Walking Heartbreak

by Sunniva Dee

  Hours later, my hands press against our closed bathroom door. It’s not locked, but I can’t open and expose what’s inside. It’s better this way. I’ll just say goodbye with the door closed. I hate goodbyes, but not getting to say them is worse.

  Our shower isn’t running. The sound of shuffling might come from our bathroom cabinets, but it could also come from upstairs because our neighbors take their time on Saturdays.

  My voice doesn’t crack when I shout, “Baby, I’ll be back later. I’m going out with Zoe and her friends. We’ll soak up some sun in the park.”

  Instinct urges me to ask him along. He’d have come along before. My rational side stops me, stops me, because I have yet to lose my mind.

  NADIA

  “Never?” I ask.

  Bo lifts his shoulders, tendons and hard muscle outlined against the cotton of his shirt. “Never thought about it, really. We do have kites in Sweden, but I guess I never prioritized learning how to fly one.”

  “That’s sort of funny,” I say, freeing a smile that feels crooked on my face while he works to assemble the world’s cheapest kite from a souvenir store. “It’s not exactly rocket science.”

  His swift side-glance acknowledges my amusement. He straightens in his crisscross position on the grass and squints playfully at me. Bo seems at ease sitting here, doing what he’s doing. With slow, deliberate moves, nimble fingers fiddle with the rope. They tie it and check the strength before he traps my gaze again.

  Bo testing ropes is oddly erotic. And I don’t know how my thoughts took me there when it’s been ages since I was in that mindset. Zoe would have said that’s exactly why I’m thinking such things. My cheeks warm with guilt.

  I break eye contact, but his features still linger with me. Inked black hair when everyone else’s is streaked blond by the sun. Pale skin in the vibrating L.A. heat, such a wintry contrast to the golden, beach-sandy tourists. Those eyes. I’ve never been farther north than L.A., and yet my mind strays to glaciers when I allow myself to watch them. The man is a little bit electrifying.

  I swallow and turn my focus to Emil and Zoe, who are laughing and fighting over their limp kite at the cliff’s edge. There’s no wind—there usually isn’t down here in St. Aimo. Zoe tends to get her will though, and we’re all here humoring her.

  “What happened?” Bo asks, studying my hot face. “Did I do something?”

  I let out a huff that’s supposed to be a laugh. At best, I sound helpless. “Ha, no. What makes you say that?”

  Ugh. Please don’t answer.

  “You look uncomfortable. Beautiful but uncomfortable.” His eyes skim my face, travel down my left arm, and stop on my hand. My two-year-old wedding band gleams in the sunshine.

  “You mean uncomfortable like you last night at the after-party?” I quip, because, God yes, let’s talk about him instead.

  He drops the kite and breathes out quietly, taking my bait. With idle hands resting in his lap, he blows air out through his nose. “Yeah, I’m not much for crowds.”

  “But you’re so relaxed on stage in front of thousands of people.”

  “Well, that’s different. On stage, I just enjoy playing my music.”

  “You hide behind your music, huh?” I smile and play with a chunk of dry grass between us. “One of those guys?” I say as if I know a slew of people with the same habit.

  He lets out a chuckle. It’s intimate-sounding, like he could emit it to a girl lying on his arm. My lower abdomen clenches, and I wish it didn’t. This attraction. It’s so desperately futile.

  “I’m not hiding. It’s sort of the opposite. As you saw at the party last night, I’m not the people-person in the band. I tend to keep stuff to myself. Feelings and shit.” He rolls his eyes.

  “Everyone has feelings,” I defend everyone. “So you just pop them into songs instead of talking about them?”

  “Yep, same difference, right?” he says. The kite rests obediently on the ground, a plastic alien waiting for our attention. Not a single gust of air tickles my skin, and over at the precipice, Zoe half howls, half giggles in Emil’s arms while he angles her out over the edge.

  “Of course. I get it,” I tease. “The misunderstood, reclusive artist who only ever expresses his feelings through his lyrics.”

  His eyes twinkle when he’s amused, and God have mercy, I like him amused. Now, he lets out the silkiest little laugh, reminding me of how open he was in that dim dressing room yesterday.

  “You’re funny,” he says. “But yeah, I might just be that reclusive person. And if people think I love it when they touch me and gush in my face, then you’re right: I’m misunderstood too.”

  “You don’t like to be touched?”

  Whoa, shut up, Nadia.

  Suddenly, I’m more aware than ever of how close we sit. When he leans forward over crisscrossed legs, our knees touch, and hope, illicit hope, tethers in my chest.

  “No, Nadia. I do like to be touched. By the right person in the right place, I like it a lot. And I like to touch too.”

  My entire body responds to his words, a delicious heat spreading under my skin. I could blame the sun, the stifling day, but like his lyrics, the simple way he says it reaches me deep inside. Unlike his songs though, these words aren’t love, yearning, and loss. They’re nearness and want. Sexy and… a lot to take in when you’re starving.

  Bo’s little finger extends from atop his knee. Touches my elbow. We’re so close he fills my space entirely. He doesn’t say anything. Just studies my expression, and I burn hotter by the second.

  I don’t pull my arm away, because…

  Because?

  Bo’s voice is for me only. “I remember you from a concert a while ago. I saw you out there in the sea of people. Your eyes were big. Full of secrets. Your mind was somewhere else entirely, and you stuck with me after, in my mind.” He exhales quietly, letting his gaze detour over my face. “Last night—I’m not sure what happened.”

  My breath stutters as he weaves our fingers together. I let him do it even though my brain shouts no.

  “You came into the dressing room while I was in my pre-show ritual mode.”

  “And you were different.” At first I think he doesn’t understand what I mean. But then he nods with chunks of black hair falling softly over his eyes.

  “I’ve tried to figure out how it happened. How I could ramble on so freely when I didn’t even know you. I don’t pull that shit on people.” Bo raises our hands between us. Twists and studies my simple ring, then lifts my hand high enough to brush his nose over the back of it. “Has anyone told you you’re easy to talk to?” He inhales slowly, like he’s pulling in my scent, and I gasp.

  “No, I… People don’t say that.”

  “Pure luck yesterday then?” The hook of his mouth curls up.

  In all I do, I’m measured, but to this man, in a rush of candor, I say, “No, that was you letting me into your mind, and I am so honored. I’m no expert, Bo—I don’t even listen to music much—but you scream genius. I hope you know that.”

  God. I just revealed my awe. How could I be so blunt? Bo cracked his soul open last night, and this is how I pay him back? Fans probably shower him in this crap nightly.

  I only just met him, but his opinion of me means something. I’d hate it if he thought less of me over my cheap outburst. I might as well have yelped out, “I’m your biggest faaan!”

  I force myself to look up and find him unperturbed, gaze still open, a new curiosity flickering in them.

  “You’re married?” he asks. My heart does a heavy skip.

  “Yeah.”

  “Why?”

  Because Jude and I don’t go anywhere together, people sometimes wonder about my ring. Some ask straight out about my husband, but no one ever asks why I’m married.

  “You’re uncomfortable again. Does that mean you reg
ret it?” He lowers our hands between us but doesn’t let go. I’m hyperaware of his thumb gliding slowly over my knuckle.

  “No, I love Jude and don’t regret our eloping for a minute. It’s just complicated. Long story.”

  “I have time.”

  I’m not sure I can deal with this man. He’s so intense. Works to penetrate my shield. That ever-present glob in my chest swells, a leaden magnet for emotions I should resist, while he waits for me to continue. Too soon, it obstructs my breathing, and all I want to do is cry.

  “Nadia? I’ve made you sad. I’m sorry.” He gets to his feet at the same time I do. Tries to put a hand on my shoulder to soothe me, but I spin and take the first steps toward Zoe. My vision blurs, so I blink the tears away as I walk.

  “It’s okay. I need to go home anyway,” I say.

  Then I do.

  Though it’s daytime, my candles burn in our living room. It’s my thing; as soon as I’m home, I light them. Whenever I’m drawn in by my baby, they soften the angles of his face, highlight a subtly crooked nose and the golden stubble on his chin. I love it so much.

  “Disaster,” I tell Jude. “Total disaster. I hate it when people ask about you. I become all weird.” It felt like a date with Bo, which I’m not telling my husband. “I should keep to myself,” I say instead. “Hang at home and stuff.”

  Jude wants me to get serious about my education though. His plan was always for me to finish my veterinarian studies. Ladies first, right? It’s some gentlemanly thing of his. I’d suggested both of us at once, but he just crossed his arms at me. Stubborn. Always so stubborn, my Jude.

  No, he wants to start his own education after me. A mechanic, he’d hummed once, eyes dreamy. “How cool, Nadia, if I ended up working for Tesla. Can you imagine, digging around inside the motors of a bunch of Teslas for a living?”

  I couldn’t, but I nodded, dreaming with him. All I wanted was to see him happy—as happy as he made me. He grinned big, grasped my hips, and scooted me into a nearby chair.

  “Look at me, wifey.”

  I did, biting my lip.

  “Screw Mom and Dad for cutting off my funds. They won’t be hampering us. I’m going to pay our bills with my gas station job, okay? I swear to you: we’ll never take out high-interest loans to get us through shit.”

  “No, Jude.” I shook my head, for once adamant. “We’re in this together. You’re not going to slave away while I have fun studying.”

  “Shhh, sweetie.” Soft with love, Jude’s gaze stilled on me, waiting until I relaxed enough to listen. “Once you’re a vet, once you earn destructive amounts of money, I’ll quit my job at the gas station and become a full-time student. You’ll support your deadbeat, good-for-nothing husband, and no one in your office’ll get what the hell you see in me.”

  Bubbles of bliss surge in my throat as I think back to that day. “You were irresistible, Jude, when you said that.” My smile wobbles, but when I look up at him, my husband is giving me his knowing, quiet smile. “Bah, you’re always irresistible,” I say.

  “Afterward, we’ll have babies,” he’d told me. “We’ll be this little family. One boy—because it’d be stupid to think we could handle more than one rebellious replica of me—and two girls with long, brown hair and carob eyes like you. We’ll raise them with tons of love and freedom. And move to a deserted island if any of them act up on us.”

  Post-Argentina, the two years in the Heavenly Harbor elementary school were the highlight of my childhood. Elder Rafael entrusted an old schoolmistress of the congregation with the minds of us children. Our group was small, varying between five and eight students, all quiet and well trained by devout parents.

  We didn’t laugh and horse around like in Buenos Aires, but we had each other, and for a few hours a day I was out of Mother’s scope.

  Life deteriorated when our teacher was excommunicated for remaining in contact with her grown daughter after she left our sect. We children were spared the details even as adults gossiped in pre-sermon groups.

  Mother was instated as our new teacher, which coincided with my twelfth birthday. Our curriculum was updated. Extended Bible Studies suddenly replaced World History, but for me, losing my daily breaks from Mother was the biggest change.

  My period arrived. I had no idea what was happening to me and hid it for months in the belief that I was dying. One hundred and eleven days in, a congregation member in the next-door restroom stall caught me cleaning up my mess. She explained the female miracle, how the monthly cycle is natural. After that, all I recall is shame. Until the day I met Jude.

  “Because dinner is just dinner and it’ll be fun,” Zoe explains. She pulls a handful of pins from her hair and busies herself in my hallway mirror, arranging her sloppy bun back up into a disheveled princess ’do. “You like Bo, and—”

  “Stop saying that.”

  “What? Tell me I’m wrong then.”

  “You are. Sort of. Just—ah. I don’t want to talk.”

  “Always the same thing. Always, always,” she mutters around the remaining pins in her mouth. “Okay, how ’bout this: no talking. Only eating and laughing and having fun. You know, Bo asked a hell of a lot of questions after you left.”

  “Did he? You didn’t…?”

  “I’m your friend. Not his.” She narrows perfectly lined eyes at me. “I’d be stupid to try and rush a confession out of you by squealing on your behalf. We’re doing hibachi, by the way.”

  I sigh, shaking my head. After the way I stormed off a few hours ago, Bo must be crazy for wanting to hang out. Then again, Emil is his buddy. Bo is coming along to support him. Or maybe he adores Japanese steakhouses. Either way, it’s definitely not because of me.

  Zoe and I arrive first. The steakhouse smells stale from years of grease steaming from enormous burners in a room with bad circulation. As we get seated, I hear, “Four Sapporos!” from behind us. “Oh and get us sake too. A few bottles.”

  “Carafes,” Bo specifies. “And ice water, please, if the ladies haven’t ordered drinks yet?”

  “Yeah, carafes, whatever-you-call-it.” Emil jerks his head in the direction of our table, continuing, “And what he said, and to that table.”

  Zoe’s latest infatuation is a rush of fresh air, I think to myself. Now, he lifts a hand, waving like we’re far away and he hasn’t seen Zoe in days.

  Bo’s eyes linger on me. To break the contact, I pull a lipstick out of my purse. “I’m not going to drink,” I mumble to Zoe.

  “Just loosen up for freaking once,” she hisses. “I want to have fun with my best friend and some cool guys, and I don’t want to worry about you running off again. Some alcohol will do you good.”

  “Zoe.” I always feel guilty. There isn’t a moment of the day that I don’t. And she’s a saint—a nutty saint—for dragging me along everywhere. Nadia, the party pooper. When did I last drink more than a few sips? Probably on Jude’s twentieth birthday.

  “Just go with it,” she says. “Go with the flow. Let’s have a good time.”

  The hibachi grill is wide with room for a chef in the middle and a bar counter in a squared U-shape around it. I sense Bo’s presence even before I look up. It’s psychological, I know, but he feels warm at my side. I instantly blush. I hate my cheeks.

  “How are you?” he asks, voice quiet from the chair next to me. I guess I assumed I’d be safe with Emil and Zoe seated between us.

  “Emil! You have to use the tip of your tongue first. Then you swirl,” Zoe exclaims.

  “You’re teaching me how to kiss now? I kissed you just fine earlier, I believe,” Emil hums while kissing more.

  “’Tis just a suggestion. Check this out,” Zoe says. Irregular breathing ensues.

  “Jesus,” Bo mumbles into his hand, and I feel my own face tug into a smile. “You two—simmer down on the affection, will you?”

  “Really
, it’s too much for you, Bo?” Emil manages between smacks and suckling noises. “This isn’t exactly R-rated.”

  “True, which is surprising. We’ve been in this place for, what, two minutes?” Bo leans in against my ear and whispers loud enough for our friends to hear, “If they start to remove clothing, I’ll get you out of here before they claim more casualties.”

  The first sip of ice-cold beer tastes amazing. The second one does too. Our ninja chef chops meat and fries veggies, and because we wait so long for our table to fill up with guests, we’re on our second round of hot sake before the food arrives.

  Emil’s hands are on Zoe most of the time, only letting go to grab his glass. The banter flicks back and forth between the guys, while Zoe shoots off the perfect witticism, adding her quirky flavor to Emil’s whims.

  It’s probably the alcohol, but I feel myself relaxing, a sensation so rare that it’s odd. I can’t decide if I should fight it. I’d benefit from drinking more often, I think for a moment. Until I rethink and decide I would not.

  The seating arrangement leaves us so close to each other that Bo’s arm brushes my shoulder with every shift in our chairs. I don’t tense up over it like I commonly would. I’d never drink enough to lose my inhibitions though.

  “So you’re not a chopstick guy?” I ask Bo the obvious. He hasn’t even opened his packet. Instead he has opted for the cheap, bendable fork that’s part of our place setting—and he asked for a knife!

  He crooks a beautiful smirk around the fried shrimp and mussels in his mouth, and flushes the mouthful down with beer. “Naw, never really got into it.”

  “Like with the kites?” I find myself leaning in playfully, and it’s a whole lot like flirting. Bo relaxes against the back of his chair, inviting me closer with a squinted smile.