Lovely, Dark and Deep

by Amy McNamara

  I can’t stare at my phone all morning. Now or never. Do or die. Ha.

  He answers on the fourth ring.

  “It’s Wren Wells . . .” I say, “. . . calling.” Stellar debut.

  “Wren.” I swear I can hear him smile. “Great to hear from you. You must have talked to your dad?”

  “Yep,” I say, playing with my spoon. I’m a small-talk artist.

  He doesn’t seem to notice.

  “How are you?”

  “Look,” I say, “I’m calling because my dad said you had some work you wanted done. He wants me to do some work. So I’m calling you. About the work.”

  God, kill me now. A new low. At this rate I’m going to have to hire a coach if I plan to reenter the world and actually interact with other humans.

  He takes a breath. “Yeah . . .” he says. “Work, yeah, well, maybe you could come over and we can talk about it? I’ll be around later today.”

  Shit. Shit. Later today.

  “Okay.”

  I guess I sound unenthusiastic, because he laughs again. “I have to go out this morning, but I could meet you here around three?”

  “I don’t know where you live, but sure, three’s fine. I can be there then.” I wonder for a second if my dad needs the truck. Maybe I could jog over there.

  He reads my mind.

  “Or I can pick you up on my way back?”

  If he picks me up, I’ll have no way out. I’ll be stuck at his house. My palms are clammy. I remind myself I can always run home, if I need to.

  “Where’s your place?” I ask, like I know where anything is around here other than the main drag.

  “That road, the one you were on the day I—we met? The one just past Carver Cove? It comes up to the house if you follow it to the end.”

  That road. I can find it on foot through the woods.

  “We’re on the water, like you guys. You’ll recognize the place, it looks like yours.”

  “I, um, I’m not sure I know how to get to that road in the car,” I say. “I found it after riding trails through the woods.”

  My bike. I’m an idiot. I never went back for it. Or replaced it. Once I started running, I forgot about it.

  “Then it’s settled. I’ll swing by for you on my way back,” he says. “Around 2:45?”

  “See you then,” I say and hang up, fast.

  What am I doing making plans with a guy?

  I’m ambushed by memory. Patrick’s face, the way his eyes looked when I told him I wanted to break up. Total disbelief. Hurt. He didn’t see it coming. How could he have? I didn’t involve him in the decision. I was doing it for me, because I was ready to be done, not because there was something wrong with him.

  I squeeze my eyes against the memory, but he’s crystal clear. I can almost hear him saying my name. My hands are icy. I go into my room, strip out of my jeans, and put on my running clothes. I’m out the door.

  I close my eyes off and on while I run. It’s tricky. Easy to fall, but the light on my eyelids is kind of mesmerizing. Like the end of an old film on a projector or something. Flickering, flashing. Something about it puts me back in photo studio at school. Junior year. The day Miss Hennessy, my photo teacher, asked to see me after class. I sat there, nervous, while she flipped open all the shades. Dark to light. Sun flooded the room. I could hardly see her face for a minute or two.

  “Wren,” she said, sounding grave, “I have some questions and concerns about the work you’ve done so far this year.”

  My heart sunk. I felt caught out. Like I was a fraud, trying to make photographs that were good, interesting even, but totally failing at it. I slid down in my chair, locked my eyes on the way the light angled in through the windows.

  “And,” she said, “instead of reshooting the work this weekend, you need to go to Around the World with Patrick.” A huge smile crossed her face.

  It took me a minute. Then I laughed. Of course. Around the World. The Nellie Bly School’s idea of a fall dance. Meredith kept telling me that Patrick liked me. Miss Hennessy smiled, happy to be in on the stunt, and nodded toward the now-open door, where Patrick stood leaning against the door frame, looking kind of nervous and pretty cute.

  His face. The way that late-day light slanted against it. My heart drops. You are running, I tell myself. Here. I start to count my footsteps. Out loud. It works sometimes. I’ll do anything to empty my head.

  I run until I can’t, then head home. My muscles are wrung out. I’m too tired to think. Heaven. After reheating in the shower, I find some college radio podcast where they’re reading Larkin poems. I lie on my bed to listen, for just a minute.

  I wake up to the sound of a car crunching up to the house over ice-packed snow in the driveway. My right arm’s asleep, I’m still in my towel, and my hair’s dried into a matted tangle. I hear my dad. The car must’ve pulled him out of his studio. He’s talking extra loud like he’s giving me a signal, buying me time or something. I rush around, pulling on jeans and a shirt I used to think I looked good in, back when I still paid attention to how I looked. I pull my fingers through my hair. It’s long and sort of wavy, so maybe the slept-on look will seem intentional. I brush my teeth so fast I poke myself in the gums with the toothbrush, and I’m still checking for blood with my tongue when I run out the door. My dad’s leaning in the driver’s window of Cal’s car. A different car, silver. Looks new, expensive. Reminds me of Patrick’s. I shudder, hope it passes for a shiver.

  My dad pats Cal on the shoulder and moves away from the driver’s window. “Good to see you again.” He shoots me a fast glance. One that says Do this right. I nod to him and get in the car.

  Cal turns toward me, a huge smile on his face. It makes him even better looking. Why on earth is he so happy to see me?

  “Hi,” I say. Try not to notice his eyes. I blush. Or maybe my face is still red from sleeping. I lift my hand to my face to check for pillow lines. I usually wake up with those. I’m fuzzy-headed. My heart’s a drum.

  “Hi, yourself,” Cal says, still grinning at me.

  He waits for me to buckle up, then we pull away from the house. My dad’s watching, trying to look like he isn’t.

  “It’s good to see you,” Cal says.

  Say something back. Say something back. How hard is it? I’m starting to feel like someone just let out of The Home, unfamiliar with “normal human ways.” It makes me laugh.

  God. The Home. Meredith invented it to torment Andy whenever she spotted him trying to talk to a girl. Meredith is like that. Smells weakness on people. She’d remind him in a really loud voice not to miss the short bus back to The Home. Poor Andy. The worst part was that he was in love with her.

  I have to swallow in order to not laugh again. My dry throat is loud. I can’t remember the last time I felt like this. Must be nerves.

  Cal looks at me, an eyebrow raised.

  Say something.

  “I’m—yeah—I was sleeping,” I say. Like he’d care. It’s rough for those of us just out of The Home, not much news to report.

  “I mean, I fell asleep, and now I’m awake.”

  God. I have to stop. Before I make it worse. More blushing. I look out my window. Lean my head against it. He laughs at me. Probably thinks I’m insane. I sneak a peek out of the corner of my eye. He’s still smiling.

  My stomach growls loudly enough we both hear it.

  He laughs again.

  I haven’t eaten anything. “Missed lunch,” I say. Eyes back on the scenery.

  “There’s food at the house. We’ll find you something.”

  He turns on music so I don’t have to try to say anything for the rest of the drive.

  His house is like ours only bigger. Double or maybe even triple the size. We pull up and I can see that it’s all landscaped. Even looks good under the snow. Huge burlap-covered planters. Stone steps going down around the front of the house. None of the random-size rocks or insane-looking scrap-metal collections my dad has clumped around our place. An attached gar
age, immaculate. The Jeep’s parked off to the side. Cal grimaces a little when he sees me look at it.

  “The garage was a sore point for my father. He’s against that kind of thing, garages on houses, but when he built this place, we were up here full time, and my mother was still home with us. She needed to get into the house with as little trouble as possible, so he put it in the design.”

  He stops the car and gets out. One crutch. I get out too. He hauls a heavy-looking messenger bag out of the backseat and leans against the car while he slings it across his body. The garage door sinks down quietly behind us as he unlocks the door to the house.

  It was a kindness for him to say our houses are alike. His place is like something out of Architectural Digest. Pale, shining floors, soft white furniture, lots of comfortable-looking places to sit. Tasteful and simple. My mother would approve. A length of paneled wall near us reveals a closet. Cal sits on a bench near the door and takes off his coat and boots. I feel like a hobo in my dad’s ratty work jacket. I slip out of it and hang it on one of the many hooks.

  “This,” he says, pointing to the overfull messenger bag next to him on the bench, “is part of the problem, one of the things I might want help with.” He sighs and closes the closet. Walks slowly over to the dining table. I try not to watch him. Seems like I shouldn’t. I stay by the door. Not sure what to do.

  “C’mon in.” He waves me over. “And bring the bag, would you?”

  I pick it up and join him. My heart’s galloping, making a racket in my chest. The light in the place—it’s not as tree-hidden as ours and the window span’s nearly double. At the far end of the living room there’s a step down to a workroom and more windows. Papers everywhere, a long table, stacks of books, a few chairs. On one wall, a huge photograph of Cal and someone who has to be his brother—they look alike—windsurfing. The room ends in a wall of shelves, and behind that, if it’s like our place, a hall leading to bedrooms.

  Cal watches me take it in. I look at him. He’s smiling. “It’s a good house,” he says. I nod at the understatement. “Dad wanted to do something other than the standard sea-bleached clapboard cottage you see around here. He thought if you’re going to live in such an intense landscape, you should build a place that doesn’t separate you from it,” he says. “I wish it were mine.”

  “Isn’t it?” I’m confused.

  “I’m doing architecture. Was. At Cornell. I mean I wish I designed it. This place. It’s so simple—such a great use of this site.”

  He looks out at the water.

  He’s right. Where our house sits, assertive, right on the edge of the bluff, his is set back. You can still see the water, but there’s space before the edge, a wide bluestone terrace, then the cliff, then the drop.

  “Sit, will you?” he says. I’m standing next to the table, like I’m frozen or something, holding his bag. He pulls out a chair for me. I set the bag down.

  We sit. Close. I can feel the warmth of his body. I focus on the windows.

  “So,” he says, finally, “I ran into your dad in town, at the garage, and he told me you were looking for something to do, to fill your time?”

  This gets my attention.

  “My dad asked you for work for me?”

  An ice wave rushes over me. Then heat to my cheeks. The room feels small. I could die. Did Cal even call for me, or did my dad just flat-out lie? I clench my teeth.

  “Not exactly. I ran into him when I was having the car winterized. I told him I’d met you—how I’d met you. I never felt right that I hadn’t talked to him.”

  Unbelievable. Dad neglected to mention seeing Cal. The opposite, in fact. He acted like Mary had been taking Cal’s calls. I feel ill.

  “He asked me how I was, then talked about you a bit, said he was worried you didn’t have enough to do. He said it was the perfect opportunity for us both. I’m doing an internship with an old colleague of my dad’s. It’s a drive from here. About forty-five minutes.” His jaw tightens. “I might need a ride sometimes, if I’m going to keep doing the internship.” He clears his throat. “Once in awhile—when I maybe shouldn’t drive.”

  I’m pissed at my dad. He’s so transparent. He thinks he sees a problem and guns for it.

  “Hire a driver.” I’m furious with my dad for playing me. “You can afford it, and it’s not like internships last forever.”

  Cal shoots me a look. Surprised. We’re quiet a second. I swear I can hear my blood charging through my body.

  “This one’s open-ended,” he says, voice tense. “I’m taking a break. From school. Not sure if I’m going back or not. This is kind of a trial thing—to see—”

  He cuts himself off.

  I try to back away from the angry edge I’m on. “So architecture’s not what you want to do?”

  He looks away from me. Ignores my question.

  “Forget it,” he says, shaking his head. “I was just trying to—it was just going to be a ride once in a while, or sometimes help hauling that thing.” He points to the bag. Looks angry a second. “My balance sucks. The bag, the snow—”

  “I don’t have a car,” I say, like I might do it, like my mouth isn’t attached to the racket inside me.

  “I’d give you the keys to the Jeep.”

  I nod slowly. But the room gets smaller. Work for Cal. On call. It’s a little hard to breathe.

  “Can you drive a manual . . . ?” He looks at me, leans closer. “Are you okay?”

  My limbs are weirdly heavy. Like they turned to stone without me. Without my head. Too many people are expecting me to do things. I don’t want to meet anyone’s expectations. Be expected. I just want to—be. No explanations necessary. Me. Quiet. Anything more is too risky. I clasp my hands together, they’re icy. My arms weigh a ton. I try to blink away the feeling. Come back to the room.

  “Sorry,” I say, taking a deep breath, filling my lungs against the lethargic weight of memory.

  On our third time out together, Patrick drove me to Long Island and taught me how to drive a stick. He showed up at my house, tapping the horn lightly under my window, in his dad’s tight little two-door coupe, and we flew out of the city, feeling older than we were and lucky. After mall security made its loop through the far end of the lot, Patrick coached me through stall after stall, showing me how to listen to the engine, feel it, give it just enough gas while easing up on the clutch.

  Cal’s staring at me, waiting. I shift in my chair. “Yes, I can. Drive a manual.”

  He inspects me another minute, then leans back a little.

  “Good. You could keep it at your place so you’ll have it when you need it. Feel free to use it whenever you want.”

  I nod. I should say something, show some interest, gratitude, or whatever this messed up situation calls for, but it’s all I can do to breathe normally. Between this and the library—

  He’s still talking. I try to focus on what he’s saying.

  “Not like a volunteer or anything.” He looks uncomfortable. “I’d pay you.”

  I almost laugh at that. Can he pay me by leaving me the hell alone? Can he get my parents off my case? Buy me a few months to get it together again? I seriously doubt he can pay me whatever I want.

  I look at his hands. Bigger than mine. The skin perfect, smooth. Calm on the table before him. How can he be so calm?

  My hands are like cold birds in my lap, fluttering around. I pull on my fingers. Try to sit still. Try to slow down the freak-out in my head, surrender to the heavy blur overtaking me. I’m slipping away. Then I’m underwater, sinking, pulled down by all that weight, in that place where nothing comes in clear.

  Only for the first time, it’s no relief. Feeling follows me and the mute place stretches out in all directions, heavy, indistinct, like another kind of nightmare, one where I’m an endless witness.

  I look up. His eyes are on me.

  Not Patrick’s, Cal’s. Here. Waiting.

  I shake my head. Look out the window. The world around me expands a little. S
ome of the heaviness leaves my arms and legs. Just a bit. I drop my shoulders into a more relaxed position. Shake my head again. There aren’t words for it. To explain myself.

  “I’m sorry—” I start.

  His face falls like he thinks I’m going to say no.

  “It was a stupid thing to say, the driver thing. I’m sorry. I’m—”

  There’s no out. Maybe I should do something. For someone. Doing something might get me away from the edge of whatever it is I’m on the edge of.

  “I’m just—”

  “I think I know,” he says quietly, nudging my knee with his. “Me too.”

  We look out at the snow and the failing light. Night comes faster every day.

  “I’m out of practice, being around people.”

  He laughs.

  “It sounds dumb, but it’s true. I’ve been kind of enjoying some, ah, solitude.” I glance up at him.

  He’s looking at me with that look I could fall into. Am falling into.

  “I know,” he says. “I’m figuring that out. It won’t be much, I promise. Little stuff. Here and there. So it’s a yes?”

  I try not to think of what it will mean to have to do something when someone asks me. I’ve been running on my own time for so many months. I’ll have to pretend I’m a normal person.

  He pushes away from the table.

  “Why don’t I show you around the house, give you the alarm code, and then, if you’re up for it, I could take you out for an early dinner? There’s a little place on the edge of town that’s not half bad . . .”

  nothing

  happens

  anywhere

  RECLUSE TO DINNER DATE in a few short hours. I don’t even bother to check my face in the bathroom before we leave. It’s not like I can pull better clothes out of nowhere or find lip gloss in my empty jeans pockets. Mamie would have died before she’d go out looking like this. I wasn’t obsessed with fashion, that’s more Meredith’s thing, but years of being my mother’s daughter and Meredith’s best friend taught me to at least do something with my hair and wear a little color on my lips.