Sebastian: Done? I’ll come get you. Xo
Sebastian: Love you, love bug.
Mom: Remember to take prenatal vitamins. Folic Acid is crucial.
Sebastian: Jeb called about kitchen fixtures. Please call him back when you get a chance. Love you.
Sebastian: Did you send the invites out yet? My mom just informed me that Aunt Hilda was not on official list. Need to add her. :-O
Sebastian: If it’s a boy, I think we should name him Gunther. Lol.
Emma: Cheese. All day erry day.
Mom: Call me.
Jeb: Molding is finished. You guys should come over and see it. Looks incredible!
Sebastian: Hope you’re having an amazing day, future wifey. Xo
“Hey,” Sebastian says, surprising me. My phone flies up into the air, and I catch it, fumbling. “You’re sure on edge today, Mar,” he says, handing me a giant horse pill and a glass of water.
“Yeah,” I say, nodding. I swallow the pill and grimace as I wash it down. “Yuck. These are disgusting,” I say, placing the glass down on the ground.
“I know.” He eyes me up and down. “You look nice,” he says, swooping down to kiss me on the forehead. “I didn’t notice earlier.”
“So do you,” I say, eyeing his dark jeans, blue-and-green flannel, and work boots.
“Ready?” he asks, reaching a hand out.
I take it and sigh. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”
Chapter Four
FIVE days ago
“Which do you prefer—Rain Water or Caribbean Mist?” I ask, holding out two color-sample cards and waving them around in front of Charlie’s face.
He looks up briefly, and his eyes barely scan the colors before looking back down at his phone and shrugging.
“They look exactly the same to me.”
“No, they’re nothing alike,” I counter. “Rain Water is more grey, lighter, subtler. Caribbean Mist is a true baby blue, brighter, and it’s darker. Can’t you see?” I raise my voice slightly, knowing he’ll look up and answer me in order to keep the attention off of us. If there’s one thing Charlie hates more than anything, it’s causing a scene. He’s more like his parents than he’d like to think.
His eyes study both sample cards. “Rain Water. It’ll go better with the tan leather on the sofa.” I bring my lips into a tight smile, and I nod curtly. Once he sees the appeasement on my face, he goes back to pinching and fingering something on his phone. I wonder if he’s using FaceTune. He’s probably “enhancing” the selfie he took in the Home Depot parking lot a few moments ago—which is obviously much more important than choosing the color of the walls we will stare at every day. Must he document every single fucking thing?
I cross my arms and walk up to the guy who mixes the paint. I see him check me out for a second before smiling cordially. He’s old enough to be my father.
“Hi,” I say, placing the sample card down and pointing to Rain Water. “We’d like two gallons of the Rain Water, please.”
“Not a problem. It’ll just be a few minutes. Do you need a base paint added?”
“Not today,” I say sweetly.
He just nods and walks over to the paint-mixing machine. I see him pull two gallons of white paint and place them off to the side, flicking the lids off with precision. I look over at Charlie, and he’s still fidgeting with something on the screen. I’ve tried asking him, sarcastically of course, what’s the point of using FaceTune? If you’re just going to Photoshop your chubby cheeks and bulbous nose in every damn picture, why not just diet and get a nose job? He was not thrilled with that suggestion.
I turn my attention back to the paint. Bright-blue liquid is now spurting from the small nozzle, mixing with the white paint. It stops, and the worker places the top back on the can, hammering it in place. Then he sticks it in the mixer, and the jackhammer noise gets Charlie’s attention. He looks up, surprised to find me a few feet away, and walks over. I swear, I could wander off, and he wouldn’t realize it for at least seven minutes.
“It’s gonna look so good, babe,” he says. He’s not convincing me. His voice is flat and indifferent. I could have gotten Rice Curry—literally the color of baby poop—and he would have nodded his head and said, it’s gonna look so good, babe. When did he stop caring?
Once both gallons are mixed, Charlie and I head over to the light fixtures section to pick out a new light for the dining room. He points to a few atrocities—all of which I veto—and finally, after what seems like hours, we decide on a small bronze hanging light with faceted glass.
“I can’t be in here any longer.” I groan. Being in Home Depot is torturous. Every time I walk through those doors, I want to beeline straight back out again, eat a hot dog from the small hot dog cart outside, and wait for Charlie to finish up whatever boring thing needs to be done or bought here.
“We still need to pick out some plants for the garden,” he declares, and he starts to lead the cart towards the back of the store, where the hot, humid nightmare resides.
“Actually, the stuff at the nursery on South Ola Vista is much more reasonably priced. I was thinking we could head over there after lunch?” I add, hopeful.
“Yeah, okay,” Charlie agrees, steering the cart around. He loves a bargain. We pay for our paint and our new light fixture, and I feel supremely victorious to be out of there.
We head to Café Calypso, our favorite lunch spot. Neither of us says anything, but Charlie taps his hands against the steering wheel to the beat of a song, even though the radio isn’t on. He checks his phone every few minutes, and I want to scream at him to put it away lest we get into a car accident. I’d rather not die all because he had to check Instagram…
We park on Avenida Del Mar and walk through the Spanish courtyard, up to the quaint, historic building that houses the café. The hostess, Amelia (first-name basis) nods to our table, silently affirming that our favorite table outside is free.
We come here too much.
“I think I’m going to branch out and get a salad today,” Charlie says, and I raise my eyebrows in response. He always says this, but he always ends up getting the Italian sub.
“Good for you,” I say, looking at my menu even though I know I’m getting the same thing I always get.
The waitress scampers over, flustered, though it’s not even remotely busy. “What can I get y’all?” she asks as a strand of blond hair sticks to her taupe lip gloss. She must be new—we come here a lot, and I’ve never seen her. I look down at my menu out of habit and point to the breakfast vegetable wrap.
“Whole wheat tortilla, please,” I request, and she nods, scribbling something into her pad.
“And for you?” Her eyes flick to Charlie, scanning his face, his chest, and then his arms. I see a small hint of interest—she stands up straighter and smiles wider. I look over at Charlie as he hems and haws over what to order. He’s a good-looking guy. He’s gained some weight over the years, but it actually adds to his appeal, because he has the whole Chris-Pratt-before-the-weight-loss thing going on. His floppy blond hair is currently tucked behind his ears, and he does have a megawatt smile with the whitest, most perfect teeth I’ve ever seen.
“Italian sub,” he decides, and we both hand her our menus. I don’t say anything about the salad. The truth is, I like him chunky. He’s not overweight, but he’s sturdy. He’s the kind of guy who played football in high school, who still plays basketball with the buddies, indulges in at least two beers a night, and, bonus, he can pick me up with almost no struggle involved. Let’s just say I’d want him on my team if we were ever on Survivor. He gets more attention nowadays, now that the ‘dad bod’ is in vogue.
“I’m starving,” I say, rubbing my belly. “Home Depot always makes me so hungry.”
“It’s because you associate it with hot dogs.”
I laugh. “That’s ridiculous.” I throw my long hair behind my shoulder and take a sip of water.
“I’m serious,” he says, bringing his elbows to t
he table and resting his chin on his hands. “When you were a kid, I bet your dad always bought you hot dogs from the cart outside. Now, as an adult, you associate Home Depot with hot dogs, and you get inexplicably hungry.”
I don’t say anything. He has a point. That’s the thing with Charlie—usually, he says the most asinine thing I’ve ever heard, and then every once in awhile, he surprises me with astute intelligence. Though I would never tell him this, in my head, I always compare him to Joey from Friends. Pretty to look at but obtuse and witless most of the time.
“Why do you always get the breakfast burrito, even when it’s the middle of the afternoon?” he asks, genuinely curious.
“Breakfast is my favorite meal,” I say factually, taking another sip of water. Charlie just shrugs, and then he checks his phone for the billionth time today. For comparison’s sake, I haven’t checked mine once since we left our townhouse over two hours ago. But who’s counting?
“I was thinking of getting some tomatoes,” Charlie says out of nowhere. I realize after a second that he’s talking about the garden we’ll be planting in a couple of months—the reason for our next stop—to Shore Gardens.
“Sounds great,” I reply.
“Babe, you couldn’t sound less enthusiastic if you tried,” he chuckles, and he reaches across the table for my hand.
I smile. “The garden is your forte. Let me do my magic inside,” I urge, winking.
“Okay, good. Because I don’t give a flying fuck whether or not we do Rain Mist or Caribbean Berry, or whatever those ridiculous color names were. They legitimately looked exactly the same to me.”
I burst out laughing, and he does too. “It’s Rain Water, by the way.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
Our food comes, and once the waitress is done placing our plates down, she waits for Charlie to take a bite. He gives her a show and takes a ginormous bite. When he’s done chewing, he gives her an enthusiastic thumbs up, and she giggles.
“The Italian sub is my favorite,” she says, breathy.
I don’t think she’s looked at me once since she’s been here, but it doesn’t bother me.
“Yeah,” Charlie says, rubbing his stomach. “Gotta keep up appearances.”
She giggles and walks away, but not before staring me down. I just shake my head. Women can be so catty, and it’s so easy to fall prey and become offended. I choose to ignore the bullshit.
After we’re finished with lunch, we pay and head over to Shore Gardens. One unproductive, mind-numbing hour later, we head home—home being a two-story townhouse that we recently bought with Charlie’s recent promotion at the bank. I help Charlie unload the truck, and then I jog upstairs to change for the gym.
*
An hour later, as I pull into our driveway, sweat clinging to my tank top, I hear Charlie’s favorite song playing loudly from within the house. I park behind his truck, slamming the door shut a little too loudly before I jog inside. The volume of the music is a little unnecessary for five thirty in the evening. I walk up to the front door to find it unlocked and ajar—great. I throw my purse down on the floor and storm over to the kitchen, where Charlie and three of his friends are playing beer pong.
“Charlie!” I yell over the music. Aerosmith’s “Sweet Emotion” is vibrating through the house, and when Charlie notices me, he strides over and envelops me into a bear hug.
“Marlin! Hey, baby!” He kisses me on the lips, and he tastes like rancid beer and pot.
“Turn it down!” I yell, pulling away and gesturing to the stereo. Charlie lowers the volume. My ears are already ringing. “What the hell, guys?” I yell. “I could hear the music from down the street! We just moved in two weeks ago. I’d rather not have the cops called on us! Plus, we share a wall with our neighbors!” I hiss, pointing to the living room wall that divides our unit from the next-door neighbors.
“Dude, sorry, Marlin,” Stuart, one of Charlie’s friends, says. “We were just leaving.”
The three guys all give Charlie a high five, and out of the corner of my eye, I see Stuart raise his hand and bring it down quickly—whipped, he says, silently. I glare at him until he leaves.
“Mar, we were just having some drinks and catching up.”
“It’s a Sunday evening, Charlie,” I say, exasperated. “This isn’t our old college neighborhood where anything goes. Families live here. You can’t be blasting your college music that loudly when people just want to sit down for a nice dinner.”
“Okay, Mom,” he mutters under his breath.
I hate the way he speaks before thinking, and I hate myself even more because I allow it. I put my hands on my hips. “I’m going to shower.”
I trot upstairs, taking the hanging wooden stairs two at a time. My legs burn, and I relish in the feeling of my strong body. It’s the one thing I’m proud of, and I work hard to stay fit. Once I disrobe and step into our newly renovated waterfall shower, I close my eyes and let the water rinse away the sweat. After a minute, I hear Charlie come upstairs and open the shower door. I don’t open my eyes. He wraps his big arms around me from behind and kisses me on the neck, trailing downwards.
“I’m sorry, baby,” he whispers. His breath smells like mouthwash. At least he gets an ‘A’ for effort. I turn around and bring my arms around his neck.
“I just don’t want our neighbors to hate us, you know? We just moved in, and we plan on staying here for awhile.”
“I know.” He kisses the top of my head and brushes my wet hair out of my face. “How was the gym?”
“Good,” I say, perking up. “I’m making gains in my hamstrings and my triceps.”
“That’s great!” He high-fives me, and the gesture catches me off guard. Sometimes I feel like one of his fraternity brothers rather than his live-in girlfriend.
“You should come with me sometime,” I suggest, and he laughs. “I’m serious! I see all of the couples working out together, and it makes me sad that we don’t have that. I’d love to work out with you.”
He just belches loudly and steps out of the shower. “Maybe someday.” He dries off and walks out of the bathroom, and I’m left feeling disappointed and unfulfilled.
It’s not that I want him to look fit—he plays basketball three times a week, and I happen to love him just the way he is. But it’s the complete lack of interest in my passions that baffles me.
If he ever asked me to play basketball with him (something he’s never done), I’d join him in a heartbeat.
Chapter Five
PRESENT
When we walk outside, the frigid winter air surprises me. Even though I spent my childhood in Wyoming, I was technically in Orange County yesterday. The juxtaposition is startling. I follow behind Sebastian, unsure of where we’re headed, and he leads us to an older black Jeep parked in a wooden, beamed garage. The crunch of the snow beneath my feet is comforting. I haven’t seen snow since I moved away from home. I never realized how much I missed the clean feel of an early morning permeated by ice and frost. The smell of wet wood and dirt fills my nostrils. I inhale deeply.
“So I’ll come pick you up at three for your appointment. We can go see the house afterwards. Jeb says the boys will be done around four, so that should be perfect. How does that sound?” Sebastian asks as he opens my door. I climb in, and he goes around to the driver’s seat.
“My appointment,” I repeat.
He pulls out of the garage, turning the dials in the car so that the heater is working.
“Yeah. The first one,” he says excitedly. He rubs his hands together and beams at me, and then he places a gentle hand on my stomach. He’s excited—he’s excited for this baby.
“Three is perfect,” I say, unnerved. The one pregnancy scare I’d had with Charlie a couple of years ago resulted in him pacing the apartment for hours until he was brave enough to buy me a pregnancy test from the drug store. Needless to say, when it came back negative, he jumped for joy. Literally.
“Warming up?” Sebastian asks as the wi
ndshield wipers scrape the last of the ice off of the glass. I haven’t had to wait for a windshield to defrost in years.
“Yes,” I say, holding my hands in front of the lukewarm air. It’s getting hotter by the second. It feels excellent. The old leather seats are glacial, so I welcome any source of heat.
Sebastian backs out of the garage and pulls onto another road. I get my first look around at Vermont.
Why do I live here? I haven’t seen a single other person here. The trees are bare, the roads are single laned, and besides our apartment complex, I haven’t seen a single building, store, or house. Though, as I look around the wilderness, there’s a certain soothing quiet here, an eerie beauty that you can’t replicate anywhere else—certainly not in Southern California.
I don’t realize that I’m playing with a loose thread on my sweater until I look down, and my fingers have worked themselves around a ball of thread. Sebastian places a hand over mine.
“Hey, you okay?” he asks sincerely, and for the first time I feel guilty. I can’t give him the Marlin that he’s used to. I look like her, but I’m not her. Why is this happening, and why can’t I remember anything from this life? Seven years is a significant amount of time, and yet I can’t summon even one memory.
“I had some weird dreams last night,” I reply, trying to sound nonchalant.
“I’ve read about those—pregnancy dreams. I’ve heard that they can be sort of cray.” I laugh and look out of the window. I need to call my mom—I need to figure out what’s going on. “Are you sure you’re okay?” he asks just as he pulls into a parking lot.
I assume this is “the shop”, and I don’t want to trip him up any more than I already have. “Yes, baby. I’m fine,” I say, leaning over and giving him a peck on the cheek. I pull away and reach for the handle, but Sebastian grabs the arm of my sweater and pulls me back into him.
The Realm of You: A Novel Page 4