Doves for Sale

by Lila Felix

  Even saying the words aloud breaks me. And though I’ve asked the question, if Knox didn’t give me the right answer, I might just lose my shit right there.

  “No. I don’t think there’s such thing as a wrong prayer. I can think of a better one.”

  I wave him on.

  “Pray for her happiness.”

  Knox and I have an unspoken staring contest after that sentence. I know what he knows and he knows that I know what he knows. It was as though we were nine years old again.

  There is no use in hiding it anymore.

  “She showed you?”

  “She did.”

  “She wasn’t pissed?”

  He rolls his eyes, dramatically. “No.”

  “Does she wear it?”

  “She says she’s going to wear it sometimes.”

  “That’s better than what I thought.”

  “Which was?”

  I chuckle and take the vacuum out of the closet. Knox and I have stopped working at the animal shelter. The reasons why are clear and Knox finally came clean about his general hatred of felines. Just when I thought I’d rid myself of Saturday duties, other than playing Xbox and relaxing, Knox suggested we help in cleaning the church since it was having trouble finding a cleaning crew.

  That was a blatant lie. Knox had run them all out with his anal retentiveness about cleanliness being next to Godliness and apparently he’d told the last cleaning lady that a scrap of paper was going to come between her and heaven.

  Not really, but that is the running joke.

  I jerk the antiquated vacuum from the closet and make fun of the brownish cord, so telling of its production date.

  “I thought she’d chuck it in to the trash, which is what you need to do with this dam—this thing.”

  “Just vacuum and pray. It works wonders, trust me.”

  I ended up humming the lyrics to Lonely Boy the entire time, which reminded me of Aysa. I don’t know why. This whole place reminds me of her. We’d met here. I’d first ignored her here. I’d first realized her breathtaking nature here. I’d betrayed her here.

  It is fitting for me to be here now, trying to get rid of the grime on the floors and scour my soul at the same time.

  It takes me two hours to get through the carpeted worship center. That is an hour short of Knox’s expectations and I know that once I am gone, he will finish the hour just to feel some sense of accomplishment—the dork.

  I see the pew in the back and my thoughts are again drawn to her.

  Next week is Roman’s party.

  I have to talk to her, just once.

  I am sure, down deep in my gut that one conversation and she’d remember who we were.

  Who we could’ve been.

  Who we can still be.

  I get home later and had six messages from Gray. Though she moved out, she’s never relented on harping on what once was.

  I’ve dug up so much betrayal in her absence that I can’t even stand to look at her.

  She left Mara’s diaries on the bedside table, along with pictures and letters to me from Mara’s parents—years of them.

  Not only had Mara’s parents not blamed me for the death of their daughter. They forgave me just in case I blamed myself.

  They also left me a huge sum of money—Mara’s life insurance—all of it.

  Through reading her diary, I’ve discovered the root of the deceit. Gray had a crush on me, a crush that had distorted itself into something she called love.

  It wasn’t love at all.

  It was all a twisted game of play the heartbroken fool.

  And I was the fool.

  Aysa

  This lady is pissing me off.

  “Shall we continue with the tour?”

  I try to rush her through her endless spiel about the history of women’s education and liberal rights. If she will let me run the tour instead of her, I would be happy to oblige her all of those points myself.

  “I suppose so. This wallpaper is exquisite.”

  Then she proceeds to rip a piece off and I nearly lunge to strangle her. It’s not like you can run to Lowe’s and pick up a new roll of the stuff.

  “Let’s please not touch the decorations. They are quite fragile, as you can see.”

  “Is the library next?”

  His voice rips through me like lightning down the trunk of a tree. It shreds me, causing friction in every cell of my body.

  I can’t meet his gaze. I just can’t.

  “Sir, did you pay for the tour? We are already halfway through.”

  Mrs. History 101 beats me to the punch.

  “I did. The information said online that I could join in the tour at any point.”

  I make a mental note to fix that damned website as soon as I can get my hands on it.

  “Very well. Amber was just going to bring us to the boarding rooms.”

  He clears his throat. “I’m sure her name is Aysa. Isn’t that correct?”

  There it is—my name on his lips. The very sound makes my breath hitch and my heart arrest. It is the only sound in the world that could rip me to crumbles and guarantee putting me back together, only better.

  “Yes. It’s Aysa.”

  I make sure to squint at him. He needs to know that I’m not falling for his crap.

  Shit. I’m falling for his crap.

  I lead the way and even through the tromping of twenty pairs of feet, I can hear his, out of time with the rest, they have their own sound and I swear it matches the beats of my heart.

  “This was the main room. In its hat day, this college taught just twenty students. This room held six. There are only three beds now, but they were once staggered to accommodate the most amount of girls without cramping. Each bed also had a matching desk.”

  I ramble on and on about the available degrees to women at that time and Mrs. History starts in again.

  I make it through the library and even the master bedroom without another incident. I leave the kitchen for last, always. The patrons seem to get a kick out of the meager room which was responsible for feeding twenty plus students at a time, yet was no bigger than a modern day closet.

  “This is the kitchen.” I wait for the gasps. “I spent many a morning in this kitchen scooting past the maid, Zoriah, whose idea of toast was frying a piece of bread in an entire stick of butter. She made orange juice fresh every morning. And when something funny happened on her soap opera, her boastful laugh could be heard clear to the pecan factory behind the building.”

  “Is this the original table?”

  If I didn’t breathe for constant thoughts of him, I would kill him. There is a definitive enunciation to the word table and he and I know exactly his meaning.

  “Yes. It’s the original table.”

  A snot-nosed kid speaks up from the back of the crowd. The lollipop his mother had quieted him with has withered away.

  “Who cares? It’s just a table. I wanna see the ghost.”

  “Tables can be very interesting.”

  Next stop on the tour, Ezra’s coffin.

  “If Peg Leg wanted to be heard today, we would’ve heard him in the library.”

  “This tour sucks!” His mom drags him out by the ear and the rest of the group files out behind him before I can tell them goodbye. But, it’s been one of those days and I just don’t give a damn.

  To my surprise, Ezra doesn’t stick around.

  I’m relieved.

  I’m disappointed.

  I cry—right there in the middle of the kitchen, lamenting the absence of Zoriah’s chocolate cake to make anyone feel better.

  It’s not a cry of sadness—it’s a cry for the beginning. I know why he’s making these appearances in my life. It’s a sign. He’s letting me know that he’s ready.

  It’s my fault, of course. I told him to let me know when he turned into the kind of man I needed, the kind of man I knew he was deep down inside.

  My tears were those of gratefulness.

  His promi
ses are ringing true.

  I go home with the dried tears still on my face. I’m not home for ten minutes before Roman comes in, without knocking, using that key of his.

  I spring into a fury. I’ve had enough.

  “I’m glad I’m not naked here, Roman!”

  “It’s the middle of the day.” He blows me off and it fuels me on. This is what I need. A reason to end this charade.

  “So what? It’s my apartment. We are not roommates. At least knock.”

  He approaches me and my insides cringe. I don’t want him to touch me the way he does. I don’t want him to look into my eyes expecting something and coming up empty again.

  “Babe, I’m sorry. Did you have a bad day? Do you need something to eat?”

  Yes, I need to eat—and alone. I need to watch TV and play Xbox alone in my rattiest sweatshirt and non-sexiest panties. And eat ice cream without a bowl. And scratch my butt if I want to.

  Asking a woman if her level of anxiety is due to having not eaten is the same thing as asking her if she’s PMSing.

  Yes, as a matter of fact, I am a ravenous beast and PMSing.

  Maybe that will afford me some alone time.

  Probably not.

  “Roman, I just need some time to myself once in a while.”

  “Oh, okay. Sure. Yeah, I get it. I’m sure the guys want to hang out anyway.”

  He kisses my temple and as soon as he’d turns, I wipe it away. It is too wet. Too cold. Too not Ezra.

  I am hopeless.

  “I’ll see you soon.”

  Soon is non-definitive.

  “Sure, babe.”

  The door hasn’t shut before I start running the water in the bathtub. I strip down of everything except this anvil on my neck, the weight pulling at my heart instead of my neck.

  I would do anything to hear his voice again. I pick up the phone a dozen times to dial his number, but never dial the last one.

  My pride is getting in my way.

  Yeah, I have pride now.

  The bastard.

  As I’m thinking about almost-calling him again, the phone rings. It’s my dad, wanting to have lunch with me. I tell him I can. We have been talking through things again and making peace with the things that caused me turmoil.

  A nudge in my gut made me think about all this peace and making peace.

  What happens after peace?

  Happiness and joy.

  I had no experience with such notions. But I’ll be damned if I will deny it.

  My dad always wants to go to a steakhouse. If there’s a steakhouse within a hundred miles, he wants to go and I have to go with him, mostly to order his second-choice dish so he can taste it.

  It’s the little things.

  “Your mom wants you to come over Sunday for dinner. She saw something on Pinterest about having a steady family dinner once your children are grown up. I kind of liked life before Pinterest. Half of her recipes don’t turn out right and the other half she swears taste like one of those chefs on TV made it. When she turns her head, I spread it around on the plate, make it look like I ate something.”

  I roll my eyes at his antics. My mom’s cooking is decent.

  “At least she’s trying, Dad. Isn’t that what we are all supposed to be doing? Trying?”

  He nods. He hated the family counseling we’d decided to go to, but it was the only way to get past all the issues that plagued me, family-wise.

  “I’m trying. I’m trying not to gag at her quinoa. I’m trying not to scoff when she wants to go on dates with me. I’m trying really hard to keep a lid on her spending.”

  I give him a stern look before shoving steak in my mouth. It feels like I haven’t eaten in weeks.

  “Try—harder.”

  “I know. I know. Ariel said you two are going to a concert on Friday?”

  I nod. “Maybe. I’m not sure yet. Who knew there are more things to do on Friday nights than church?”

  “Who knew?”

  I think I lucked out since my dad hadn’t asked about Roman or me dating. He loves Roman. He thinks the world revolved around Roman instead of the sun. He’s only met him one time, but they both love the Saints and LSU, so that’s all they need.

  “So, how’s my boy?”

  I grab the dessert menu before I attempt to answer. He’s not going to like what I have to say.

  “I need chocolate before we talk about guys, Dad.”

  We each order lethal amounts and wait for them to arrive. Not a second after the spoon leaves my mouth does he coax me into spilling my guts.

  I decide to bite the bullet.

  “I’m in love with Ezra, Dad.”

  He sighs and then forces a grin.

  “I know.”

  Ezra

  I have to give Roman credit for one thing. The guy knows how to throw a party.

  I guess architects get paid well. We’ve never talked about it.

  A live band plays in the center of the room. There’s food and beer being passed out around by girls in tight dresses and guys whose chosen profession is flirting. I don’t look for her right away. Oh, fuck it, I’m looking for Aysa before I even get to the place. I scope the parking lot for her car. I scan the people in the hallway to see if it’s her. And as soon as I access the room, I’m zeroing in on every redhead in the place.

  “Beer?” A girl in a black, glittery dress hold up a tray to my face level and cocks her hip out in a way that makes me think she’s offering more than just enough to quench my thirst.

  I say nothing, grab one, and move on.

  Roman’s birthday present was given to him the day before and he didn’t make as big of a deal about it as I would’ve liked him to. He kind of blew it off. He seemed preoccupied.

  In fact. He blew me off and made his excuses before the wrapping paper hit the floor.

  Halfway through my brew, I spot her through the distortion of the beer glass, but nothing about her is distorted at all. Her hair is pinned up on the side of her head and she’s wearing a Marilyn Monroe looking dress that suddenly makes one beer not nearly enough.

  There wasn’t enough beer in the world to smudge the vision of the woman I love standing there in the middle of the crowd—like just a dream.

  I swear to myself, standing there like a lost child, that if I ever get her back, I will tell her every day how beautiful she is.

  I dance with a few girls and talk to some friends when Neil claps me on the back. My eyes are always on her. When she moves through the crowd, I gravitate closer. When she laughs, I smile at the sound.

  “Hey, I need to talk to you, like now.”

  “We can talk after the party. I don’t want to disrupt the night.”

  I remember the conversation with Roman, like it was yesterday, about my drama always taking center stage. I’ll be damned if it happened the first time I am with all of them together again.

  “No, like now…shit. It’s too late.”

  “What’s too late?”

  Neil points to the center of the room and while I have no idea what was happening, the beer gurgles in my stomach as though it was precognitive.

  Beer knows when the shit is about to hit the fan.

  Roman takes the stage. He is twitching and shaking like a nervous high school graduate. With his hand, he shakes the front of his shirt, cooling himself off. It is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever seen. Roman gets nervous at nothing. He pulls a bundle from his pocket and releases one of the microphones from its stand. I chance a look to my right and see her—standing parallel to me in the crowd. The look of sheer terror masks her face. Her fists are pumping closed and open and she turns her head toward the EXIT sign at the side of the room.

  She’s ready to run and I don’t know why.

  And that’s when it begins to unfold.

  Roman clears his throat.

  He stumbles and crackles through the speech, its shallow nature and nick at the marble of truth is a letdown to everyone in the place.

  He has to
use note cards. That’s how insincere he is.

  In shock, I turn to see Aysa’s reaction. She has to know he’s ingenuous. She’s the smartest person I know.

  Her complexion tells me everything.

  Aysa goes from perfect porcelain to china white in an instant. Her hand pulses in my direction, like she’s reaching out to me, and for a second I think to whisk her out of the room—out of the country—out of this universe and bury her deep in my heart where no one can bullshit her in public.

  She deserves so much better.

  The index cards splay out on the stage, tossed to the side as he makes his way to her.

  I hear the clap of his pathetic shoes on the floor. I almost stick my fingers in my ears to mute the stomps.

  The closer he gets, the more I want to scream.

  Neil is saying something at my side, tugging on the sleeve of my shirt, but the only thing I can hear is the slamming of my heart in my chest—in my head—throbbing in my fists, now balled up in disbelief. Sweat is pouring down my back. It feels like worms crawling down my spine which is just about right since I’d rather be a rotting corpse than watching this madness continue.

  The smell of birthday cake in the air rots my stomach.

  This isn’t a party at all.

  It’s a charade.

  A preemption of something far grander.

  I can hear the thump of his knee hitting the floor as he bends before her.

  The whole world should bend before her.

  She takes one step back and I wish she would run.

  Neil tries to shake me, pull me away.

  My tears waiver in their cradles, unbidden and unwelcome—yet completely warranted.

  I will myself to stand true—not to ruin one more second of her life.

  Roman produces a box—a ring—a declaration of mutinous advances and despicable promises.

  “Get me out.” I shout at Neil, but realize it’s only a whisper.

  I can’t hear the question. I don’t want hear the answer. It’s more than any man should have to bear.

  Me—this man—I can’t bear it.

  Neil rushes me out, and is toggling between escorting me and his phone.

  “It’s Leon. He’s keeping me updated.”

  I stop. It’s happening again.

  “No. Go back in. I don’t need help. I have this.”

  “Move your ass, Ezra. This isn’t Gray or Mara shit. This is your girl getting proposed to by your best friend. This is some seriously messed up shit. Bros before…rat bastards. You know the drill. I don’t know what Roman is thinking. He’s not thinking at all.”