by Minka Kent
“Just stop talking,” I say, eyes slowly rolling to the back of my head as I inhale. “I want to actually enjoy this this time.”
Mitch switches on some music that makes me feel like I’m in some secret, underground club in Manhattan. The beat is relaxed, ambient. Crazy how Mitch knows exactly what I need, and he hardly knows me.
Last night, Graham brought home flowers for me after work. It’s been months since he’s done that, so I kept my mouth closed, opting not to correct him when he proudly declared he’d searched high and low for a bouquet of yellow tulips because he remembered they were my favorite.
He used to bring me daffodils.
Daffodils are my favorite.
I guess they’re both yellow.
He knew me well once upon a time. I’m not sure how a man just forgets the favorite flower of the woman to whom he’s been married the last twelve years.
I’m weightless and anchored at the same time, my body and mind joyously separated. The sound of feet shuffling on the floor force my eyes to open. Mitch is standing in front of me, his heavy gaze examining me.
“What?” My shoulders jerk, and I sit up. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
My mind goes to last week, when I caught him staring at me like this for the first time.
“Is it weird?” he asks. His shoulder-length sandy hair is tucked behind his ears, and there’s scruff on his chin. He’s the opposite of Graham’s signature, clean-cut style, and yet I can’t help but to secretly find him alluring.
My palm rests on my chest, my heart speeding up for a moment. When I try to speak, my mouth is dry.
“I’ll stop if it creeps you out,” Mitch says with a benign chuff. “You’re just really fucking pretty is all. Like a Hollywood actress. One of those vintage pin-up ones from the forties. When I get high and I look at you, it’s almost trippy. Makes me lose track of time. Or maybe it’s the weed.”
I clear my throat, body tensing slightly. “Yes, it’s weird.”
And it’s weird that I kind of like it.
“That’s cool. No worries. I won’t do it anymore.” He makes his way to the kitchen. The sound of clinking glass is followed by the slamming of a fridge door. When he returns, he has two beer bottles in his hand. “I know it’s the middle of the day, but there’s nothing like a little Lamb’s Bread and pale ale.”
It’s been seventeen years since I’ve had a beer. The last time was my freshman year of college, when Graham dragged me to a frat party where everyone was doing keg stands, including me.
I’d never been so sick after that night.
And Graham took me home, stayed by my side all night, holding my hair back as I hugged a toilet bowl. He brought me cool towels and clean pajamas and never left me for more than a minute at a time. The next morning, he made me buttered toast and ran to the store for ginger ale, still cursing himself for taking me to that party.
That man used to move heaven and earth to make sure I was okay. He was protective of me. Gentle with my heart. Sensitive to my feelings.
“No, thank you.” I wave him away, the memory of that beer and vomit taste coming back to me in small waves. My stomach churns.
“Suit yourself.” Mitch shrugs, placing the extra beer on the coffee table and twisting the cap off his own. He plops down, kicking his sneaker-covered feet up one by one. His lips wrap around the bottle, then a hint of his tongue, and he releases a satisfied sigh with his first gulp. The liquid sloshes as it returns to the bottom of the bottle.
“I don’t think I’ll be here after the next couple of Tuesdays,” I say before I forget.
He huffs. “Sure.”
“No, I’m being serious. Once school’s out, I’m on my own with the kids. I don’t know when I’ll be able to get away again.” God, I’m going to miss this. This, my standing Tuesday morning date, is what keeps me going each week. This is what I live for lately, and I take full responsibility for how screwed up it makes me sound.
“Why don’t you take some home with you?”
“I can’t.” Sitting up, I pull my legs under me, curling up in his chair. I want to take a nap right here, curled into a little ball. I want to sleep for a million years in this foggy, exuberant haze. “I wouldn’t know how to transport it, where to hide it . . .”
“Uptown, geez, I’ll teach you all that.” He stands, running his hands down his ripped jeans and eyeing the hall. After a second, he leaves, returning with a small plastic bag filled with a fair amount of rolled joints. “Going to have to start charging you now, just so you know. This bag’s a hundred bucks, and that’s the discounted rate.”
“I don’t have any cash on me,” I say, wondering if it’ll fit in my front pocket without bulging too much. Shaking my head, I silently scold myself for even considering this. This is insane. I can’t. This is why I come here. “It’s okay. I shouldn’t.”
He sighs, letting the baggie fall to his side, his hand tight around it. “All right, fine. That’s on you.”
“I can’t smoke in the house,” I say. “It just feels wrong. I can’t do it around the kids. And if my husband ever found out . . .”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. I know you have your reasons. Mother of the Year and all that.”
I huff. “I’m hardly Mother of the Year.”
“I doubt that.” His eyes drag the length of me. “I bet you make homemade cookies and read bedtime stories. I bet you’re the kind of mother every kid dreams of, the kind that only exist in Hallmark movies.”
I roll my eyes. “I wish I was a Hallmark mom. Maybe if I were, my oldest wouldn’t be acting out all the time.”
“Acting out? Or acting like a kid.”
I tell him about Grace. About the pancakes and the stealing and the disobedience. I tell him about her penchant for doing horrible things and making me feel guilty in the end, as if her behavior is a direct result of my inferior parenting skills.
He laughs. “Shit, Uptown. Pretty sure my mom would tell you you’ve got it easy. She sounds like a kid. A handful. But a kid. And you’re doing the best you can. Everyone’s always doing the best they can.”
“Do you have any kids?”
He shakes his head. “Nope.”
I think about asking if he wants kids, if he even likes them, but I stop myself when I remember his lifestyle is a glaring example of the kinds of priorities that do not involve becoming a father.
“Sounds like you need a break is all,” he says. “And that’s why you come here, am I right?”
I nod.
“Anyway,” he says. “I’m not going to pressure you. I’m not one of those assholes. Plus weed’s not addictive. If you were hooked on the hard stuff, I might try to turn a buck or two.”
He winks, and I assume he’s joking.
“I appreciate it.” My mellow is fading faster than I’d hoped. “How come you’ve never charged me before?”
“You’ve been paying with your company.”
“My company?”
“Yeah. I like hanging out with you for some insane reason. You’re like the last person on earth I’d be friends with in real life, and I’d totally lose my street cred if I were seen around you, but you’re interesting to me, Uptown. I like you. And that says a lot, because I really don’t like anybody.”
My jaw loosens as I try and decide if I want to be flattered or insulted. I settle on a little of both.
“Thanks, Mitch. I like hanging out with you, too.”
“Yeah, well. If you miss me, you’ve got my number.”
“You know I can’t text you.”
“Then you know where to find me.”
Mitch flops down on the couch, and we sit in enlightened silence for the better part of the next hour, soaking in the last fleeting moments of our time together. When it’s time for me to leave, he walks me to the back door, and I begin to regret not asking more about him when I had the chance.
All I ever did was come here and blab about myself, ranting and raving about trivial things like so
me self-loathing, self-pitying lunatic, and he sat beside me and listened. From time to time, he’d offer his sage advice, which always resonated no matter how screwed up it was, but most of the time, he’d listen in silent support.
Never once did I have to pretend to be who someone wanted me to be. Never once have I had to apologize for speaking my truth no matter how crazy it made me seem.
It’s been five weeks since I met Mitch.
And in five weeks, he’s become one of the best friends I’ve ever had.
“The kids go to their grandmother’s for a week in the middle of July,” I say when we’re standing at the side door. “You’ll see me then.”
“I’ll see you before then.” He moves closer, his hand braced on the wall behind me. Mitch’s scent is a combination of marijuana and drugstore shower gel. He’s everything Graham is and nothing he isn’t, and it feels dangerously wrong to be this physically close to a man who isn’t my husband. Mitch’s mouth curls up at the sides when our eyes meet, and then he digs into his front pocket. “Almost forgot.”
Lifting a single rolled joint, he places it in my hand and curls my fingers around it. He doesn’t let go, and there’s a tightness in my chest as I remember just how much I’ve missed holding hands with someone who looks at me like I’m the most splendid thing they’ve ever seen in their life.
“Consider it your emergency stash,” he says. “It’s small enough you can hide it anywhere. You have an attic?”
My brows furrow. “Yes, I have an attic. Why?”
“When you need a little Mommy break, take this guy up to the attic. Smoke rises. Wrap yourself in a towel and cover your hair. Nobody’ll know.”
The thought of hiding drugs in my house makes my body quaver, but the thought of going the next several weeks without this miraculous and divine intervention is even more terrifying.
Last summer I went to the doctor after breaking out in hives. She said I had a stress rash, and then proceeded to accuse me of being depressed because I admitted I wasn’t sleeping lately. It made no sense, but she was adamant that I take a pill that combatted both depression and anxiety. I went home and researched the side effects: weight gain, decreased libido, headaches, and brain zaps. Life was already a challenge without those extra little extras, so I never called her back.
Besides, I’m not depressed or anxious, I’m desperate. I’m at the end of my rope.
And there’s a huge difference.
“Fine.” I tuck the joint down the front of my sports bra. “All right, I’m going.”
“Take care, Uptown,” he says, holding the door open. “When life gets too crazy, you come see me. I’ll make it all go away.”
Twelve
Autumn
Sunday’s sunrise paints the sky in shades of pink and orange, but it may as well be gray. Seated in the kitchen, I pull my knees up against my chest, resting my chin on top of them as I stare into the backyard. The McMullens are probably getting up now, Daphne about to fix breakfast in the kitchen before the kids traipse down the stairs one by one. If I had to guess, I’d bet Graham ran out to fetch the paper and a latte from Daphne’s favorite coffee shop, and I’d bet the kids are just starting to wake, rubbing their sleepy eyes and washing up for the breakfast their mother so lovingly prepared.
If it were a week ago, all of this would be documented for the world to share.
I’ve always been of the opinion that if you have a beautiful life, you should share it with the rest of us. Not everyone has the privilege of living the kind of life most people only ever see on TV.
The McMullens were real.
They are real.
And now they’re holed up in that oversized McMansion of theirs, hiding away like they’re too fucking good for social media now.
My hand trembles, probably from my lack of sleep catching up with me, as I reach for my coffee which has turned lukewarm. I’m not sure how long it’s been sitting there. Could be hours for all I know.
It hit me last night, after seeing the remnants of Rose’s party, that this is my new reality, and there’s nothing I can do to change it.
I stayed up all night. Pacing. Crying into the sofa pillows. Forcing myself to fall asleep and failing miserably. At three in the morning, I crept upstairs to the spare room and pulled out the wooden box, scattering all my photos and mementos across the floor, mourning the days when a press, tap, and click was all it took for me to step inside Grace’s life.
I needed to think.
I needed to be alone.
I needed to figure out what I’m going to do.
At two in the morning, it dawned on me that I could pretend to be a prospective parent at Brinkman Academy where Grace and Rose attend school. I could make a phone call as soon as they open today and schedule a tour, and maybe I could see them, see where they eat lunch and swing on swings at recess. I could see their classrooms and their lockers and their teachers and maybe even see Grace.
The creaking of the stairs tells me Ben’s up now, but I can’t bring myself to turn and face him. I’m sure my face is puffy and my eyes are swollen and red. There’s nothing I can do to hide them. I should’ve been icing them hours ago, but I wasn’t thinking straight.
“Babe.” His warm palm cups my shoulder, and from the side of my vision I watch him crouch down. “You didn’t come to bed last night.”
I nod, biting my bottom lip and feeling like opening my mouth to speak would be a very bad idea right now. If I so much as try to make a noise, it won’t be words that come out.
“What’s wrong?” He presses his lips against the side of my head, wrapping his arm around me. His question smells like morning breath poorly concealed with mint toothpaste, and it makes me want to vomit. “Okay. You don’t have to talk.”
He moves away from me, but he doesn’t go too far. Sliding into the seat next to me, he rests his elbow on the table and reaches his other hand for mine. His arms are long, like his legs, and they stretch across the table.
“Will you do me a favor and talk to someone this week?” he asks.
My gaze flicks onto his.
Ben’s mouth flashes into a quick smile. “I know you don’t like to talk about your feelings, and you don’t open up too much, but I think it would be good for you.”
Talking to someone is the last thing I want to do right now.
Nobody would understand.
Nobody has ever truly understood me.
“Do it for me?” he asks, his lips curling into a coaxing smile. “Please?”
Staring hard into his pale blue eyes, a hard ball of resentment fills my tense stomach. I hate that I need him, that I’m stuck here without a choice.
Ben, and this house, are my only gateway into the McMullens’ lives now.
Clearing my throat, I summon all the strength I have and let him take my hand.
“Just feeling depressed about not having a job,” I lie. “It finally hit me last night.”
His head tilts, and I truly believe the sympathy in his gaze is genuine, but none of it matters because none of this is true.
“I’d been wondering,” he says with a delicate timbre in his voice. “You just haven’t seemed like yourself ever since they let you go. You’re more withdrawn. I really think you should talk to someone.”
I wave him off, rising and lifting my coffee mug to my lips. I take a sip, ice cold, and swallow the bitter liquid before rising to dump the rest in the sink. Peering across the backyard, I see that the kitchen light is on at the McMullens’ house, and it sends a tight squeeze to my chest when I think of all the memories I’ve already missed.
My shoulders sink, my hope deflated.
“I’m going to start looking for a job again, and I mean really look. And I’ll start on Monday,” I say. I’ll say anything if it means not seeing a shrink. I’ve never liked them anyway. Don’t trust them. They’re snakes in the grass. Professional manipulators. “I’ll take the first job I can get.”
I don’t want Ben to worry about me.
I don’t need him prying. My plate is piled to the roof with things I have to concern myself with right now, and I don’t need anything else added to the mix.
He rises from the table, moving behind me, cupping his hands around my waist as we both face the kitchen window above the sink. Ben buries his chin into the bend between my neck and shoulder before hugging me tight.
“I like having you home,” he says. “But I like it even better when you’re happy. I just want you happy again.”
Yeah. Me too.
Thirteen
Daphne
“Be good for Gram.” I wrap my arms around my children as they cling to my leg Friday afternoon, and then I glance up at my mother, her suitcase resting at her side as we stand in the foyer. A flash of yellow passes the front window as her cab drives away. “Thank you so much, Mom. I know it was short notice, but we really appreciate it. We just need to get away for a bit. You know how it is.”
Never in all my life have I been able to slip much of anything past my mother. She stands, arms still thick from years of weekend waitressing and forty hour weeks at the tire plant.
Her sparse brows rise, and her mouth lifts in the corner. “Everything okay in paradise?”
“Of course.” I smile and swat her away. I don’t want her to worry. Leaning down to kiss the top of Sebastian’s messy brown mop, I realize he’s in desperate need of a haircut, but now that school’s out and I’m dealing with everything else, it isn’t a priority and it’ll have to wait. “Are you going to be a good boy this weekend?”
He nods, wearing a sheepish grin.
“Grace, will you be a good helper to Gram?” I run my hand along Grace’s arm, stopping to unfasten her hand from my hip. She squirms, trying to cling tighter. “Grammy loves when you help her. Please be the good girl I know you are this weekend.”
“I don’t want you and Daddy to go,” she whines into my shirt, her voice muffled. “If you leave, I’m not going to be good.”
I glance at my mother, exhaling with relief when I see she didn’t hear my daughter just threaten me. Had I ever so much as threatened my mother growing up, I’d have been shipped off and sent away to some military boarding school on the other side of the country. She’d have taken on a third job just to pay for it, too.