The Light Before Us

by Stephanie Vercier

  “It happens,” I tell him as I set about opening windows with Jack following my lead. “I’ve burnt my fair share of stuff too.”

  Grabbing one of the oven mitts Jack had tossed on the counter, I use it to wave as much smoke out the windows as I can while he opens up the back doors and the front one too for good measure. Thankfully, there’s a breeze in the air this evening, and it doesn’t take all that long for the smoke to clear.

  “I really fucked that one up,” he says with a stony expression and a shake of his head.

  Returning the oven mitt to the counter, I take a closer look at the food. It’s burned beyond recognition and basically unidentifiable. It might be totally uncalled for, but I can’t help but to laugh.

  “Hey,” he says, cracking a smile. “It’s not supposed to be funny.”

  “But it kind of is.” I grin back. “I don’t think either of us are very well versed in the kitchen, but it’s all about learning, right?” Then I take a look at the oven dials and add, “And I don’t think you’re supposed to set things to broil when you’re just warming something up.”

  “What… I did that?” He comes closer so that he can see for himself. “Shit… I did,” he says and then turns it off.

  Even with a lingering burning odor in the air, I can still smell Jack, something masculine that makes me bite at my lower lip.

  Keeping my composure, I say, “No biggie,” then take a large spoon and dig through the layer of burnt crispiness in one of the baking dishes. “Look, it’s macaroni and cheese! And it’s still edible under the black part.”

  “Hmm…” Jack looks over my shoulder. “Then I should probably be the one to scrape it off. I’m the one who promised you dinner.”

  I shrug, that electric current returning. “You do one, and I’ll do the other, okay?”

  “Fair enough,” he says.

  We go to work, side by side, salvaging a dinner that I know my parents would have just tossed, going hungry if they had to. But with Jack, I feel a camaraderie, like we’re two refugees from a world neither of us fits into, willing to work together to figure things out.

  Looking over at Jack, I can’t even begin to imagine Michael in his place. In all our years of dating, Michael and I never cooked together, never had the opportunity to burn something in the oven, try to salvage it and then laugh about it later. No, our dinners were at restaurants where you absolutely had to have a reservation, where it was more about showing off your status than it was about the food. He and I had never once driven through a fast food drive-thru or ordered pizza so we could stay in and watch a movie for the night. Maybe it was my fault for not suggesting something simple, for not trying to pull Michael closer to my dreams and expectations for what a relationship should be. And yet, I instinctively know he would have just laughed at me, called me quaint or silly in the same way he’d once called Jack and Marjorie cookie-cutter.

  “You sure this is all right?”

  When I look away from the baking dish, Jack’s eyebrows are wrinkled.

  “Yes… of course. Why?”

  “I don’t know. You didn’t look very happy there for a minute. You can tell me if it’s not okay, you know? I can take it.”

  His slight smile is adorable, and I want to tell him that, but I don’t.

  “I was thinking about Michael.”

  The smile fades as he says, “You were?”

  “He just… he wouldn’t have been able to handle something like this. He’s a lot like my parents.”

  He tilts his head toward me, says, “Yeah, you’re probably right.” And I think he must understand just what I mean without me having to explain any further.

  The burnt food and us salvaging it acted as an ice breaker, one that led to laughter and problem solving. But once we actually sit down to eat, things get all quiet. For my part, I’m at a loss as to what I should say to him. I should be able to tell him about the engine light coming on in my car, how I’d pulled into a mechanic shop and been assured it was an easy fix, leading to me meeting Will.

  But I don’t.

  I’m not sure I could take Jack looking back at me with apathy when I tell him I’ve agreed to a date. Maybe what I’d actually see is a flash of jealousy, but I’m not sure I want to take the risk either way. And then when I think about Camille and her attraction to Jack and the possibility she could wear him down, I find myself fidgeting with my fork and bouncing my knee.

  “You okay?” Jack asks, halting the forkful of still slightly singed macaroni he’s bringing to his mouth.

  “Huh?” I set my own fork down and place my hand on my knee to stop the bouncing.

  “You seem kind of… I don’t know… nervous?” He eyes me expectantly.

  “I was just thinking about Barbara and the best way to help her.” It’s the first thing that comes to mind, and while it’s not what I’d just been thinking, it’s not completely untrue.

  “Oh. You sure that’s it? You don’t feel uncomfortable around me, do you? It’s the sweat, isn’t it? I should have showered.”

  “No, of course not! You’ve been great, Jack. It’s just all of this is so new to me, actually having a job and being more independent. It’s just a lot.”

  He cracks a slight smile. “Okay, okay. I’ll try not to read too far into things. You tell me if there’s a problem though, okay?”

  “I will,” I agree, grateful for the easy out.

  The rest of the meal is spent talking about Barbara and the project Jack is working on in the back, both very safe topics. I help him clean up, and I start washing the dishes while he throws the burnt remnants of our meal outside for whatever critters are roaming around. After the last plate is dried and put away, Jack excuses himself to go and shower, and I tell him I’ll be reading in the living room. I do sit down on the couch and open up a paperback romance I’d picked up at the discount store, but I don’t get more than a few pages in before I get right back up and head to my room.

  I hadn’t been able to concentrate on that book waiting for Jack to come out of the shower, his hair damp, his body smelling clean and fresh. It’s only when I’m alone in my room that I feel relief from the barrage of thoughts that go through my mind when I’m around Jack. They’re exhaustive, energy draining thoughts that should help me sleep. But when I finally turn off my light and lay my head on the pillow, all I can see is his face, and sleep is elusive.

  Chapter Eleven

  JACK

  When I finish my shower and change into a clean T and shorts, Natalie is nowhere to be found on the first floor. I thought she’d mentioned she was going into the living room to read a book, and I’d imagined joining her and cracking one open as well. I’d picked up a copy of The Sun Also Rises on a bit of a whim and was looking forward to reading some Ernest Hemingway instead of another one of the countless self-help books I’d started and never finished over the last year, books that had done nothing to ease my pain.

  I’m surprised at my level of disappointment, and I check to be sure that her car is still here—it is. And then I go up the stairs to make sure she’s in her room—she has her door closed, so I’m going to go with affirmative. Knowing she’s safe and sound, I pad back down the stairs, grab a beer from the fridge, pop the top off and take a long pull, drinking nearly half of it down in one glug.

  Strange of her not to say good night.

  Or is it?

  I pretty much collapse into one of the chairs in the living room and hoist my bare feet up on the coffee table, take another long drink and consider that maybe I don’t know Natalie at all, then laugh at myself for thinking I should. But, for as short a time she’s been here, I’ve managed to feel a connection to her that isn’t so easy to just write off or explain away as fantasy, something to make up for me missing Marjorie.

  She’s probably still uncomfortable around me for the way I’d pretty much attacked her the other night. She’s tried to be nice, to brush it off, but the fact that she’s chosen to spend the rest of her evening in her roo
m alone says otherwise. I’m sure the last thing she wants or needs after escaping from Michael is a guy old enough to be her uncle pressuring her to spend time with him or to tell him good night to avoid hurting his feelings. Jesus, maybe the girl is just tired and wants to sleep.

  Thinking of the fragility of my feelings makes me laugh, makes me feel weak. Hadn’t I spent enough time over the past year drowning myself in sorrow and letting my feelings get the best of me?

  I don’t want to feel, don’t want to get weighed down by things I can’t control or a past I cannot change. So, after finishing off my beer, I do what most guys do when they want to forget. I head back into the bathroom, get out of my clothes and hop under the shower again. I might see Natalie when I close my eyes, but once I grab my cock and get to stroking, whatever emotional pain I feel vanishes, and the only thing I have to think about is my own personal satisfaction.

  I should be able to sleep now. After sex or taking care of my own need, being able to close my eyes and drift off is one thing I can usually count on.

  But not tonight it seems.

  No sense tossing and turning in bed, being kept awake by thoughts I’d hoped to purge. So, I get back up, throw on my T-shirt and shorts again, along with a pair of running shoes, and head out into the night air. It’s warm enough, and an earlier wind seems to have moved some clouds into the sky where they now settle. They’re thin, the moon and stars still easily visible, the water of the lake reflecting the light of the night sky. It’s a good a night as any to walk down the dock, untie the boat and then slip in, gripping the oars and heading out over the water.

  It’s peaceful out here, both quiet and full of life. An owl hoots from time to time while frogs croak and crickets chirp. I’m far enough from the shore now that the sound of gently lapping waves against the beach is muted, replaced by the sound of water softly colliding with the boat. I stop rowing, secure the oars and relax, listening for fish breaking the surface to snatch up any insects that have settled their nearly weightless bodies on the water.

  There was a time, just after Marjorie was gone, when I was so deep in pain that I wouldn’t have thought twice about climbing out into the cold water and letting my body sink to the bottom like a concrete weight. I’m not a man prone to suicidal thoughts or bouts of deep, dark depression, but I couldn’t be saved from those things when she left. Maybe that’s why I thought the women would help, that Hayley and Jasmine could numb the pain. But being with them just made it worse with an added layer of guilt.

  Marjorie was supposed to be it for me. I’d never once looked at another woman when I was with her, never cared to. It sounds so fucking sappy, but she was my everything. And maybe if I’d agreed to have kids when she’d wanted them, there’d still be a stronger connection between us, a way to see her, some living proof that our time together had meant something, that I wouldn’t be left with nothing.

  But I’d put her off, not because I didn’t want kids, but because the clinic was growing beyond any of my expectations, mostly due to Lincoln and Louisa’s never-ending quest for new clientele. I would have been happy with so much less, but they managed to suck me into the dream of going big or going home, and I started to see it as a way to secure the futures of the children I’d have with Marjorie. I wanted to set things up so that I wouldn’t have to work eighteen-hour days to make up for spending a week off fishing or camping with my kids. I wanted to see them every night and tuck them in. I wanted to sit at the table and eat dinner with my wife, not be stuck at the clinic with take-out containers and stacks of paperwork.

  But I’d miscalculated. Working through my lunches and taking fewer patients than my partners hadn’t been enough. I’d waited too long for things to be just right, for me to believe I could give my all to a kid. And look where it’s gotten me.

  Maybe that’s why I was expecting something more from Natalie tonight. Regardless of the brakes I’d thrown on whatever was going on between us, I was still attempting to make some headway, to spend some extra time with her, especially since I’d fucked up the dinner she politely choked down. The fact is that I was hoping for something more than what I could ask for. I know damn well that if you feel something, you should act on it. Don’t waste time. I’d wasted too much fucking time before, and I didn’t want to do it again. But I wasn’t going to be that guy to come on strong to a woman who was depending on me for so much, for a roof over her head, for a safe place, somewhere she could take a breath and figure her life out.

  So, yeah, I’m between a rock and a hard place, and it fucking sucks.

  I suppose I could be a real dick and feel sorry for myself all night out here. People who can’t look past their own misery annoy me, and I don’t want to keep on being one of them. So, reminding myself that the entire universe doesn’t revolve around me, I take hold of the oars and row back in. I row hard and fast and am back to the shore in no time, jumping onto the dock and tying the boat back up.

  With a sense of melancholy I’m desperate to shed—if someone could just let me in on the foolproof way to do it—I head back toward the cabin. An owl hoots again. The frogs still croak, and the crickets continue chirping. Then a new sound joins the chorus.

  A meow.

  It’s tough to see him at first, but the faint light from the back of the cabin illuminates Blue’s feline form as he comes out of the shadows and slinks around my legs.

  “Hey there, buddy.” I bend down and pet him, not feeling so alone anymore. “I hope you weren’t tempted to eat that burnt up shit I threw outside, were you?”

  His loud purrs tell me that he’d probably only eaten the sardines I’d put out earlier for him and hadn’t been desperate enough to eat the charred remains of our dinner that raccoons and birds will probably make disappear.

  I drag one of the Adirondacks closer to the cabin, then sit with Blue on my lap for a while and make a decision. I’m going to stop with all this angst, give up on this back and forth in my head about whether it’s right or wrong to covet Natalie, a girl—no, a woman—who is so beautiful that it hurts to have her so close. But what will hurt more would be disappointing her and being the kind of man she doesn’t want me to be. Even worse would be her giving in to me and then going forward when I’m not even sure I’m really over Marjorie.

  “You’re lucky you’re a cat,” I tell Blue whose eyes glow a shade of yellow in the darkness of night. “I’ve got a feeling you’ve been around, little buddy. You love ‘em and leave ‘em? It’s simple for you, isn’t it?”

  He meows loudly, and I take it as him telling me I need to buck up and not be so pathetic.

  I’ll put all my excess energy into building the back porch I’d started today.

  Stay busy and think less.

  With at least some resolve, I nudge Blue who’s settled into my lap. “Time for me to head in, little guy.” When I stand up, I yawn and think I might actually be able to catch some sleep.

  I half expect Blue to dart back out into the woods, but he follows me through the back door, into the mud room and then into the house before I can stop him. If I’d wanted to keep him as an outdoor only cat, he’s got other ideas. He darts up the stairs, and when I make it to my bedroom, I find him curled up at the foot of my bed like a loyal dog.

  “You’re not so feral after all,” I tell him, slipping off my shirt and trying to forget Natalie is just down the hall, so close, and yet so far away.

  When I settle in, Blue saunters up to me, nudges and then head butts me a few times before he’s had enough. I think he’s going to take off and want outside when he jumps off the bed, but he just goes to the corner of my room and nestles into some clothes I’d meant to throw in the hamper.

  I’m glad I’m not alone.

  And sleep finally comes easy.

  Chapter Twelve

  NATALIE

  Another day, and another note.

  Natalie,

  Please leave the mud room door open. I left Blue’s food in there, and I’m getting supplies to put
in a couple cat doors. Be back later. Probably be working on the porch.

  Jack

  Jack pretty much sticks to the facts in his note, no flourishes or personal additions. I’m disappointed somehow, but I’m not sure what I was expecting exactly. If anything, I should be grateful he didn’t add something in about me checking out on him last night when he’d gone in for his shower, me having promised him I’d be in the living room reading. Who knows, he might have been looking forward to the company. Then again, he might have actually been relieved I wasn’t there.

  Whatever he felt last night, I hadn’t been able to relax the way I’d wanted to once I was in my bedroom. I’d lain awake, listening to him come out of the shower, seem to settle into the living room before he was right back in the shower again. He’d eventually gone out the back door, and it was at least a half hour before he came back in, the muted sound of Blue’s meows accompanying him. It wasn’t until I could hear the soft sounds of snoring coming from Jack’s room that I was able to fall asleep. And I’d slept so well that I hadn’t even heard him get up and leave for the day.

  I make a quick breakfast and clean up after myself, all the while with no sign of Blue. Seems like that charmer of a cat is working on getting the best of both worlds, able to spend as much time as he wants outside while wrapping Jack around his paw enough to get a couple of cat doors put in so he can come and go as he pleases. The thought of Jack doing so much for a cat that just showed up out of nowhere warms my heart. In a way, it’s what Jack is doing for me too.

  As much as leaving Seattle has been about independence for me, I find myself counting more and more on Jack each day. Whether it be for shelter, a promise to keep my secret, a note—even one that cuts to the point—to look forward to each morning, or just the comforting sounds of his snores that help me to sleep, I find it more and more difficult to imagine doing all of this without him.