Dirt_Evergreen Series Book One

by Cassia Leo

  Despite the fact that there was no one who could do my job the way I did, they’d probably start considering replacing me if I divorced Laurel. They’d witnessed firsthand my rapid descent when I lost Junior. They’d probably assume that losing Laurel would push me over the edge.

  They would be right.

  8

  Laurel

  I decided I would spend the day doing groceries and unpacking some of the things I’d put away when I thought I was going to sell the house. Just a few of my mother’s favorite ornate teapots and one picture of my mom, sunlight illuminating her smile as she sat in a hospital chair with Junior in her arms. I put the picture on top of the low bookshelf in the downstairs office. I didn’t expect to spend a lot of time in there.

  But as I left the office, and the picture, and made my way to the living room, the loneliness began to set in again. It was just noon when I called Drea. I was elated when she agreed to meet me in Portland for a late Sunday brunch.

  Despite the fact that she lived fifty-five minutes from the restaurant, Drea must have sped there in her BMW i3 electric SUV. When I arrived, she was seated at a table near the window at Screen Door, our favorite Portland breakfast spot. Well, it was our favorite before Junior’s death. We hadn’t been to Portland together in quite a while, opting instead for low-key coffee houses and the occasional yoga class in Hood River.

  Drea wasn’t looking down at her phone, the way most people were when waiting for a brunch companion to show up. Drea had no insecurities when it came to eating alone. She often went to the movies by herself when her husband and friends were unavailable.

  I often joked that when I grew up, I wanted to be Drea.

  She waved at me from the table, her dark, shoulder-length hair bouncing with her excitement. When she wrapped her arms around me, my sinuses stung as a surge of emotion slammed into me. I had forgotten how good Drea was at giving hugs.

  She let go and shook her head when she saw me dabbing the corner of my eye. “You’re a real soppy cunt, you know that?”

  I laughed as I took a seat across from her. “Yes, I’m very much aware of that.”

  “You could have told me you were planning this little jailbreak. I wouldn’t have shown up for that Saturday yoga class. You know I hate that instructor and her incessant throat-clearing.” Her words sounded annoyed, but through her dark-brown fringe, I could see the betrayal in her eyes.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t,” I said, grabbing the glass of ice water in front of me. “I didn’t want you to try to convince me to stay.”

  “Yes, you mentioned that before,” she said with a shrug. “Well, I suppose I am rather difficult to resist. But that is the last time I’m going to Trudy’s class without you.”

  The waitress showed up to take our order, and her eyes widened when she saw me. “Hey! Long time no see. Gosh, how long has it been since you came in here? Wasn’t it when—”

  Drea held up her hand to stop the girl. “We’re not ready to order our food yet. But we’ll both have a vodka bloody Mary, heavy on the vodka. Thank you.”

  The girl flashed Drea an uncomfortable smile and took her cue to leave.

  Drea shook her head as she watched the girl, waiting until she was out of earshot. “Nosy little twat. Did you see the shiny plain above her eyebrows?”

  I laughed. “You mean, her forehead?”

  “That’s not a forehead, that’s a five-head. Look at her, strutting around with her five-head and her gormless expression, fishing for information about your tragedy. I hope she gets chronic explosive diarrhea.” She turned to me and smiled. “Now, tell me everything.”

  We were almost done with our chicken and waffles by the time I finished telling her everything that had happened with Jack yesterday and today. She downed the last dregs of her second bloody Mary and set down the glass carefully.

  She shook her head. “Only you could get away with planning this without anyone knowing, especially Jack. You’re barmy, but I love you.”

  “Barmy means crazy, right?” I sighed when she nodded in agreement. “I guess crazy is better than pathetic.”

  “Loads better. At least you’re not one of those housewives who mope around the house, wondering why their husbands are no longer attracted to their slaggy arse.”

  I cocked an eyebrow. “So… you don’t think I was wrong to move into my mom’s house?”

  “At least you got off your bum and did something about your shit marriage. What did Jack do?” She watched me with a pointed expression. “Exactly. Least now you might get a decent effort out of him.”

  “But I didn’t leave so he could put more effort into our marriage. I left because I’d been begging him to put in more effort and he’d been flat out refusing all of my suggestions. I don’t think I had a choice.”

  “Exactly,” she replied with a forceful nod.

  I downed the rest of my ice water and stared at the empty glass for a moment, trying not to think about how much I missed Jack already, just six and a half hours into our separation.

  “You’re not going to shag anyone while you’re separated. Are you?”

  My gaze snapped up to meet Drea’s. “What? No! Oh, my God. Do you really think I’m capable of something like that?”

  Her shoulders relaxed. “Oh, my goodness. You’re so right. I don’t even know why I asked that. I guess it was just… that sort of dreamy look on your face.”

  I shook my head. “Pathetic, I know. I’m already missing Jack.”

  “Like I said before, not pathetic at all. A bit mad, yes, but not pathetic.”

  I smiled as I slipped my wallet from inside my purse, to get some of the cash I’d taken out of the ATM on the way here.

  Drea held up her hand. “This one’s on me. I don’t want you to dip further into your emergency fund.”

  “Thank you,” I said, tucking the wallet back into my purse. “I should get going. I have to work up the nerve to introduce myself to my neighbors. The elderly woman across the street, I think I remember her name being Edith or Edna, should be easy enough. But the guy in the house next to me looks a bit surly.”

  “Don’t go getting yourself in trouble on your first night alone or Jack might never let you out to play again.”

  “Jack is my husband, not my keeper.”

  She cocked an eyebrow. “Are you sure about that?”

  I picked up the straw wrapper I’d balled up and threw it at her. “Don’t antagonize me, woman. Or I’ll tie you up and force you to listen to a loop of Trudy’s throat-clearing.”

  “God, you are one evil woman.”

  Though I chuckled on the outside, inside my stomach balled up tightly.

  Despite my laughter, Drea recognized the tension, and reached across the table to squeeze my hand. “You’re going to be all right. You just have to keep trying to make it work. Don’t stop fighting for what you need. Because the moment you start pulling punches, that’s when it all goes to shit. You might as well pack it up and leave for good.”

  I thought of a quote I’d seen on Instagram: if it’s not the fight-me-tooth-and-nail, leave-me-bloody-and-gasping-for-air kind of love, I don’t want it. I had written off the quote as immature and lacking in depth, like most wisdom found on Instagram. It was not at all a true representation of the kind of love that lasted, I thought.

  But the more I considered the quote, maybe it wasn’t as vapid and juvenile as I had originally thought. Jack and I had been shutting each other out, and we were on the verge of divorce, until I finally decided to hit back. This made Jack take notice and, even if we were separated, we were also finally communicating.

  By the time we finished our brunch and said our goodbyes, my abs felt as if I’d done a thousand crunches from all the laughing. I agreed to sign up for the hot yoga class Drea would be taking in October, and she agreed to send me the contact information for her former coworker who was now a realtor. Now that I wasn’t in a rush to sell the house, I could start interviewing more realtors. I wasn’t stuck w
ith sleazy John Miller anymore.

  Things were already looking up for me.

  * * *

  I opted to sleep on the king-sized bed in the guest room, rather than the full-sized bed in my old room. There were too many memories in every room in this house. The memories were inescapable. I might as well sleep comfortably without my frozen feet dangling off the end of the mattress.

  The pillows on the bed in the guest room felt firm, like those memory foam abominations, which Jack and I had both decided were neck torture devices. I wondered when she had changed the pillows in here. It had to have been after our last visit.

  As I switched the pillows out with the ones in my bedroom, I wondered if Jack was at home right now. Maybe I should call him to make sure he was okay. The Q&A had to be difficult.

  Looking at the screen, my phone broke the devastating news to me that it was just 6:30 p.m. on day one of this separation, and I was already desperate to talk to Jack. I felt like I was doing the right thing, but that didn’t change the fact that I also felt really fucking hopeless.

  I couldn’t call Jack. I had to give him some space, even if the only thing I wanted in this moment was to hear the rich, deep tone of his voice vibrating in the shell of my ear. I turned onto my side and curled into a ball, hugging the phone to my chest. I hadn’t finished taking a breath before my iPhone began to vibrate in my hand.

  Turning the screen to my face, I’d never been more nervous and relieved to see Jack’s name.

  9

  Jack

  I pulled into the parking lot at Full Sail Brewing Company around five o’clock to meet for beers. Three-quarters of the building, which was painted a weird sage-green color and took up almost an entire city block, was dedicated to the brewery. The other quarter housed the restaurant.

  The food was pretty good for your typical pub fare, but the reason we came to Full Sail more often than anywhere else was a sense of loyalty. Full Sail was a shining emerald in the craft brewery crown, which had been rightfully bestowed upon the greater Portland area.

  Nate was already seated at the bar, wearing his usual uniform of slacks and a button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled up. I didn’t know how Nate had used his computer programming degree to start an investment firm, but he did well for himself. And he certainly had the cut-throat personality required to succeed in finance.

  He held up his glass of beer as I approached. “What’s up, Biff?” he said, using the nickname he’d given me when I started bulking up after Junior’s death.

  “What’s up, gangsta?” I said, nodding as I took a seat in the stool next to him. “You finally lose your virginity yet, or what?”

  Zara, the hot bartender with the enormous tits, shook her head as she scooped ice into a tumbler.

  “Still waiting for that special lady,” Nate said with a shrug. “Will I ever find her?”

  “Not with that tattoo, you won’t,” Zara said, nodding toward the Dallas Cowboys emblem tattooed on Nate’s forearm.

  I held up my hand and Zara gave me a high-five. “The woman makes a fine point. You should get that thing covered up already.”

  “Dude, I was sixteen. Can you give me a break about the tat already?” Nate replied, shaking his head.

  “You should cover it up with something,” I said, watching Zara as she slid the cocktail she’d just made to a guy at the other end of the bar.

  “With what?” Nate asked.

  “With anything. A tat of your mom’s hairy, pimply ass would be better than that.” I nodded at Zara as she gestured toward the tap behind her, asking if I wanted the usual.

  Nate cocked one of his ginger eyebrows. “How about we lay off the topic of moms, especially since I just laid yours.”

  “Damn. So you’re telling me you’re not still a virgin? You hear that, Zara? You lost your chance,” I said, grabbing the glass of lager she set down in front of me.

  She flashed me a seductive smile. “That’s okay, baby. I’m still saving myself for you. You let me know as soon as you get divorced.”

  Nate laughed at my uncomfortable smile. “You’re in luck, Z. Biff’s wife just left him.”

  I shot him a deadly look. “She didn’t leave me, fuckhead. She’s just staying at her mom’s house to work on the garden for a few weeks.”

  His eyebrows shot up. “Sure, chief. If that’s what you choose to believe.” He took a long drink from his glass and stared into it. “That’s what Michelle said before I got served divorce papers. ‘I just need some time to myself.’ And I thought nothing of it. She hadn’t visited her parents in months. I thought she was just going to spend the weekend or even the week there, then she’d be back.”

  I shook my head. “Dude. You cheated on Michelle and worked sixteen hours a day for years. Of course she left you.”

  He chuckled. “And you don’t think you’ve been unfaithful to Laurel?”

  “No, I haven’t. I don’t know what the fuck you’re trying to say, but I’ve never even thought about cheating on Laurel.”

  He nodded. “Yeah, because spending your time on that fucking website sleuth thing, whatever the fuck it’s called, is not at all like cheating on her. Dude, wake the fuck up. Every time you choose your addiction over your wife it’s going to feel, to her, like you’re being unfaithful. She may not even realize she feels that way, but it’s the same fucking thing. Trust me. I learned that the hard way.”

  We drank the rest of our first beer in silence, then we changed the topic to work. I left about an hour later feeling angry with Nate, for calling attention to a flaw in my marriage. And angry with myself for not having the self-awareness to notice such a fatal fault.

  * * *

  I wasn’t at all surprised when Laurel answered the phone after the first ring. She could run away to her mother’s house and play the part of the spurned wife, but I was in her blood, in every cell of her marrow. If she wanted to play a little game of cat and mouse, I’d play along, for now.

  “Jack.” The volume of her whisper was multiplied by the sound system in my truck. “Why are you whispering?”

  She sighed. “I don’t know, because I want to. Why does it matter?”

  “You’re my wife. Are you not at your mom’s house?”

  “Excuse me? Are you accusing me of something? Is this what you called me for? To make sure I’m behaving like a good little wife?”

  I shook my head as I tightened my grip on the steering wheel. “Look, I don’t want to argue with you. I just want you to know that this marriage is far from over.”

  “What is that, some kind of veiled threat? Are you drunk?”

  “No, I’m not drunk. And, no, it’s not a fucking threat. It’s a promise. And here’s another one: I promise…” I clenched my jaw, hardly able to believe what I was about to say. “I promise I’ll go to couple’s counseling. None of that one-on-one shit. And… and if that goes well, I promise we can start trying for another baby.”

  I had never been a quitter, giving up on my marriage was sure as hell not the right time to start being one.

  She was silent for a moment. “Are you being serious?”

  “Laurel, divorce is a pretty serious subject, and there is no way I’m letting it get to that point. So yes, I am dead serious right now.”

  More silence, then she let out a soft breath that made me ache for her. “Thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “For loving me enough to try.”

  I drew in a long, shaky breath. “Just come home. I swear to God I won’t break my promise. Just come home so we can do this together.”

  She sniffed loudly. “I can’t,” she replied, her voice thick with anguish. “You’ve broken too many promises for me to take you at your word.”

  “Fuck,” I whispered under my breath, wishing I could disagree with her. “I slept like a baby last night,” I said, rounding out the hard edges in my voice. “I’ve missed sleeping with you.”

  I waited for her to say something like, “Well, you could have b
een sleeping with me if you weren’t spending your nights on websleuths.com.” Of course, Laurel surprised me again.

  “But you hate my cold feet,” she teased me.

  I smiled. “Believe it or not, I’ve missed your ice-cold feet stealing my warmth.”

  “I don’t steal your warmth,” she protested. “It’s not my fault you have an unlimited supply. You’re like the sun.”

  “Are you saying I’m a ball of fiery hot gas?”

  She laughed. “Yes. You’re a walking talking unlimited supply of hot gas, which I will continue to steal until the day I die.”

  “You can’t steal something that’s given knowingly and generously.”

  She snorted. “Oh, Lord. So you’re like Mother Teresa for the cold people of the world?”

  “Not the whole world, pixie. Just you.” This silenced her again, so I figured that would be a good time to say goodbye. “Get some rest, baby. I’ll call you later.”

  She sniffed again, and I wished I could take her in my arms and soak up her tears. “Okay,” she whispered.

  “I love you more than you can imagine,” I said.

  “I can’t imagine loving anyone more,” she replied.

  I gritted my teeth to hold back tears as I hit the button to end the call, but the Bluetooth function took a couple of seconds to respond. A soft whimper echoed through the speakers right before the call disappeared.

  I considered calling her back, to talk to her until she stopped crying, but I decided to let it be. This was our reality now.

  With Laurel an hour away, I couldn’t be there for her the way I wanted or the way she needed. This separation was the consequence of our actions — and inaction. If it didn’t hurt, it would mean there was nothing left to fight for.