by J. B. McGee
Opening my eyes, I survey the space. It’s set up like a studio. There isn’t a bedroom. The kitchenette is open to what is essentially a luxury living room with a bed in the middle. There’s a cattycornered plush sofa and armchair with ottoman, which I love because sometimes, I don’t want to be in bed to read or to watch the plasma television mounted over the fireplace. And to top it all off, there’s a sleek, modern bathroom off to the side with a shower large enough for two people and a long bench stretching the length of the wall where Holden’s sprawled me out and made sure he addressed every part of my body.
The best part is it has all the benefits of a studio apartment without neighbors on one side having sex all night, their headboard banging against my wall. Likewise, I don’t have to worry about our neighbors hearing me scream Holden’s name. Just his mother. Sigh.
As tempting as it is to stay here, to avoid facing reality a little longer, there’s something strange about living on someone else’s property. Especially when that someone else is the mother of whatever it is that Holden now is to me. And that someone else is my estranged mother’s best friend. My mother who’s not answered or returned a single call since the auction.
I expected that from Father, but not from her. My chin quivers and a tear runs down my cheek. That cut is the deepest, like it’s gone straight through me. “I am not going to cry about this today.” I say that every day. It doesn’t work. The waterworks explode, and I muffle my cries in my pillow, going through all the scenarios I go through every morning when I’m trying to figure out how I can make everyone else—my parents—happy while maintaining my own contentment. Every day, I come to the same conclusion. It’s impossible. So, I choose me. I choose Holden. I choose us because when I’m honest with myself, it’s what I’ve always wanted. And when I said I didn’t care about what people thought, in a way, what I meant was that I finally wanted to take what I want without a care in the world what others think about me.
I just had no idea what the price would be for that freedom.
Sniffing, I wipe my eyes. Unsure of how much time’s passed, I push the covers off me and grab my robe. Securing the tie high around my waist, I make my way to the kitchenette. Glancing around, I am thankful for this place. For it not being an apartment with neighbors. But I want it to be mine. It’s not like I can buy the guest cottage, though. What I’ve realized is living here makes me not want to ever go back to an apartment or rent, to be at anyone else’s mercy.
That’s why I’ve been in contact with a few realtors. It’s in my best interest to buy my next place. Every day when I wake up and the morning goes like a scene from Groundhog’s Day, I know what I have to do. And soon. Except every time I mention I’m supposed to go look at places, Holden seems to come up with a plan to distract me. I’m not sure why he wouldn’t want me to have my own place, but this is why I didn’t tell him I’ve made appointments to see some places tonight.
When I get to the small, wooden kitchen table, there’s a Bon Iver coffee mug in the center holding down a sheet of paper. Holden listens to a lot of Bon Iver. And I’ve started to love them. He says his favorite is For Emma. But he hasn’t told me why. He clams up, changes the subject. Inside it, there’s only a Rind ‘N Grind tea bag—no liquid. But it’s my favorite, raspberry orange flavor, of course. Glancing at the stove, there’s a kettle. The eye’s not on, but I’m pretty sure it’s already filled with water for me because that’s how considerate Holden has been this last month. Because if he’s going to go through the trouble of getting a mug, putting the tea bag in it, and moving the kettle to the stove, it makes sense he’d have it ready so all I have to do is turn it on.
Removing the top, I peek inside, and sure enough, it’s full. My lips curve upward as I turn the burner on. I make my way over to the nightstand to grab my phone, realizing I forgot to grab it when I got out of bed, to check my notifications. I don’t know why, but every morning, the first thing I need to do is clear them. Mom used to send me a text every morning. For the past month, there hasn’t been one. My smile fades when I realize today won’t be the day this silent treatment ends.
The kettle whistles, and I take the mug over and pour the boiling liquid in as the bag steeps. I place the pot back on the stove, turning the burner off and putting the cup on the counter for it to cool a bit then read the note.
Morning tigress,
I’ve been thinking about the date from the auction. Would you be opposed to us breaking it into two parts? Dinner tonight and the snorkeling another day?
If you don’t want to split it up, no big deal. Just be ready at six. One way or another, we’re going out tonight. It’s a date. Dress nicely.
By the way, there’s something for you in the fridge.
Picking up the mug, I take a sip before putting it back down, making my way to the fridge and opening it. My eyes immediately zero in on the Rind ‘N Grind box beside a small, short vase of fresh cut orange, yellow, and pink English roses. I recognize them. They came from Holden’s mom’s garden. Removing the vase along with the box, I inhale the distinct scent of the flowers before placing them on the kitchen counter and opening the box. There’s a whole loaf of the lemon bread I love so much, the same kind we split the day after the auction. There’s another note, and I’m pretty sure I’m about to spew confetti with excitement.
I couldn’t help myself. I had to take the first slice to make sure it was perfect for you, but at least you get more than just a shared slice this time. And no one is here to ruin it for you.
By the way. It is. Perfect, I mean. It’s totally safe to eat. I even cut a slice in the middle and slid the two sides together so the inside would stay…moist. I can’t believe I just used that damn word. Anyway, that and so you could have all the crispy outer pieces.
P.S. I think if you were to look up the word ‘love’ in Webster, it’d say something like, “Love (n.): That feeling you’ve had for your best friend your whole life, but didn’t realize it until nine years ago. (Not to be confused with asshole, which is what he was when he pushed you away, when he hurt you.) Sentence: Love is when a guy sacrifices something, anything, so you can have the best.” The sacrifice being those end pieces to this lemon pound cake. And I thought back then I was sacrificing my own feelings so you could have the best.
I was wrong.
That wasn’t my decision to make for you, for us.
But don’t panic or get all mushy, though, because I used the ‘L’ word. I’m not saying I’m in love with you, or anything. Yet. It’s way too soon for that. That was just an example. You know, for what Webster would say if you were to look up the word after a guy goes out of his way to buy your favorite tea and sweet treat at Rind ‘N Grind, cuts his fucking finger shearing the thorns off handpicked roses, and pays what some people wished they made in a year to win an auction for a date he couldn’t care less about—but also couldn’t care more about the girl whom it belongs to. You realize we’ve not even had a proper date, woman? But tonight. Tonight, I’m planning on officially making you mine. There’s something in the bathroom for you.
Butterflies flutter in my stomach as I pull a knife from the top drawer where the cutlery is located and slice off one of those ends. I know this relationship with him is new, that I’m just getting over Oliver, and that we’ve technically not had a first date, but that doesn’t stop the feeling that whatever this is between us, this whatever that’s been brewing for as long as I can remember, is right. I’m not ready to say I’m in love with him either, but it feels so good. Wait. I pop a bite of gooey goodness into my mouth and read over the last line. There’s something in the bathroom for you.
If he were here, I’d tease him, ask him if it’s a rubber ducky. I take the slice of lemon bread with me. When I get to the bathroom, there’s a light pink striped box with a bow on the top on the vanity. What made me think to bring food into the bathroom? Now where am I going to put it? In my mouth of course. I open wide, shoving it all in, moaning as my taste buds are overloade
d with tartness. Rubbing my hands down my robe as I chew, I slide the top off the box. There’s a Victoria’s Secret sticker holding the pink tissue paper together. Oh boy. I pull it apart, and all I see is black. But on top is another note.
Wear this today so I can unwrap you tonight after our date, peeling this off you. And don’t eat all that lemon loaf cake. We’re having dessert at home.
Love,
Holden
My mouth is so dry as I gulp down the last morsels of my breakfast while highly anticipating dessert. Damn. And he signed off using the word love. What the hell is he up to?
I was weeks away from marrying Oliver when his secret was revealed.
And on its best day, our relationship never came close to the feelings being elicited in me right now. Oliver would have never done what Holden’s done for me already today. Certainly not tonight. But then again, I guess his sexual preferences differ from Holden’s.
And just like that, I’m leaning over the commode puking up my breakfast. Between stress and nerves, I’ve lost any extra weight I’m putting on from Holden’s frequent Rind ‘N Grind runs.
Minutes have seemed like hours, and hours have seemed like eternity today as anticipation for tonight’s date with Holden builds. The only person I feel like I can talk to about my life is Amie, and she’s in Australia on business. Her beauty line is about to expand there, and she’s been there for two of the last four weeks. Her days are my nights and vice versa. Trying to catch her has nearly been impossible with her busy schedule.
There’s no one here I’d even begin to discuss my personal life with. I’m all about keeping my personal life private. But we’re a great team. Changing Hearts, the non-profit I work for, only has about twenty-five people working in this location, and when we’re here, we work well together.
Even though it’s been a month since the charity event, since my breakup with Oliver and the start of my relationship with Holden, everyone still gets way too quiet when I walk into a room, like they have something to hide or maybe they’re gawking over something. To be clear, the something being me.
I knew it would happen. The looks are nothing compared to the gossip that’s been flying around. Some people don’t even attempt to lower their voices as they discuss whether Holden and I had been having an affair the entire time or how they wondered if the things his father did were genetic, predisposing Holden to the same life. It’s amazing how many people are stupid. How many people will believe anything they hear or read.
While it’s been hard feeling like an outcast, knowing I have Holden every day to come home to—having my dreams come true with Holden—it’s all worth it. I miss my parents, but I’m hoping time will heal those wounds. Doesn’t make it hurt less, but I have hope that once they realize how happy Holden makes me compared to Oliver, they’ll finally let go of the past so we can all build a future. What’s done is done. Anne Lamott says forgiveness is giving up all hope of a better past. We’ve all hurt because of circumstances we can’t change. The only thing we can control is now, how we act in this moment. I don’t want to waste any more time doing what someone else thinks is best for me—whether that’s the people of Magnolia Grove or my parents.
Turning the corner from the little room in the back that houses the copier, the reactions I was just thinking about are precisely what happens when I pass by the cubicles on the way to my office. Again. I do wonder at what point people will move on. Surely they can’t behave like this forever.
As the partitions of the cubicles end, I’m confronted with the one person I could live the rest of my life never seeing again. “Oliver,” I say, rolling my eyes. “What are you doing here?”
He puffs his chest out. I’m not sure if he’s thinking that’s going to make me think he’s more of a man, or what. “You can’t avoid me forever.”
Closing the distance between us, I stiffen. “Like hell I can’t.” The words come out as a hushed hiss.
“Let’s go to your office. I’m not having this conversation in the middle of…” He glances around. “All of these people.” He emphasizes the ‘these’ like they are less human than he is.
“No.” I keep my feet firmly planted.
“Cammie.” It’s not a statement or a question. It’s a threat.
“Oliver. I’m very busy. You need to leave.”
He grabs my arm and tugs me toward my office. “No. We’re talking now.”
Letting go of any self-control I’ve had the past month, the words fly out of my mouth before I can stop them. “I think I heard everything I needed to when Charity said you were screwing another man.” I stare at him as the sentence sinks in.
He whips his head around, his jaw becoming tense and tight, his hand squeezing more around my arm. Through clenched teeth, he grits out, “I. Am. Not. Gay.”
I let my laugh rumble out of my chest. It’s cathartic. “Mkay. Glad we had this talk. You can get out now.”
Cassandra, my assistant, Pete, the runner, and Lacy, my partner, are the only ones in the area where we now are. I’m not sure what they were doing, but all three are huddled together. My only regret is not making that statement sooner for more to hear. They all look up simultaneously, their stares burning into me like the sun on a hot summer day.
Oliver jerks me the rest of the way into my office. It pisses me off. He’s never really laid a hand on me, been violent, but this feels pretty damn close.
I jerk away from him. “You’re hurting me.”
His eyes, I’m not sure what they’re filled with, but it’s not anger. It’s something else. “I’m sorry. But dammit, you won’t let me explain. I’m out of patience.” He paces back and forth. “And what the hell was that back there?”
Tossing the copies I just made before running into him along with the originals on my desk, I fold my arms. “I don’t know whether you can’t hear or just can’t comprehend. It doesn’t matter whether you’re gay or straight or bi. And whatever you are, you should just own it already.”
“And I’m not sure whether you can’t hear or comprehend, either, because I keep telling you it’s not what you think it is. Goes both ways.”
“The difference is I don’t give a damn. You cheated on me. You never loved me. And even if you say you do, I can tell you right now I deserve better.”
He steps closer, too close. The thought of his hands being back on my body makes me shudder. There’s nowhere for me to go except to basically sit on my desk, and that’s not a position I want to be in with him.
Putting my hands on his chest, I push him away. “We’re through.”
“I didn’t cheat. I know I was preoccupied with work, Cam, but I can change that. I will. Come back to me.” He cringes. “And for fuck’s sake, I’m not gay. Can we please move on from that?”
He’s just full of all kinds of jokes today. This one is the funniest of them all. I don’t know why or how he expects me to believe that. “I think it must be comprehension you’re struggling with. Although, it could be you’re not hearing me because I’ve told you to leave multiple times.”
“Why is it easier to believe I’m gay than it is that Charity lied? The thought of you being with him is killing me.”
I shouldn’t engage him, but curiosity killed the cat. “Oh really? Why would she lie?”
He reaches out to strum my cheek, but I swat his hand away. “I think she knew you were there and wanted to break us up.” He shrugs. “Maybe she was helping Holden. I’m taking it he never fessed up to trashing our place.”
“Did you forget I heard you talking after The Auction? Did you forget I heard her say you were sleeping with Ken? Did you forget I heard her say you intentionally lost my auction so you could win hers?”
“Cam, I’m telling you. If you go back to the exact spot where we were, you’ll see there’s some gold plating on the walls. She saw your reflection. She was fucking with you. I’ve gone over it a million times in my mind.” He lets out a small laugh. “I’ve had nothing but time.”
I don’t want to believe that Holden would have stooped so low as to have Charity help him break us up, but everything from that night starts flashing back. Holden showing up in the cabana when Oliver was supposed to. The rude things Charity said to me when we were in the soundproof thing. How Charity was just always in the middle of it all. Along with Holden. And the apartment. Oliver swore that was Holden, and Holden got defensive. Has he been playing me? I’ve always just been a pawn in his game.
The dull ache that’s been growing in my stomach with each passing day since all this happened explodes, and my saliva gets hot, and the room starts to spin. I grip the desk, and when I open my mouth to ask for help, I vomit all over Oliver’s white shirt and blue tie.
My eyes bulge as my stomach continues to contract. He jumps back, quickly grabs the trashcan, and pulls the hair out of my face. “Cassandra,” he yells.
“Yeah?”
“Call an ambulance. She’s vomiting blood.”
We’re at the hospital filling out paperwork, waiting on our last transport patient to finish their MRI so we can take him back to the nursing home across the street, when a call comes over the radio from dispatch for Changing Hearts. My hand freezes and my head pops up to listen to the details because that’s Cammie’s work.
“Twenty-five-year-old female vomiting blood,” the dispatcher says.
My thoughts immediately go to her. Wonder how many people are there who fit that description. Most of them are females. They all seem pretty young like us. Someone would have called me if it were her, right? Except, I always leave my cell phone in my car. I can’t even call her. There’s a side of me that knows there’s no way it’s her. She’s healthy.
But my thoughts go back to Vi and what I went through with her, and just thinking about Cammie being sick is almost more than I can handle. I just need to wait here for the medics responding to call in report. Not like anyone here is going to tell me who it is because of privacy laws, but it’s worth a try. Maybe I could move closer to the phone so I can look down while they’re inputting the details.