Two Weeks

by Andrea Wolfe

  I shake my head in slight bewilderment. Sweat is trickling down my brow and falling into the soil. It's so hot right now that I feel like I might be cooking inside—and I'm almost well-done.

  "I guess I never knew," I say. My parents always seemed so happy growing up that I hadn't even considered the possibility that they fought in private. It felt like a tremendous oversight on my part to not think that my parents were human and had disagreements like everyone else.

  "Oh, don't worry about it," she says. "We're fine. It was never a big deal. We're just glad that you're home."

  "I'm glad to be home too." I fall silent again as I consider telling her that Liz actually left yesterday and that when I go to "eat dinner with her" tonight, it will actually be with Jackson. But once again, the words won't come out.

  "Shit," my mom says."It's too hot out here. We're done, honey."

  I start laughing uncontrollably. "What's with all the swearing lately, mom? It's so funny to me."

  "I've got plenty of tricks up my sleeves," she says. "Let's get inside before we die of heatstroke. Give me your gloves."

  I stand up and toss my gloves over to her. My hands feel cool outside of the gloves, but not for long.

  We walk toward the house, trying to hide beneath the shade of the monstrous oak tree in our backyard. The walk seems a lot farther than it really is, especially with the heat.

  As soon as we get into the kitchen, my mom fills two glasses with iced tea. "Thanks for helping," she says. "I would have died out there alone."

  "Me too," I say. The central air is genuinely a life saver.

  "Are you going to be here for dinner tonight?" she asks, fanning herself with a random piece of mail.

  "I don't think so." It's all I say. I tense up as I await her next question, fearing that I'll just continue lying. But it doesn't come.

  "Okay," she says. She's playing with her phone. "Shit! It's one-hundred and two degrees out there! We're crazy!"

  I laugh again at the unexpected profanity. "You're just on a roll, huh?"

  It's a good day.

  ***

  Jackson

  Earlier that morning...

  I'm incredibly hungry when I wake up. My stomach is growling like I haven't eaten in weeks, but it's clear that hunger for food isn't the only hunger—I'm hungry for companionship. It would be a lie to say that I'm okay with the fact that Ally is gone when I step into the living room.

  It takes a few moments of adjustment to accept what I see. I wonder where she's gone, and why she left. None of her behavior felt malicious, just vague—and I want to know why.

  After downing my protein shake and readjusting my attitude, I begin my exercise routine. My morning run goes off without a hitch. It's hot and I'm super sweaty, but my energy levels are optimal. I spray myself with more water than I drink. I wonder the whole time if Ally will be joining me for sparring.

  I check my phone as I get back inside—still nothing. I'm a little anxious, but certain that everything is okay. In and out of the fridge I go, collecting items to make my breakfast. After about the tenth time, I finally discover her note and finally, I'm okay.

  I understand the strangeness of the situation, the strangeness of trying to omit the details, yet also function as a full-fledged adult in the very same home you grew up in.

  If she stays overnight with me, there is an obvious, glaring suggestion that we're sleeping together in more way than one. And she just broke up with her boyfriend on top of that.

  It's a little awkward.

  And with the unresolved tension between Jeff and me—tension by the way, that Ally has no idea about—it seems like things could get very messy very fast if my relationship with Ally is misconstrued.

  But all of that aside, I want this. I really do.

  And that truth is all that matters.

  After downing my plate of cheesy eggs, bacon, and toast, I shoot her a text to figure out if I can begin the rest of my workout. She responds almost immediately.

  Predictably, she's too sore, and I laugh as I read her response. I invite her to dinner, uncertain of what I'll even cook. Still, it sounds like a nice thing to do—and it's uncontroversial.

  She accepts my proposal and so I open the fridge yet again; there's basically nothing there we could eat, other than my stockpile of four dozen eggs.

  I'll have to make a supply run after I finish working out.

  In my peripheral vision, I notice the couch where she slept and go straighten it up. As I fold the blankets, I smell her in them, that rich, floral aroma that reminds me of frolicking in endless summer wheat fields as the sun sets. Laundry detergent commercial material.

  I pack the blankets away in the closet; something tells me that if she stays over again, we'll be sharing the same set of blankets. I don't think the thought is overly ambitious, and although I feel somewhat sleazy for thinking it at all, I don't think I'm being ridiculous.

  I feel very good. And that reminds me—why the hell was I so neurotic about cleanliness last night? It blows my mind in retrospect.

  As I train, I find that I'm replete with happiness in a way I haven't experienced in years. I focus more on body weight exercises today along with the usual cardio.

  I circle the bag for what seems like a long time, and every punch feels so smooth, so inspired.

  I practice combos on the bag, fluid chains of punches and kicks. My body feels indestructible and nothing seems to tire me out. I'm so ecstatic about Ally coming over that I don't know what to do with myself.

  After completing my routine, I take a quick shower and then head into town.

  There's only one grocery store, Keller's Market, in Red Lake, so you're more or less guaranteed to run into people you know there. And given my desire to remain under the radar, that can be kind of unpleasant sometimes.

  But if I don't eat, I'm going to have bigger problems than social anxiety, that's for sure.

  I head in and get a couple of NY-strip steaks from the meat counter, the finest ones they've got. They know me pretty well here, so I always end up with the best cuts in the display case. I grab a bag of fingerling potatoes and some broccoli, and then stop in the dairy section to get some cheese to make a sauce for the broccoli. And then I grab some salad greens and head to check-out.

  I pass the wine on my way there and snatch up two bottles of white.

  Of course, the only register that's open is manned by a guy from my graduating class, Chris Gentry. We never even talked in high school, so I was kind of frustrated when he sent me a Facebook friend request a few years ago.

  I never accepted it.

  We have nothing in common, other than our proximity to home.

  He's got his own place in Red Lake, a dinky little apartment that he shares with his wife and three young kids. I try not to be judgmental, but he's so buddy-buddy sometimes that I get pissed off and can't stop the caustic thoughts from coming.

  I try to avoid him as much as I can, but sometimes that just isn't possible.

  "Hey, Juggernaut," he says with an ingratiating tone, smiling and grinning as he throws out his hand for a combination high-five/handshake. I automatically go through the motions with him.

  I hate when he calls me by my stage name, but it's my fault for mentioning that I fight at all. He wound up being more computer savvy than I expected and uncovered the rest of the details himself.

  I underestimated him.

  "Hi, Chris," I say, unloading my items onto the conveyer belt.

  "You got any fights coming up, man? I'd like to come out with some of the guys."

  I shake my head and decide to lie. "No. I'm just training right now." I don't need a bunch of drunken former classmates shouting "Get 'em, Juggernaut!" all night. I cringe at the thought of seeing Chris and his posse in the audience.

  "Man, you don't need to train at all! You could beat the shit out of anybody!"

  He's driving me nuts. "Have you ever fought in a professional MMA fight, Chris?" I ask chidingly. "Just be
cause you're tough doesn't mean that the other guy isn't tougher than you. Or a better fighter."

  Chris laughs, even though I'm basically insulting him in hopes that he'll shut up. He doesn't understand that I'm peeved by his behavior. "Yeah, I ain't into the pro stuff," he says apologetically.

  I notice he hasn't even started scanning my items because of his incessant chatting. Things move pretty slowly in Red Lake, so he's probably able to get away with this sort of thing on a regular basis without any sort of repercussion.

  "Can we keep things moving here, Chris? I've gotta be somewhere soon."

  "Oh, shit, sure, buddy." He looks down at my items and starts scanning them one by one. I fall silent again. "Man, somebody's having a hell of a meal tonight," he says. It's clear that this is taking yet another turn that it ought not take. "You getting laid tonight or something? I saw you talkin' with Ally Moore the other night. She's hot, man. Couldn't help myself from taking a nice long look at that cute little ass of hers the other night. Isn't she married or some shit?"

  I imagine him and his Friday night drinking buddies staring at Ally all night, violating her with their eyes, imagining all of the awful things they'd do to her and joking about it. I can see her face, a look of disturbed confusion as she tries to figure out what they're saying.

  And I don't want her to know.

  I want to punch out his teeth, but I restrain myself and grab his shoulder and give him a firm shake. "Enough, Chris," I say. "I'm not your fuckin' bro and I don't need you talking like that."

  "Whoa, geez, buddy, didn't mean to piss you off or anything." He looks totally shocked, and I'm glad to see his fear. "Is she your girl now or something?"

  "Just because we both live here doesn't mean we have anything in common beyond that," I say, ignoring his question. I'm fuming inside. If he had actually said something like around Ally, I would have definitely punched him.

  But here, I let it go.

  "Is there a problem?" someone asks from behind me. "Chris, are you causing issues again?" It's the store manager, and he appears pissed.

  I'm suddenly filled with pulsing vitriol. This is my big chance. I can end all of this bullshit forever. Chris can see it in my eyes. He knows that I've got the upper hand. The customer is always right—and I'm both the customer and right.

  Chris doesn't respond, and neither do I. Our eyes lock and I can see the unadulterated fear on his face. But the further I look into him, the more I see that I can't do this, even though I'm pissed. I imagine his three kids and wife, stuck in that tiny shithole apartment here, living paycheck to paycheck.

  They're stuck in Red Lake, and this is the only job he's got right now since the economy sucks. I finally calm down.

  I realize that yeah, I could deliver a fatal blow, but I don't want to. That's for the ring, not here. I take a nice deep breath. I'm not vindictive, even though I feel that way sometimes.

  My sudden patience is surprising. Almost as surprising as my volatility when he brought up Ally.

  "Nothing's wrong," I say. "We were just messing around." I turn and face the manager for the first time, trying to lend credence to my statement. I fake a toothy grin, but Chris still looks shocked. The manager is exclusively paying attention to me, however.

  He's a short, bald man presumably in his mid-forties. I'm not sure if he's from around here or somewhere else since the store has changed ownership a few times even though the family name on the outside never changes.

  The manager scoffs and shakes his head. "Chris, can you try to keep things a little more professional around here? Remember, you're at a job, not at the bar with your buddies."

  "Yessir," he says both mechanically and obediently. I feel bad for him.

  The manager leaves just as quickly as he arrived.

  "Thanks for covering for me," Chris whispers.

  "It's fine," I say. "Sorry for grabbing you."

  "Maybe I had it comin'," he says solemnly.

  "Seriously, it's fine. But I've got to get out of here, Chris." Once again, he's doing a great job at apologizing, but still not doing his actual job.

  "Right." He scans all of the items as quickly as humanly possible, not even stopping to check my ID for the wine. I lift it so he can see it.

  "I don't need to see that," he says. "I know how old you are."

  "If he's watching you and you don't check it, he could fire you."

  "Dammit, you're some kind of genius or something." He pretends to look at it and then hands it back. I put it away and swipe my credit card. Chris bags up my groceries and I'm shocked at how fast he's finally moving. He's a hard worker when he wants to be.

  By the time the receipt prints, he's got everything ready for me. "Have a nice day, Jackson," he says. "And sorry."

  "No problem," I say.

  I get the hell out of the store before I encounter anyone else. When I'm in my truck, I start laughing, a nervous sort of cackling. What a weird encounter. I'm still shocked at how offended I got thinking about those guys ogling Ally. It was all that I disliked about Red Lake exploding in my face at once.

  Then again, I'm proud of the restraint I demonstrated when he basically pushed me to my limits. I'm not sure where it came from.

  I fill up with gas and grab a six pack of beer from the store cooler inside.

  After I arrive home, I text Ally to find out when she's coming. She tells me six, so I throw the stuff in the fridge and chill out for a little bit. I want to have everything ready by the time she arrives, so I'll get started soon.

  ***

  Ally

  Although I tell Jackson six, my mom starts cooking earlier than I expect. I decide that I don't want to walk out to go eat somewhere else right as they start eating, so I have to adjust my plans.

  My wardrobe is fairly limited—this trip was only supposed to be three days after all. Thankfully, I brought half my closet in case indecision kicked my ass. I still have a nice variety of cute dresses.

  I decide to wear the denim dress I've got buried in the bottom of my suitcase. I'm thrilled when I find it, a thrift store discovery that's finally being put to good use. It's a little short, but that's okay.

  I tell my mom I'm taking off and then I sneak out the side door before my dad arrives home. I decided that I'm going to tell them the truth the next time they ask.

  So now I'm trying to make sure they don't ask because I'm certain it'll be a little awkward.

  I sit in the rental car and drop the windows for a minute to let the hot air out. The shower I took post-gardening has already been undone in just a few short minutes outside and I'm thankful I remembered to wear deodorant.

  My intention to text Jackson before leaving is undone by my forgetfulness.

  After the short drive, I park behind Jackson's truck. I figure he's in the garage training, but when I approach the door, I notice the lights aren't on. I'm an hour early.

  I head to the back porch and tap on the glass to get his attention. Jackson is sitting in the living room, beer in hand. He looks shocked to see me.

  I'm shocked to catch him relaxing. I grin and try to open the door, but it's locked.

  "Lemme in!" I shout as I tap on the glass.

  He puts his beer on the table and runs over to me. "Sorry," he says through the glass. I hear the lock click and then the door slides opens.

  "Hi," I say, immediately hugging him. I'm kind of surprised when I do it. "Sorry I couldn't work out today."

  He hugs me back, matching my intensity. "It's no problem."

  "When am I gonna see you fight?" I ask.

  "This Saturday. Unless you've got other plans." Our hug slowly ends until we're just standing on the doormat.

  "You think I've got something else to do around here?" I ask.

  "That dress is incredible, by the way," he says, ignoring my statement entirely.

  I shirk at his direct compliment, but really, it makes me feel great. "Well, your whole body looks incredible," I say with an ingratiating tone.

  "
Thanks," he says. "I've tried to get it down to a science. It's not just narcissism—it's a personal goal." He motions for me to come in. It's hot as hell and we're standing inside with the door open. The air conditioner is probably engaged in the biggest fight of its life.

  "I see that," I say playfully.

  "Okay, so my plan was to cook for you. To have it all done before you got here." He grins at me. "But that clearly didn't happen since you showed up early."

  "What's on the menu?" I ask.

  "Steaks, broccoli, and fingerling potatoes. And salads."

  "That sounds awesome. I'll help you cook then." I'm excited since I'm usually too busy to cook. However, my mom's skills rubbed off on me in a serious way and I haven't forgotten what she taught me. "Only if you've got a beer for me, actually."

  "Absolutely," he says. He pulls one out of the fridge and hands it to me.

  "Thanks." I twist off the cap take a sip. "Let's get to work."

  I work on the potatoes while he lights the grill and marinates the steaks. I preheat the oven and ask him for instructions. "What were you going to do with them?" I ask.

  "I guess olive oil, butter, rosemary, salt and pepper. And anything else you can come up with." He continues working on the meat as he rattles off the ingredients.

  I chop them into small pieces and line the pan, drizzle them with olive oil, and then add the seasoning.

  "This is much easier with two people," Jackson says. I catch glances of him trying to perfect his marinade through dainty little tastes. Even though preparing meat is kind of a guy thing, he has a domestic, almost feminine charm as he works. "As much as I wanted to surprise you, I'm glad to have the help. I think I'm in over my head."

  I laugh at his honesty. I'm shocked that this is my life right now, hanging out and cooking with Jackson Ames. I came home less than a week ago and everything changed in my life at basically the exact moment I arrived.

  I wonder how long this will last.

  "I'm glad to help," I say. "This is easy stuff."

  He nods and doesn't waver from his task. When he appears satisfied with his efforts, he dunks the steaks in the mixture he concocted and then takes them to the grill. I finish the potatoes at roughly the same time and put them in the oven.