Bear Creek Road

by L. C. Morgan

  I felt a pull at my lips and a light tug on my heart when he yawned, stretched and then scratched the underside of his beard.

  The phone rang again and I glanced down at the screen to see it was a blocked number. I looked back up as Joe threw his shovel to the ground and stalked over to the cooler sitting just below the windowsill.

  I swallowed hard, fighting against the sticky dryness in my throat as he bent down, popping back up to look me right in the eye, as if he knew I had been watching him the whole time.

  The embarrassment I felt from the night before came rushing back. My cheeks heated, my eyes dropping to the flex of his upper arm as he opened the bottle of water. The muscles there balled and bulged, stressing the blue hue of flowing, virile veins. His body was a wonder, even more so when it moved, cut and curved in all the right places. Every muscle had a purpose and made that purpose known as they rippled and smoothed under the surface of his skin. I knew it better than the back of my hand. Already, I knew it better.

  When I raised my gaze, our eyes met and the phone started to ring again. I looked away for a second to see another blocked number lighting up the screen and pushed the ignore button before turning back to watch Joe walking away.

  The phone rang again, and I sent it to voicemail, hoping they’d get a clue and stop calling. But the more it rang, the more curious I got, and on the sixth or seventh failed attempt, I slid the bar to “talk” and placed the phone against my ear.

  “Hello?” I answered and heard a sharp inhale. I knew who it was before they even spoke.

  “Laney?”

  Heart pounding, my breaths strived to match theirs. Opening my mouth, I almost spoke back, wanting to know how in the hell they got this number.

  “Laney?”

  “Laney?”

  Startled, I dropped the phone from my ear, pressing “end” before turning to face the snoopy intruder.

  “You gonna answer that?” Mona asked, pointing to the phone that was once again ringing, and I shook my head.

  “Wasn’t planning on it.”

  Pressing “silence,” I set the phone down on the table and walked over to my dresser to grab a clean pair of cutoffs. I whipped them out a little rougher than necessary, slamming the drawer shut before I pulled them on and headed outside.

  I didn’t look up as the screen door creaked and slammed behind me. I didn’t even look up when she spoke.

  “I wanted to tell you I was sorry for pushing Patrick on you,” she said, huffing as she sat down on the top step. “I probably should’ve called first, but honestly, I didn’t think you’d answer.”

  I plopped down on the step beside Mona. We sat there in silence for a while, listening to Phil belt out orders and watching the boys dig up some more of my grass. I decided to take comfort in the fact that at this rate, I wouldn’t have to worry about buying a lawnmower.

  “Look …” Mona paused to chip the paint off her fingernails. I waited for her to continue, watching Joe work in the field. Regardless of how she tested my patience, I didn’t want to be another wedge to come between her and her brother. “I know I can be a little pushy,” she admitted, looking over just in time to catch my nod. Smiling, she looked away and toward Joe, the upturned corner of her mouth slightly drooping. “I’m sorry.”

  A few fat drops of rain hit the dirt just before it started to pour. Scurrying to cover their progress, everyone but Joe and Patrick scattered to their vehicles.

  “Just let ‘im down easy, okay?” Getting up, Mona dusted off her bottom. She hopped down the stairs and into Phil’s waiting arms, kissing him full on the lips, no concern for the rain. They both climbed in her Caddy and left the three of us behind, which wasn’t awkward at all.

  Standing, I dusted myself off as Patrick approached. Meeting him at the bottom of the steps, I looked past his shoulder at Joe.

  “So, you still haven’t given me an answer,” he said, wiping his forehead with the sleeve of his button-up, “whether you, uh, wanted to go out with me or not.”

  My eyes stayed trained on Joe. Standing out in the field, he didn’t seem to mind the rain. One hand on the handle of the shovel, his other was balled into a fist at his side as his white shirt slowly soaked through. My gaze only left his when I felt Patrick place a stray hair behind my ear.

  “Laney?”

  In my periphery, I saw Joe head for his truck, throw the shovel in the back and then jump inside. I apologized to Patrick, stepping around him to stop Joe, but Patrick followed me.

  “He’s no good, Laney. He’ll only hurt you,” he reasoned.

  I ignored him, reaching the lowered driver’s side window as Joe’s truck roared to life. I placed my hands on the warm frame, the vibrations making my voice feel shaky, or maybe I just was.

  “I was planning on making chicken and dumplings tonight, but I could make it an early lunch. I, uh … I thought you could stay.” Feeling especially desperate, I tightened my grip when he pushed on the gas, revving the engine like my offer wasn’t good enough.

  Patrick huffed a laugh. “You see? He doesn’t give a shit about anybody but himself.”

  Licking the rain from my lips, I stared at Joe’s hardened profile as Patrick stormed off, still cursing to himself under his breath.

  “Don’t listen to him. I want you to stay,” I admitted a little bit louder, ignoring the knot in my stomach and how my insides heated when he cut the ignition. I stepped back and he opened the door to climb out as Patrick tore down the gravel drive.

  I headed inside, leaving the door open for Joe. My heart rate picked up with the slam of the front door and every heavy step he took farther into the house.

  Feeling him enter the room, I pulled two cans of chicken and dumplings out of the cupboard, a little embarrassed that all I had to offer was the canned kind. I worried over how he felt about me microwaving everything. Did he grow up with a mother who cooked homemade meals every day? Did he expect that from a woman?

  Stuck inside my own head, I wasn’t paying attention as the second bowl of soup timed out, the beep surging through my chest and echoing off the kitchen walls. Pulling out the heated hunk of plastic, I stared down at the chunky slosh, deciding it looked absolutely inedible before grabbing a bottle of water out of the fridge. I placed both in front of him, avoiding looking him in the eye as I doubled back to get my own bowl and another bottle of water. Finally sitting down, I still avoided his face.

  The silence this time was most definitely uncomfortable. I could feel the tension, could sense the stress of his muscles as he sat motionless in his seat, staring down at his bowl. Bringing the first bite to my mouth, I stopped midair when he spoke.

  “What is it you want, Laney?” His voice sounded deeper than I remembered. It reverberated through my chest and sank into my stomach, warming me all the way through. The question, however, didn’t.

  What is it I want?

  From him? Out of life?

  I didn’t know.

  Lowering the spoon, I shrugged.

  “I don’t know. To spend time with you, I guess. Be your friend.”

  More than your friend.

  Head tilted down, he looked at me from under his lashes.

  “You want to be friends.” It was more of a statement than a question. The way he said it made me feel kind of stupid for suggesting it, but I nodded anyway.

  Leaning back in the chair, he smoothed the front of his beard. “He was right, you know.”

  “Who?”

  “Patrick.”

  “About what?”

  Joe looked off to the side, crossing his arms over his chest. “I’m no good.”

  My heart broke. “For me or anybody?”

  “Anybody.” Placing his elbows on the table, he scratched the back of his head. “But especially you.” The last part was spoken low, like he was trying to convince himself.

  “That’s not true. You’ve already been a great friend to me. You’ve fixed up my house, bought me dinner.” I smiled, but Joe didn’t. Seriou
sness clouded his features as he brought his hand back up to smooth the front of his beard. I wondered if it was a nervous tick.

  “So, that’s all. You just wanna be friends.” The underlying implication made my stomach flip. Was he hinting that he wanted more? Was he making sure I didn’t?

  “Yeah.” Nodding, I answered the only way I could right then. “Just friends.”

  That would have to be enough for now.

  Chapter Seven

  It was an early morning.

  So early, I woke up before Phil and his crew had the chance to haul their noisy asses down the drive and do the job for me. So early that I was even up before the sun, sitting opposite the chair Joe had sat in the night before.

  For some reason he thought he wouldn’t make a good friend, but he was wrong. Less than a week in a new town and he was already the best friend I ever had, considering. He may not have been the warmest person, or all that forthcoming with his feelings, but he was always there. He was good to me and in my book that counted for something.

  Pushing away my half-eaten plate of microwaveable pancakes, I picked up my phone. My finger hovered over the voicemail notification, wanting, yet not wanting to push it.

  I came to Big Bear prepared to leave everything and everyone in Cincinnati behind. What I wasn’t prepared for was them not letting me.

  Placing the phone down on the table, I decided not to listen. Instead, I got up to throw my trash away and search for Joe out the kitchen window.

  When I didn’t find him standing in the mass of men, I stepped out onto the porch, seeing his truck was also missing.

  “We should have’er done by this afternoon.” Phil’s blurry silhouette approached in my periphery. I nodded, not really caring in the least about the pipes. All I wanted to know was where Joe was.

  As always, Phil seemed to read my mind. “It’s the sixth, so he won’t show. He never shows on the sixth.” With an apologetic smile, he took off in the direction he’d come from.

  I headed back inside, finding myself in one of the spare rooms. Sitting on my knees, I pulled out the sad contents of the three boxes I’d packed. My mind inexplicably conjured a picture of Joe holed up in his cabin, sitting on his couch and staring at nothing with a half empty bottle of bourbon dangling from his fingers—the stigma of a recluse. The image haunted me, my insides running ice-cold when I pulled out a little cardboard box addressed to one Mr. Mark Matthews. I didn’t remember packing it. I didn’t remember packing a lot of things seeing as I was inebriated for most of the process.

  Maybe that was where the image of Joe had sprung from. My own tendency to fall back on the mind-numbing effects of the bottle.

  Unwrapping the cloudy shot glass from the bubble wrap, I popped a few as I read over the glazed pearl writing.

  Mr. & Mrs. Matthews

  May 25, 2013

  Turning it around, I stared at the back.

  until

  Forever

  The glass was still sticky from when I had last used it. I found myself wishing I had a bottle of something now, anything that would get me good and drunk enough to forget why I had used it in the first place.

  Pushing up off the floor, I took the glass with me into the kitchen. I rinsed it off with what remained of my bottle of water and then set it in the sink to soak before grabbing my purse and heading out the front door.

  ***

  It was late afternoon before I got back. As I pulled up and parked, my shoulders tensed back up when I saw Joe’s truck was still missing.

  Hurrying inside, I stashed my purchase under the kitchen sink before Phil came through the door to let me know they were done and that Joe had no reason to come back now that the job was finished.

  He didn’t say that, but that was what it meant. It also meant I had water—real, ready, running, hot and cold water.

  “Give ‘er a try,” Phil encouraged with a smile.

  Looking from the sink to him, then back to the sink again, I turned the handle, watching as the clear water sprayed out before me. I tested the temperature with my fingers.

  “It’s perfect.” I offered Phil the best smile I could before pulling out an envelope from one of the drawers and handing over the rest of what I owed him.

  “Well, guess I’ll be seein’ ya,” he said, swatting my arm with the envelope. “Sure Mona’ll be ‘round soon enough.” Smiling, he winked and walked off.

  “Just make sure she calls first,” I called after him before the door clicked shut, and I was left with silence and the waiting contents of a brown paper bag.

  ***

  Three shots in, and I was feeling pretty warm.

  Bottle in hand, I picked up the shot glass and headed out the opened back door into the moonlit field. Deciding I didn’t need it to get drunk, I chucked it as hard as I could toward the trees lining the edge of the property then brought the bottle to my lips, swallowing my tears along with the sweet burn of liquid fire.

  “I don’t need you,” I slurred, turning back toward the house. I took another long swig, coughing and sputtering it out as I stumbled inside. I held my chest until the pain subsided then set the bottle down on the floor, closing my eyes to better enjoy the burning stretch in my calves. It gave me a second wind, and the very sane idea that there was no better time to finish spackling.

  If you thought about it, liquor was a lot like spackle. It filled you up and made you seem whole again. At least, it did while the effects lasted, which wasn’t all that long. So, I guessed in retrospect, liquor was nothing like spackling at all. You couldn’t consume it. You couldn’t clean wounds with it.

  But you could patch them!

  Giggling at my own idiotic thoughts, I made my way around the room, resting every so often to take a small swig. I tried not to think about Joe. I tried not to let my imagination get the better of me, but all I could think about was him seeking comfort elsewhere. Was he lying in the arms of someone else?

  The more I thought about it, the angrier I got.

  I wasn’t sure what time it was or how long I’d been at it when he finally walked through my front door, looking as tired and tortured as ever.

  God help me, I wanted to go to him. I wanted to hold him and comfort him. I wanted to help him forget all the pain that was feasting on his insides because that same pain was eating away at mine, too.

  The darkened skin under his eyes called to me, begging me to do something, anything, to take that pain away. But how was I supposed to do that, huh? How was I supposed to do that when I was filled with all this bitterness and rage?

  The answer was, I couldn’t.

  “Where were you?” I asked him like some pissed off housewife who had been left alone all day. Looking away, I turned back to spread my spackle.

  “Surfing.” His hushed answer caught me off guard and I spun back toward him, nearly toppling over before catching myself with the chair molding on the wall.

  “Surfing?” I asked, making sure the alcohol in my system wasn’t affecting my hearing as much as it was my balance.

  He gave me a curt nod and looked down at the ground. I turned away again, spackling over the spackle.

  “I didn’t realize there was an ocean near here,” I said.

  “There’s not.”

  “So where did you surf?”

  “Long Beach.”

  Turning back, I gaped at him. “That’s over two hours away,” I pointed out. “Do you go there a lot?”

  Joe shrugged, his shoulders looking about as wide as the door behind him.

  “Used to all the time, before …” He paused.

  This was it.

  This was the moment he was going to open up to me, and I was going to be too drunk to remember.

  Perfect.

  “Before …” I pushed. Even though I was three sheets to the wind, I still wanted to hear anything and everything he had to say.

  He nodded. “Before.”

  Setting the plastic spreader on the floor, I approached him as I spoke. �
�You wanna know how I was before?” I asked, dipping down to try and catch his eyes. “I was happy, had a family and friends … a fiancé.” That word caught his attention, and his eyes darted up to mine.

  “But then my dad died, and my best friend slept with my fiancé, who in turn took all of our other friends with him when we broke up.” Snorting a laugh, I looked off to the side before taking one last step forward. His warmth surrounded me and I closed my eyes.

  “I don’t want to remember before,” I told him, my eyes opening to find his. “Do you?”

  Holding my stare, he subtly shook his head, and I placed my hands on his chest.

  “Then let’s help each other forget.”

  Chapter Eight

  Jolting up in the bed, I grabbed my head, my vision blurring and my stomach stirring from the leftover alcohol my system couldn’t absorb.

  I needed food—a plate full of absorbent carbohydrates. But just thinking about eating made me silently heave, and I swung my legs over the side of the bed to sit there and wait for the room to stop spinning.

  I remembered a lot more than I thought I would, being as drunk as I had been. And with a particularly embarrassing flashback of the horrifying way I acted last night, I let out another dry heave, holding my pounding head in my hands.

  The cool wood floor felt good on the bottom of my feet. It helped to sate the evil trying to expel itself from my empty belly. My body paid for it everywhere. My limbs ached with every slight movement.

  Squeezing my eyes shut, I folded further into myself, too busy recalling how I’d dumped a load all over Joe last night that I didn’t hear him come in.

  “Mornin’.”

  I jumped at the sound of his voice.

  “Remember anything?”

  At all, or about last night?

  Straightening, I nodded my head, regretting the movement almost immediately.

  I remembered how he held me. How he let me cry into his chest. He had carried me to bed, and I was pretty sure I had begged him to stay.