Actually . . .
They do. They really, really do bug me.
Five years into our marriage and she still hasn’t taken them down.
I honestly didn’t care about them and why they were still taking up prime wall real estate until June. After living in a dissociative fugue state, James returned with memories of, and emotions for, my wife still intact. But Aimee made her decision. James needed to understand that. She left him. She moved on. She chose me.
Then I remember that they kissed.
I bite down on my teeth.
I want those paintings out of here even though I’ve held off mentioning that to Aimee. Because James’s artwork seems to make her happy.
Happy wife, happy life.
I force myself to relax, even broaden my smile. I wave at Trish, who works behind the counter, and go in search of Aimee.
“She’s not here,” Trish calls after me.
I stop and swing around. “Where is she?”
Trish shrugs. “She didn’t tell me. She left a couple of hours ago.”
I rap my knuckles on the wall in thought. I’ll call and tell her to meet me at home.
“Let her know I’m looking for her if she comes back,” I say and leave the café.
On my way to the car, my phone rings. Erik’s mug lights up the screen.
“You owe me,” I answer.
“How does it look?”
“Spectacular. I’m a genius with a hammer and nail. Hanging your sorry-ass photos is exactly what I wanted to do on my afternoon off.”
Erik laughs. “Better you than me.”
I met Erik several years ago at the Photography Expo and Trade Conference. He started out as a photographer with the Associated Press, traveling to war zones and areas of extreme poverty, but the confrontations he witnessed and suffering he documented took their toll. Quitting while he was ahead, and still in possession of his life and sanity, he now freelances. Together we found a means to an end. I respected his photojournalistic skills and Erik has long admired my nature and wildlife imagery. We became mutual mentors and fast friends. Erik’s the guy I call to meet me for beers at the end of the day, or for a round in the ring at the gym when I need to work off the edge.
“Thanks for everything, man. Beers on me when we meet up again,” Erik offers.
“Beers on you for the next month.”
Erik chuckles, a deep rumble. “I suddenly find my calendar full. Not sure when I can see you.”
“Nice try, Ridley.” I glance left and jaywalk across the street. “You still in Big Sur?”
“Nope. Driving home.”
“How was it?”
“Horrible. Lots of burned acreage. Too many homes lost and people displaced. But hey, I got a call from Sierra Explorer. They’re sending me to Yosemite next week. It’s for an online piece about the dangers of hiking along Vernal Fall. Nothing new, but with those kids going over the edge last month, there’s been a brouhaha to restrict the number of hikers and move the fencing for the viewing platform back. Guess who’s writing the piece? Reese Thorne. Have you heard of her?”
I groan before I can think not to.
“Uh-oh, not sure I like the sound of that. She was at ASU same time as you. Something I should know?”
“Nope.”
“Do you know her?”
I hesitate. “I know of her. She’s drawn to important stories. Her readers love her and her articles have won awards.”
“But . . .”
I don’t want to tarnish his first impression of Reese, but I feel he needs to know what he’s getting into since his photos will be attached to her article. “Let’s just say in this new age of reporting where readers favor opinion over fact, Reese has thrived.”
“Yeah, that’s what I heard. I just thought you might know a little more about her or had worked with her in the past, back at school or something. We’re spending two days together.”
“I’m a landscape photographer and she’s a journalist. Better chance she’s been on the front lines with you than the backwoods with me.”
Erik laughs. “True. Speaking of landscapes, I’m going to stay a few extra days and take some nature shots for my portfolio. Do you mind looking through them when I get back? I’m sure I could use more pointers. You have a critical eye.”
“Sure. Anytime.”
“Great. What about you? Have you heard from Al about the Rapa piece?”
“I’ll take a rain check on answering that question,” I say, arriving at my car. I tap the key fob, unlocking the door.
“That can only mean one thing, but I’ll hold off the congrats for later. I want details when you’re ready.”
I sink into the driver’s seat. “I’ll bring you up to speed when you buy me that beer.”
“You’re killing me.”
“Gotta get home to the wife, my friend. Chat later.”
I end the call with Erik and speed-dial Aimee. I’m sent straight to voice mail. “Hey, Aims, honey. I’ve got some great news. Call me back.” I text the same message.
When I arrive home, I park the Explorer in the driveway of our one-story 1960s ranch. The house is beyond old and in need of a remodel. But, hey, it’s home. We sold my condo and Aimee’s downtown bungalow to give us just enough of a down payment so our mortgage didn’t slice a jugular in our monthly cash flow.
The investment was worth the life savings, blood, sweat, and signing over the parental rights of our firstborn. Kidding. But we live in the same neighborhood as Aimee’s parents, something we both want for Caty. I don’t have extended family, and what family I do have—a missing mom and estranged dad—is seriously messed up. For Caty to grow up by her grandparents? It means everything to me.
Besides, we aren’t in too bad of a financial situation. Aimee has been scouting locations for a second and possibly third coffee shop because the flagship store has consistently performed well. My photos move fast when on display in brick-and-mortar galleries. Through my online gallery, I’ve acquired international clients with money to burn. Interior designers have sought my work to display in hotels, resorts, and restaurants in five different countries. This National Geographic assignment will be the caramel syrup on top of my portfolio sundae. I’m rocking the photography world.
Cue another fist pump.
I punch the air and let myself into the house and my phone pings with a text from Catherine. She attached a video of Caty dancing with the caption: Caty’s happy dance. We’ll keep her for the night. Have fun!
Great news for Aimee and me. We have all . . . night . . . long to ourselves. My mind dives under the sheets in our master bedroom and I grin.
Thinking of Aimee reminds me: I haven’t heard from her. This isn’t like her. She’s usually quick to respond.
I frown, scratching my jawline. Where is she? She didn’t mention any appointments today. Or did she? I must have checked out of our conversation when she chatted my ear off at four-freaking-thirty this morning. Those crack-of-dawn wake-ups kill me. I don’t know how she does it five days a week. But I start my day with her anyhow. I treasure those intimate moments with her as the darkness of night shifts to the gray of dawn.
I call her again. I go straight into voice mail again. Strange.
I roll my shoulders, loosening the apprehension that wants to settle there. I shower—hot date tonight—and when I don’t find a message or call notification from her afterward, I call her again. Uneasiness break-dances as I wait for her to pick up. I hate that feeling, especially when I land in her voice mail. Again. Damn.
I have good news I’m dying to share.
I want to talk with my wife.
I want to see my wife.
Visions of twisted metal, broken glass, and busy emergency rooms snap in my head like a camera flash on sports mode. I swear at myself, angry my mind even goes there. But the possibility of losing her, whether by accident or by choice, drives my thoughts in that direction. They’ve been taking that route often these last few months
.
I call Aimee’s friend Kristen Garner. She could be visiting with her.
“Hi, Ian,” Kristen huffs into the phone. A very pregnant Kristen at nine and a half months. She and Nick are expecting their third child and the squirt is already overdue.
“Is Aimee there?” I ask, shooting past the small talk.
“No, she’s not.”
“Have you heard from her recently?”
“Not since yesterday. Is something wrong?”
“She wasn’t at the café when we were supposed to meet and she’s not answering her phone.”
“When did you last hear from her?”
“This morning before lunch.” I glance at the time. It’s almost six.
“I’m sure she’s fine. She could be shopping or something. Maybe her phone died.”
I should have thought of that. I pace the master bathroom thick with steam, a towel wrapped low on my hips. “You’re probably right.” But unlikely. She doesn’t ignore my calls or let her battery die.
I wipe condensation from the mirror with my forearm. Water beads on my skin. I blot my chest with a hand towel. The bathroom smells of aloe vera soap and the wooded spice of my shampoo.
“Do you want me to call Nadia?” Kristen offers.
“Nah, I’ll buzz her.” After I get dressed. My good news has made me overly anxious. Aimee will call soon enough. She’ll walk through the front door at any moment.
I call La Fondue and sweet-talk the hostess into a reservation. She puts a table for two in my name for eight thirty.
After dressing in dark washed jeans and a fitted black button-down, I try Aimee again. This time the phone rings and rings. I disconnect and bring up the texts I sent earlier. They’ve been read.
Say what?
I tap the corner of the phone against my forehead, trying not to read into this.
Admit it, Collins. You’re reading into this.
I rely on instinct to deliver the best moments to photograph. That award-winning instant captured in time. Right now, my instincts are telling me something is wrong.
I type out a short text—Are you hurt?—then tap the back key, editing my message to Are you OK?, else I sound overly dramatic. I don’t want to jump to conclusions. I send the text and immediately three dots appear underneath. Her response comes an instant later. A simple word that has a knot expanding in my throat.
No.
No? That’s it?
I wait for the three dots to jump around on my screen again, hoping for an explanation to arrive. Something more than a cryptic no.
A minute passes and still nothing. My thumbs fly over the keyboard.
Where are you?
Do you need me to come get you?
And before I can think not to, I send the text I’d originally drafted.
Are you hurt?
She doesn’t reply and my damn nerves go haywire. I stare hard at my phone, willing a text from her when it dawns on me.
Idiot.
I launch the Find My Phone app, pushing aside the first thought that pops into my head—stalker—and quickly pinpoint that she’s at her friend Nadia Jacobs’s flat. Has she been there the entire time? Hopefully, I think on a relieved breath.
I call Nadia and she immediately answers.
“Ian.” She sounds relieved to hear from me.
“Put Aimee on. I need to talk with her.”
“Hold on.”
I hear a muffled noise as though Nadia’s walking into another room. I expect Aimee to get on the phone, but it’s Nadia who speaks. “Aimee—”
“Where is she? Why didn’t you give her the phone?”
“She said she’s leaving shortly. She’ll meet you at home. But, Ian, I’m really worried about her. I haven’t seen her like this in a long time.”
“Like what? I haven’t seen or heard from her since this morning. I’m in the dark here, Nadia. Other than one text, she’s been ignoring my messages and calls. What’s going on? Is she hurt?”
“Physically, no. But James said something to her that’s really upset her. She won’t tell me what, though.”
“Who said something to her?” My voice is as cold as the chill that’s settled in my chest at the mention of his name.
“You didn’t know? James. He’s back.”
CHAPTER 2
IAN
James is back. Again.
Can’t the guy stay away?
I scowl.
“Did she go see him?” She did in June when James briefly returned to California.
“Yes,” Nadia says, and I’m devastated. I sink onto the edge of the couch in the living room.
Aimee’s reunion with her ex had been one I’d dreaded since returning from Mexico more than five years ago when we found James alive but living in a dissociative fugue state. She’d explained to me why she went to see him earlier this summer. She had to say good-bye. I thought that good-bye was for good.
Apparently not.
I’d been in Spain. It was one week before the Rapa started. It was a trip I’d wanted to take since Erik first told me about the festival several years ago. Upon landing, I called Aimee from the baggage claim to let her know I’d arrived. Her voice sounded strained. She blamed it on being tired, as she did again and again with each phone call during my fourteen-day trip. She sounded unenthusiastic and mildly depressed. It worried me. Our conversations felt off, forced. But I know her well. She was hiding something.
It wasn’t until I returned home and tucked an overjoyous Caty into bed that Aimee sat me down at the kitchen table. The bottle of vodka and two shot glasses should have warned me this wouldn’t be an easy conversation.
“What’s going on?” I asked warily.
“I saw James.” She then told me everything, and I mean everything.
We’d known James had surfaced from the fugue state the previous December. Kristen had told Aimee about James’s call to Nick, Kristen’s husband and James’s best friend. We knew James would return home. The question was when.
Well, I got my answer over a shot of vodka. He arrived the day before I left for Spain, Aimee told me. After dropping me off at the airport, Aimee had driven to James’s house. She hadn’t meant to see him, but she couldn’t seem to drive away. Then suddenly he was there, on the sidewalk, knocking on the passenger-side window. And she let him into the car.
“Do you love him?” I asked.
“No. Not in the way that matters.” Ribbons of tears cut across her cheeks.
“What’s the way that matters, Aimee? Do tell. Because to me, love is love.” I bit out the words, letting her hear my anger, my shock at finding out she’d kissed him. That James had pulled her onto his lap, and that his hands had been all over her.
“I am not in love with him.”
I felt my eyes harden, my expression chill, as I looked at her across the table. She was miserable. Her hand shook when she reached for the bottle, only to pull away. She folded her hands in her lap.
The kitchen was quiet; we were quiet, sitting on opposite sides in the dim light. I inhaled deeply and closed my eyes when I asked, “Do you want to be with him?”
“No.” She looked at me, appalled. “No!” she repeated more firmly. “I love you, Ian. I’m in love with you. I’m sorry I went to see him. I didn’t mean for it to get out of control the way it did and I can’t apologize enough. I’m sorry. Can you ever forgive me?”
I poured myself a shot, then another.
She watched me, and she watched the bottle, the quick pours into my shot glass and my fast empties as I tossed them back. “Say something,” she whispered when I finished.
I slowly shook my head. “I don’t think I should right now.” I excused myself and retired to my office. I told myself I needed time to sort this out. I needed to believe she did love me and wouldn’t leave me. But the truth? I didn’t need to convince myself of anything. I knew she loved me. I knew in my gut she wouldn’t leave me. As to forgiving her? I already had, long before James returned sin
ce I knew he eventually would. That’s how much I loved her. But it hurt. It hurt big-time.
Over the next few days, we talked about it, and gradually, over the summer, we eased back into a comfortable rhythm, though not quite at the same beat. But we survived James’s return. Our marriage was still intact. Or so I thought it was.
“I’m coming over. Tell Aimee not to leave.” Whatever James said to her, whatever he did to her, I needed to know what happened, right now. Not in an hour. Not tonight. And especially not tomorrow. Because the last time James was in town, he kissed my wife.
Scratch that. It wasn’t a kiss. It was a hands-all-over-James-would-have-fucked-her kiss had Aimee given him the chance. Had she told him yes.
But she hadn’t.
Thank God Aimee didn’t go back to him. Thank God James moved to Hawaii.
Then why is he back and what does he want with Aimee?
My wife.
The possessive thought punches through my skull as I hang up with Nadia and grab the car keys. Wondering what James will do and what he did with Aimee this afternoon has me racing down the freeway to Nadia’s flat in downtown San Jose.
I jab the code for Nadia’s underground parking garage and tuck the car into a guest spot. Within minutes, I knock on her door and she immediately answers as though she were standing on the other side, waiting. She smiles, lips closed and brows raised, and steps aside. I take it as a silent message of good luck. My heart taps a nervous, rapid rhythm against my sternum.
Any man—straight or swinging for the other team—would be captivated by Nadia’s auburn hair, jade eyes, and sharp facial structure. She possesses the type of beauty you can’t look away from, which is what I set out to achieve in the series of photos I took of her a couple of years ago. They’re mounted on the far wall of her open-space flat. I intensified the red of her hair and green of her eyes, a striking contrast to the living space’s palette of grays and wood grains.
But I don’t see these portraits. Nothing about my surroundings registers. I only have eyes for Aimee. She stands across the room, arms folded tightly so that her fingers dig into her lower rib cage. She stares out the window, a wall of glass looking out to the city’s lit downtown. Dusk has arrived, lending just enough light in Nadia’s darkened apartment to illuminate the moisture on Aimee’s cheeks.
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