The Sweetheart Deal

by Polly Dugan

  We were fighting on the sidewalk. A couple fighting in public. People drove by and slowed down and stared at us. Someone I didn’t recognize waved. A woman came out of the house we were parked in front of and sat in a chair on her porch. Wonderful.

  “But he did die, Garrett,” she said. “And why didn’t you throw this away if it was so ‘stupid’? If it didn’t mean anything?” She shrieked and waved it like a lunatic. In front of God and everybody. “You kept it, you brought it out here with you and here it is.” She wouldn’t stop waving the paper. I turned my back toward the street. I didn’t look at the woman on her porch.

  “And you.” She gritted her teeth and got in my face, her face as close as she could get it to mine, and I stretched my neck back as far as it would go but I left my feet where they were. I did, as the saying goes, have this coming. “When was it?” She was whispering now, her mouth inches below my chin. “When I told you about that guy Wade Reynolds and you sat there, you sat and did your fucking Oh, Audrey, now there, there, and I believed you. No, Audrey, there’s no other secrets. Settle down, honey. Leo only ever had good intentions. Right, he’s perfect. Leo, always so perfect. He wasn’t perfect. And you’re a fucking liar. Your whole sorry life is a lie, Garrett. And all this time you’ve spent here, that’s been a lie too.

  “I hate you. I hate both of you right now,” Audrey said. She stepped away from me and waved the paper one last time. A big white sweep with one hand. “There is no promise.” Then she held it between both hands and ripped it—once, twice, three, four, five, six times until she couldn’t tear anymore and it was just a small white shredded pile on the sidewalk between our feet.

  She walked to the car and I followed her.

  “Drive me home, then get out,” she said. “I don’t care where you go or how you get there, but get the fuck out of my house.”

  Audrey

  After Garrett left, I ordered a pizza and drove the Land Cruiser, for the first time since losing Leo, to pick it up. Even after everything I’d done with Garrett that was far more momentous, it still upset me to move the seat forward, changing one of the things I’d preserved inside the car for five months, and drive it now. I brought the pizza home, told the boys they could eat and watch a movie, and lay on my bed and sobbed into my pillow. I wished I could undo everything. All of it. And replace it with what hadn’t happened: that we had gone skiing on Brian’s birthday; that I told Garrett to go home after the funeral; that we hadn’t repainted the bedroom; that I hadn’t kissed him and followed him to bed; that I hadn’t started it again after we’d put the first time behind us. That I could rewind time and not have spent the last two months sleeping with him and, without meaning to, let my feelings for him run away with me and allow him to fill a portion of the void that Leo had left. I should have been acting like a responsible adult and I had done everything but.

  I wanted to hurt Leo. He had always joked with the two of us, If I die, you guys have to get married. You both know all the secrets, all the history, and you guys love each other. But that was all it had been. So I thought.

  But the fact that he had made Garrett sign something, that Garrett had come out and played house and bedded me, made me feel like an object or property—not a person—that they thought needed a keeper. Their friendship—I didn’t care how special it was. It didn’t make their assumption okay. We weren’t living in another century and I didn’t need to be taken care of. At the very least, I couldn’t believe Leo had never told me after Garrett’s visit, later laughing about it, admitting he’d done such a thing. I could picture it. Well, babe, I’ve made Garrett promise to marry you if I die. I should have had you sign it too, but you were in bed already, and by the next morning I’d come to my senses, and then he took it with him. You would marry Garrett, right, if you had to? Oh, come on, darlin’, don’t look at me like that. It was all in good fun, and you and I both know I’m not going anywhere.

  Garrett

  I was never so happy to get off a sidewalk. What else could I do? I drove her home. I hated Leo a little that day. And I hated myself, for signing the paper, for hanging on to it and bringing it with me and stowing it in a place where it could be found. For wanting Audrey so badly and getting in so deep. For that, I hated myself, but it wasn’t something I regretted. I left the house and called a cab a block away and had it take me to the White Eagle on Russell Street. Fuck, fuck, fuck, I thought. You bring ruin everywhere you go.

  I called Kevin and asked him to meet me. “Things have changed,” I said. I told him where I was.

  “On my way,” he said.

  I explained what happened, the only part of the story I knew. I told him I had no idea how she’d found it.

  “But it was inevitable,” I said. “The clock was ticking.”

  “It was a matter of time, I suppose,” he said. “Sorry the clock didn’t run out different.”

  He put his hand on my shoulder, heavy, and left it there for a minute before he took it back. “How’d you leave it, then?” he said.

  “You’re looking at it,” I said. “Like this. She wanted me to leave and I did, and she’ll want me to go back to Boston, I’m sure, so I will. But I’m coming back—I just don’t know when.” The thing was, I did know when, but I wasn’t ready to tell him.

  “Sure,” he said. “You can do that. There you go.” I’m sure I sounded like a grown man who should have known better: full of naïveté, denial, and hubris, imagining a hopeful solution for a situation that was doomed. But Kevin wasn’t going to kick me while I was down, and I appreciated that.

  “I don’t have any expectations,” I said. “It’s just that I’m done back there. There may be nothing here for me, but there’s even less there.”

  “Right,” he said. “Sure, I get that. Hey, I left too. That’s the pioneer spirit.”

  I let his levity work on us. “Yeah, embarking in unchartered territory, trail blazing, all that. I wouldn’t be the first Boston ex-pat.”

  “Certainly not,” he said.

  “What about the room?” Kevin said.

  “She can figure it out,” I said. “In the meantime she can live with it. Those studs aren’t going to give out tomorrow.”

  Kevin nodded. “It’s been really good working with you,” he said. “It really has. I’m really sorry about this. You’ll figure it out. You let me know when you’re back. If I don’t hear, I’ll find you.”

  “Yeah, of course,” I said. “Of course I’ll do that. I’ll be in touch.”

  I didn’t feel like getting drunk. I wanted to sleep. Kevin wouldn’t let me leave any money on the bar, and offered me his couch for the night.

  I shook my head. “Thanks, but I’m just going to get a room here. It’s easy,” I said. “And I’ll be asleep in ten minutes.”

  “Come on,” he said. “Really.”

  When I insisted, like he had paying the tab, he left and I checked into a room. I had wanted to do right by Leo, and Audrey and the boys. Up to a point I had, until whatever good I’d done I’d also unraveled. The unfortunate combination of my relationship with Audrey and my secrecy had had a far greater impact than anything else. It had been too much to ask. Leo had asked too much of me, more than I was capable of, more than anyone would have been. He had left behind shoes too big for anyone to fill, an absence no one could replace. That was my last thought before I fell asleep.

  Audrey

  I hadn’t thought I would, but I slept. The sound of Garrett opening the front door woke me before six. I had left it unlocked. When I got downstairs, he was unloading the dishwasher.

  “I made coffee,” he said.

  “Stop,” I said. “Stop what you’re doing.”

  “Audrey,” said Garrett. “We need to talk.”

  “There’s nothing to talk about,” I said. “It’s time for you to go home. I booked you on a flight at two-thirty. I printed your boarding pass. It’s next to the computer.”

  “I know how mad you are,” he said. “And I know you’re
grieving. I would never have dreamed of making things worse for you.”

  “Don’t patronize me,” I said. “Don’t you dare tell me you know I’m grieving. You don’t know anything. You’ve never been married. And you’ve never been married to someone who died.”

  “You’re right,” said Garrett. “But I knew him longer than you. We knew things about each other no one else did.”

  “You need to start packing,” I said. “And keep your voice down.”

  “I will start packing. It won’t take me that long,” Garrett said. “But I have something to say and you’re going to hear it.”

  “You have more news?” I said. “Enlighten me, Garrett. Should I take notes?”

  “Don’t,” he said. “Don’t tell me ‘I don’t know.’ I do know. I’m losing you. It’s happening right now. You didn’t even know about it and you still took me to bed. Again and again and again.”

  “We’re done,” I said. “I don’t need to hear this.”

  “I’m not done.” He didn’t scare me, but I’d never heard Garrett’s voice so low and contained, like he was wrestling with himself not to yell. “You don’t have to hear any more after I’m done. After I’m gone. After two-thirty today. You let me finish.”

  I shrugged like I didn’t care.

  “I am so fucking sorry. On behalf of Leo and me, we are both so sorry. And, Audrey, what about you? You just helped yourself to me.” He said it slow and quiet. He was so angry, his lips barely moved. “You made me your stand-in. How did you manage it every time, Audrey? How did you live with yourself? I want to know. Every time my dick was inside you, did you just shut your eyes and pretend you were fucking a dead man?”

  I didn’t want to be, but I was crying. “I’m not going to listen to this,” I said. “Are you done?”

  “Yes, I am,” he said. “I’m done.”

  Garrett

  Packing didn’t feel anything like the last time I’d packed, when I’d come out here, when I’d been ready to leave Boston in spite of the reason. But loss was forcing me to pack again. I’d left Boston because we’d lost Leo, and now I was leaving Portland because I’d lost Audrey.

  I heard the boys come downstairs and mill around the kitchen. Chris walked into the guest room.

  “What are you doing?” he said. My suitcase was on the stripped bed, and he touched the edge of the zipper. He looked young and fragile. Not like the man of the house he’d been playing at.

  I took my stuff out of the bottom drawer and put it in the suitcase. He didn’t move his hand off the zipper. “I’m packing,” I said. “It’s time for me to go back to Boston.”

  “But you’re not done,” he said. “The room’s not finished.”

  I shrugged and went back to the dresser and emptied the next drawer into the suitcase.

  “She asked you to leave, didn’t she?” Chris said. “She’s mad. Because of the note.”

  “What do you know about it?” I said.

  “I took it,” Chris pressed his lips together flat. “I found it in your drawer and I took it and I hid it in this place in my closet and she found it.” He was doing everything in his power not to cry. I wouldn’t have minded if he did, but I knew he would be embarrassed, so I hoped for his sake he could hold back the tears. “It’s my fault.” He pawed at his face. “It’s my fault she’s making you leave. I’m sorry I took it. I’m sorry she found it. I shouldn’t have. You told me no.”

  Now I had the whole picture, but the details didn’t matter. It was too late. “It’s okay,” I said. I put my arm on his shoulder. “Look at me, Chris. It’s okay. We agreed it’s time.”

  “But it’s because of this. You wouldn’t be leaving if this hadn’t happened,” he said.

  “I’ll come back and visit,” I said. “You guys can always come to Boston.”

  Then he didn’t look so young anymore, and stepped away from my arm. “Do you love her?” he said. “Don’t you love her? If you love her, you can’t go. Doesn’t she love you? I mean, you know, you two—” He stopped.

  Jesus, this kid. “Chris, I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t know if she loves me. I’m her good friend, or I was. But yes, I love your mom. She doesn’t have to love me back for me to feel that way. It doesn’t always work out neat and easy. It’s fucked up being an adult,” I said. “You think it’s going to be so great, but a lot of times it’s not.” I laughed. “Don’t be in a hurry to be anything more than seventeen. You’ll be okay and I will too. And for sure your mom is. We’re going to be okay.”

  “Maybe I’ll come next summer,” he said. “Maybe I’ll go to college in Boston.”

  “Yeah, maybe,” I said. “That would be great. You’ll see me before you know it.”

  I went in the kitchen and said goodbye to Brian and Andrew, too, who were both somber and confused, without knowing what Christopher did, and I told them the same things that I’d said to him. They were easier to convince, but when they both mentioned that the addition wasn’t finished, I told them it was a natural place to stop temporarily and because of some unexpected things happening back east, it was time for me to go.

  I went back into the guest room, shut the door, and sat on the bed. Just like I had in my apartment—this time sober, this time in a whisper, this time in Leo’s house—I said it again, Fuck you, Leo. Goddamn you.

  But there was more now. I’m in love with your wife.

  And I imagined him there with me, just listening, leaning against the wall in the room where I’d first slept with her.

  I did all the talking. But she’s not your wife anymore, is she?

  I imagined him standing, waiting, not judging like he had by the fire pit, more than a decade ago, when he’d admonished me for all my women. He couldn’t say anything now, and I would have given anything, everything, to have him here to say something, because I needed it. I really needed the one thing I couldn’t have.

  Is this what you wanted? I thought to the imaginary Leo, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, crossing his arms. Crossing the room to sit on the bed next to me, resting an ankle on his opposite knee.

  You’ve fucked me up. I sat next to no one. Because of you, I’ve fucked everything up. I don’t want to be you, I want to be me. I want to be me with your wife, with your sons, who I could never replace with my own children. I want to stay and I can’t. She doesn’t want me to.

  The Leo who existed only in my addled mind continued to sit.

  You and your fucking jokes, I thought. If we had gone to bed earlier, if we hadn’t drunk so much, it never would have happened. And I would be happy now, happy with the way I was living before. Happy that that was enough. I was happy.

  I was arguing in my mind, in an empty room in Leo’s house.

  How dare you? Is this what you wanted? My thoughts wouldn’t stop coming, as much as I wanted them to. I wasn’t done.

  What about what the rest of us wanted? Audrey would have been fine. She didn’t need me. She barely needed you. I wanted to laugh in his living face. You know that, right? She barely needed you. You needed her more than she needed you. She’s a woman who doesn’t need anybody. You got lucky. You’re lucky she married you.

  I had to get out of this room. And yet, although I had nothing else to say, to myself only—because Leo was in a Jos. A. Bank suit under six feet of dirt and clay and perfect sod—right before I stood up and walked out, I imagined him uncrossing his leg and leaning forward on the bed, resting his forearms on his thighs, clasping his hands together, and just looking at me, nodding and smiling and not saying a word.

  Garrett

  After I got in the cab, I didn’t look back. The driver cruised through the neighborhood, headed toward the freeway, and when we were almost there, I stopped him.

  What was I doing? I’ll show you, Audrey. I’m out of here. I didn’t want this.

  “Shit, I’m sorry,” I said. “Can you go back? I forgot something. My phone. I’m dead without it.”

  “Sure, buddy.” He turne
d around and put the freeway behind us. “It’s your buck.”

  “No kidding,” I said. “But thanks.”

  Why had I fought with her and been such a dick? Why had I been so defensive? To make her partly responsible. She hadn’t done anything wrong. My sleeping with her wasn’t why she was furious. I had lied to her; that I had kept something from her that I shouldn’t have was as bad as a lie, and it was all on me. As much as I wanted to spread the blame around, implicating Leo, too, I couldn’t. On the drive back to the house, I realized that implicit in the promise—which had been the farthest thing from a joke there was—to do what Leo had asked and take care of his family, was also the expectation that I wouldn’t hurt his wife.

  Leo had always been serious about his request. I’d never let myself come to terms with that. It was less of a burden to write it off as a joke. But now that he’d died, there was no way to interpret what he’d asked of me as anything but sincere.

  Tempting fate, I made a deal with myself, which was passive and cowardly. I’d never begged a woman to stay or to keep me; it wasn’t something a person did every day, or with just anyone. You begged only when it mattered, only when you couldn’t bear to lose someone. Audrey had nothing to lose now—she had already endured the worst loss. Ending our romance because she felt betrayed was nothing compared to Leo’s death.

  So, if when I got back to the house Audrey was there—this was the deal I made with myself, this pussy deal—I’d do anything she asked, anything except let her shut me out, and I was prepared to beg. It was the only choice I had.

  Then I would work to undo the ugliness I’d said this morning—I’d be contrite and self-deprecating; I’d remind her she’d said it would be nice if I were closer than Boston. I’d say the words I’d never said and tell her that because of Leo I was conflicted and guilty, but that he’d had nothing to do with how I felt about her. That the biggest mistake of my life, even at the risk of losing or changing what had happened between us, had been not telling her about the promise. That was the least I owed her, and I had failed.