by S. E. Harmon
My father’s girlfriend—just thinking that word still gave me the heebie jeebies—was at the center of this vision, spearheading everything with oblivious enthusiasm. As usual, she’d be butting in at every turn, offering me advice about my love life, or lack thereof. She’d have her pert little nose all in my business, and her mitts all over my mother’s old cookware. She’d be flitting about in my mother’s kitchen, kissing my mother’s husband on the forehead.
Lane would be there with her husband, Rick, who would be solicitously inquiring after her the entire freaking time. The man was so perfect we should have just gone ahead and called him Superman. Just so we could make them a matching fucking set.
Art, my brother, would be there trying to take over the kitchen, because he was a chef and couldn’t help himself. My father would be in the background, muttering how real men don’t cook…mostly because he was a throwback from a different time. He didn’t seem to realize quite how angry that made me on Art’s behalf, and how close he was to getting a frying pan upside the noggin, father or no.
My luck being what it was, Adam would stop by with Nicole—sorry, Nic—in tow and everyone would be shooting me sympathetic, poor-you, why-hasn’t-she-tried-to-drown-herself-in-the-bathtub-yet looks. I’d be busy, too, mostly occupied with measuring my actions with the phrase “it’s not worth it” to avoid both arrest and possible incarceration.
My still drowsy brain scrambled for something…anything to ward off this train wreck from hell in the making. I should tell her the truth. That I wasn’t ready for another relationship and I needed some time to find myself. Some crap that Dr. Phil would say. But because I was fairly certain something in my brain was disconnected before one in the afternoon, I did not go with the smart route.
I took a deep breath and began to lie. I lied my ass off. “I’ve moved on from Adam,” I said breezily. “So you don’t have to worry.”
“You have.” Disbelief dripped off every syllable.
“Of course I have. You didn’t think I was pining, did you? What kind of person would still be pining after eight months?” And there it is, folks. She’s going for the gold in the Brazening it Out category.
That was where I should have left it. I was a successful woman. Educated. I owned a little over half of a successful business. I took care of myself, and I was pretty sure I didn’t need to make up anything about my life to make it seem better than what it was—
“I’m dating someone,” I blurted. Which just went to show I could always make a situation worse.
“You are?” She sounded like I said I had discovered a cure for a rare disease. “Who?”
Good question. “You don’t know him.”
“I know that. That’s kind of why I asked who.”
Right. I bit my lip. “Someone I’ve been seeing for a while.”
“What’s his name?”
I scrambled, looking around for inspiration. But unless Aunt Jemima or Tropicana was an acceptable name, the items on my counter were no help. Brian? No, didn’t my sister know all of my techs? Okay, maybe John-Luc. No, if I went places where I could meet some hot French guy named John-Luc, I wouldn’t be in this situation. “Jake,” I finally sputtered, thinking about my geriatric neighbor down the street. “His name is Jake.”
“Is it serious? You should have told me if it was serious. None of us have even met this guy. You should bring him along, so he can get to know the family. What does he do?”
As usual, my sister was switching categories so quickly it was hard to keep up. I didn’t know which question she wanted me to answer first, but it really didn’t matter. Most of her questions could be answered with an eloquent “I dunno.”
She took my silence for a green light to keep badgering me. She was just nifty like that. “You’ll bring him to the birthday celebration,” she said, as if it was already determined. “We’ll meet him then.”
“No, I don’t think—”
“Thank God, the kids are finally coming out. If this is a plot to get me to buy them a car, it’s working.”
“Lane, I’m not even sure—” The phone screen flashed and I suddenly realized I was talking to myself. “If I’m coming yet,” I finished lamely, like a sprinter running one hundred yards past the finish line.
It was going to take more than blueberry pancakes to fix this. I opened my fridge door grimly. It was time to bring out the big guns.
Bacon.
*
That night, I finally took that tub bath I’d been wanting. I didn’t go full on girly. No candles, no Enya playing in the background, and absolutely no bubbles. My favorite type of bath included something bluesy on my Bose and a strawberry wine cooler to keep me company. I threw in a couple bath beads that had molded together into some sort of bath bead monster, and they fizzed against my leg pleasantly as I stretched my toes.
I still hadn’t decided what to do about the family gathering. Lane had accepted my silence as an RSVP, and true to militant form, sent me further details in an email with more bullet-points than actual words. It actually sounded like it could be nice. A weekend vacation at the homestead in Coral Bay with the family. Time to reconnect, enjoy summer, and celebrate the old man. I could take a day to drive down and a day to drive back. Make a week of it.
I sighed. I sank below the tub line, low enough for the water to lap at the tip of my nose. My father pissed me off with this girlfriend business, but I still loved and respected him. He’d worked hard my entire life, two jobs most of the time—he’d been police officer in the day and moonlighted as a security guard at night. He and my mother had supported us, encouraged us, indulged us…believed in us until we believed in ourselves. He deserved a fuss.
Despite years of denials, I still thought he’d been disappointed to have girls. He wouldn’t admit it, but he was into all things society deemed “boy” things, and Art wasn’t exactly the poster boy for testosterone. Art was into doing his own thing, always had been, and his own thing did not include fishing, sports, or video games. Which left it to Lane and me. We had done our tomboy-ish best to answer the challenge. Lane had excelled at any sport that involved a ball and a net, and I had taken over the rest, pretending to like fishing and track until I actually did. My father had also taught me basically everything he knew about electronics, which certainly came in handy in the end.
Thinking about such things put a small smile on my face. It would be nice to see him. Nicer still to be back home, even if it was for just a little while. I could manage it—I had plenty of vacation time. I never took off, never took a break, and never stopped working. Such was the onus of owning your own business. Julian also always complained that I didn’t trust him enough. This could be a chance to prove I trusted my partner to be…well, exactly that.
I dipped below the water line, my scalp briefly prickling as the water covered my head. I sat there in suspended, submerged silence, thoughts racing through my head.
God, it was so…dare I say it, depressing to be there without her. Empty. Lonely, even in a houseful of people. It was like she’d been our glue…our center…some type of human centripetal force, and without her, our planets were spinning, spiraling apart. On the rare occasions we actually gathered, instead of reminding me what we had, it just underscored what we’d never have again.
Finally listening to my lungs’ plaintive cries, I surfaced. I came up sputtering, water flying in every direction. I smoothed my hands up my face, wicking water from my skin and displacing it throughout my hair.
This wasn’t what she would have wanted…this disjointed version of us. I knew that without a doubt. She wouldn’t have wanted Lane in New York, Art in Vegas, and me in Miami, everyone preoccupied with their own lives. She definitely would have wanted us to come home at some point and touch home base. Together.
“I’ll be there,” I said to no one in particular, my voice scratchy like I’d been crying. That was strange because…my hand touched my cheek and I was surprised to find a few tears comingling with th
e water droplets. Fuck. I had to get it together. I wasn’t even home yet and I was blubbering like a baby.
I sat in the tub for a while that night, absently using my toe to play with the faucet fixture, my eyes fixed on the cooling water. I wasted time, thinking impractical thoughts in a way I rarely did—mostly because it was pointless to ask questions that had no answers. Pointless to ruminate in the past. Despite knowing that, I sat there, set adrift in a sea of innately inexplicable philosophy. Wondering why we had to die. Why we never had enough time. And why things had to change.
CHAPTER THREE
After my bath, I threw on some pajamas and put my hair up in a topknot to dry. I headed out on the deck, iPad and soda in hand. It was a tiny deck, but more than functional for my purposes—two Adirondack chairs, a tiny table, and a few plastic plants. The wide, scarred wood planks were rough on my feet as I padded over to one of the chairs and dropped into it.
I propped my feet up on the railing and nestled my Diet Coke beside my hip. From my vantage point, I had a fantastic view of the park…beautiful flowering trees and landscaped bushes, all surrounded by a modest walking trail. And when the sun set just so and lit the trees from behind, they looked like they were on fire. Sometimes I fell asleep out there, watching the orange flame turn umber, blush, and finally black.
I was immersed in a book when I suddenly heard a noise, and looked up to find Julian ambling up the deck stairs. “I tried knocking, but there was no answer.” He lifted my leg bridge to pass and put them back down. “I saw your car, so I figured you were out here.”
“You’re excommunicated.” I glared at him briefly before going back to my iPad. “So beat it.”
“I’m guessing you found out I talked to Lane?” Julian dropped down in the other deck chair, and kicked off his sandals. “Jesus, AJ. It’s not like your schedule is such a huge secret. Besides, I thought you’d be happy to have a couple days off. Like a normal person.”
“It’s a very busy time for us—”
“And you know I can handle it.” He shrugged. “Why don’t you save us some time and tell me what’s really bothering you?”
I sighed. That probably would be better than having him drag it out of me. Like I usually made him do. I caved pretty quickly. “I kind of told her I was dating someone.”
“So?”
“So now she wants me to bring him. Which would be perfectly fine if he actually existed.” I sighed, giving up on my book. My fantastical journey through the werecat world did not involve a nattering companion. “I’m going to have to fess up and look like a complete idiot. Or worse, they’ll think I’m still hung up over that fool.”
Julian popped the tab on a can of Coke I hadn’t seen until that moment. “Well, are you?”
I scowled. I had a better question. “Did you go inside my house?”
“’Course. I also did a little snacking in your fridge. Can’t shrink you on an empty stomach, dear.” He waggled his eyebrows. “Now answer the question.”
“No,” I said with a glare. I was pretty sure that was my last Diet Coke. “I’m not hung up over Adam.”
And I wasn’t. In fact, I think went through the five stages of grief fairly quickly, if I may say so myself. Friends and family may or may not agree, but since when do they know everything? I frowned, thinking about the few months of my life after Adam dumped me.
Week One: The Denial Files. I did not cancel any of the wedding arrangements. Ridiculously delusional to the end, I’d steamrolled right ahead with the planning, hoping this it was all a nightmare, and he’d come to his senses.
Week Two: Anger, Thy Name is Avery. Someone may or may not have broken into Adam’s apartment and done some terrible things involving scissors and various items of his favorite clothing. I wouldn’t know the details. If the police ask, I was here all night. All. Night.
Week Three: Let the bargaining begin! I may or may not have done my heathen best to resurrect some of my lapsed Catholic background, and did a little praying. Then a little brown-nosing to God about all the things I would do if this was all a horrible joke, and I hadn’t gotten dumped before my wedding. God was not impressed. He told me to get lost and that he was working on world hunger.
Weeks Four to Nine: Depression. I’d slacked off in most areas of my life, thoroughly exasperating friends and family. I’d lain on the floor of the bedroom, looking up at the ceiling and coming to terms. At one point, Julian had dragged me by the ankles to the living room and left me there. He also put the remote by my head, which I appreciated. The dust in my hair from his cavemen tactics, I could have done without.
Week Ten: The forgotten caterer called me and told me she was ready to deliver the food. I promptly remembered that I’d forgotten to cancel the caterer. Because she couldn’t care less, and I couldn’t blame her, she delivered the food to my home. Appetizers everywhere. It looked like a mini Last Supper in my living room.
Week Twelve: Acceptance is a four letter word. I was not equating my acceptance with the arrival of the mini quiches, but sometimes coincidence was just the design of providence. They were filled with bacon and cheese, though. If that helped.
Try telling any of that to Julian, who was on a roll. “I fail to see the problem. Your dad’s birthday isn’t for another month, Winters. Surely even you can scare up a date in a month.”
“I’m going to ignore that ‘even you’ part. At least until I can come up with a suitable rejoinder. I’m not sure what it’s going to be yet, but I’m leaning toward something about your hair.”
“Well, am I wrong?” he demanded. “You’re smart. Fun. Relatively sane. Not exactly bad-looking.”
“Not exactly bad looking?” I pretended to preen. “Now that’s the kind of objectifying a girl could get used to.”
“I’m serious.” He gave me a hard nudge. A push, really. “I may be gay, but I think guys still go for tall, pretty, and stacked.”
I scowled. “Are you forgetting my recent foray into the dating pool o’ horrors? When I decided to jump in and see what I could catch?”
Turned out I’d caught a fishing boot, an old rusty can, and a tire. Like Dylan, who’d used a calculator to figure out our portions when the bill came. To the cent. Or Dale, who’d taken me on my first trip to Dave and Buster’s since my thirteenth birthday. He’d used the word “dude” obsessively. Unfortunately, I also used that word way too much, and you can’t have two people “dude-ing” one another in a relationship. It just didn’t work.
Dude, did you see that?
Yeah, dude. I did.
That’s awesome, dude.
We’d sound like two stoners who forgot where they parked their car. Then there was Martin, who’d brought his mom along on our date to the movies because, well…you know what, I was really still not sure on that one. Oh, and don’t forget about Rand, who’d made me watch a Sharknado marathon.
I thoughtfully nibbled on a thumbnail. I didn’t know if I can ever forgive him for that.
Long story short, I’d gone on enough dates to know that the old adage about frog kissing was completely, hopelessly incorrect. If you keep kissing frogs, you do not discover prince charming. If you keep kissing frogs, you just wind up as an expert on kissing frogs…which was, frankly, disgusting.
Besides, I wasn’t into forcing something that wasn’t going to happen. I was more about fluidity and nature that way. If I was supposed to meet someone, I would. If not? Well, I had my friends, my family, my work…it was enough. Lane had been more about making things happen on schedule—she’d had a plan and it had gone off without a hitch. She’d wanted to be married by twenty-five and have her first child by thirty. She’d met her husband in graduate school and she’d done exactly that. But that wasn’t me.
I wasn’t living my life to find someone. I wasn’t like my friends—it seemed like more often than not, each social media update was about someone getting married or a picture of a sonogram with a cute inscription. It was beautiful, wonderful, even, but that wasn’t my
life. And I wasn’t quite ready to lie down and die because I hadn’t found a mate. I had one life to live, and whether I found someone or not, I was going to live it.
None of this I’m-woman-hear-me-roar rhetoric helped me with my current situation.
Julian wasn’t quite finished. “All right, what about a fake date?”
“I’m not taking a stranger home with me.” I continued deleting emails. “If I’m going to be murdered, I kind of want it to be a surprise.”
Julian was undeterred. “Well, what about my brother?”
I shook my head. “Of course. What else would a big shot lawyer do with his time other than be my fake boyfriend?”
“He could use the vacation. As far as I can tell, the man never leaves his office.”
I’d only met Julian’s brother only a few times, but I knew that wouldn’t work. Who was Jackson, in a nutshell? Smart. Capable. He’d graduated near the top of his class at Duke and went straight into an internship at a prestigious firm. As far as I knew, he was on the cusp of becoming partner at a successful family law practice. The very epitome of someone who had his life together. If I were in the middle of a divorce, his face was the last face I’d want to see across the table.
I shuddered, thinking about Julian telling his put-together, handsome, successful brother that I was pathetic enough to need a fake date. No. All kinds of hells no. Wrap that “no” up in a slice of “I don’t think so” and serve it with a side of “what the fuck are you thinking” sauce.
“Think about it,” Julian continued, gathering steam. He clearly loved his idea and the sound of his own voice. He was like his namesake lemur on Madagascar that way. “He owes me a couple thousand favors. What better way to show up Adam than show up with Jackson?”
“This would be more than a favor, Jules. It would be a weekend with my family. Add that to a few days of travel, and it’s not just a quick visit. If he did this, I’m pretty sure you would owe him your firstborn child.” I gave him a poke. “And for the last time, this is not about showing up Adam. This is about—”