Looking For Trouble

by Lara Ward Cosio

  I rinse the sick from my mouth, dress and open the bathroom door. Jules is curled up on her side in bed, partially covered by the sheet. Her eyes are closed and she’s quiet. Slipping on my flip flops, I grab my phone and money clip and head for the door.

  “Where are you going?”

  Though I stop, I don’t look at her. “I gotta get some air. You go ahead and sleep.”

  She doesn’t say anything, and I step out.

  It’s almost midnight and there’s a bright three-quarter moon hanging in the sky among the now sparse clouds. The rain has slowed to just random spitting forced out by the still raging winds. Edging close to the shoreline, I get lost watching the choppy waves come and go.

  What a mess this all is. I don’t know what I do from here. Surely the damage we did with our words means this thing—whatever it is—is over. And shouldn’t it be? For fuck’s sake, she’s no good for me. She’s still hung up on Gavin. She attacked me in the most heinous way, what with her suggestions about Ms. Patterson. What more do I need to understand about this relationship? It’s pure shite.

  But then those tender moments come to mind. Like when she insisted I was someone she liked, that I’m capable of being loved.

  The contradiction of the two versions of her has me confused about what the reality of the situation is.

  I fiddle with my phone before forging ahead and calling Ms. Patterson. It’s six in the morning there and her answering service takes my message. I claim it’s an emergency and wait to get a call back.

  The sand is soft between my fingers as I toy with it. This had been an amazing trip, but now the fight we had will always supersede any of the good memories. I wonder how things would have gone had I joined Shay in Los Angeles instead of coming here with Jules. I suppose all our grievances would have come out in another place and time, is all.

  I try to sort out the time difference for L.A., thinking I’ll give my kid brother a call soon if I don’t hear back from Ms. Patterson. It will be good to hear his voice.

  My phone buzzes in my hand and I turn it over quickly to find a Dublin number I don’t recognize. It must be Ms. Patterson calling from her personal line since it’s too early for her to be at the office. That means I’ve now got a way to reach her directly. I tuck away that interesting information and answer the call.

  “Daniel, are you all right?” she asks straight away.

  “Yeah. Well, sort of.”

  “Where are you? It’s very loud.”

  I look up at the palm trees whipping back and forth in the wind. Though it’s wonderful to sit out in the still-warm evening and enjoy the scenery, I know I’d better find a quieter place to speak on the phone.

  “Give me a minute,” I tell her. “I’ll get somewhere more protected.”

  Walking briskly down the beach, I find the beach bar we had visited on our first night. This time, I step into the indoor portion. The walls are painted in vibrant blues, oranges, and reds. Papel picado, those lace paper flags cut with intricate designs, hang from the ceiling along with the same type of string lighting found outside. There are instruments for a three-piece band set on a small stage, but the players must be on a break. Good thing, since there is only one couple besides me in the whole place. The weather is likely keeping everyone away. A sad ballad in Spanish is playing on the speaker system.

  “Okay, hear me better?” I ask and seat myself in the booth farthest from the couple.

  “Much better. Now, what is going on? You do know the hour here, right?”

  “Sorry about that. Couldn’t be avoided.”

  The barman steps out from behind the counter and in doing so reveals he had been standing on something to give him more height than he really has. On level ground, he’s the size of an overgrown child.

  “Drink?” he asks and gestures as if he’s downing a bottle.

  The thought of drinking alcohol right now makes my stomach flip. “Mineral water,” I tell him, and he goes back to his bar where he temporarily regains normal height.

  “Please, no more delays,” Ms. Patterson tells me.

  Her impatience shows through her usual professional demeanor. But I don’t care about that. I just like hearing her voice. I realize in a rush how much I’ve missed her.

  “Okay, well,” I start. I have to stop and take a deep breath. As per usual, I’m not exactly sure what I thought I was doing by coming to her with my “emergency.” Nor do I know where to begin.

  “Where’s Jules? Is she okay?”

  “Em, yeah. She’s fine. She’s in our room. I’ve stepped away. I had to.”

  “Did something happen?”

  “The truth happened,” I say simply. “The truth came out with a vengeance tonight.”

  “Do explain.”

  I do just that, telling her everything, including Jules’ cruel suggestion that I’ve fallen for Ms. Patterson as a mother substitute. I admit to my own cruelty in return. Finally, I tell her about how it went from anger to sex.

  “Daniel, I need to ask you something. I need you to think carefully and answer as truthfully as you can.”

  “Okay. Always do.”

  “Was the sex consensual?”

  I laugh. “Yes, it was. I don’t need to think about it. She was very much a part of wanting it and making it happen.”

  “You said you were very upset. When emotions run high, the lines can become blurred—”

  “Listen, I made her come twice. Does that help? She wanted it the same as I did. That’s why we’re so dangerous together. Because we so readily fuck with each other’s heads and bodies.”

  I hear her take a breath as she absorbs this.

  Finally, she says, “Okay, so what is the emergency?”

  In the brief seconds between the end of the song playing and a new one starting, I can hear something on the line. It sounds like fabric shifting.

  “Are you … are you in bed?” I ask.

  Ms. Patterson hesitates. “I, em, well, it’s just past six in the morning on a Sunday. I haven’t quite started my day, Daniel.”

  I like the visual this conjures. I imagine her hair is sleep-tousled and she’s wearing a man’s pajama top and only panties below. Her skin is warm, her eyes closed as she rests against the pillow and speaks with me. Then I have another thought.

  “Are you alone?”

  “That’s not your concern. Now, tell me what the emergency is?”

  I strain to hear more on our connection as a lively, accordion-heavy song ramps up. I don’t think there’s anyone with Ms. Patterson. I’m glad to have her to myself.

  “It’s that thing we always talk about,” I tell her. “How I need to separate reality from the way I tend to spin things.”

  The barman returns with a bottle of mineral water, a glass and a small bowl of lime wedges. I nod my thanks and the little fella wanders away.

  “You have concerns over your perception of this fight you had?”

  “No, that I see clearly. It’s this feeling after. The fact that I know it’s not fucking good to be with her and yet at the same time I think it’s exactly what I deserve.”

  “Let’s explore that,” she says.

  I slump back in my seat, relief flooding my body. I’m overcome with gratitude for her willingness to stick with me.

  We talk and it’s an exchange that lasts through the night for me and the morning for her. I’m able to stay put and enjoy several bottles of mineral water since the barman never bothers to kick me out. And Ms. Patterson goes about her day with me on the line. As the time goes by I learn she has a sister who she speaks with every day because she has to put me on hold to take her call. I also learn that she drinks coffee in the morning and tea the rest of the day, but she takes it straight with no milk. I learn that she’s never seen Rogue play live as she prefers old-school jazz, like the Ella Fitzgerald she plays in the background. I enjoy learning her morning routine, listening to her prepare coffee, heat up something that had come from the freezer, shush her meowing cat
as she feeds it, and finally boot up a computer. I imagine her sitting at her kitchen table near a window, light streaming in and warming her through as she puts her feet up on the empty chair opposite her. I’d love to be a part of that picture, maybe on that other chair, her feet on my lap. And Roscoe leaning against my leg as he likes to do, having somehow made peace with the cat.

  “You there?” Ms. Patterson asks.

  “I am.” I clear my throat as a pretext to clearing that fantasy from my head. “Just got lost for a minute. What were we talking about?”

  “That Jules has become a way for you to grant legitimacy to the voices in your head, as you call them, that tell you you’re worthless. That she keeps you hanging on with these breadcrumbs of saying she loves you and that you can be loved, even as her primary motive is to manipulate you.”

  That sinks in, neatly filling the holes in my heart. I laugh without humor. “You make her sound diabolical.”

  “Do I?”

  I sigh. “No, it’s not on you. She is definitely good at fucking with my head. In fact—” I cut myself off as I think.

  “Yes?”

  “Just remembering something. Early on, she made an odd observation. She said I didn’t want her in my head. She said it like it was a curiosity. Or a challenge.”

  “Now you’re making her seem diabolical,” she says, and I laugh.

  “She might be. In a very ordinary way, though. And I’m no saint. I said some really ugly things to her. I hate that I did. I hate that I went to that level. It makes me think those voices in my head are right.”

  “Stop there. Re-state that in another way. A way that doesn’t tear yourself apart.”

  I struggle to change my conclusion and the silence between us stretches out.

  “What you’re feeling is regret,” she says gently. “You’re feeling bad over how you behaved. The voices aren’t right. You’re just learning how to take responsibility for your actions. And it doesn’t always feel good, Daniel. But that’s okay. It’s how we respond to it, how we make amends, that makes all the difference.”

  34

  I feel a thousand times better by the time I emerge from the bar, and my spirits soar when I see the sunrise beginning to color the sky. Retaking my spot near the shoreline in front of our bungalow, I sit and watch the sun do its magic, brightening the sky in dramatic fashion.

  I laugh out loud, thinking of how I had hoped being with Jules would give me some kind of stability, some kind of normalcy. That was never going to happen. For that, I need someone like Ms. Patterson. Someone who is content to sit at home and drink coffee with her cat nearby on a Sunday morning.

  Fuck, there’s no denying the fact that I have feelings for Ms. Patterson. Of course, I do. She knows more about me than just about anyone. Despite that, she actually seems to like me. I know it’s ridiculous, but I still feel that if the circumstances were different, she and I would have a shot.

  That thought is lovely but beside the point. I need to get on with things in the here and now. But first, I pull off my shirt, wrap my phone and money clip in it, and step out of my flip flops. I run into the water, diving in as soon as I’m knee-deep. The pastel colors of the sunrise reflect off the surface of the water and I simply float for a while, trying to absorb the peace and beauty of it.

  Jules is sitting cross-legged on the bed when I let myself into the room. She looks up at me and a mixture of emotions travels across her face: surprise, relief, and finally anger.

  Jumping up, she comes halfway to me and crosses her arms over her chest, assuming the classic defensive posture.

  “Where have you been?” she asks.

  “I went for a swim.” I gesture to my still-wet body. I’m dripping water onto the tile floor.

  “I can see that. But where were you all night? I was losing my mind waiting for you to come back.”

  This somehow rings false. At least the claim that she was worried all night. Because she never once called me. I have no texts from her either. More likely, she’s recently woken to realize I never came back and just then started freaking out.

  “I figured you were sleeping,” I say. “And I needed some time away. I’m going to clean up. We’ve got time for breakfast before we have to get to the airport, yeah?”

  “But—” She cuts herself off, unsure what she wants.

  “Look,” I say, moving closer to her. “I’m really sorry about all that last night. Truly. I should have never said what I did. Things got out of control and I regret it.”

  She watches me for a moment. “I thought you don’t do regrets,” she says with a small smile.

  I laugh. “I must be changing.” I said it as a reflex, but it gives me pause afterward. Because I think it might be true. I think I might be capable of change. I need her to show me she is, too, so I wait for her to say more. To apologize for the things she said and the way she behaved.

  “Mind if I join you in the shower?” she asks as she unties her robe.

  It’s not what I was after and we both know it. “I’ll be quick,” I tell her. “Then it’s all yours.”

  *

  There are no efforts to maintain our membership in the mile-high club on our long flights back. Instead, we spend most of the time turned away from each other, sleeping. There’s no hostility in how we interact, more weariness. We’ve done a lot to each other and we need time to recoup.

  I insist we pick up our dogs from the boarding service even though we’re cutting it close to getting there on time.

  My heart leaps at the sight of my boy Roscoe. His must do the same because he’s all over me in an instant, jumping on me and licking me furiously. I apologize for leaving him and promise it’ll never happen again, ignoring the side-eye I get from Jules over this.

  I drive to Jules’ house with the intention that we’re just dropping her off, but she turns and looks at me when I double-park.

  “I’ll help with your bag,” I say and jump out.

  “You’re not staying?”

  “Not tonight, love.”

  She nods and hesitates before turning away.

  I carry her bag to the door and wait while she unlocks it.

  “I’ll see you?”

  It’s a question I don’t know how to answer, so I just give her a small nod. I’m ready to get back to the car but she pulls me into a tight hug. After a moment’s hesitation, I wrap one arm around her and press a kiss to the top of her head. I reconsider leaving but only for a second. My better judgment pushes me to release her and I head home.

  35

  I plan to busy myself in the next week by bonding with Roscoe and taking care of little projects, including a thorough cleaning inside and out of the Porsche. I don’t plan to see or speak with Jules. But I do have a makeup session with Ms. Patterson on Tuesday since I missed our regular Monday appointment.

  I sense that Ms. Patterson is nervous when we meet. The long phone call we had seems to have thrown her off. It felt intimate to me, but I’m okay with that. Apparently, she isn’t—at least not after the fact.

  “You brought back a tan,” she says with forced gaiety.

  “I did. Wasn’t sure it would take, actually. Last time I spent that much time in the hot sun was when I had a job in Florida and I got the worst burn.”

  “You worked in Florida?”

  “Yeah, had a gig with a mate at this gorgeous resort right on the sand, taking care of the whims of the wealthy guests. It was a dream job, really. Lots of women on holiday looking to drink too much and slum it with the likes of me,” I say with a grin. “I could have stayed there forever.”

  “So, what happened?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Why didn’t the dream job last?”

  “Oh, I had to cut it short when Shay got into a mess with his girl, and I never went back to that.”

  She nods with a look that tells me this is about what she expected to hear, that my original description of having a job was built up to more than it actually was. I
t’s my crutch after all—the one she identified early on, pointing out that I twist things into a version that suits me, even if that doesn’t jibe with reality.

  “How are things with Jules?” she asks.

  “On hold, I guess you could say.”

  I tell her about returning to the bungalow that morning, to owning up to my bad behavior and apologizing. And that Jules did not.

  “How does that make you feel?”

  I roll my eyes at this sterile response. “Jesus, aren’t we past that?”

  “What does that mean?”

  “You’re being awfully careful here, Ms. Patterson. As if you want to create some kind of distance from me.”

  “No, I’m trying to get you to examine your feelings. That’s what we do here.”

  “Listen, we had an especially lovely connection with that phone call, didn’t we? Can’t you just talk to me like we did then? With a laugh and some warmth?”

  She eyes me for a moment before saying, “I don’t think that’s in your best interest.”

  “My best interest? Or yours?”

  “Is there something else on your mind that we should focus on?”

  Roscoe shifts and grunts, obviously picking up on my mood. I’m frustrated. Without realizing it, I came in to see Ms. Patterson with the expectation that I’d basically fall into her arms and she’d soothe me the same way she did on the phone. But now that we’re back to the real world, without the distance of me being on another bloody continent, that’s not going to happen.

  “You know what?” I say and grab my phone from the coffee table in front of me. “I don’t think I’m in the right mindset to talk. I’ll see you on Thursday, yeah?” I stand, and Roscoe rouses himself as well.

  Ms. Patterson puts her notepad and pen aside and stands. “You’re sure that’s the best decision?”

  I laugh, and it comes out pathetic—sad and weary. “How the fuck would I know what the best decision is anyway? I’m Danny fucking Boy, amn’t I? King of bad decisions.”

  I get as far as the door but stop when she speaks.

  “That’s not how I see it, Daniel. I think you’re doing your best and making real strides. Don’t give up on that. You’ve come too far.”