True Divide

by Liora Blake

  “Leave that off.”

  “I can’t cut your hair wearing basically nothing. It’s weird.”

  “No dice, then. Either you do it like that or you don’t do it at all. If you put on a pair of heels, even better.”

  I refuse to wear the heels. I’m already at a disadvantage, especially when my client’s hands sometimes roam inappropriately. In heels, I would run a serious risk of falling over with a pair of scissors in my hands each time I have to smack his hands away from where they don’t belong. Jake sits on a stool I dragged in from the kitchen as patiently as possible except for those wandering hands, and lets me have my way with him, moaning each time my fingers run through his locks, trying to gauge my progress. After finishing the cut, I cover his neck with a warm damp towel, then lather a bit of shaving cream there. Once I’ve cleaned up the errant scruff with a razor, I wipe the skin clean with another warm towel and sidestep back to admire my work.

  Jake looks up out of the corner of his eyes and smiles softly. “Does it suit you, sweetheart? Are you happy now?”

  He’s asking me about the haircut. Logically, I know that. But when I end up nodding enthusiastically and grinning, inside I’m answering so much more. The giant, life-affirming, contented answer to every questioning need that went unmet for the last ten years.

  Three hours later, we’re in my car, Jake in the passenger seat staring out the window and neither of us speaking. Tension settles around my shoulders as I turn out of town and onto a county road, headed toward Kate and Trevor’s where Jake parked his plane. Not long after they were married, Trevor had a gravel landing strip cut into the far north section of the acreage he bought so they could fly in and out without needing to arrange another place to land.

  Rolling to a four-way stop between two county roads, I try to avoid catching his eye when checking the opposing lane before turning onto it. Jake’s hand lands on my knee and grips gently before I can start to turn the wheel.

  “I think this sucks, too, Shoelace. Really sucks. Blows. Hard.”

  Laughing, I shake my head and clench my eyes shut. “Only you can use the words ‘sucks’ and ‘blows’ and still manage to say something sweet.”

  “I’m a crude romantic at heart, what can I say?” His voice cracks almost imperceptibly, only the quiet tone covering the quake.

  Jake takes and shoves the gearshift into park and then leans over to kiss me. Smart guy, because when he lands his mouth against mine, I crane over and nearly crawl across the seat, so my foot leaves the brake pedal. Only the sound of a rumbling farm truck approaching from behind reminds us that we can’t stay parked at this intersection forever. Breaking the kiss, Jake nods toward my feet, reminding me to cover the brake again, and then puts the car back in drive.

  As I pull away from the stop sign, he sighs audibly and puts his hand to back of my neck in a loose, tender grasp that allows his thumb to graze across the space just below my ear. I can’t decide if I want to lean away from that touch, or into it. Either way, when his hand leaves my skin, it’s going to sting.

  Down a long gravel road that eases onto a narrower section, I pull to a stop near Jake’s plane. I’m suddenly not sure how close I should park to a plane, so I hesitate and turn to him.

  With a wink, he gestures forward with a flip of his hand. “You can pull right up there. I swear it won’t start up on its own and run you down.”

  Slightly embarrassed, I edge forward slowly with a mumble. “How should I know? I’ve never even been on a plane.”

  Jake’s mouth drops open a few inches and then he grins, slack-jawed. “Excuse me? Did you just say you’ve never been on a plane?”

  “No. I’ve never flown. Where do you think I would have gone?”

  “Hell, I don’t know. I would have thought you had made it to Vegas at some point. All girls with a tramp stamp have been to Vegas at least once.”

  Simultaneously, I cringe and laugh. “Well, sorry to disappoint you.”

  A loud slap sounds in my quiet car as Jake smacks his hands together and then rubs his palms while crooking one eyebrow. “Next time I’m here, we are so going up for a ride.”

  My eyes widen and I shake my head. Not happening. I’m sure I’ll get sick or cry or something equally mortifying.

  “Oh, hell, yes, we are.” He smirks and stares out the windshield. “I mean, shit, how many different ways can I take your virginity? This is so fucking awesome. I can’t wait.”

  “No way.”

  Leaning over again, Jake nuzzles his face into the skin on my neck. “Don’t you trust me? I’m so good in the air, honest to God. You just think about where you want to go. Anywhere. Get a map and pick a place. I’ll take you wherever you want to go.”

  For a quick second, I can see us doing exactly that. Going somewhere exciting, a place new to both of us, and experiencing it together for the first time. Then my eyes drift to see his little plane there, an old decrepit thing painted red and white, and the rational part of my brain reminds me to refuse the fantasy. I’ve seen those shows on cable about bush pilots, a bunch of jostling and jarring about while someone narrates using the words “harrowing” and “death-defying.” Nope. I refuse to end up weeping for Jesus while Jake laughs and does something acrobatic to send my stomach lurching toward my throat.

  “Relax. I’ll go easy on you the first time.” A nip of his teeth lands on my earlobe. “But if I know you, you’ll be begging for more the minute you figure out how good it can feel up there. You like things wild; we both know that.”

  If he touched me anywhere remotely erogenous right now, I would probably spin like a top. Right after I turned my mouth loose on every inch of his body.

  And he knows it.

  Admitting that makes my mind twist toward my heart, the two bumping together in a way that means I may end up doing something incredibly stupid. Like completely fall for the man who was once the boy who left me behind.

  12

  Inside Deaton’s, I’ve spread a decade-old atlas out on the table, one large enough to force all the salt and pepper shakers, syrup and ketchup bottles, little jelly packets, and creamer capsules to the far perimeters. For the last half an hour, I’ve done nothing but stare at the pages, sometimes for so long, things start to look blurry. While using an atlas to begin with is an antiquated approach to travel planning, I tried using a few mapping websites, but there was too much to consider, and all the clicking here and there quickly turned overwhelming.

  There was a small hope on my part that Jake would somehow forget about his threat to take me up in his plane, but no such luck. I’ve already gotten two emails since he left prodding me to pick a place. There was a quick discussion on the idea of going to his place in Santa Monica, but if we’re doing this, I’m determined it should be a place new to both of us. He might be taking my airplane virginity, but I’ll be damned if he gets to be at an advantage with everything. I want him blundering through a newfound place alongside me, not jovially pointing out all the cool places he’s already been.

  Minor problem, though. The man has already been a million places. I threw out a handful of ideas, only to have him put the kibosh on all of them.

  TO: jake.holt6239

  FROM: laciegracie93

  SUBJECT: Oh, the places you’ll go

  Aspen.

  * * *

  TO: laciegracie93

  FROM: jake.holt6239

  RE: Oh, the places you’ll go

  Ugh. No. Been there too many times. Full of exceptionally terrible rich people.

  * * *

  TO: jake.holt6239

  FROM: laciegracie93

  RE: Oh, the places you’ll go

  Phoenix.

  * * *

  TO: laciegracie93

  FROM: jake.holt6239

  RE: Oh, the places you’ll go

  Been there. Hot. So hot.

&
nbsp; * * *

  TO: jake.holt6239

  FROM: laciegracie93

  RE: Oh, the places you’ll go

  Palm Springs?

  * * *

  TO: laciegracie93

  FROM: jake.holt6239

  RE: Oh, the places you’ll go

  Been there. Take the heat of Phoenix, the stuck-up of Aspen, then add in some old people and you have Palm Springs. Lame.

  * * *

  TO: jake.holt6239

  FROM: laciegracie93

  RE: Oh, the places you’ll go

  I thought you said we could go anywhere. Yet between your apparent dislike for a dry heat, rich people, and old folks, combined with the fact you’ve already visited every major destination in the US, we don’t have many choices left. Maybe you should give me a list of places you haven’t been. That would make it easier.

  * * *

  TO: laciegracie93

  FROM: jake.holt6239

  RE: Oh, the places you’ll go

  Stop picking major destinations, then. I can’t help the fact that I’ve had a case of wanderlust for the last ten years and a job that made it easy to indulge that condition.

  Think out of the box. Color outside the lines. Throw a dart.

  And I did mean it when I said I would take you anywhere. You’re the one who included the caveat of it being somewhere new for me. But if you wanted to go visit some backwoods moonshine distillery in Arkansas and hang out with rednecks wearing overalls and spitting chew all over the place, I’d take you. If you wanted to spend the day in Dallas, in the middle of July, and shop at an outlet mall, I’d hold your purse while you try on another pair of shoes or something. Don’t care. Anywhere.

  When Kate saunters up to the table and slides into the booth opposite me, I’ve taken to scribbling ideas on a paper napkin while flipping the atlas pages loudly, muttering under my breath about how the idea of “anywhere” shouldn’t be so difficult to manage. Kate is clad in her cold-weather running gear, hair tucked under a knit watch cap, all bright-eyed and pink-cheeked from a morning run in the balmy twenty-degree weather.

  “What the hell is all this, Lace?”

  I flip another page on the atlas and then proceed to chew on the end of my pen. “Jake wants to take me somewhere on his plane.”

  “You sound really excited. As if you were discussing an upcoming root canal. That kind of excited.”

  “I’ve never flown, you know that. His plane is about the size of a Matchbox car and appears to be older than we are. He takes a perverse amount of pleasure in making me uncomfortable. So, I’m guessing I’m going to end up vomiting, crying, or both.” Flopping forward, I let my forehead rest against the open atlas and sigh. “Which he will find hilarious.”

  Kate sputters a laugh and blows across her coffee, trying to cool it before taking a small sip. Raising my head up, I slap the atlas shut and shove it over a few inches on the tabletop so I can stare at my list of pending destinations. Each one sounds terrible now. Boring. Lame-o. Blah.

  “Plus, I want to go someplace new. Not just for me, but for him, too. Except he’s been everywhere. Between his job and his hey, what’s over there? life code, nothing’s left.”

  Just as Kate parts her lips to say something, she darts her gaze over my shoulder then groans a little. When the shuffling clickity-clack of Dusty’s cowboy boots ceases, he’s looming next to the table trying to take up as much space as possible. Legs in a wide-open stance so that his burly, beefy body nearly traps both Kate and me from the small escape routes out of the booth.

  “Travel plans, Lace?”

  Kate takes a quick side-glance at me and crinkles her forehead at the fact I’ve simply ignored Dusty, instead of at least telling him to move along. Before she can intervene or check my pulse, she looks past Dusty and gives up a wide grin.

  Trevor covers the short span between the front door and our table in only a few steps, coming to a stop next to Dusty.

  “Move. Please.”

  Two words. That’s all he has to say to get the deputy sheriff to tip his hat like this is a corny Western, then move aside and saunter off.

  But what makes the whole scene entirely more fabulous is that Trevor currently has Nic strapped to his chest in a baby carrier. Even better? It’s a pink-and-blue polka-dotted baby carrier. Only this man could intimidate and silently indicate he might knock you to your knees with a single punch, while standing there with a newborn nestled against him like that.

  Kate stands and chuckles before putting kiss to Trevor’s cheek. “Oh God. Sexiest, coolest, most hilarious thing I’ve ever seen.”

  After settling in and ordering, we chat until the waitress drops off our plates. With Nic in the crook of her arm, Trevor sweetly slicing up her pancakes so she can more easily eat with one hand, Kate taps the top of the atlas with the fingers on her free hand.

  “So have you decided yet?”

  “No. I can’t. I’m stuck.”

  “Do I need to drag you out into the parking lot for a round of Someday? Will that help?”

  When we were little kids, Kate and I used to do this thing where we would imagine traveling to a new city. We would spin around in place, and then point in a random direction. After we had a direction in mind, we would methodically plot out an imaginary course on one of our parents’ old maps, deciding which big-city destination we would finally start an exciting new life in. Whether we knew it or not, that kind of dreaming was what made Kate’s life so full of possibility and mine so full of boundaries. For her, I think it was a vision of real opportunities, while for me it was an illusion. No matter how hard I tried, or how tightly I squeezed my eyes shut, I never could quite picture myself anywhere but Crowell.

  Jake would probably love the idea of Someday. It’s about as close to throwing a dart as you can get. But I want to know exactly where I’m going this time. Screw fate. For now, I want to see where I’m headed and choose my own destiny.

  “No. I’m already throwing caution out the window by getting in the rickety contraption as it is. If I’m going to die, I’d like to have an idea where the fiery crash will take place.”

  “Do you want help?”

  Shrugging, I turn the atlas toward her and gesture for her to have at it. We eat in silence for a bit, Kate humming and scanning the pages between bites of her pancakes. After a few minutes, she lands on a section that apparently piques her interest, inciting her to lean in and pull the atlas closer for her inspection. Her fingertip draws across a small space in a tight circle.

  “Do you like whales?”

  Trevor snorts and shakes his head. “Jesus, Katie. Could you get any more random? ‘Do you like whales?’ Really?”

  I watch Kate introduce her elbow to his side. But he’s right. So random.

  “I don’t have any particular feeling about whales. I don’t dislike them, I guess.”

  Twisting the map toward me, she places her finger to draw my attention. “Here. Orcas Island, off the coast of Washington state. I taught a seminar at a writers’ conference on Whidbey Island a few years ago, and everyone was talking about some day trip to Orcas. Supposed to be gorgeous. They have lots of whale watching, I guess. “

  Inspecting the small dot on the map, I decide that whales are just fine by me. It looks awfully close to Seattle, though, so Jake may have lived there for all I know.

  I send him a text.

  Orcas Island?

  The response comes in under a minute.

  Never been. Sounds perfect.

  It’s nearly a month before Jake can cobble together a long weekend for our trip to Orcas. But when he finally lands late on a Thursday night at Kate and Trevor’s, he calls me the near second he lands, so much that I can hear evidence that some component of the plane is still puttering away in the background. I grab my car keys as the phone rings and am nearly out the door wh
en I see his name on the display. Fifteen minutes later, there is nothing beyond a hello before things turn heated. We manage to make it home and through the door before the necessary clothes come off, but not far beyond. The back of the door works out just fine.

  Despite having spent a long day in the air, flying here to be with me, after we reintroduce the important parts of our bodies to each other, Jake hikes his pants up and shuffles into the kitchen to make us some dinner. Before I’ve even straightened my skirt and buttoned my top, he’s already grousing about the paltry contents of my pantry.

  “What the hell do you eat when I’m not here? Do you survive on these shitty snack bar things?”

  I run a few fingers through my now–slightly tangled hair and pad into the kitchen, coming up behind him to wrap my arms around his waist. He’s standing in front of the open refrigerator, and I lean in around him, taking in the bright light of the near-empty appliance. Oddly, I feel quite sated myself, despite having eaten only a banana and one of the offending snack bars today. It seems sex with Jake keeps a girl satiated enough to forgo real food.

  “I also eat animal crackers. And pancakes at Deaton’s.”

  “Do me a favor, will you? If I’m coming in to see you, stop by the store and get some real food. I’m not asking for a lot here, but you can’t expect me to go unfed after the kind of sex you demand. I’m not a machine. I require fuel. And, right now, I’m a little worried moths might come bolting out of this cavernous box you call a fridge.”

  I slip away from him and hop up on the counter. “Try the freezer. I don’t cook. I do, however, microwave. So you might have better luck in there.”

  The fridge door thuds closed and when he opens the freezer his mood brightens a bit. Within five minutes he’s heating a pan on the stove and it seems he has a plan. I thrum my fingernails on the countertop and watch. A vacuum package of par-cooked brown rice hits the microwave, a bag of frozen mixed veggies after that. Butter in the skillet and he cracks in the two lone eggs he spied in the refrigerator, immediately whisking them up in the hot pan. The brown rice and veggies are tossed in with a shake of tamari, and the next thing I know, he’s handing me a bowl of veggie fried rice.