The Lifetime of A Second

by Jennifer Millikin

  “I’ll be over in twenty, is that okay?” I need to change and grab something to eat.

  “Yes!” Cassidy raises a fist. “Thank you. I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”

  She turns to leave, and I shut the door.

  The inside of Cassidy’s house looks like a toy store projectile vomited in a small, enclosed space. Dolls and stuffed animals, crayons, building blocks, paper, and even game pieces are everywhere. In the center of it all sits Brooklyn, playing some kind of game with plastic shapes. When she sees me, she tosses the game aside, the pieces flying into the air.

  “Brynn!” She runs to me and wraps her arms around my knees.

  “Hi, Brooklyn.” I wobble and catch myself on the doorjamb.

  Cassidy laughs and shrugs. “She loves you.”

  I’m not sure what to say, so I tell Cassidy she looks pretty. Her white top is very low-cut for a lunch date, but who am I to judge? I let Connor paint me half-naked.

  I walk farther into the small home and sit down beside Brooklyn. She’s putting shoes on a doll, her previous activity forgotten. She struggles to get one of the shoes on, so I hold the doll in place for her as she works the shoe over the ridiculous and unrealistic arch of the doll’s foot.

  “Jeremiah’s here!” Cassidy sings, pulling back her curtain. “I know I should make him come to the door, but”—she nods at Brooklyn—“I’m not ready to have that conversation with her.”

  “Have fun,” I say as Cassidy grabs her purse and swings it over her shoulder. “See you soon.”

  She bends down to kiss Brooklyn’s head. “Be safe and listen to Brynn.” Cassidy sails out the front door just as Jeremiah is on her first porch step. His lips stretch into a smile when he sees Cassidy. The door swings shuts behind her. I’m curious about Jeremiah, almost curious enough to watch out the front window, Walt-style, but I stay planted beside Brooklyn.

  When she’s done playing with the doll, I have her show me where her things belong. Together we clean up the room, and then I make her a snack. Once she’s finished with that, we go out back and I push Brooklyn on her swing set. She wants to go high and I tell her it’s not going to happen, to which she replies that her mommy lets her do it. If Cassidy wants to send Brooklyn to the moon, that’s her prerogative. I prefer a nice, safe medium-height arc.

  Declaring she’s going to pick a flower for her mom, Brooklyn slows to a stop and hops off the swing, walking determinedly to the vine growing along the wall. Big purple blooms compete for space down the entire length of the fence we share. Brooklyn walks back and forth, considering, before she reaches in and pulls one off.

  “This one is—” Brooklyn’s eyes widen, her mouth falls open. If I weren’t standing in front of her, I wouldn’t think such a scream could come from this small a person.

  “Brooklyn, what is it?”

  She grabs her throat and starts touching it. Her breath sounds shallow like she’s pulling air through a mesh screen.

  I scoop her into my arms and hurry into the house. I fly through the kitchen, grabbing Cassidy’s car keys off a wall hook in the kitchen as I go. Going through the front door and getting into the car is a blur. All I know is that Brooklyn is buckled and she’s still wheezing and crying and none of it sounds good or right. I don’t know squat about first-aid, and why did Cassidy ask me to babysit? How could she leave Brooklyn with me? I’m the least qualified person in the world to watch a kid. I might not have reacted appropriately if she choked. I don’t even know if I’m reacting appropriately now. Maybe I should have called 9-1-1.

  Do I have my purse? Do I even have my driver’s license?

  I’m driving.

  I grip the steering wheel and try to forget about that. I knew it would have to happen eventually, but not like this. Not in a possible emergency, not when I don’t have time to give in to my fear and let the road take away my ability.

  I pull up to the emergency room doors and hurry from my seat. Carefully I extract Brooklyn from her car seat and thank God for even the small breath she’s struggling to intake.

  With Brooklyn in my arms, I run past the glass door that slides open for me, skidding to a stop at the front desk.

  “I need help,” I shout. The woman sitting behind the desk watches me with eyes the size of dinner plates. “She was picking a flower, then she screamed and now she’s not breathing right. I need help. She needs help. Get a doctor. Right now!”

  She picks up a phone and presses a button. She stares at me while she waits for someone to answer.

  “Right now right now right now,” I demand, fear seizing me. My ability to stay calm went out the window the second Brooklyn began to scream.

  I will save this one.

  23

  Connor

  I just want my trusty sandwich. That’s it. The streets around the diner are a nightmare. People setting up seats along the parade route, children darting back and forth. I had to park four blocks away and walk here.

  “Mary,” I say, grateful for the woman behind the counter. She takes one look at me and clucks her tongue. “What?” I ask, swinging my leg over a stool and settling down with a thunk.

  “You don’t look so good.” She sets an iced tea in front of me and leans one forearm on the counter. “Did you break that girl’s heart?”

  I roll my eyes. “No. Why would you think that? Maybe she broke my heart.”

  “She might have, but the way you two were together, there’s no way her heart isn’t as broken as yours.”

  I grunt. I don’t want to talk about this anymore. I want to eat a sandwich, watch the parade from my spot at the diner counter, and get ready for the opening tonight.

  “Is this a Monte Cristo kind of day?” Mary asks.

  I nod and sip my tea while she goes back to the window, hands someone my ticket, and hollers my name for my extra fries.

  I’m staring at my hands, folded on the countertop, when I hear a guy from a few seats down call out Cassidy’s name. She turns to look at him, eyebrows raised. “How’s your little girl?” he asks loudly.

  Cassidy leaves the soda station and walks to the counter, coming to a stop in front of the guy who asked her the question.

  “She’s good, Chris. Thanks for asking. We didn’t know she’s allergic to bees. She’s never been stung.”

  “My wife said your babysitter was about to lose it.”

  Cassidy laughs softly and glances at me. “Brynn was a pinch hitter.”

  I straighten. “Brynn babysat?”

  “Yeah.” Cassidy is still standing beside Chris, but she’s directing her words to me. “I needed a last-minute sitter. I was hoping you’d be at her place when I went to ask, honestly.”

  I nod and keep quiet. I’m not interested in publicly declaring our split.

  “Brooklyn was stung and Brynn drove her to the emergency room. She used my car, obviously.”

  What the…? “Brynn drove?”

  Cassidy nods. “I didn’t even know she had a license. She doesn’t have a car, I guess I just assumed she didn’t know how to.” Her face pinks, like she’s embarrassed. The more she talks, the more it’s obvious she doesn’t know much about the person she left her child with, which is probably why she’s red-faced.

  Mary sets my sandwich down in front of me. The entire time I’m eating, I’m trying to picture Brynn behind the wheel of a car. The image is fuzzy in my mind, and I can barely place Brooklyn in the back. Does Brynn even know how to buckle a child into a carseat? I sure as hell don’t. She must have been terrified.

  I pull out my phone, bring up our text message conversation, and stare at it. My thumbs hover over the keyboard, but I can’t make them type. I don’t know what to say to her. How can the span of five days make us feel a world apart?

  The parade was cool. I’ll have to think up a better adjective than that when I see Julia. She’s going to want to hear something better than cool.

  I’m walking back to my car when I see shoulder-length blonde hair going the opposite d
irection.

  “Brynn,” I call out before I even know what I’m doing. Where is the connection between my brain and my mouth?

  She turns. Sees me. Her arms wrap around her middle. Protecting herself. Protecting her heart.

  I jog to her. I can’t play it cool and walk, I’m not one of those guys. Fuck my sleeve, my heart is on my forehead. It doesn’t matter anyway. She’s all but gone. That money should be in her account by now. It’s Friday.

  “Hi,” she says when I get to her.

  “Hey,” I say back. I want to grab her and feel the outline of her body against mine. I want to run my hands through her silky hair and nibble on the corners of her lips. I want to bury myself in her and never come out. I want to run away with her.

  My fucking foolish heart.

  I think she wants to touch me too. Her fingers curl into her palms, which are rigid at her sides.

  “Connor, I’m leaving in the morning. Something happened this week, and I need to go. It’s important I leave. For everyone.”

  “What happened?”

  She shakes her head. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Brynn, come on. It’s me.”

  Her eyes tear up. “I know it’s you, Connor, but I still don’t want to say it. I just want this nightmare to be over.”

  “Am I a part of your nightmare?”

  “Sort of. Moving on, leaving you, that’s part of the nightmare.” Her lower lip trembles and the tears spill over onto her cheeks. I take a step closer and she backs up. “No. I can’t handle your touch right now.”

  I can’t hide the hurt on my face, which makes her cry harder.

  “Not because I don’t want you. God, no. Not at all.” She swipes at her cheeks. “Because I want you too much. If I bend at all, I’m sure to break.”

  A car drives by us. Brynn’s eyes flicker to it, scrutinizing. It turns the corner and she looks back at me.

  “Aren’t you already broken?” I want to hold her. That’s all. Her warmth is everything I need.

  She nods and takes another step away. “Will you let me drive you home?”

  She says no without stopping to consider. I already knew she would do this.

  “What if I promise not to talk? Then you won’t have to walk.”

  We both smile. I didn’t even mean to rhyme.

  “Okay,” she says softly, falling into step beside me. When we reach my truck, I open her door and she climbs in. I go around and hop in.

  It’s hard to breathe the same air as Brynn and stay calm. Five days without her was enough time to make her seem new again, even though I know every inch of her. The body I devoured night after night, the lips I claimed, the heart I stole, feels far away from me now.

  Once I navigate out of the parade area, the drive is easy. There are only a few cars driving around us, and it’s quiet for a Friday afternoon.

  I make good on my promise. No talking. When I pull up to her place, she breaks the silence.

  “Good luck tonight.” Only one side of her mouth lifts with the smile she’s trying to put on her face.

  “You’re coming, right?”

  She nods. She looks so sad.

  “You said you wouldn’t leave without saying goodbye.”

  Her mouth immediately opens to argue. I know as well as she does that she never agreed to that, but I still put up a hand to stop her.

  “I need a goodbye, Brynn. Maybe you don’t, but I do.”

  “Okay,” she whispers. She gets out of my truck and slams the door. She waves once, slowly, then turns toward the house.

  Suddenly I remember something. Rolling down the window, I yell, “You drove a car.”

  She turns back to face me, her eyes wary. “It was an emergency.”

  “Maybe so, but you did it.”

  I roll up the window up, not giving her the chance to argue. Looking in my side mirror, I wait for a car to pass, and drive away.

  24

  Brynn

  Ugh.

  I wasn’t prepared for that.

  Connor’s engine roars to life behind me as he pulls away from the curb. Like each of my feet is a sack of potatoes, I drag them up the front walk and to the door. By the time I step into the house, Connor is long gone.

  Exhausted from two hours in the sun watching the parade, and even more drained from what seeing Connor did to my heart, I drop down onto the sofa. I tuck a throw pillow behind my head, prop my feet on the arm of the couch, and close my eyes. In the darkness of my mind, I see Connor running toward me on the street after the parade. My heart feels like it has turned inside out.

  Connor is everything I want and everything I can’t have.

  If someone had given me a piece of paper and asked me to draw the perfect man for me, I never would’ve drawn Connor. Until I met him, I didn’t know a scar on someone’s neck could be sexy. Rhyming was a kindergarten activity until he made it exciting. I like the way he holds the steering wheel with one hand and uses his thumb to rub it absentmindedly. He scratches the back of his head with two knuckles, and I can’t tell if it accomplishes the task or is just a habit, but it’s adorable. I didn’t know the man I would end up loving would do those things. Neither did I know my life in Phoenix would take a turn like it did and I’d end up running away from it all.

  If there were ever a time for a drink, this would be it. I’d mix gin with tonic and forget the world. No. I can't be called a party girl if I don’t put the stuff to my lips.

  A deep breath fills my lungs. My thoughts get fuzzy around the edges, and I let sleep have me. I need to recharge before I see Connor again tonight at his opening.

  25

  Connor

  “All set?” Candace stands behind the make-shift desk she rolled in for the opening. Her arms are crossed above her mid-section and she eyes me expectantly. I can tell she thinks I’m nervous about tonight, but she’s wrong.

  It’s Brynn that has me walking from painting to painting, adjusting and readjusting. Will she show? She said she would, but I’m not convinced.

  “I’m good,” I respond, leaving the desk to walk across the small space, eying all the work.

  Picasso-style abstracts in one section, landscapes in another. And then, there’s me. There is no way to categorize my work except to say it’s emotional. Capturing feeling is my thing. I finished the painting of Brynn, and in it, I see reluctant desire. She wanted me, but she didn’t want to want me. I don’t think I ever wanted to want her either. The choice wasn’t mine. The decision was made by something greater, something that eclipsed thought and reason.

  Eye of the Storm is here also, and underneath it is a small note that reads Not available for sale. I’m still waiting on the email to find out where to send it. I add that to my mental to-do list and move on. Included in my collection is an anatomically correct heart with cracks throughout, and colorful tears dripping down. Two people embracing, their faces buried in one another’s necks, and the last one is two wrinkled hands grasping. It represents my parents, their marriage vows, and how now they need those vows more than ever.

  “Twenty minutes to go,” Candace shouts.

  I meet the eyes of the other artists. One girl bites her lip and looks around. Another guy tilts his chin and crosses his arms. I disliked that arrogant prick from the moment he walked in and huffed about not being up front. Normally I’d be nice and introduce myself, but not this time. I’m too on edge about seeing Brynn again and having to say goodbye to her. I can’t waste my life on that douche.

  I pull my phone from my jeans and check it. No messages. I’m not sure if that’s good or bad.

  To pass the time, I fuck around on the internet, reading the news and playing a stupid word game.

  When Candace opens the door, Julia and Anthony are the first to walk in.

  Anthony claps me on the back and shakes my hand. “This is great, man. Really.” He looks around at the pieces in my section. His eyes raise at the one of Brynn. “Is this a figment of your imagination? Or a re
al person?”

  I shrug. Her profile is outlined in black. Inside she is a collection of expressions. Happy, alarmed. Pensive, coy, afraid. Different emotions wrapped up in one exquisite shell. I was careful not to include anything that would give away her identity.

  “It all comes from here,” I answer Anthony, tapping the side of my head.

  “Connor, your work is incredible.” Julia stands back from the painting of my parents’ hands. “Wow. How do I see love when I see these hands? Their wrinkles tell a story, and they aren’t old old, because there aren’t age spots yet.”

  “It was inspired by my parents.”

  Julia walks over to the painting of Brynn and studies it. Two more people, a man and a woman, walk up. Soon the place is crawling with people and I’m fielding comments and questions.

  “Where do you get your inspiration?” an older woman asks, pointing to the Brynn painting.

  “This is unique. Why isn’t it for sale?” a young couple asks about Eye of the Storm.

  A woman dressed in a long skirt and hair reaching down to her knees tells me the hands remind her of her parents when her mom was diagnosed with stage four ovarian cancer last year.

  I answer everything as much as I can. My chest is swollen with pride and my body feels light, buoyant. I never expected anything like this. The number of people, the admiration of my work. It’s a heady experience, a lot like being high.

  My parents walk in, and the feeling gets even better. Dad makes a face, but I know it’s a smile. Mom palms her chest with one hand and her eyes shine.

  There’s only one person I’m waiting on, and it’s in the back of my mind as I continue to talk to people. Every thirty seconds my eyes find the entrance, only to be disappointed.