by Mina Hardy
Of course Diana knew it was me before I got inside the house. That camera system she had set up alerted her. That was why she had two glasses of Briar White all ready to go as soon as I went into the kitchen.
She lifted her glass toward me, but I wasn’t there to make a toast. I took the glass but didn’t do more than sip from it. I couldn’t stomach it.
Diana drained half hers. She put her glass on the counter. Normally, we’d both be heading to the living room to curl up together on the couch, but she didn’t invite me there, so I didn’t go. I put my glass on the counter next to hers.
“Say what you came here to say,” she told me finally. “Let’s just … finish this. Okay?”
“He told me you decided to go with him to Punta Cana. I want you to tell him you changed your mind. That trip is for us, to be together. Not for you.” My words come out clipped. Brusque.
She didn’t say anything at first, but when she did, her voice was low and rough. “He told you I decided to go with him?”
“He said you’re insisting on it. That he has to take you instead of me.”
More silence while she drank her wine. There’d been times in our lives when I’d been the one with the alcohol problem, but not now. She’d be sick if she wasn’t careful.
“How did this happen, Val?”
“I don’t know. But it did.” I didn’t ask her how she’d found out about how things had changed. I stopped worrying about Jonathan being able to keep it a secret long ago, knowing he was going to fuck it up, let it slip. He was constantly leaving his phone unlocked. I’d seen her messages to him; she had to have seen his to me. “You wanted this, Diana. You asked me to do this. Don’t you forget that.”
Diana looked surprised. “I never asked you to fall in love with him, Val.”
“Well,” I told her, “I did.”
Diana laughed, but there was a sound of pity in it. I didn’t hate her before, but now loathing rose inside me, a sickness.
“Has he said he loves you?”
I couldn’t say anything.
“Take him,” she said. “If you can keep him, you’re welcome to him.”
When she burst into tears, what could I do but hug her? Our wine sloshed in our glasses, but neither of us paid attention. Diana and I clung to each other, gripping hard, like this embrace could keep us from falling apart.
She was the one who pulled away. Her sigh was heavy and grinding. She laughed without any humor. She finished her glass, filled it again, and gulped. She didn’t look at me when she spoke. “You think you love him—”
“I do love him.”
“You think you love him,” she repeated, but gently this time, looking me in the face, “but you don’t really know him. Maybe you hate me now—”
“Stop with the drama. I don’t hate you.”
“I don’t hate you either.”
We clinked our glasses together. We sipped. The wine was cold and sweet. It was the taste of our friendship.
“If I get the proof I need, it will ruin him financially. Is that what you want?” Diana asked.
“Of course it’s not,” I snapped. “And you don’t have to do it. You could just leave him without ever even bringing up the prenup.”
“I’d lose the beach house,” she whispered. “But you don’t care about that.”
“You could work it out with him. I could talk him into being fair.”
Her laugh this time was ragged but amused. “Do you really think Jonathan would ever be fair if he thinks he can get away with being anything but? And he can.”
“If you just let me talk to him—”
“I didn’t tell him to take me on that trip.” Her words cut me off, sharp as a knife. Diana lifted her chin.
My insides turned to ice. “He said you did. He said—”
“If he’s in love with you, why would he agree to bump you from a sexy romantic getaway in favor of me? Think about it, Val,” Diana said. “If he loves you, why would he take me instead?”
Something about her words rang true. I didn’t want to answer her question. I didn’t want her to be right … but what if she was?
“He lies,” Diana said. “He’s not as good at it as he thinks.”
“Why would he lie to me about that?” I demanded.
Her gaze met mine. “Because I told him I want to leave him. He’s trying to cut his losses because he’s afraid it’s about you.”
“Isn’t it?”
“No.” Diana shook her head. “It’s because of what I found out about my mother … and Harriett.”
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Diana
This phone has only a few apps displayed on the home screen. The standard ones I recognize, of course. A few I don’t. I tap one, and it brings up Taktok, a message app I’ve heard of but have never had an account with. At least, not that I remember.
It’s passcode protected, and I don’t recognize the username, Briarrose132, that’s already displayed. It takes me three tries, but I figure out the password. It’s the one I used to use for my online journal, the one nobody else would be able to guess.
The profile picture for Briarrose132 matches the one on the phone case. The contacts list has only one name in it, TaktokGuy, with a gray silhouette as the profile pic. No messages show up, but this app automatically deletes messages when you log out. I don’t type a message, but instead close the app without logging out of it. I look through the rest of the phone.
There’s a banking app for a local credit union, not mine, showing a minimal balance. The last deposit was made months ago. The payout. Then, a large withdrawal of cash. No other information than that.
This phone has an app all set up for my security camera system, and I don’t have to fight with the passwords for it. This system only saves clips for two weeks, but I know where to find the ones that have been deleted. I scan them quickly. There’s only one that matters.
Darkness, the deck and the trees beyond lit only by the backyard floodlights. One figure, carrying a shovel and what looks like the cigar box. It crosses the deck and disappears into the trees just beyond the shed. When it comes back, the box and shovel are both gone. It looks directly into the cameras with a frown, the face clear enough to make a solid, no-questions identification.
It’s me.
I buried this box beneath that tree, but I have no idea why.
Another app has caught my eye. I know this one. It looks like a calculator, but it’s for storing pictures and files you don’t want anyone else to see. This app is also passcode protected, but I take a chance and use the one that worked on the phone itself. It works. The app opens.
The first photo I see is black and white. It shows a woman, her face obscured by a panel of sheer fabric. She’s wearing a bra and panties, and her dark hair is down. It’s a sexy picture, clearly taken by and meant for a lover. It’s not until I spot the inked heart on her shoulder that I realize the woman is me.
The phone slips from my fingers but hits the bed without pulling free of the charging cord. I stare at it. I’m shaking. My stomach churns, and I taste acid rising in the back of my throat.
I force myself to pick up the phone again. I swipe. More photos. My naked body, twisted and shadowed and filtered.
Pictures of someone else.
“Oh … my … oh my god.” I choke out the words and hold the phone in both hands to help me focus on it. My hands are shaking so much I have to close my eyes and take a deep breath to keep myself from passing out. The world is threatening to spin right out of control.
There are pictures of Cole. His arms around me, both of us staring up at the camera, grinning like fools. His face turned to mine, eyes closed, lips brushing my cheek.
I sit on the bed, phone in one hand, and touch that spot on my face with the other. I close my eyes again, trying to remember this. Any of it.
Cole and I were lovers, but no matter how hard I try, I can’t recall a single second of anything with him before the day we met at the coffee
shop.
Then I’m stumbling, phone dumped onto the bed, into the bathroom, to heave up the leftover sandwich and soup I gobbled up such a short time before. My stomach empties, I flush, and then again, until I’m only weeping over the toilet. The sour taste in my mouth makes me spit over and over. When I think I can stand, I get to the sink and run the water so I can rinse my mouth.
Quickly, I brush my teeth. I rake a comb through my hair, tearing at the snarls and cursing under my breath at the pain. Back in the bedroom, I pull open dresser drawers and stare without seeing into them. I need to get dressed, but I can’t figure out what to wear.
Underwear first, but what? Serviceable cotton, like I’ve been wearing the past few months? Or here, in the far back, the sexy, lacy panties I don’t recognize but that definitely belong to me. I pull out a pair made of wispy material, sheer and clinging to my every curve, dipping low below my hipbones. A matching bra, also lace and satin. I fasten it not on the biggest set of hooks, but the smallest. My breasts surge into the material, plump and full and tempting, and the reflection in the mirror over the dresser is even more disturbing than the one in the bathroom. Another woman who’s a stranger.
I don’t know myself anymore.
I yank my feet into a pair of leggings. Socks. A tunic top. The phone I found in the box is still on the bed, charging. I gather the rest of the box’s contents and shove it all back inside. The phone is at forty percent or so, and I unplug it and put it back in the box too, before I close the tiny hinge and put the entire thing into my oversized shoulder bag.
I make it to my car. Keys in hand. Unburied box in my purse.
And I go.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
Cole
I haven’t had a ping from my Taktok app in months. Not since before the night of the car accident. I leave it open all the time, just in case, but I stopped expecting anything awhile back. In the months after that night of screeching tires and cold rain, I got a few of those messages from the bots that troll the app, looking to lure lonely dudes into conversations and, as soon after that as possible, into making contributions to a bank account in order to access “private pictures” or “conversation.” I never fell for the bots’ come-ons, but every time one pinged me, I sure as shit picked up the phone. Hoping it was her.
When the distinctive sound chirps from my phone, I have to do a double take. The phone is on the counter next to the daily mail and the glass of red wine I’d poured myself while I figured out what the hell I wanted to do for the late dinner I wish I didn’t have to cook. Pizza delivery sounded like a better option, but I was too hungry to wait for it, so I’ve been scrounging in my freezer like the worst kind of bachelor stereotype.
With a jar of peanut butter in one hand and a package of frozen waffles in the other—because, what the fuck, it’s a meal—I stop dead cold as the phone chirps again. I can’t convince myself it’s a regular text because the Taktok app has its own sounds.
It’s a spam message, one of those pornbots. Right? It has to be.
Briarrose132: I found the phone.
That’s it. I’m not even exactly sure what the fuck that means, but I know who is saying it.
I do the lame thing and reply, Ok.
The message is marked with an “R” for “Read” within seconds. Briarrose132 is typing. I wait, uncertain what the hell is going on, not sure what I ought to do. I’m still holding the box of frozen waffles, and the cardboard is going warm and soggy in my fist, so I put it back in the freezer. Suddenly, I’m not so hungry.
Comgin vr
A second after that: Coming over.
I could have listed a hundred or more reasons why I fell in love with Diana Sparrow, but one of them had always been her insistence that, even when using text messages, she was always careful to spell out entire sentences and use proper grammar. “No shortcuts,” she’d always said. Language and communication could evolve, but that didn’t mean it had to be disrespectful. If a conversation was worth having, she’d said, it was worth typing correctly.
I put my jar of peanut butter on the counter and contemplate my life choices because, fuck, it seems like everything is on the verge of going to shit, and even though I know it’s not all my fault, at least part of it is.
TaktokGuy: I’m home.
Radio silence. She’s not even typing. I drain the rest of my glass and wait.
Then.
Briarrose132: I’ll be there in half an hour.
TaktokGuy: I’m ready.
I’m not. I have no idea what’s coming. I toss the dirty clothes in the basket and have another wine glass ready. She likes white. I like red. I only have one bottle of white, but since I have no idea how much she’ll want to drink, that seems like enough. It’s cold, at least.
She’s coming over, and I am, no joke, pacing the floor until the headlights of a car sweep across my front window. Then everything goes into a kind of slow motion. I wait a minute or two, then open the door when I figure she’s on the porch.
She looks like death, not going to lie. Wet hair. Smeared makeup. Whatever is going on, she isn’t dressed for seduction. She still looks as beautiful to me as she always has. The look in her eyes, though. That’s ugly.
I step aside so she can get through the door, and I close it behind her against the storm still battering my trailer’s metal walls and roof. “You look like you could use a drink.”
Diana barks out a sharp, humorless laugh. “Sure. Right. That’s exactly what I need. I’m a real boozehound, right? Didn’t you know?”
She had occasionally sipped from a glass of wine with me, the precious and rare moments we’d had the time to indulge. And once, that one time, she’d been tipsy enough to promise … I shake off that memory, not wanting to dwell on it right now. Stuff that happened before the accident has to stay in the past.
“I wouldn’t describe you that way,” I say.
Diana hangs her head. Water from her dripping hair plinks onto my floor. Her shoes squish when she shifts from foot to foot. My teeth want to chatter just looking at her.
“How about some hot tea. Or cocoa,” I offer. “I have marshmallow fluff.”
I can’t see her face behind the wet curtain of her hair, even when she half-twists toward me. I catch a glimpse of her mouth, lips pressed together. She crosses her arms tightly over her belly.
“I love fluff. How did you know?”
“I just … who doesn’t love fluff?” I step toward her, but it’s too fast. I can see that in her face, how she tenses, so I stop. I try again. “Diana, come into the kitchen—”
She shakes her head hard enough to fling cold water toward me and retreats a few steps. She lifts her head. Her lips are blue with cold, matched by shadows beneath her bright blue eyes.
“How did you know, Cole? About the fluff? About the color of my car, way back when we first met?”
I’ve been waiting for months, hoping Diana would remember us. Now, faced with the possibility that she might have started to regain her memories, I’m not sure what I’m going to do about it. I’d imagined her showing up at my door and flinging herself into my arms to kiss me. Stupid adolescent dreams that bordered on wank fantasies. I’d also resigned myself to the fact she might never know me the way she once had. In this moment, I’m stuck between the two possibilities, and I’m not sure I’m ready to face either one.
“Come into the kitchen with me,” I say again quietly, my hand still out to take hers.
When she learns the truth she might already be remembering, she can hate me if she wants to, but Diana is clearly in pain and distress, and I can’t stand to see her like that. She can hate me, I think, but she still deserves to know the truth.
She won’t take my hand, but she looks toward the kitchen and lifts her chin to indicate that she’ll follow me. I pull out a chair for her and busy myself at the counter, heating water in the electric kettle and pulling out powdered cocoa, sugar, and the fluff. “I don’t have any milk. Sorry.”
She warms her hands on the mug I hand her but doesn’t say anything. I mix myself a mug of cocoa and debate adding some Bailey’s to it, but whatever’s coming, I want to be sober for it. I take the chair across from her at my Formica table.
“My grandma had a table like this.” Diana traces the Formica’s swirling pattern.
“Mine too. I picked this up at the Blue Mountain thrift shop.” I sip my cocoa, keeping my voice neutral.
I can’t tell her, not right now, that she was with me when we bought it. That she was the one who told me I should get it because “You can’t eat standing up at the counter or on the couch forever, Cole. You need a table where I can sit with you.”
Diana looks up at me. The tip of her tongue dents her top lip as she licks it free of a sticky wisp of marshmallow fluff and chocolate. My heart skips a beat at that simple, sensual gesture. I know she’s not doing it to turn me on, but that doesn’t matter. I can’t forget how it felt to lean across this table and kiss her. Maybe I’ll never have the chance again.
“I’m not here to go to bed with you.” She says this matter-of-factly, and although I’m glad to hear that her voice isn’t shaking or shuddering, I wish she was a little less … robotic.
“I didn’t think you were.”
There it is, a quirk of a smile that sets me back in my chair with a rising bubble of hope in my chest. Diana sips from her mug again. She lets out a long, deep sigh and pushes the mug away from her to put her head in her hands for a moment, her fingers scraping back the mass of her wet hair. She looks at me.
“Can I have a towel?”
“Yes. Sure. Of course. I’m sorry, I should have—” I’m already up and moving to the hall to grab a towel out of the small closet. I take the first one my hand touches and bring it to her.
She shakes it out, staring at the faded pink pattern, the green leaves and darker pink roses. Whatever she meant to say is kept silent as she squeezes water from her hair. She pauses to groan, and it’s clear she’s in pain, but when I lean to take over, she gives me a look so cold I stop. She toes off her shoes as I watch. She pushes them carefully to the side and settles back into her chair with the towel draped around her shoulders.