by Nicole Snow
Whatever's been going wrong with this boy lately, it's gestures like this that remind me we're right. My lover, joker, and adoring husband-to-be in one neat package.
I want to believe it's true. Still, there's a faint sour taste on my tongue when I lean in for a kiss.
He didn't appreciate my 'sharp tongue' so much last week, when I told him he'd better start taking our sessions with Dr. Evans seriously, or this wasn't going to work.
He stormed out. Didn't come home all night, and didn't offer much explanation. I didn't ask.
Even his kiss is cooler and softer than it should be when our lips touch.
I try to lose myself in the moment, focus on the happy throngs of people clapping around us. My face heats a little, but only because I know there's probably half a billion dollars staring at us right now. Everyone who's worth something in the whole U.P. is watching us.
To be fair, his kisses rarely curl my hair. Reg doesn't live life on gross, drunken passion. That's why he's stable and ridiculously successful, everything I need to live a happy life, to make up for the losses and failures darkening my earlier years.
I kiss him back, forcing myself into it, wondering if I can turn our little spark into a crackling flame. My face melds into his for one brief moment. When I push my tongue into his mouth, touching the tip to his, Reg pulls back with a startled look.
Predictable. He smiles, waves to the crowd, and soaks in his family's rich friends hooting and hollering like they've seen something truly wild.
Disappointing? Maybe, but I can't get mad at him for being who he is. He'll never make my panties puddle at my feet, and I'm okay with that. I love him because he's good for me, damn it. He's the complete opposite of –
No. Don't you dare think his name.
“Babe, would you like to say a few words?” Reg whispers, once the applause begins dying down. The firm hand on my back says the answer better be yes.
I give him a shallow nod, shuffling up to the microphone. I clear my throat once, and everybody quiets down.
“I just want to say thank you all for coming out here tonight. It means so much to Reg and me that so many of you fine folks are here to support our love.” Turning, I look over my shoulder at his face, hoping it'll inspire the words I need to make an impression. “I'm not going to lie. When we met, I wasn't having an easy time. I'd just lost the man I loved most – my father – and I was trying to change direction after college. I was in a bad spot.”
Several people pop big sympathetic smiles. They don't know I flunked out, and probably think I'm talking about starting a new million dollar charity, or something.
“Reg helped pull me out. He taught me to love again, proved I can have a future better than anything I ever imagined. He taught me to appreciate a good man – even when he's being the world's biggest know-it-all.”
I pause, looking back at my fiance. It doesn't take much to make this crowd rumble with laughter. Reg smiles softly, knowingly, approval glowing on his face.
Time to bring it home. “Tonight, I'm touched. Honored. Really, I am. I worried this town would never make us feel welcome again after the tragedy that unfolded with Nelson at my father's auto shop several years ago. I'm thrilled to say I was wrong. This town's better than its past, and I'm smiling when I dream about our future. If our wedding is even half as lovely as this engagement party tonight, I know we'll be happy together until the end of time.”
People clap unevenly. When I turn, Reg is staring at his feet. He doesn't look up, just grabs me by the wrist, leading me away from the podium.
“Isn't she incredible?” Patricia screams into the microphone behind me, the instant I'm gone. “Another round of applause for happy couple!”
“Okay, stop!” I dig my feet into the floor when we're halfway out the back door, tearing my hand from his grip. “Mind telling me what I did this time to piss you off?”
“This was supposed to be our night, Kara,” Reg growls, his eyebrows furrowed. “Did you really need to go and remind everybody Uncle Nelson died at your family's stupid fucking chop shop?”
“I wasn't planning on it. Guess it just came out.” I'm angry, but I'm honest. “Sorry my speeches aren't as polished as yours, Reg. I didn't have the luxury of a private debate tutor when I was too busy working at that 'chop shop' you're happy to take potshots at.”
His lips curl in a fresh smile, a nasty one. “Oh, so it's okay to bitch about jabs at family, and then you take one at mine? Don't be a hypocrite, Kara-bell.”
Better a hypocrite than an asshole. He starts walking ahead, down by the trees near the parking lot, reaching into his pocket.
I won't follow him yet. I know by the time I get down there, I'm going to see Mr. Perfect with a slim cigar stuffed between his vicious lips. It's his lone vice, one he's told me a million times he wants to quit.
The wind chooses to pick up just then, billowing in from Superior, sending foamy waves hard against the rocks. Awesome.
I stare out into the night, watching the flickering shadows through the lighthouse's windows. Up near the beacon, it's pitch dark. Reg couldn't convince the historical society who manages the place to light it up for us tonight.
I don't know why it makes me think about Ryan. For all his faults, he never would've left me standing here after our engagement, wondering more than ever if I'm about to make a gargantuan mistake.
I'm trying to warm myself in the cool night when I smell the asshole's smoke. “Let's go home,” he says.
“Already? We're not staying for dinner after the speeches are done?” I jerk away from his hands again. I've lost count how many times that's happened tonight.
“We've made our appearance, Kara. That's all we're expected to do. The rest of the evening belongs to the guests.”
“It's supposed to be our night,” I say, repeating his words from earlier. “Did you really mean that, or were you just hoping I'd play along?”
He snorts. “It's really for the guests, babe, and I think you know that. We'll have our fun at the wedding in a few months. Don't worry.”
He starts heading for his big black Escalade. We're leaving in separate cars. I'm sure we'll spend the entire night sleeping as far away from each other as we can get, too.
I don't start crying until I'm pulling away from the lighthouse, watching it fade in the rear view mirror. Part of me wants to take the ramp to the highway and forget about pulling into the heated parking lot of our million dollar condo.
All the material comfort he's given me can't take away the doubts bleeding into every corner of my brain. They're making me dizzy, and the old fear that I'm about to fuck up my life yet again comes swooping in behind them.
There aren't many lights in this town on a sleepy autumn night. The big new construction off Angus street, just before you hit the residential areas, is the only exception.
It's some kind of new office, or a factory. Maybe both. It's glassy, glamorous, so huge in its splendor it's like a miniature skyscraper. Totally out of place in Split Harbor – especially with those lights.
God, those hot white lights. I have to shield my teary eyes when I go past to stay on the road. The thing looks like it's prepped for its grand opening, an event I'm sure Reg and every other rich asshole with a political background will be there to attend.
Nobody heard of Punch Corp until they were building on our doorstep. Now, it seems like the chatter never ends. There's a million stories about how it's going to bring so many jobs, higher revenues, plus a lot of long lost prestige. No thanks to the whiz who manages it, Tanner Brooks, some kind of twenty-something start up freak from the West Coast with a genius IQ.
He's a billionaire already, they say. I hear the girls around my own age chattering away at Grounded, spilling their anxious dreams in the open. Ones where they bump into Tanner, and he becomes their Prince Charming, whenever he decides to grace our little town with his otherworldly celebrity.
It's good people can still get excited over more than failing relationships.
Me, I'm too busy wondering if this marriage is done before it's started. I don't care about Tanner fantasies, or Punch Corp, or any of that.
My foot taps the accelerator hard, and my car roars on into the night. I'm desperate to get home so I can have a hot bath and close out this miserable day. Maybe I can get the usual fight with Reg over with early. It'll exhaust all my energy so I won't sit up by the fireplace, staring across town out our big bay window.
Then I won't have to think about the last time a man ripped my heart out. I won't have to think about the high turnover with the high school kids at Grounded, or the brake job my car needs that I refuse to let him pay for, or even the last thing daddy said to me before he slipped away into his medicated coma and never woke up.
You're a beautiful, intelligent woman, peanut. You've got your whole life ahead.
I hate the way that memory, the last one I have, seems to dominate all the others. Remembering his words makes the tears come hotter, more frequent, scalding rivulets running down my cheeks.
I love you, daddy. I gripped his hand so fucking hard that night. It was just him and I. I'm glad he was pumped up on constant painkillers, or my death grip probably would've hurt. He'd gotten so much smaller, so frail, just a shell of the brawny soldier and mechanic he used to be.
Kara. He strained to say my name, opening his eyes one last time. Come closer. There's something I need to tell you...something about that night...something with him...
My heart swung down like a pendulum, and I was almost afraid to ask. But I had to.
Daddy, who?
His jaw clenched one more time, as if it took all his energy just to open his lips. Ryan...
Ryan was the last word he ever said. He closed his eyes, his body releasing, and died several hours later.
I still wonder if I heard him right, even though my ears imprinted that word into my head like a permanent echo.
I hear it to this day, a curse from another time, haunting and mysterious. I ponder, obsess over it, especially when life decides to twist my nipples in a vise.
Why in God's name was Ryan the last thing on his mind? Was it the drugs, the trauma, or something more?
And why did I have to hear it so clearly, leaving no doubt? Every possibility feeds a thousand more, each one pounding in my head so viciously it makes me sick.
The rest of the short ride home is a long, painful blur.
When I step inside, there's a flickering glow in the living room. Reg beat me there. He has a fire going under the mantle, a glass of red wine in one hand.
“There's another glass for you on the counter,” he says, giving me a slow look. “Sit down, babe. I want to talk. I'm sorry for what happened earlier.”
Sorry. There's a lot of words I despise these days, but it's near the top of the list.
I have no choice but to humor him. I put away my coat, pad over to the counter, and grab my glass. If I drink it down fast enough, maybe it'll take the edge off. Luckily, if it doesn't, there's plenty more in the bottle.
It takes me several seconds to bite my tongue hard enough to walk across the room, and sit down on the leather chair across from him. He tries to smile at me again, but I don't return it. I'm not in a giving mood. Not after what he did earlier tonight.
“I don't want it to be this way,” he says. Could that be more obvious? “Listen, if there's anything I can do to make this right, just let me –“
“Start by telling me why you got there so late.” Pinching the stem of my wine glass harder, I glare at him, conjuring my inner bitch.
She won't be easy to satisfy tonight. I don't care how many times Dr. Evans extols forgiveness. It feels like a burden more than something divine. I'm not interested in flowery mumbo-jumbo tonight, unless he's willing to come clean about everything, and apologize.
“I told you already. Too much drinking with dad's associates.” He sighs, briefly closing his eyes, trying to be patient. “I let it get away from me. I messed up. I told you, I'm sorry. I've apologized before, but I'll do it again, because I mean it, Kara-bell. I should have called.”
“Yeah, should. Just like you're about to tell me you should have kept your cool, instead of dragging me out of our own engagement party like a spoiled brat, right?”
“Kara...” He pauses, takes a big pull from his wine, and I inwardly smile, knowing that's exactly what he was about to say.
His glass goes down, clinking on the little table between us. He folds his fingers, staring into me with his cool grey eyes, until I look back.
“I'm not going to apologize for that. I know you're tired, sick of the excuses. Let me give you the truth instead. Truth is, I'm stressed out. I'm human. I'm having a hard time getting things back on track, managing my role in the family business, trying to deflect mom when she calls up every day with another hundred things to do before the wedding happens.”
Oh, okay. You're stressed? My first reaction I hold in, because the second is amazement that Mr. Perfect just fessed up to being fallible.
“Go on,” I say, slowly draining what's left in my glass.
“You deserve better than this, babe. You need me to do better, and I will. I'm going to make mistakes along the way, I'm going to piss you off, but for fuck's sake, I'm trying. I'm going to call Dr. Evans in the morning, and ask him for advice about how to handle this, because I don't know how I should. If you want to put it on hold until then, go straight to bed, I won't blame you. I'll sleep in the guest room tonight, if you need some space.”
His eyes are huge, almost watery. I've never seen tears clouding his eyes. Honestly, it scares me.
He lets out a long sigh. I can see he's about to walk away, if I don't first. “Wait. Don't sleep in the guest room, Reg.”
I reach for his hand, give it a squeeze, and manage a ghostly smile. “I appreciate you for trying. I'll agree this hasn't been easy on either of us. That has to change.”
“It will. I can't give up, Kara. I'm serious, more than I've ever been about anything in my entire life.”
The anger I had before melts into sad resignation.
I can't stop staring into his eyes, wondering why it's so hard to love, and just be. He stands up, moves around the table to me, and crouches on his knees. He throws an arm around me, runs his smooth hand across my face, slowing when he senses the fire in my cheek.
“Jesus. You were crying on the way home, weren't you?”
“Not just about tonight,” I say. There's no point denying it. “It isn't all you, or this wedding. You're stressed out, and so am I. There's a lot to get done. I'm overwhelmed. I'll need to see my accountant next week about the quarterly taxes again.”
“Kara-bell, use my guy. For the hundredth time, he'll do it right, do it fast, and save you a ton of money.”
I open my eyes. Reg stops there, and gives me a sheepish smile. At least he realizes the last thing we need tonight is another fight over why I'm adamant on doing things my way, instead of taking the easy route with his family's resources.
“Do you want me to run you a bath?” he asks, something he hasn't done in months.
Nodding, I lay my fingers on his neck, just enough to feel his pulse. “That sounds really nice. I'll be in bed shortly. I just need a little time to myself to digest all this.”
“I love you, babe. Don't ever doubt it.”
Before he slips away, I dig my nails into his neck, and bring my lips to his. We kiss, soft and sweet, for just one second.
It isn't much, true. But after everything that's happened, it's enough to stave off disaster.
Later, after I've had a couple more glasses of wine and soaked my skin to pruning, I slip into our silky sheets. He's fast asleep, snoring gently on the far side of the bed.
Baby steps. There's no need to hold him tonight, much as part of me might want to, much less do anything that doesn't involve our clothes.
It's been months since we had sex. Probably twice as many since it was normal. That part of our relationship has never been perfect,
but there was always enough good outside to make up for it.
Reg has...unusual tastes. When times were better, I did everything I could to indulge him, even though it didn't do much for me.
No, it wasn't a total waste.
I let him spend big on his habit. I still have weeks worth of pedicures to cash in, and rows of heels to show for it. They're useful outside the bedroom, at least.
Just worthless for making me wet. It's the same when he asks me to let him rub my feet, or run his tongue across my shiny new Louboutins.
If you can't imagine getting sick of foot rubs, try being with a fetishist. I wish I could trade them away most nights.
I need to be fucked in our bed, and hard.
Our sex life has barely come up in therapy, and I cringe when I think about it. Tonight, I'm too exhausted to dwell on it. We need to fix the emotional gap between us before we can talk about the physical one.
I'm content that our drag out fight has been diffused. Thankful for small victories, I drift off staring at my fiance's face. It reminds me that I really do love him, and we're going to get through this.
I'd rather work through these issues now than revisit them when we're forty with three kids. As long as we're upfront, motivated, and honest with each other, we'll survive.
Jesus, we have to.
Losing another engagement when I'm leaving my early twenties isn't an option. I can't stand another heartbreak.
It's get through this, marry Reg, imperfections and all...or else I'll wind up asking myself why I'm doing this. Why I need him, or any man, to fill the craters blown open in my life.
There's no way I'm going into that dark place. It's taken five years, but I've learned my lesson, over and over and over again.
Cope. Never look back. Don't ask too many questions with painful answers.
There's nothing more dangerous than why.
6
Peephole (Ryan)
I'm at my new desk, so shiny it's almost blinding, staring at my laptop. It's all there, the video I shot with my military grade spy cam around seven o'clock last night. I'm watching the footage, fighting the urge not to put my fist through my nice new screen.