by Lane Hart
The stupid tears are finally starting to subside before I hear the creak of the bedroom door opening and shutting again. Then the bed dips and his arms come around me, making me cry even harder because he knew. He knew I was upset and came to comfort me. That’s why having this end is so fucking devastating.
Brody’s the first man to ever care about me.
But just not enough to keep me.
…
Brody
“Are you sure you have everything?” I ask the girls when they roll their luggage into the living room early Saturday morning. “Anything still hanging outside on the line?”
Fuck. I’m grasping at goddamn straws to try and delay the inevitable, and I know it.
“I think that’s everything, Dad,” Sara says, her tone only about half as huffy as the first day they got here.
“Do you want me to carry your luggage down?” I ask her.
“Sure, that would be great, thanks,” my daughter replies, not only accepting my offer but being courteous.
Yeah, we’ve definitely made progress this week. I just worry that after she leaves, things will revert back to the way they were --- her despising me, and me not having a clue on how to begin making amends.
“Let me take yours and Allison’s down, and then I’ll come back for the other two,” I suggest, going over to grab the luggage handles. This way, I’ll hopefully have a moment sort of alone with Riley before they leave. A quick glance over at her, and I see that she’s leaning against the wall casually, looking down at the cell phone in her hand, but I can tell from across the room that her blue eyes are still red-rimmed from crying last night.
I feel awful that things are ending this way, but there’s nothing I can say or do to change the fact that having something more with Riley is impossible. For days, I tried to figure out a way we could be together and I’ve come to the conclusion that there’s just not one.
Down at the car, I toss the suitcases into the convertible’s trunk and then say goodbye to Allison before I turn to Sara.
“Call me to let me when you get home safe,” I tell her, rather than go in for a hug and get shot down.
“I will,” she agrees. “Thanks for letting us stay here this week. It was fun.”
“Glad you all had a good time. I did too,” I say with a nod. “I better go grab the rest of the luggage.”
“Yeah, okay,” Sara replies, before she steps forward and quickly hugs me around my waist. “Bye, Dad.”
“Bye, sweetie,” I say, hugging her back and placing a kiss on the top of her head before she pulls away.
As I head back upstairs, I realize that was probably the first time my daughter has initiated a hug in…well, ever. Maybe I really did break through a few of her walls this week.
Back in the living room, Cheryl looks from me to Riley, then back again silently.
“I can take my own luggage down,” she offers.
“No, I’ll get it,” I assure her. “Just one second.”
Walking over to Riley, she continues to avert her eyes from me, until I lift her face and kiss her, pouring everything I feel for her into it. She stands frozen for several seconds, before she grips my shoulders and kisses me back. I know the girls downstairs are waiting, so I need to let her go. It’s just so fucking hard to do…
I finally force myself to pull away. Still gasping for breath, I turn around without a word and pick up the two suitcases, carrying them down the stairs to squeeze them into the trunk. I take my time, arranging the four pieces of luggage to all fit, to give Riley and Cheryl time to get in the car because I don’t think I can say goodbye to her face-to-face without making it obvious that I care for her.
After I hear the two car doors shut, I slam the trunk closed and go around to the driver’s side. It’s cloudy with a chance of rain rolling in, so Sara has the top of the convertible up today.
“You’re all set,” I tell her with a pat to her rolled-down window. “Be careful and come back to visit me again soon.”
It hits me that I should’ve told Riley the same thing.
But what’s the point?
Secrets only remain that way for short periods of time. And she doesn’t deserve to be strung along by an old man like me. It’ll only end with her getting hurt worse when I would eventually have to choose between her and my daughter.
“I will,” Sara agrees, shifting the car into gear. “Bye!”
“Bye!” I call out, holding my hand up to wave as they back out of the driveway.
A panicky feeling starts crawling up my stomach and squeezing me around my throat, telling me that I’m making a huge mistake.
Saying goodbye to Riley was one of the toughest things I’ve had to do, after watching my wife and daughter pull away on a bus twenty years ago.
And just like then, I fucking hate it, but I know I don’t have any other choice.
Chapter Sixteen
Riley
AUGUST
“Brody, wait!” I cry out his name as I jolt awake from my dream. My heart slams around inside my hollow chest while I gasp for breath and tears stream down my face.
Sitting up straight, I look around and realize that I’m in my dark apartment bedroom, not alone on the baseball field. The dream is so fresh in my mind, though, that I can still smell the oniony scent of freshly cut grass and feel the gritty dirt coating my skin.
It’s the same recurring dream that I’ve had for weeks now, where I’m paralyzed, unable to touch Brody or speak to him, as he makes love to me, with home plate as my pillow. After he finishes inside me and the sun begins to light up the sky, he always scowls down at me, warning me not to tell anyone – that he’ll deny it if I do – and that it will never happen again. As he moves off me to redress, I try to open my mouth and beg him to stay, but no matter how hard I struggle for the words, I can’t speak or move a muscle; not until it’s too late, and he’s already gone…
Using the sheets tangled around me to dry my face, I give up on any more sleep and climb out of bed to take a shower, trying to wash away the memories of grass, dirt, and Brody with a little soap and hot water. As usual, it doesn’t work.
Trying to be productive, I decide to bring my laptop over to the bed with me and start checking my emails. There are two new rejection letters, one from a school portraits photographer position and another from a sales associate at a studio, each telling me thanks for my application, however, they’ve decided to go with a more experienced candidate. Well, of course they have, because pretty much everyone in the field has more experience than a recent college grad.
Growling in frustration, I open up the web browser to start searching for more jobs to apply to so they can also reject me.
“You okay in here?” Cheryl asks as she sticks her head in the doorway.
“No!” I grumble. “Two more no thanks emails. That’s like, ten this week,” I tell her. “And it’s only Wednesday!”
“Something will come up,” she assures me.
“Not soon enough to make my big, fat student loan payment! What the fuck am I gonna do, Cher?” I ask my best friend.
“Have you applied to Micky D’s?” she suggests.
“Oh, screw that! They wouldn’t pay me enough for my loan, even if I got hired,” I whine. “Which I probably wouldn’t because I have no experience in anything. All I have is a fucking degree that cost a small fortune, and it’s not worth shit!”
“Art degrees are, like, so last year,” she says in a mock Cali girl accent, sweeping her long, non-existent hair over her shoulder.
“Apparently,” I agree. “There is nothing out there for me. I can’t even get a damn internship. I’m offering to work for free to get experience and nothing, nada. Nobody wants me.” But what else is new.
“You’ll find something, Riles. Just be patient.”
“Easy for you to say,” I huff. “You have a nice job and don’t have a three hundred dollar a month student loan coming due in a few months’ time.”
“I kn
ow, and I’m sorry,” she says, hopping up on the bed next to me. “If I hear of anything artsy, I’ll let you know.”
“Thanks,” I mutter.
“How have you been doing otherwise? I heard you this morning. Still having wet dreams over Daddy Morefucks?” she asks, using the ridiculous nickname.
“Yes. I’m pathetic,” I admit glumly.
“I still get chills thinking about that goodbye kiss,” she says. “If you ask me, that wasn’t a ‘this is over’ type of kiss.”
“Oh, but it was,” I disagree. “That relationship was doomed from the very beginning. You warned me.”
“I did, didn’t I?” she remarks. “You know, I bet he’s actually good for something more than orgasms too.”
“He was good for lots of things,” I argue. Brody was sweet and caring…
“I mean, I bet a successful man like him in the art industry would have tons of contacts, maybe even one who could use an intern.”
“Yeah, well, it’s not like I can reach out and ask him, is it?” I grumble. “He didn’t even give me his phone number.”
“No, but I know someone right across the apartment complex who has it,” she points out.
And this is why I love my best friend.
“Will you ask Sara for me?” I beg her with my hands clasped together pleadingly. “But don’t tell her it’s for me because then she probably won’t do it.”
“Oh, Riles. How little do you know my good friend, Sara,” Cheryl says with a giggle. “If she had the opportunity to ship you off to anywhere else in the state or, even better, the country, just to get rid of you, you can bet your ass, she’ll do it.”
“She hates me that much?” I ask, my chest swelling with hope.
“God, yes. Especially since the beach trip. For some reason, she seems to think you were flirting with her father.”
“Like I would do such a sordid thing as hit on one of my friend’s fathers,” I gasp in mock indignation. “What kind of two-bit whore does she take me for?”
“I know, right?” Cheryl says with a laugh. “I assured her that you’re just super friendly with everyone, that’s part of your natural charm, and there was no way you were hitting on her old man.”
“Thanks,” I tell her, appreciating her covering for me.
“Let me go talk to her this afternoon when I get home from work, and see what I can do,” she offers.
“Thanks, Cher! You’re the best!” I tell my roomie as I throw my arms around her.
Chapter Seventeen
Brody
If someone asked me how long it’s been since I’ve seen Riley, I could tell them it’s been exactly seven weeks, four days, and about eight hours. You would think that by now I would be over her absence, that I would have forgotten the smell of her coconut oil and fruity shampoo, the softness of her skin under my fingertips, or the taste of her sweet lips on mine.
I haven’t.
Which is incredibly annoying.
After Riley was gone, I assured myself that there were plenty of other women in the world who smell, feel, and taste the same as her, but it’s a lie. A big, fucking fat one.
For the first two weeks after the girls left, I worked twelve hours a day or more, for fourteen straight days, trying to stay busy enough to forget her. When that didn’t work to dull her on my senses, I decided to start dating again. Five weeks later, and that doesn’t seem to be working either…
“Brody?”
“Huh?” I ask, snapping back to the beautiful woman sitting in the booth across the table from me at the steakhouse.
“Have you heard anything I’ve said tonight?” she asks with a tilt of her blonde head, an amused smile on her flawless face.
“Yeah, of course I have,” I answer, my fingers fidgeting with the handles of the silverware on the table. My hands need something to do lately since I can’t seem to keep still. I’ve been in this constantly agitated, anxious state for weeks now.
Clearing my throat, I tell Maryanne, “You were saying that you need to redo your headshots for your fall advertisements, and asked if I would take them this Friday,” I recite, proving that I was in fact paying attention to her talk my ear off, even if my mind, or heart, as the case may be, is somewhere else.
“Brody, are you attracted to me?” Maryanne asks, so totally off topic that I start to worry I actually did miss more of the conversation. “Well?” she prompts when I hesitate.
“What kind of question is that? You’re beautiful, and you know it,” I tell her because it’s true. Heads turn whenever the real estate agent walks into the room, not because she’s recognizable from billboard or television ads, but because she has the height and grace of a supermodel walking down the runway everywhere she goes. And another bonus, Maryanne is also previously divorced and thirty-six, so our age difference is nothing compared to say, someone my daughter’s age…
Putting her hand on top of mine to make my fingers still, Maryanne leans across the table and whispers, “Then why don’t you take me home with you tonight and prove it?”
Nope. I can’t do it. No fucking way.
While sex sounds really great right about now, I don’t want it to be with Maryanne for the most ridiculous reason --- I’m not ready to replace the memories of Riley yet.
Being with Maryanne or someone else would fuck up the replays in my head of that handful of nights, weeks ago, and I want to hang on to them. Remembering being with Riley, how her curves fit perfectly against me, how she felt coming apart in my arms, and how her simple touch could set off fireworks inside of me, is better than the real thing with someone else. I don’t even have to get naked with Maryanne to know that’s true. My cock might enjoy himself, but afterward, I would regret using her to get off when all I want is to be with someone else.
Pulling my hand out from underneath Maryanne’s because even that touch from another woman is too much, I tell her, “I’m sorry, but that’s not gonna happen tonight.” Or any other night in the foreseeable future.
“Then I’m sorry too, Brody, but I just don’t think this is going anywhere,” Maryanne says with a sad smile. “We’ve been on seven dates now, and you’ve barely kissed my cheek. And when I talk to you, I’m pretty sure you’re somewhere else. I need more. I want passion and a man who wants me too.”
Passion.
There’s that word again in the context that I’m lacking in it. Maybe I am. Only one woman has ever told me she thought I was passionate. And I can’t help but wonder just how many other men Riley’s been “passionate” with since I let her go. Those are the thoughts that keep me up at night, wondering if I made the biggest mistake of my life and knowing it’s too late to try and fix it.
“I understand that, Maryanne. I do. You deserve better, and honestly, I can’t give you any of those things right now,” I reply.
“Let me know if you change your mind. Until then, I hope we can remain friends,” she tells me before she slides out of the booth and stands up with her purse on her shoulder.
“Of course,” I tell her. “See you Friday at three for headshots?”
“Thanks, Brody,” she says, leaning over to kiss my cheek before she walks out of the restaurant.
…
Later that night, when I get home from eating dinner alone, and am sitting in the living room zoned out watching television, I’m happily surprised when Sara’s name shows up on my cell phone’s caller ID.
“Hey, sweetie,” I answer. And still, even weeks later, any time I talk to Sara, I can’t help but think about those nights I made terrible decisions with Riley. Bad decisions that I want to make over and over again, but shouldn’t.
“Hey, Dad,” Sara says sweetly, and I know right away that she wants something. She hasn’t been back to see me since the week in June, but I do chat with her through texts messages most days. I’ve finally realized that she prefers that to phone conversations, which is why I’m a little surprised she called.
“How’s the new job?” I ask her. Sara re
cently went to work as the assistant to a corporate executive. It’s lower on the totem pole than she wanted after college, but it’s a good start for her.
“It’s okay. I’ve been swamped having to attend boring meetings and take notes, but I think I’m getting the hang of it all.”
“Oh, well that’s good. I’m glad to hear it’s going well,” I tell her.
“Yeah, me too. But the reason I’m calling is, do you have any photographer friends, or any type of artist really, that are looking for an intern?”
Chewing that question over for a moment, I tell her, “No. Not that I know of.”
Then I can’t help but wonder if Sara’s asking because she wants to make a move to photography. Hoping that’s the case and that she’s decided to follow in my footsteps, I quickly tell her, “You know, I could probably use an assistant in my studio. I need help with getting internet orders ready, and several friends have weddings coming up that I agreed to shoot. The only thing is, I’m not sure I could offer something permanent full-time because business will probably slow down by the end of the year.”
Honestly, I’ve needed an assistant for years, but I’ve just been too stubborn or too much of a control freak to trust another person to come into my studio, my baby, on the chance they’ll screw up. But I wouldn’t mind having Sara there with me every day. That would be amazing.
“Oh,” my daughter mutters, clearly unenthusiastic about the idea of coming to work with me. “Then never mind.”
Wow. Tonight is really turning out not to be my night with the women in my life.
“I’m sorry, but could you explain why you wouldn’t want to come work for me,” I say, unable to just let her refusal go after getting so excited about the possibility of her moving down here.
“Oh, no. It’s not for me,” she explains. “You know all that art, hippie stuff has never really been my thing.”