all right, and I am not surprised. I paid my money. It’s the rec center. Pretty much anything is going to get positive feedback.

  I am taken aback, though, when Diana waits as the class files out, to take a look at what I’d done.

  “Nice,” she says. “I like the way you’ve used the colors.”

  She points. I look at my picture, still attached to the easel because I haven’t yet torn it off the roll. What I’ve done isn’t any better than anyone else’s, but I give her a grin anyway and make a show of buffing my nails against the front of my shirt.

  “Some of us are born with natural talent,” I say. “Let me see yours.”

  She snorts soft laughter, and I’m undone. I’d make myself any kind of fool to see that smile again. She looks hesitant, then holds out the paper. We’re all painting the
same still life, a couple of pears and an apple, but Diana’s picture is … different. She lets me look at it for a few seconds before laughing self-consciously and pulling it back.

  “I don’t know why I painted it like that,” she says. “All sort of wavy and distorted.”

  “Maybe that’s what makes it art. You know. A different perspective,” I offer.

  She tilts her head to give me an assessing look. “You think?”

  “Maybe?” I know my grin is charming. It’s worked on women since I was thirteen and discovered I was getting hair around my dick.

  “I don’t know. I was feeling weird about it. I’m sort of feeling weird in general.”

  I have to stop myself from touching her, because charm or no, I do know how not to be that sort of asshole. “Weird how?”

  “Just … out of sorts. I almost didn’t come today.” Diana waves a vague hand and laughs again, a little embarrassed.

  The instructor is pointedly waiting for us to leave the classroom.

  “Want to grab a coffee, maybe a brownie?” I ask Diana.

  She gives me a look that is equal parts wariness and gratitude, but nods. I stand aside to let her pass me out the door, and we walk side by side down the rec center’s long, sloping hall. The rec center used to be an elementary school, and they changed very little about it other than adding the coffee shop at the front. We pass a couple of classrooms, most of them dark. Watercolors is one of the last classes of the day.

  The coffee shop, though, stays open hours past the rec’s closing. This afternoon, they’re setting up in a far corner for an open mic night. Beat poetry, according to the flyers.

  “I hope we’re out of here before that starts,” Diana says with a lift of her chin toward the sign announcing the night’s entertainment.

  “Not a fan?” I know so much about her, but I didn’t know this.

  She looks apologetic. “No. Are you?”

  “Hell, no.”

  We both laugh. It’s easy and natural, and I bask in that moment. I order us two mugs of self-service coffee and two brownies with fudge icing. She gives the brownie a funny look when I set it in front of her.