by M. Mabie
“It’s just us. We’re here to help Blake pack up a few things. That’s all,” my dad said as he pulled his arms through his jacket and took it off, laying it over the back of a chair nearest him.
“So what did she tell you? What lie? Was I mean to her? No. That can’t be it. Wasn’t providing for her? No. I sure as hell bought her this house. Let’s see—”
Shane interrupted, “I think that’s enough, Grant.”
“Oh, maybe she told you I was fucking someone else. Was that it?” He turned to look at me for confirmation of his accusation. It was lucky for him I’d never seen this side of him before we were married. Or maybe not. At least then he wouldn’t be going through a divorce. I wouldn’t have even considered being his wife had I witnessed how ugly he could be. There never would have been a Blake Kelly.
“I told them the truth,” I said. “Everything. They know everything.”
He laughed. “One should be so lucky. When are you going to tell me everything? When is it my turn? When’s the next showing of Blake the True Story? I don’t want to miss it.”
My dad interjected, “Come on, Blake. You wanted to get some of your clothes. Let’s go up and get them.” He didn’t feed into Grant’s hostility. I never wanted a fight and the three of us knew that wasn’t Grant’s normal behavior. He was mad, and rightly so. But my dad was right, that wasn’t what we were there for. We were there for my shit and that was all. There was nothing else in that house I wanted. I had never really lived here. I had never really lived with Grant. We had…co-existed. Yet, he’d been happy with that? How is that possible?
I went back into the kitchen and opened the cabinet to search for my mugs. I couldn’t leave them now. Not after almost two years and countless nights of drinking wine from them while dreaming of Casey. Even though their writing had all but weathered away, the words were scored in my mind. I was trouble and he liked it. Those mugs were mine.
When I found them, I wrapped the mismatched pair in a plastic grocery bag. Heading upstairs, I noticed Grant had taken a seat at the table with his head in his hands. It was a miserable sight. I detested seeing what I’d done to someone who I’d sworn to love, but my sympathy couldn’t change it. Hell, it couldn’t even change the way I felt about him when I’d tried to make it.
Didn’t that count for something? Didn’t trying my best to be with him add up to anything to anyone? It didn’t seem like it. So what was it all for? I’d carelessly thrown away so much time.
Packing a closet in a hurry is pretty damn easy. Just grab an armful, lift and drop crap in a box. After we filled what boxes we had and they’d loaded them in the truck, I retrieved some of my things from the office and packed up my laptop bag with items I used when I worked from home.
I reflected as I stepped down the stairs and realized I didn’t care about much else within the walls of that house. Would we split up the furniture? Would we divide the flatware and dishes? I didn’t give a shit about any of it. He could have it all.
I carried out the last few things I wanted to Shane’s truck and told him I’d be right back. I needed to say something to Grant. I wasn’t sure what that was, but I hoped by the time I got where he was still sitting, it would be the right thing.
It turns out, the right thing for me was, “I’m sorry I hurt you. I’m seeing a lawyer. We’re getting a divorce.”
To those words he looked up, but his vision lacked focus. “You don’t even want to try?”
“I’ve been trying for a really long time, Grant. I truly have.” Speaking those words, out loud to him, opened a floodgate inside me. He wanted the truth, there it was. Saying it to his face was pivotal.
It felt like my two halves were being stitched back together into one, like I was taking my heart back.
“Am I really that bad? I don’t get it,” he said, picking at the edge of a place mat my mother had registered for us and we’d received as a wedding gift.
“Grant, it’s more that I shouldn’t have married you in the first place. That was one of my biggest mistakes, because we should have been friends. Not husband and wife.”
I took a heavy breath and smiled through tears that flowed like overfilled ditches during a spring rain. I let them go. In a weird way, I needed him to see them. Deep down I wasn’t a monster; I gained no pleasure out of his despair. But I didn’t love him, not like I vowed I would.
I reached into my pocket and pulled out my wedding rings and set them on the table. They weren’t mine and I hadn’t earned them to keep.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered. Then I left.
Grant and I were over in my mind. More over than when I had sex with Casey the first time in the Ashcroft Hotel. More over than the countless times I’d prayed Casey would turn up in a city I was working in. More over than when I’d cried heartsick tears at our wedding instead of joyous ones. We were done.
The tremendous burden I’d been carrying lessened.
I was closer. I was getting there.
Thursday, January 7, 2010
INCH BY INCH, MINUTE by minute, she was getting closer. I indescribably felt her nearing.
The previous night, the night before we were to leave for Costa Rica, when we’d talked, she’d been slightly quieter. I attributed that to her going over to their house, her husband’s house, her old house, where she used to live. Fuck, I didn’t know what the hell to call it, but she’d gone there to get her things.
I was relieved when she’d let me know her dad and brother were going with her, but I’ll be damned if I didn’t pace the floors all evening. Then I took a walk down to the shed. Then repeated the process hoping it was going all right. It was weird, but I wanted him to be nice to her. I hoped—for her sake—that it went smoothly.
Finally, she sent me a message.
Honeybee: I’m back at Mom and Dad’s. I told him we’re getting a divorce.
My whole body filled with immeasurable joy.
I tried to keep my excitement at bay, but it was like my birthday, Christmas, a benign test result, a hundred-dollar bill on the ground, the first sip of beer on a hot day, and that first inch inside her sweet pussy, good. It was a challenge to keep my wits and be sensitive. The awareness I needed to tread lightly was ever present, but I wanted to scream from a mountain, “I’m so fucking proud of you. You did it. You love me!” But, like the good boy I am, I settled on letting her know I was concerned and that I was there for her.
I was an angel. An angel who couldn’t wait to show that beautiful girl how happy she’d just made me…with my tongue…and maybe a finger or two…and hell, while I was at it, I’d probably give her the biggest orgasm of her life—if I could. Because—you know—she deserved it.
Twice.
A day.
Forever.
It was only the first full week in January and she was taking big steps. Not pussy-foot Blake steps, but real ones. She’d been nudged—no, shoved—into how it was going down, but I didn’t give a rat’s ass. It was going down and I was going to go down on her to commemorate the occasion. Thinking back on it, maybe I really just wanted to eat some pussy and she owned my favorite one.
If I was being a girl about it, I could have admitted feeling something like flutter-bugs, or butterflies, or whatever prissy things chicks claim to feel in their stomach, when I read her text. Girls may have a silly way of articulating it, but what they said was dead on. Those fuckers were flapping their light-hearted, winged asses off in there.
However, since it was my story and I’m a man—I’d say it was like someone stuck a power drill in the base of my spine and let the son of a bitch go, full-speed. It wound me up from the inside out. There was an invisible, indefinable feeling she always gave me. It was powerful and punctual, showing up the instant our bodies were in the same room together. Every piece that made up the physical me knew all the places on the physical her where they truly belonged. And those bastards weren’t quiet either, every square inch of me wanted to get to her in the worst way, that very second. Every pore screamed
her name.
I read her message again. Thought about screen capturing it and emailing it to myself so I could look at the text whenever I wanted. No one likes scrolling through a thousand pictures.
Me: I love you. Are you all right?
My phone rang.
“One more day,” I said when I answered.
“One more day,” she repeated and exhaled loudly over the line. The breath shook and sputtered uneasily. I wondered how to talk to her. I was in uncharted territory. I didn’t know how or what to say. She might be frustrated or excited. Or sad. Or thrilled. The gamut of what she was thinking cluttered my thoughts. I wanted to say the right thing, but fuck, in that moment, I didn’t know what that was. I hopped up on the island in the kitchen and sat there cross-legged, waiting for her cue.
She bailed me out when she began, “I didn’t really have that much stuff.” She was downhearted and I heard it in her voice.
“You’ve got stuff,” I reassured. “It just didn’t seem like much because your dad and brother were there, helping you lug it all.”
“No, really. I have my office stuff. My clothes. A few pots and pans. Knives. My mugs. That’s it.”
“What about furniture?” She surely had more things than that. “And there’s got to be more kitchen stuff you want.”
“I don’t want any of it. I only want what I have.”
“Isn’t half of the house yours?” Like she could just take a half of a house. I pictured a dude with a chainsaw cutting the roof down the center.
Then I reminded myself, this wasn’t a joke or a time for celebration.
It was the first time, after all of those months, that it hit me. She was leaving her home and everything. She had to get a divorce. And there I was, all but skipping around my fucking house fantasizing about going down on her. It wasn’t an honorable feeling, being elated when someone you care about is going through some major shit. Add that to the Casey-needs-to-get-his-shit-together-for-her list.
I climbed off the counter and sat in a chair like a normal adult and started taking seriously the gravity of her situation as she spoke.
“It’s his house. I never paid the mortgage. I paid other things, but that’s his house.” She paused and I waited patiently. “He’s been working on it, fixing it up the way he wants it. Does it seem dumb that I don’t care about it at all?” Her voice was flat and the lack of emotion showed her unease.
Yeah, I’d play the Devil’s advocate.
“Blake, you deserve whatever it is you want. All right? But if you don’t want anything else, I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that either.”
“I really don’t. How awful am I? I was picking up my things and all I could think about was being with you. It was so bad.”
I think she was in shock, like when you are in that buoyant state right before you realize what actually happened. That shit actually hit the fan. The few seconds before everything catches up. She was there.
Maybe I was pushing her too hard. I’d wanted things my way, and as fast as possible, but she’d wanted to take her time. I didn’t want to cause her any more damage.
People say rip a Band-Aid off quickly and then it’s over. But you know what? It still fucking hurts.
If I loved her as much as I claimed, I needed to start being the guy she should be with, not just the dude complaining it wasn’t me.
Costa Rica wasn’t going anywhere. Of course, it was on the coast and everyone knows that whole side is going to be in the ocean, but not anytime soon.
“Are you sure you want to go tomorrow?” I asked.
“Please don’t back out. I really want to go,” she pleaded. “I need this trip. I need you.”
She. Needed. Me.
Even though the timing was really shitty with everything that was happening, and it was a lot to take in, I wasn’t about to tell her no. Not after she’d already made my fucking year only seven days into it.
“I know it isn’t any of my business, but I’m kind of proud of you,” Morgan said, as she drove me to the airport, after we had lunch.
While we ate, I thought I’d avoided the subject with my youngest sibling—therefore the strangest one for me to talk to about it with—but as she gave me a ride, she brought it up.
“Thanks, but there’s a lot more to it than you know,” I said not wanting to get into it with her. She was seventeen, what could she know about it? Besides, I wasn’t exactly pleased with everything I’d done in those past few years. She only saw pieces. Some of the rougher-for-Casey parts. I didn’t want her thinking my behavior was anything to reward. “I’ve been pretty ass-backward more often than not.”
“Yeah, but you held your own,” she countered, looking in the mirror to safely change lanes. My little, innocent Morgan was so mature. So by-the-book. If she only knew.
“It’s not something that I’m proud of. And regardless, I do feel bad for the guy.” Not bad enough to not take his wife on a tropical vacation, but bad enough I didn’t need to pound his face in when he touched Blake like an object instead of a woman. His wife. I’d struck that image from my brain on more than one occasion. I saw red every single time it resurfaced. “It was a bad situation.”
“I’m not going to pretend to understand what you’re doing, or why, or whatever. Obviously, she does it for you.”
These were words I’d not heard from her before. Historically, Morgan made it known how she felt about Blake and me together. Her positive sentiment may have cracked my shell a bit. I wasn’t sure about what made her change how she perceived us, but I was happy she didn’t think I was just some fool. Or maybe she did.
“I can’t explain it, but I’ve never been able to shake her. I’m serious about her, Morgan.”
“I know. I’ve never seen you like that—or you two actually together before. I know that you’re serious about your job and that you love it. But I don’t think I’ve ever seen you look so…so…strong. I’m proud of you and I’m sorry I didn’t understand it before. You were just so manly that night.” She giggled, like seeing her goofy older brother in that light was preposterous. It meant a lot to me.
I maturely flexed my arm and kissed my bicep like a douchey protein junkie.
“I’m pretty tough, Morgan. I’m offended that you’re just now noticing.”
We pulled into the departures lane.
I got out and opened the door to the backseat where I’d put my bags.
“Thanks for the ride,” I said, as she came around to hug me. I opened my free arm and pulled her in, as I held the luggage handle with my other. We were having a brother-sister moment on the sidewalk at San Francisco International, but it had been a while since our last so I didn’t care.
“You’re welcome. Have a fun time and get out and see stuff. Don’t be a resort tourist,” she instructed adamantly as she hugged me. “And Casey, I don’t know if this makes any sense, but I think maybe she is good for you, so treat her with respect. If you don’t want to be the one-night stand guy, then don’t be the one-night stand guy anymore.”
How did she know so much? When in the fuck did she get so damn smart? I kissed the top of her head. Someday there’s going to be a guy for her and he better be worthy.
Or I’ll kill him.
“Okay. You be careful driving. Tell Dad and Carmen hi for me. I love you.”
“I will. Love you, too.”
I shrugged into my backpack, ready to get the show going. Ready to see my honeybee. Hell, when wasn’t I ready?
After Morgan left, I miraculously whizzed through security and was at our gate in less than twenty minutes. That was a new record for me. I bought a water and a bag of M&M’s. I knew what direction she would be coming from. My stalker skills were dangerously close to an all-time high. I waited and people-watched.
I arranged it so I’d meet Blake at our terminal bound for our getaway. She had a little bit of a layover between her flight in and ours out, so I wanted to get through security and to the gate before she got there.
I didn’t want to waste a minute.
Sitting there I had time to do a little thinking. Preparing. I wasn’t going to fuck this up anymore. People talking on their phones and buzzing by as I waited, reminded me of the time I picked her up when Foster was born. God, there’d been so many chances to do better. That time was one of them. I had left her at the hospital, but mostly I’d just left her.
What Morgan said played through my mind—like the proverbial angel on my shoulder she repeated—fueling my desire to be what Blake needed.
Don’t be the one-night stand guy.
I’d never been able to hold my shit together when it came to her body and my body, but my kid sister was right. First and foremost, on this trip, I wanted to touch her deeper than just her flesh. Of course, there was no way in hell I wasn’t touching her and I’d make her feel good in any way I could. But this time, I was going to give her other things she needed first. The me parts that I hadn’t given her in the past. The same ones I craved to share with her all along.
I knew we were far from being in the clear. We had a lot of work to do. But my first task was going to be to touch her mind. Touch her heart. I didn’t know what the equivalent to an orgasm was in terms of brains and hearts, but I wanted that. I wanted to take those parts of her to that level. Our bodies already trusted each other.
I was thinking the words, “I want her to trust my heart,” when I saw her—frazzled traveler that she always was. Bag over her shoulder, lugging that rolling hell-box on wheels and looking at her boarding pass as she walked, probably quadruple checking that she was going to the right gate. I loved watching her before she knew I saw her. Like in Atlanta, I opened my camera and took a picture of her, stopped right in the middle of the walking lane looking at the signs.
Perfect.
She folded the paper and put it in her pocket, and then she wrung nervousness from her hands. Flopping them in front of herself like a fish robbed of water. It was funny, but I did that too. Shake it off. Everyone does that.