Beneath the Shine

by Lisa Sorbe

  Clint reaches for his beer and leans back, kicking one leg up and resting his ankle on his knee. He appears calm and relaxed, and while his voice reflects this cool demeanor, his question bites of acid. “So when are you leaving?”

  Adair looks back and forth between us, his face stone, and then dips his chin, laughing softly. “Well, it’s an open-ended trip, though it looks like I’ll be heading back sooner than I had planned.”

  The dream unfurls faster than my sluggish mind can grasp it. It twists away, evaporating into nothing, my memory suddenly as blank as if it had never happened at all. Not even a ghost of a color or a scent or a sound echo to hint at the dreamscape from which I’ve just escaped.

  Not even a song whispers between my ears to indulge its secrets.

  The only thing left is the twist in my stomach, the chalky taste of regret in my mouth. Loss sits like a lump of rising dough in my gut, growing, growing, growing, and I roll over in bed, away from Clint, as I curl up and pull my knees to my chest.

  Yesterday is too far away, and tomorrow is out of reach. All I have is now.

  This thought hits me, crashing straight through my skull and into my brain like a block of knowledge downloaded from some celestial library that loans out fortune cookie quotes on demand.

  I throw back the sheets and slide out of bed, careful not to wake Clint. Gabe raises his head, looking up at me from his bed on the floor, and yawns. His black eyes are squinty in the early morning light that peeks in through the blinds, and I pat my thigh as I pad from the room, urging him to follow. He does so slowly, as if to tell me that it’s his decision to get up and leave the comfort of his bed rather than rising at my demand.

  The dog is stubborn and wonderful and totally worth the extra fifty bucks a month my landlord makes me shell out in pet rent.

  The clock on the oven flashes 6:22 in blue neon, and as much as I’d love to go back to sleep, my mind is too wired.

  Stupid dream, whatever it was.

  I fall into my normal morning routine, my movements sticky as my body sheds the last remnants of sleep. My thoughts are racing faster than my brain can interpret them, and I feel sort of floaty and disconnected as I let Gabe out, mix his kibble in with blueberries and a teaspoon of spirulina, and let him back inside to eat. Coffee brews in a pot on the counter, the smell anchoring me back into this plane, which is a good thing because my mind seems hellbent on pulling me higher, into some other realm where reality doesn’t play servant to time.

  Because this reality here, right here, isn’t as it should be.

  I’m just pushing for something that isn’t there. Nor will it ever be.

  I’m falling back into old patterns, accepting not what I want, but what I feel I should want.

  I tasted love once. Pure romantic, smack-you-in-the-face and take-me-to-a-higher-place love. I fell so head-over-heels that at first I didn’t even equate what I was experiencing with love. The true nature of the feeling completely eluded me because it was something I’d never felt before. It took me years to recognize it for what it was. But still, under all that, over all that time, there was a spark. A hint of something more.

  Because I now know what love is, I also know what it isn’t.

  As much as I like Clint, I don’t love him. And I don’t think I ever will. At least, as anything more than a friend. He deserves more than a girlfriend who, when she’s asleep, chases another man in her dreams.

  And as for me? I’m through settling.

  So I do what any girl who is about to break up with her boyfriend does—I make a big breakfast, hoping that the delicious food will be enough to distract him from the blow I’m about to deliver.

  We both have today off, and when the smell of coffee and bacon pulls Clint from bed, he shuffles into the kitchen, plants a kiss on my cheek, and looks so adorably drowsy that I almost bite my tongue. But putting this off will only make things worse, and I’m not about to act in any way that will give him false hope when I’ve already decided to end things.

  But I’m not completely cold hearted. I pour him a cup of coffee and fully plan to let him get his wits about him before I drop the bomb.

  Maybe I’m being entirely delusional about the whole thing, vain in my belief that Clint will be even remotely hurt by what I’m about to say. I’ve never felt this anxious about breaking up with someone before, mostly due to the fact that I knew neither of us really cared about the other. But I actually do care about Clint, and I have a suspicion he cares about me.

  So, yeah…this is going to suck.

  I divide the scrambled eggs between two plates, plop a couple pieces of bacon on each, and carry them over to the table. There’s a strange quality to the air, like this is our last meal together and both of us know it. The kitchen is unusually quiet, and when we do speak, it seems all the humor has been leeched from our banter.

  I mull over what I’m going to say and how to bring it up while we do the dishes, working side by side, appearing to anyone outside looking in that we’re just another normal, happy couple. Just thinking this gives me pause, makes me second guess my decision, the overthinker in me wondering if, yet again, I really know what I’m doing or just self-sabotaging.

  Clint is a good guy, and I enjoy spending time with him…and maybe I’m being too rash about all of this. Maybe seeing Adair triggered something last night (of course it did) and I’m about to throw away a perfectly good relationship for all the wrong reasons.

  So it’s with relief that, once we’re done, Clint gently tugs on my wrist and tells me we need to talk. I let him lead me to the living room, where we sit side by side on the couch, and listen as he tells me that this thing we have going on between us isn’t working out.

  I nod, and even though I agree, part of me feels duped. Of course, I know why I’m ending things, but what are his reasons? I’m not spiteful or in any way angry, but the fact that he beat me to the punch does sting just a little. It’s hard not to feel a tiny bit burned when someone rejects you—even when you were about to do the very same thing to him.

  “I think you’re right,” I say, and as much as I wanted this earlier, conflicting emotions are colliding, hitting me all at once to the point that a lump rises in my throat. I realize with some sadness that even though I’m not in love with him, I’ll miss him. A lot.

  I stare at my hands, focusing on the light smattering of freckles running along my knuckles while I try to reel in my emotions. “Can I ask why, though?”

  “I think you know why, Betsy.”

  The fact that he called me by my name and not babe makes this all the more real.

  Clint sighs. It’s heavy and exhausted, and the weariness in his exhalation makes me look up. There’s no hate in his expression, though. No anger. He just looks sad. “Look,” he says gently. “You’re amazing and wonderful, and if I had it my way, I’d never let you go. But at the same time, I don’t want to play second string to the man you really love. I don’t want to be the guy you—or anyone, for that matter—settles for.”

  “You deserve better,” I agree.

  “And so do you.” One corner of his mouth lifts, a smile that reflects the same sorrow that I feel. “I saw how you were last night, with Adair.”

  “Clint…”

  But he shakes his head. “No, let me finish. I saw you two together, the way he looked at you, Betsy… Hell, you deserve to be with someone who looks at you like that. And you look at him the same way.” He pauses, clears his throat. “It’s one of the reason I’ve always had this, like, profound hate for the guy. I could tell from the first time we all hung out that there was more going on between the two of you than either of you let on.”

  “There was never anything going on between us,” I insist, but then bite my lip when I remember that, yes, at one point—at the very end—there was.

  “Maybe not on a physical level, but deep down…well, there was definitely something. Even I, as oblivious as I used to be, could see it.” He chuckles a little, like he’s tryin
g to make a joke to make us both feel better. “I was just too bullheaded to admit it at the time.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I say, because it’s the only thing I can think to say.

  He cocks his head and frowns. “Sorry for falling in love? Babe,” and he nudges me playfully when he calls me that, “don’t ever be sorry for falling in love.”

  I smile, but it’s flimsy, without substance. “I’m not sure Adair and I…” I sigh, frustrated. “He is, well, was my best friend. What if it doesn’t work?”

  He raises a brow. “He is your best friend, and that’s the point. It’s just that, all this time, you two had your label wrong.”

  I consider his words, letting my gaze slide over his expression, his personality now so different from when we met, and nod. “Had our label wrong,” I repeat. Then, “How the heck did you get to be so wise?”

  “Shocker right?” He laughs, and some of the life returns to his eyes.

  And that makes me smile.

  I called Adair over an hour ago, after Clint left, leaving a quick and breezy message—at least, that’s how I hope it sounded—letting him know that I really needed to talk to him. Since then, I’ve showered, changed, put on makeup, drank another cup of coffee, reapplied my makeup, made my bed, then tore off the sheets and threw them in the wash before changing clothes…again.

  It’s not until one hour and seventeen minutes pass and I’m pacing through my apartment, contemplating the dangers of having another cup of coffee given the fact that I’m already so jittery, that my phone vibrates in my hand. Making a noise somewhere between a sigh and a shriek, I slide my thumb over the screen without looking and bring the phone to my lips. I take a breath and swallow, but my voice still comes out too high pitched. “Hey!”

  But since I didn’t haver the ringer on, I didn’t hear the ring tone—Darth Vader’s theme song—and it’s not Adair on the other end. It’s my mother.

  “Expecting someone?” she says in lieu of a greeting.

  The disappointment drops my heart all the way into my stomach. “Hey, Mom. Yeah, sorry. I’m, uh, just… Well, Adair’s back in town for a bit and I was, you know, hoping to catch up with him.” I cringe as I stammer on and on, a trait my mother brings out in me. With a sigh, I plop down onto the couch. “What’s up?”

  She ignores the question. “Adair? Now he’s the one you brought to Christmas, right? The Scottish fellow?”

  “Yep.”

  “Hmm.” I hear background noise, the rush of traffic and the buzz of garbled conversations, the loud racket eating up her voice so I have to strain to hear her. “I’m actually in your neighborhood,” she says, and the line clears a bit before breaking up again. “At that little diner down the street from your place. Come meet me.”

  I should have known.

  The noise from outside the restaurant blows in through the door as it opens, bringing with it a couple about my age, the woman plump and the man tall and lean. My mother watches the pair as they make their way past out table and to a booth in the back, her face pinched, before turning her attention back to her menu. “And I’ll be having a salad, dressing on the side,” she says, raising her brows and closing the menu with an air of finality.

  I want a bacon cheeseburger but opt for a veggie wrap instead, with fruit instead of fries. She’s already on me about my job; the last thing I need is for her to start criticizing my diet as well.

  Like any proper woman putting up a good front, my mother smiles brightly while giving her order to our waitress, then folds her hands on the table, exuding the patience of a saint while I give mine. She’ll take care to keep her opinions to herself until the waitress is out of earshot. After all, one doesn’t air one’s grievances in front of others.

  The whole fake façade is enough to drive me crazy.

  She had one reason for calling me today, one reason for making me trek over here and meet with her in a semi-crowded restaurant where I’d have no choice but to sit politely and listen to her tell me how unhappy she is with me.

  My mom ran into Gus the other day who, without knowing what he was doing, succeeded in filling her arsenal to the brim.

  “I just can’t understand,” she says after the waitress leaves and for the third time since I sat down not even ten minutes ago, “why you’d leave your job?”

  I take a deep breathe and count to ten, then eleven, twelve, thirteen…which only gives her a chance to babble more.

  “I mean, if you were leaving for a better job, a more prestigious one, or even to finish school and start a career… But this?” She sighs her I’ve-got-the-weight-of-the-world-on-my-shoulders sigh and looks at me, her brows needled together in disappointment. “It’s just out of my realm of understanding how you can continue to act so irresponsibly.” Her hand flutters with her words, and I fight the urge to roll my eyes.

  I push my cup of coffee away—definitely don’t need more of that—and, as I do, my gaze falls on my phone. It’s been over two hours since I called Adair and still no response.

  “Betsy?” I look up, and my mother huffs. “I’d appreciate it if you answered me.” She crosses her arms over her chest and leans back in her chair. Her white blouse is neatly pressed and barely wrinkles with the movement. Under the table, her slacks are a dark brown, her feet clad in stylish yet sensible pumps.

  My tank top is white, my bra is black, and my skinny jeans are olive green. My feet are cushioned in distressed, black ankle boots with thick studded straps and a chunky heel.

  We’re as different as night and day.

  And I don’t know what to say. I don’t have an answer for her. At least, not one that she wants to hear.

  “I didn’t leave my job,” I point out, doing my best to remain calm. To not feel “attacked” as Barbara, my therapist, would say. Her advice in this situation would be to put myself in my mother’s shoes. To try and see through her eyes, feel what she feels, and then maybe I’ll understand her better.

  But.

  I realize that I don’t even really know my mother. She puts up a front, a shine so polished the glare prevents even her own daughter from knowing the real her. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen her in her true light, with her guard down. Every once in a blue moon, I’ll catch a glimmer of someone else beneath that polished surface. But most of our interactions, especially these past sixteen years, have been so artificial that we might as well be strangers.

  Sometimes I wonder if the reason my mother works so hard to control others is because she’s so lost herself. She followed a path out of obligation, not passion, and it left her hollow, unfulfilled.

  “I went part time,” I continue, clarifying for the third time that I did not quit my job. But for some reason, she can’t understand this. “Gus has been really great about it. He’s really happy that I’m focusing more on my photography business.”

  My mother huffs, as if the words photography and business in the same sentence is a joke. Her sneer is the only indication she gives that she even heard what I just said. “Your father and I have been over this and over this with you. We’ve give you every opportunity to make something of yourself, have a life and a future that you can be proud of… And you continue to throw all we’ve done for you right back in our faces.” She takes a delicate sip of coffee, the action so out of sync with the frustration bubbling through her system. “Not to mention how embarrassing it is for me when people ask about you and I have to tell them that you’re an assistant. And not even that, anymore! Catherine’s daughter is an anesthetist over at Mercy, married with her second baby on the way. And my daughter? Humph! She’s playing around with a camera like she’s back in high school and running around with a loser who doesn’t have a job.” My mouth drops, and she hurries on. “Oh yes,” she says, her smile triumphant, “I know all about you being back with him.”

  The frustration bubbling through my own system gives way to anger. “Clint,” I say, enunciating his name, “is not a loser.” My voice rings out above the restaurant din, and the
table next to us glances our way curiously.

  My mother smiles at them until they look away, and then shoots me a glare. “For God’s sake, keep you voice down,” she hisses. “Do you want the entire restaurant to know our business?”

  I ignore her, but I do lower my voice. “He’s had a job since January. A pretty good one, too. And,” I sigh, the separation still fresh, “we broke up this morning. So you needn’t be embarrassed by that anymore.”

  The waitress brings out our food and my mother quickly rearranges her features.

  “Well,” she sniffs, drizzling a few drops of dressing on her salad, “I guess that’s something. Although, who knows what sort of irresponsible fool you’ll latch on to next?”

  Oh, my god. Is this conversation really happening? Who talks to another person like this? Certainly not a mother, whose love is supposed to be unconditional, surmounting the disappointments, the arguments, the anger and past aggressions of her offspring. Of course, if I was doing truly terrible things—mooching off of her while refusing to work or running drugs or involved in some sort of shady criminal activity—I could understand her concern. But what she’s showing today isn’t merely concern for her daughter, it’s flat out hostility.

  This disdain she feels for me… I’m starting to think it’s more her issue than mine.

  I haven’t touched my meal, and I have no desire to.

  It’s not my appetite, it’s the company.

  “I’m in love with Adair,” I say. “And I’m going to tell him. Today.” If he ever returns my call, that is…

  My mother plucks a cherry tomato from her fork and chews thoughtfully. “Now,” she says after swallowing, “how’s that supposed to work out, exactly? He’s all the way in Scotland.” She shakes her head and laughs, like Scotland is on another planet and I’m a little girl who just said she wants to marry a prince. “You’ve never been realistic in your endeavors. You need to be more sensible about your decisions. And it’s because you aren’t that you make all the wrong ones.” She clucks her tongue. “You know, Betsy, you have the benefit of having a parent who experienced life’s hard knocks first hand and learned from them so you didn’t have to. I struggled to make a clear path for you, pave the way so you didn’t have to suffer all the bumps that I did. And even now, you completely disregard everything I went through, everything I try to do for you. Do you realize my mother never supported me at all? Not even once? And you? I offer to pay for your college, lay out your entire future for you on a silver platter! And not many people have that option, believe you me. But did you appreciate it? Of course you didn’t. And I still don’t think you do. Your continued immaturity and pure disregard for responsibility is more than I should have to put up with.”