“It figures. You do realize you rival Stella’s best efforts at being a two-year old—well, almost two.” Although, thankfully Stella approves of Max. Daddy was her first word, and he more than appreciated it.
Colt doesn’t say anything, he just goes into Mitch-mode again with his ultra serious demeanor, those hooded lids that I swear are trying to lure me into the bedroom.
“Look, I know this isn’t easy for you,” I whisper. “But if it makes you feel better, Max and I haven’t even slept together yet. I want to do everything by the book because I know how much Mitch would hate this.”
Colt comes to life with a little chuckle. “You cut him off, huh? You know what Mitch would appreciate even more? If you continued to give him the shaft after the nuptials. You could have one of those celibate marriages that are all the rage.”
I avert my eyes at his absurdity. “Celibate marriages are not ‘all the rage.’ More like an outrage, maybe.”
“Yeah, well”— he jabs his fork in food and spins it in a circle like a little boy—“why don’t you try it out and report back to me.”
My heart drops to my feet. It’s like Mitch is in there hiding, listening in, speaking through his older twin. I swear if Colt donned a suit, wore that tragic smile of Mitch’s I couldn’t tell them apart.
I push my plate back. No point in even trying to eat. All this talk about Mitch, these circular thoughts, I know where they lead. It takes hours to recover from having my heart shattered all over again. Death does a lot of things, but it doesn’t take away the patina of misery once you lose somebody. Time doesn’t heal all wounds. I’ll grieve Mitch until the day I die, and I’m grateful Max understands that.
“I saw Viv today.” He pulls my plate back and does his best impression of his brother again.
“Lucky you,” I smear it with sarcasm. Who knew it would be Viv saving me from this catastrophe of a conversation. “I’ve seen her around town a few times—still very single—always inquisitive when it comes to my future husband.” There. I’ll keep the focus on Max and ditch out the door after dinner. Too much more of Mitch in this room and I might jump out the window just to escape him.
“She gives it three months.” He blinks a smile and morphs into Mitch with the long commas inverted on either side of his shit-eating grin. My stomach gives a tight squeeze, and I try to ignore it.
“Really?” I belt out a laugh. “Only half the time she was married to Max? She thinks she’s that good, huh?”
“Yeah, well, I told her not to worry.” He wraps an arm around my waist. “I let her know I had plans to steal you away”—Colt drops a kiss to the back of my neck—“that the wedding wouldn’t happen.”
My stomach cinches as he sears me with his touch, and for a second I fool myself into thinking it is Mitch. He’s crawled into my head for the evening and now there was no escaping him.
“Right,” I huff. “Like I’m going to let you seduce me into oblivion.” I’m starting to wonder if Kat was onto something. “You’re delusional.”
We move over to the couch where there’s a playoff game on TV, and I let Colt enjoy the last several minutes while I zone out and stare at the ceiling—so blank and wide, it invites me to drift wherever I want.
The wedding swirls through my mind, but something else is clawing at me, and I can’t pinpoint what. It keeps eluding me like a dream I long to remember. I can feel change coming like a wave, ready to crest on the horizon. Something earth shattering this way comes. It unnerves me, makes me shake on the inside. Sure, I’ve been with Max for a while now, but this was a monumental event. Marriage—becoming Mrs. Max Shepherd.
It’s losing that final part of Mitch that hurts the most—his name. Stella has it, and after Max adopts her, she’ll keep it as a second middle name. I have it as a business. Townsend. I try mouthing it, but it only makes things worse.
Images of Mitch and me on our wedding day come back in snatches—how young we both were, how beautiful. He was ready to leave the reception to start our honeymoon right after Colt gave the toast. So happy, so much joy.
I look over at him next to me on the couch. Why did you have to die? I gaze out at Colt as if the answer were about to spew from his lips.
“What’s on your mind?” Colt gets up and puts in a DVD.
“Your brother.”
“Which one?” He blinks a sarcastic smile. Janice insists Max calls her Mom. Janice is everyone’s mom, always has been—hell—Kat calls her Mom.
I pull a face. “Your favorite brother.”
“My favorite?” He stabs a finger in his chest. Colt sports an early spring tan. He’s lost weight and his features are more cuttingly handsome than usual, which would explain the line of women trailing him all over town. “You mean the one that used to be your favorite.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Life’s not fair, Lee. So what’s going on? He haunting you?”
“I wish. It bothers me, though, you know, about what he’d think.”
“He’s rolling over.” Colt’s demeanor changes—darkens unexpectedly.
“Spinning. Mitch is spinning.” In his grave, but neither of us will say it. “So, get me some champagne. I think I need that drink now.”
The movie drones on. It’s so dark in the room, I feel immobilized as the television spasms over us with an assault of light. Colton keeps replenishing my glass, and I pretend not to notice. I think the game plan is to get me good and drunk then disrobe me once I pass out on the couch. I told Kat I’d be out late. Late night, early morning, what’s the difference? It’s clear I’m spending the night. Besides, I don’t plan on adding a DUI to my list of horrific new life events. Not that marrying Max is horrific. God no. I love Max. I wish he were here instead of Colton.
I close my eyes, and my head rolls with its own velocity. The world swills side to side, threatening to take me down with its exaggerated gravity.
“Maybe that champagne wasn’t such a good idea.” I struggle to stand and make my way to the window. Townsend sits in the distance with the moon illuminating the brilliant green vines as far as the eye can see. The cold night envelops the fields, cloaks it in an electric glow like a pale blue canopy. It’s an amazing world through a midnight lens—a portal to anywhere, anytime. It lies to you and tells you that all things are possible—that what you desire most is right at your fingertips if only you believe.
Colton crops up behind me and fills my flute to the brim. He fiddles with the remote and lands the TV on some sappy music channel. I squeeze my eyes shut and drain the glass—tell him I want another. I’m not one to hold my liquor. It slows me down. I like the way it heats through me, sets fire to my veins like racing lava. It makes disorientation feel like a whole new dimension, challenges me not to care or rationalize what I’m about to do next.
I down glass after glass like a repeat performance.
Mitch pulls me in, gurgling his affection into my neck and my hair as I wrap my arms around his waist.
“I miss this,” I say just below a whisper.
“You’re gonna be on the floor soon,” he says, warming the top of my head with his oven-heated breath.
“Come on.” I pick up his hand and start to sway. I meant to say let’s dance, but my tongue can’t seem to navigate the words. “God—I miss everything about you.”
“I’m right here.” His smile brightens the entire room.
“Why were you gone so long?” I pull back to take him in, and the ceiling spins.
Mitch doesn’t say anything. He just gives me those bedroom eyes with his lids hooded low because he knows I’m susceptible to all of his devices. He glides his hands inside my sweater, and I let out a breath I didn’t even know I was holding. I miss his touch, the special way he looks at me just before he dives in for a kiss. We dance away from the television, and his face gets lost in the shadows. It transforms into a thing of beauty and I gasp.
“You’re really here,” I marvel. It comes out dull, unrequited.
; I pull him in tenderly by the cheeks and land my lips over his and linger. My heart soars, my insides detonate with my pent up lust for him.
An urgency takes over as I bite into his lips. I swipe my tongue over his, soft and fluid, before indulging in a kiss that supersedes time, and space, barriers as wide as the sea—even death has proven no match for our love.
A moan gets caught in my throat as I pull off his T-shirt. My hands spread over his chest in a smooth circle. I pull him to the floor, running my fingers along the lip of his jeans. Mitch pulls my shirt off and touches his heated flesh to mine and my insides quiver as he extinguishes this primal ache within me. I’ve missed him with an exploding passion. It feels so good to feel his skin—touch his body one last time.
We peel off our clothes, run our hands wild, like stoking a fire. His lips track a line of molten kisses up and down my body, nothing but a trail of lightning.
His bare flesh rakes over mine. My legs wrap around his back like a vine. Mitch lands his hands over my breast as thrusts himself into me with a forceful plunge. I throw my arms up over my head and let Mitch move inside of me.
A seam of light penetrates my lids, and I struggle to pry them open. They’re heavy as lead, gritty with sand, and for a moment I wonder if I fell asleep at the beach again. Of course, Stella is always nice enough not to drown when I do that. Not that I make a practice of it.
“Stella?” I try to lift up my head, but it holds the heft of a bowling ball. I give several hard blinks as the scenery around me blooms into some alien environment.
The scent of bacon lies thick in the air as Colt’s living room reconfigures itself in snatches.
“Wakey, wakey, eggs and bacon,” Colton sings, setting a dish on the coffee table before scooting it toward me with his knee.
“Crap.” I get up on my elbow only to see my boobs hanging low with a surprise greeting of their own. “Shit!” I pull the blanket up to my chin before peeking below and confirming my theory. “I’m naked,” I groan.
“Relax. It wasn’t a catching condition.” He shoots me a sharp look as he takes a seat on the table.
“Oh my, God.” I dreamed of Mitch—of his masterful kisses, his tongue lashing over me like a brand. “Did we?” I glance down at the thin blanket conforming to my curves.
Colt bears into me a moment too long before relaxing back into his jovial self.
“You did a table dance. You’ve got a pretty good routine going. Max is a lucky guy.” He blinks a smile. “If I were you, I’d work on the stripping part. You damn near broke your neck when you tripped out of your jeans.”
I sit up and pull my knees up and my vagina burns like a volcano erupted in it.
I look back over at Colt and hold his gaze because we both know damn well he’s lying.
“You’re right, Colt. Max is a lucky guy.” I press my lips together to stave off the tears. “Maybe we could keep the stripper thing to ourselves.” I cut him a look that threatens to hack off his balls with a fork if he doesn’t comply. “You know, until I can perfect my routine.”
“Maybe we should.” He meets me with his steely gaze. Gone is the playful Colt, I know and love, and in his place, the one who judges me through his brother’s eyes. And now we have a secret—one I would do anything to erase if I could.
“I’m sorry I ever came,” I whisper.
“I’m not.”
“You should be.”
Reeducation Through Labor Center
Mitch
“Mei,” it slashes from me like a barb. My throat is on fire—my head’s been burning up with a fever for three days straight.
I clasp my hand over hers as she walks on by, and she takes the rose, casual, as if nothing happened.
Twelve days I counted in isolation for distributing origami. Paper roses. Of all the time spent logging hours in the house of God, all I have to show for it is three verses from the good book, playing fast and loose with my memory—not including works cited. Go ye therefore into all the nations baptizing them in the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, Mathew something. For God so loved the world He gave his only begotten Son, and whoever believes in Him shall live. Mathew again? No clue. And the final installment of the proselytization trilogy is Jesus wept, nothing to quantify it with, no context, no book, just a weeping savior at best. It works, though. I may be low on ammunition, but it packs a powerful punch in a hellhole like this.
The detention center is a voice free zone. No talking, no whispering to a single soul, and that alone is a part of the torment. Voices are an intrusion, a sign of anarchy at its finest. These cloistered walls are littered with the downtrodden of the male species. The few women that mill around are authority figures, hence, Mei. It’s the feminine league that doles out food on the line, offers asymmetrical haircuts at discount prices, and supervises as we trim our toenails, lest we slit our throats in the process. Not a bad way out if you consider the alternatives.
I hear there’s an all women’s camp across the way, but no dances. It doesn’t matter, I’ve got all the dance partner I need in Lee, and she’s not even on this continent—same planet, though. There should be some comfort in that but there isn’t. We share the same sky, same moon. If I think about it too much, I start to lose it, especially at night. I used to hold it in, fight it. But it feels good to shed rivers for Lee. I’m sure she’s done the same. I hate the idea in theory, but it brings a little comfort thinking she might still give a damn about her idiot husband who got caught up in a Bible-thumping roundup while sleeping on the job—accused of being a spy, no less. Anyway, that’s the only the thing Lee and I have left for each other—tears—enough to fill an ocean. We could raise glass after glass of our precipitous sorrow—nothing but a haze of deteriorating memories.
I can feel the promise of a smile evaporating on my lips. No real reason to smile in this shithole ever.
I wait until lights out then reach for the pen from under my mattress, the paper I’ve precut to form the God-inspired floral arrangements. If I’m lucky the moon will show and guide my already treacherous penmanship. Some nights I just cut paper—score it with my fingernail while pretending to slit the throats of the assholes that have me hostage. Then I run my tongue over the dry parchment until it loosens moist and wet, and pretend it’s Lee. All of my sexual fervor for my beautiful wife reduced to stroking tree pulp with my tongue until it perforates.
I take a breath and consider the gravity of the fucking fall.
Lee and I had forever in the palm of our hands until I managed to get myself locked in a dungeon, proliferating the curse that’s been plaguing my family since before the time of my father.
I shake my head at the thought. Every single thing I touch turns to shit. Maybe that’s why I’m here. Some higher power wants to protect Lee from the great Townsend travesty—too late for that.
Every now and again I start to hallucinate and find my father sitting next to me. He looks bored as hell, and I can’t say I blame him. I want to yell at him—beat the shit out of him, but I’m in no mood to nurture my budding insanity.
The parchment crumples in my hand as if vying for my attention, and I get back to the task at hand—the fine art of making love to paper. Learned all my best tricks from a guy who grew up on a junk boat named Gao. The police caught up with him after he stole a bag of lentils, trying to feed his dying grandfather. He knows enough English to call me Crazy Mitch—crazy, because those paper roses are just cause for ruin in this desolate hell. But I saw the hope it ignited in others, the way those words lit the halls like a football stadium at midnight. I always did get off on a forbidden high. Who knew verses from the tree of good and evil could spring an entire fountain of hope in a desert like this.
There’s no doubt in me I’ll be here as long as the eye in the sky sees fit, but rumor has it he cares about what I want, too. And all I want is to be with Lee and our perfect baby. I can still see Lee clearly in my mind, beautiful always—her scent surrounds me like a ghost. She glows in the
midnight hour, comes to life, gyrates around the room good and pissed because I won’t come home.
I want to come home Lee, but God says no.
No hope for you, Mitch Townsend.
Here come the waterworks.
Max
Dear Lee,
I’m up before the sun because I cannot wait to make the most beautiful woman on earth my precious wife. I’ll be honest. I have dreamed of this day far too long. This moment weighs more than gravity. It encapsulates a lifetime of my love for you, and embraces the life ahead we’ll be living together. I’m in awe of everything you are, and so very humbled that you would choose to spend your life with me. Can’t wait to see you.
All of my love,
Max
I fold it up and seal the envelope. I’m having two-dozen lavender roses delivered to the beauty salon where Lee is having her hair done. Stella is with her, so I pick out a mini bouquet and sign it Love Daddy. It warms me to the bone to hear her say it. Lee taught her that—had her calling me Daddy as soon as she could speak. The adoption won’t be final until Christmas, but for all practical purposes I’ve been Stella’s dad since the day she was born.
Lee made sure Stella knows about Mitch. She keeps a picture of him on Stella’s nightstand, and Stella calls him, Picture Daddy.
My heart thumps unnaturally.
Mitch—probably not a good omen to think about him right about now.
“Stop moving before I stab you in the heart.” My mother growls while doing her best to sever a major artery with my boutonnière.
She specializes in heart-stoppers, so I don’t move, just let her work and be done with it.
The groom’s room at the Mono Bay Assembly of God church holds the stench of old socks and stale pizza. I’m guessing it doubles as a doghouse for those not fairing so well in holy matrimony.
“There.” She slaps my arm. Her hair sits shorn a little too low over her skull, but I don’t say a word. “I’m proud of you, Max. Your father would be proud, too.” She presses her lips together, solidifying her resolve. “You marrying Lee is the best thing for this family right now.”
The Solitude of Passion Page 9