The Realm of You: A Novel

by Amanda Richardson

“How can I help you?” A man behind the counter asks. He’s older, and he reminds me of Giles from Buffy the Vampire Slayer—wise and witty, with a spectacular pair of round glasses.

  “Hi,” I say, sidling up to the counter. “Are you hiring, by any chance?”

  He gives me a sly smile and starts to stroke his chin. His face is weathered, though I’d guess he’s no older than fifty. His hair, which is mostly hidden beneath a pageboy cap, is tinged with silver.

  “It depends. Who’s asking?” He winks. I raise my hand, and he nods. “Can you fill out an application?”

  “Of course. I just moved here, and I’m volunteering at the Brattleboro Retreat in the mornings.”

  “Fantastic,” he says slowly, reaching down into the cubby below the cash register. He hands me a slip of paper and a pen.

  “Thanks.” I take the application to a nearby table and fill it out. When I hand it back, his eyes scan my answers.

  “Okay. You’re hired. I just wanted to make sure you weren’t crazy.”

  That’s debatable, I think. “Wow, finding a job is so much easier than I thought it would be.”

  He laughs. “Can you come in for training tomorrow morning at eight?”

  “Sure! I’m only at the retreat during the week.”

  “Great. I’ve been looking for someone to help around here. My wife works most days—she runs a tight ship, and she’s been insanely picky about hired help. But I’m putting my foot down now,” he jokes.

  I chuckle. “I’ll see you tomorrow at eight.” I start to walk away.

  “I’m Dave, by the way.” He reaches his hand out, and I walk back to shake his hand.

  “Marlin.”

  “Were your parents Marlins fans? Go Miami!”

  I laugh. “No. My dad is big into fishing, and I guess they thought it would be cool to name me after his favorite fish.”

  Dave nods and chuckles. “Parents.”

  As I walk out, I have a new spring in my step. I jog back to my apartment and call my mom, filling her in on everything. I leave the details of Sebastian out. Nothing will bring me down today—not even the grumpy man in room nine that I might’ve loved in another life.

  *

  Monday morning comes too soon, and I’m slow to arrive at the retreat and even slower making my way to Sebastian’s room. Dread would be the right word.

  I open the door slowly, setting his breakfast tray on his dresser before moving to open the curtains. I’ve started bringing his breakfast first thing. It minimizes the contact I have to have with him. I hear him stir as I throw the heavy shades open.

  “Morning,” I say, my voice curt. I look down at my outfit. Maroon tank top, black cardigan, light-colored jeans, and black flats. No one will be resembling baby poop today. “I brought you some breakfast, and Darcy will be in shortly with your medication.”

  He sits up in bed and moves his legs slowly over the side of the bed, using both hands to lift the heavy casts. I imagine they’re pretty heavy. I walk over and slip my arm under his arm, helping him into the wheelchair. He grunts, and his smells are slightly intoxicating. It’s a mix of peppermint, vanilla, and sweat. I pull away quickly as he adjusts himself in the chair, and I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, avoiding his gaze.

  He looks up at me and grimaces. “What?”

  “What?” I cross my arms.

  “You were staring at me.”

  “No, I wasn’t,” I say quickly, my voice raising an octave.

  “Like the day I saw you by the river. You acted like you knew me.”

  “I do,” I blurt, and then I cover my mouth.

  “Right, like you and I would ever run in the same circles,” he says, beginning to wheel himself away and shaking his head.

  “You look like someone I used to know.”

  He turns to face me again. “I have a billion brothers and sisters. Most of them are in Mexico, but maybe that’s why I look familiar.” He shrugs.

  “Mexico?”

  “Yeah. My dad used to be in the cartel. Tito Juares. You’ve probably seen him on wanted posters.”

  “You’re joking.” Juares. “Wait, are you joking?”

  “I wish. He got my mom pregnant. She fled to California and then eventually Vermont. That’s where she met and married my stepdad, all before I was born. My real dad has tried contacting me a few times. That’s a whole other story. My life is a fucking Mexican soap opera.”

  Tito Juares. I’d heard of him. I wonder why Sebastian’s last name was Juares in my dream, and not in real life?

  “You look nice today,” he says, and then he wheels himself off to the bathroom. I’m paralyzed next to his bed. Did he just compliment me? What is the world coming to? Just as I’m about to leave, I hear him come to the bathroom door. “Please don’t overanalyze what I said. I was just making a platonic observation.”

  I nod, my cheeks turning pink. “Oh, I know. You hate me too much to like me.”

  A small smile forms on his lips, and I feel victorious. I got him to smile!

  “That is true.”

  “Why are you so mean to me?” I ask without thinking. “I’m only trying to help.”

  He looks down, ashamed that I called him out. He shrugs slowly. “Maybe it’s because we’re so different. Maybe I resent that you’re trying to help me.” He looks up. His eyes are soft, and for a second, I see some sort of vulnerability. I’m startled by his honesty.

  “We’re not different,” I reply, walking over to him. “You and I… we’re the same.” I don’t elaborate—I’m not ready to tell him my life story.

  He shakes his head slowly, and his long, messy hair moves in front of his face. I never noticed before, but it curls up at the ends. When he looks up at me, his eyes are dark and stormy.

  “We’re nothing alike, Marlin. I don’t know why you wanted to volunteer here. Perhaps you wanted to make yourself feel better after your breakup, but please don’t place us in the same box.”

  “Who told you about my breakup?”

  He shrugs. “Nurses talk.”

  “Well, Charlie is not the reason I’m here.”

  “Whatever you say, princess.”

  I guffaw at his words. Princess? I don’t wait for him to apologize. I quickly walk out of the room and down the hall, wringing my hands and scowling.

  Every time I feel like I’m making progress with Sebastian, it’s like we take one step forward and three steps back.

  Chapter Nineteen

  PRESENT

  Another week passes, and a routine of sorts develops. I start my day at the retreat, whereby I bring Sebastian his breakfast and dodge his veiled insults as best as I can. Every so often, he lays a compliment on me, but usually he’s in a terrible mood and wants to be left alone.

  I find solace in Emma, and we become close in a short amount of time. I spend my mornings helping with various mind-numbing tasks. Sometimes I see Sebastian wandering the grounds or playing poker with Mr. Kringle. I used to wave hello, but he never waved back, so I stopped. Most mornings, he locks himself in his room and paints.

  Then in the afternoons, I drive to the coffee shop to start my shift. Dave has me scheduled every afternoon during the week, which is nice because that means I have weekends off. The coffee shop is entertaining, and the time passes quickly. I learn how to do latte art. I figure out how to make the perfect macchiato, and by week’s end, I can make a mean dry cappuccino. I only manage to mix up the decaf and regular coffee once.

  Evenings are the hardest, to be honest. I meet Emma for drinks a couple of times, and once Dave invites me to an open mic night, which is fun. Other than that though, nights are lonely and long. I go to bed early, excited to start my day at the retreat.

  After another weekend consisting of multiple trips to the farmer’s market, cleaning my tiny studio, and getting my finances in order, I walk into the retreat the following Monday feeling good. I like routines, and this one I have going on is pleasant.

  “Where is everyone?” I ask C
ecelia, who is picking at her chipped nails and looking utterly bored. The entire retreat is unusually quiet—the normal hum of voices is gone.

  “Field trip. You better hurry or you’ll miss the bus.”

  “Thanks.” I walk quickly towards the back door. When I walk to the back parking lot, a small white bus is sitting at the curb, idling. Darcy is standing by the door holding a clipboard. I jog over to her. “Hey,” I say, surprising her.

  “Oh, Marlin, I’m so glad you’re here.” She swats at the schedule on the clipboard irritably. “I realized I completely forgot to tell you about movie day. You’re welcome to come. We should be back after lunch, so you should be able to make your shift at Mocha Jean’s.” Darcy has visited me on several occasions. In fact, Darcy and Emma have taken me under their wing in a way, and I’m very grateful for the Kavanagh family.

  “Yeah, I can help out.” We both climb in, and I immediately look for Sebastian. He’s sitting all the way in back, staring out of the window. “What is movie day?”

  “We try and get everyone out and about a couple times a month. Sometimes we go to a museum, sometimes we go on a picnic… anything to take their minds off of real life for a few hours.”

  “What movie are we going to see?” I ask, excited. This could be fun. I look around for an extra seat—Emma occupies the one next to Darcy. She waves at me and sips her coffee slowly.

  “I’m not sure yet. We’ll vote when we’re at the theatre. And I’m sorry, honey, but it looks like the only seat open is next to Sebastian.”

  I suspected as much. “No problem,” I say glumly. I shuffle down the aisle to the last row. Sebastian still hasn’t seen me, and I’m not sure he’s going to like being stuck next to me without being able to wheel away, something he loves to do. I sit down, and he turns to face me, a look of surprise on his face.

  “Last seat,” I mumble by way of explanation. He doesn’t respond, and instead returns to peering out of the window. “How are you today?”

  “I’ve been better,” he says without facing me.

  “At least you’re getting out and into the real world. Fresh air. This spring has been beautiful,” I add.

  “Yeah.” He runs his hand through his shaggy hair, his bicep tight against the fabric of his shirt. Oh Sebastian, why do you have to be such a beautiful disaster?

  “So, what kinds of things do you normally paint?” I ask, my voice chipper. I’ve never really asked him about his art, except for that one time I asked to see the painting he created after we met.

  “Abstracts, mostly. But lately I’ve been really into impressionist-type stuff. Things without borders—undefined.” He swivels to face me. “I aim to see what’s invisible to others.”

  I smile. “I like that.”

  He doesn’t say anything, and instead turns back to the window and crosses his arms. He’s wearing a tight white T-shirt, black shorts, and black hi-top converse. With his hair and the permanent frown on his face, he looks and acts so different from the Sebastian in my dream. I wonder where the disconnect happened—what made him this way instead of the dream way?

  And then it hits me. The answer is almost too simple. Me. That’s the disconnect. I sit up straighter, and I realize with a jolt that not only was my own life affected by my choices, but Sebastian’s was, too. The realization is disconcerting. One small revision, and we’d be here but living in entirely different circumstances.

  He needs me just as much as I need him.

  I look over at him. The light from the window is reflecting off of his chocolate-brown eyes, and his skin is smooth where the stubble stops. Suddenly, he turns and catches me staring.

  “Do I have food on my face or something?” he jokes.

  “No. I’m sorry. You just look so familiar.”

  “Marlin,” he starts, and then he stops, biting his bottom lip. The movement is sexy, and I have to remind myself that he’s not the same guy who made love to me and called me mi amor. “I know you think we may have a lot in common. Hell, you might even like me for some strange reason.” A look of horror must pass across my face because he clarifies. “As a friend. You might even like me as a friend. But I think it would be best if we weren’t. Friends, that is.”

  I swallow, unsure of what to say. It feels like the air is being sucked out of my lungs. He must notice, because he sighs and continues.

  “I’m fucked up. Seriously, honest-to-God fucked up. You don’t need to befriend me just because you feel bad for me. I get out of here in a week, and I’m going to disappear, so really, it’s for the better.”

  My mind goes fuzzy for a second as I take in his words. “Disappear?” I whisper. I instinctually grab his hand, but he pulls it away, withdrawing from me and from the conversation. He turns towards the window again. “You don’t mean…”

  “It’s not working.”

  It takes me a second to register and comprehend his words. I think I know what he means, but I ask anyways. “What’s not working?”

  “Therapy. Medication. Group sessions. Field trips.” He spits the last two words. “I’m rotten at my core. I’m no good.”

  Though it pains me to hear him say that, it startles me how similar we actually are. I remember thinking those exact words about myself the week before attempting suicide.

  “No,” I say, a little too loudly. Both Mr. Kringle and David/Hubert (I’m not sure which one he is today) turn and look at us, affronted. “You are good.”

  “You barely know me, Marlin,” he says, avoiding my gaze.

  I want to slap his pretty face and make him believe it. How can this be happening? He didn’t come out and say it, but I suspect he’s still having suicidal ideations. When he gets out of the retreat, there’s no telling what he might do.

  “You’re right. I don’t know you. But I can tell you that it gets better. Life gets better.”

  “No, it doesn’t.” He’s fully facing me now, obviously frustrated. “Everyone always says that, and quite frankly, I think people are full of shit when they say that.”

  I sigh and lean back against the seat. There’s only one way to convince him. I look at him square in the eyes. “I tried to kill myself three months ago. I thought I was happy for a very long time, but I wasn’t. I tried to end it all. I am living proof that it gets better, Sebastian.”

  He watches me for what seems like minutes. Neither of us breaks eye contact. I’m breathing heavily, and he’s tapping his finger on the window of the bus. We’ve started moving now, barreling down the main road. The greenery around us is stunning, but I don’t really notice any of it.

  I push the sleeves of my sweater up my arms, displaying my scars. His eyes travel over them slowly, lazily, taking their time examining me. With one simple gesture, he reaches out and traces one of them with his index finger. When he looks back up at me, I have tears in my eyes.

  “Maybe we’re not so different after all.” He removes his finger from my arm, watching his movements, and then his eyes flick back up to mine, a little less hard now. “I could never do the razor thing. You’re brave.”

  “I’m not brave. What I did wasn’t bravery.”

  He doesn’t respond. Instead, he looks away again. “I jumped off of bridges.”

  “I know. Darcy told me.”

  He just chuckles. I’m glad he’s not angry that she told me. “She’s such a gossip.”

  “Now do you believe me?” I ask, my voice insistent. “That life gets better?”

  “I’m glad it got better for you, Marlin.” His simple answer unsettles me, like he’s brushing me off. I want him to understand. I need him to understand.

  “I’ll prove it to you.” I sit up straighter and face him. “Do you trust me?”

  “I barely know you.” He watches me skeptically, fidgeting with his thumbs.

  “Give me until Friday. I will prove it to you.”

  “What, like bucket-list shit?”

  I think about that for a second. “Yes, but less cheesy. I like it. Bucket-list shit.”


  He grimaces, his lips tight. I can tell he’s trying to read me, trying to figure out if I’m going to keep bugging him about this. I cross my arms and sit up straight, not taking my eyes off of his. He has to know I’m one hundred percent serious.

  “Fine. I don’t like it, but I feel like I have no choice.”

  “You don’t,” I confirm, excited for the first time in a long time. “The first thing you need to do is make a list.”

  “Let me guess—bucket-list shit.”

  “Precisely.” I nod, and he smiles. God, it’s so wonderful when he smiles. I reach into my purse and pull out a piece of paper and a pen. “You can start now.”

  He looks down at the paper and pen and then back up at me, his eyes icy. Just as I think he’s going to yell or turn away, he takes them and begins to write on the back of the seat. I try not to snoop, so I busy myself with my phone and check my email. After a few minutes, he hands the piece of paper back to me, and I’m more than eager to read it.

  1. Change my name and reconcile with my father.

  2. Fly a helicopter.

  3. Get a tattoo.

  4. Visit the Louvre in Paris.

  5. Visit a nudist colony.

  6. Paint a live model.

  7.

  “There’s one thing on the list that I didn’t write down, to save my embarrassment. But on Friday, I’ll let you know whether or not it’s been achieved.”

  “Deal,” I agree. We shake hands. “By the way, there’s only seven. Aren’t most bucket lists like hundreds of items long?”

  He shrugs. “I’m low maintenance.” He flashes me a cocky smile, and I feel my heart flutter. God, if he weren’t so depressed, he’d have the ability to break so many hearts with that smile.

  “And one of them is pretty impossible before Friday,” I add.

  He stretches and raises his hands above his head. “It was a long shot.”

  “Don’t underestimate my abilities. If we don’t go to the Louvre this week, we’ll go another time.”

  He watches me for a second too long, his face softening. For a second, I think he’s going to agree. But then he turns around and doesn’t say anything else, so I tuck the list into my purse and hope that I can change his mind about everything.