Once Upon A Midnight

by Stephanie Rowe

  I peek into the bag and am a little stunned to see Elsie managed to buy the right kind of milk.

  Inside the fridge, my eye is grabbed by unmarked butcher paper neatly wrapped and taped around a fully cleaned fish. I’m used to Carlos bringing these home after a weekend at the cabin. However …

  This wrapping job is awfully good for a group of guys who have a hard time putting Christmas presents in gift bags. There are no remnants of a sticker or price tag, but don’t most butchers use logo paper? Then again, the boys fish a lot, so some of them are probably experts at cleaning and wrapping. There’s also no reason not to keep butcher paper at the cabin. Still …

  Ugh! Suspicion makes me mad in the head to the point where even the sun looks shady.

  The shower shuts off, and a moment later Carlos walks out with a towel wrapped around his toned waist, water gleaming off of his short, dark curls, and the killer of all smiles illuminating his umber eyes. When he bends in to kiss me on the cheek, I notice he smells of cologne. I should have seen this coming, yet my heart sinks. It has been ages since he put on cologne just for me. I may be oblivious to if he is cheating, but him heading out is obvious.

  “That’s my girl. I’ve been home less than five minutes and you’ve already found the goods,” he says, looking at the fish. “It was a slow weekend, so we ate most of what we caught. I managed to get Bob to save that one for you.” I get a kiss on top of my head before he strolls away. “Let me throw something on, and you can tell me how your weekend was.”

  Inside the bedroom, drawers open and close while I put away groceries. Carlos returns wearing sweat pants, and tosses his cell phone onto the counter.

  Sweats? Maybe he isn’t going out after all.

  “So, how was your weekend?” he asks. Instead of helping me with the groceries, he grabs the new carton of milk out of the fridge and opens it.

  My words come out flat. “I worked.”

  “All weekend?” He snarfs like he doesn’t believe me. “It’s your day off.”

  “The shooting schedule got all mucked, and I had to go in today.” I hate admitting my weekend was boring as sin. Even if I did have time off, I only would have gone to the library and checked out DVDs because I canceled our Netflix subscription in an effort to save a few dollars. Still, the last thing I want is him thinking I was sitting at home being a ready and waiting backup in case he couldn’t find anyone else to bang. “I am absolutely beat because Katherine had to make a guest appearance at some club last night and … well, you know what happens when Katherine is seen in public. The woman is a magnet for paparazzi and guys with half-buttoned shirts.”

  Carlos’s snicker shows he doesn’t believe a syllable of it. I must be a terrible liar, because that scenario has happened several times over. He’s even witnessed it.

  Wait. It was wrong to lie, but did I just uncover something? Do my acting skills suck that much, or does he think I wouldn’t go out without him?

  The chime of his cell phone fills the air. He catches just enough of a sly glance to see who is calling before heading to the fridge. “Can you grab that?”

  He never lets me anywhere near his cell phone. I answer while suspecting I am being baited. “Hey, Bob, how was fishing?” Ambient noise of talking, laughing, and a commentator come across the line. He’s in a bar and watching a game on TV.

  I get the impression his chuckle is his way of covering the fact he is calling me an idiot for believing the line of crap Carlos is feeding me. “About what you would expect a weekend with Carlos would be. Can you tell him he left a bag with a dirty shirt reeking up my car, and I’m about to toss it out the window?”

  “Here, you can tell him yourself,” I say, continuing to play along. I hand Carlos the phone, despite wanting to throw it at him. If Carlos just got in, why is Bob already at a bar? Didn’t he need to shower too? Maybe Bob wasn’t with him. Just how often does Carlos use that key to the cabin Bob gave him when Bob is nowhere to be found? Again my heart and head have differing views. My heart feels cheated because Carlos should want to spend time with me while logic has me asking, why the set up?

  A moment later, Carlos has changed into pants, is groaning, and is headed out the door. “I’ve got to pick up my stuff. Back in a jiffy.”

  Yeah, I’m not buying it for the price of a peppercorn. I start to call the bastard out, but remember my resolve to stay level headed and thus slam on the brakes. The moment the door clicks shut I head to the bedroom and get nosy.

  Antique maple dressers and vintage fashion ads pop into view, but fail to captivate me. Instead, on the foot of the bed I neatly made this morning, Carlos’s filthy duffle bag sits like it is calling for attention. The thing absolutely reeks inside. While his clothes shouldn’t smell line fresh after days of fishing, this is like he forgot to empty his gym bag. Bringing a shirt to my nose I catch a whiff of fresh fish. I march into the kitchen, T-shirt in hand, and compare a whiff of it to the fish in the wrapper. Except for the stale gym odor, they smell the same. He wiped the damn fish on the shirt!

  God, I’ve been a fool! This move is so dastardly, cheating would almost pale in comparison. What was I ever doing with this guy?

  A passing glance at my nightstand weighs my gut with sorrow. Next to my final gift from GranGran—a rose, cloisinaise frame containing a photo of the three of us when Darla and I were teenagers—sits a book I fight the urge to open so I can run my fingers over the moment of my life tucked inside. Marking the last page I read are laminated petals from the rose Carlos gave me on our first date. He chased a flower cart owner, who had closed for the night, just so I could have a memento. It was sweet, yet I felt ungrateful because something about it set wrong with me. I pointed to some wildflowers, saying any of those would be amazing because in all truth, I would prefer the genuineness of the act, yet he insisted on not being cheap. A little over a year later, that moment has become a metaphor for our relationship—I feel he is still running and waving money while I want to appreciate simple gestures.

  My head drops from being drawn into a swirl of anger and sorrow. This sucks! His actions are not signs of depression; they are the signs of being a louse. Cheater or not, demoralized or not, that lying bastard is playing me, and I won’t stand for it.

  Why was I stupid and put him on the lease? If it weren’t for that, he would come home to changed locks and his stuff in the parking lot. I can’t even cancel our joint credit cards for fear when he finds out, he will sell my stuff. At least I was wise enough to lower the limit to an amount we can pay off each month. And thank God I never let him have access to my emergency funds. I don’t even keep those in the same bank as our joint accounts.

  This is crazy. I shouldn’t be involved in a situation where I am having these thoughts in the first place. One way or another, I am getting out of this relationship before he drags me down further.

  I'll Never Smile Again

  DALE

  “Ladies and gentlemen, Air Canada, flight 395 to Saskatoon is now ready to begin Aeroplan boarding at Gate 47. Please have your boarding pass ready. Thank you, and welcome aboard.”

  With my boarding pass loaded onto my phone, I haul my briefcase and carry on bag toward the gate, my eyes focused ahead, refusing to look down. Try as I might, I can’t ignore the heat building under my collar.

  Whatever happens, I have to keep looking at the gate. Seeing the ground will bring about images of Abby, convulsing—dying.

  No. She was pulled aside with officers at the ready, so the incident must have been contained from general view. I wasn’t there. PTSD makes my mind see things my eyes didn’t.

  Still, my eyes drift to the red carpet defining a walkway. How does rolling out a carpet the color of blood imply welcome? Red carpets churn my gut.

  For months after Abby’s death, my hands quivered anytime I approached a gate. Even though now I set my phone on the scanner with a rock-steady hand, my knuckles are white from tension.

  The machine beeps to say my boarding pass has cl
eared. My feet hightail it in relief of not having to experience an all-too-frequent secondary screening. Have I finally escaped that part of the nightmare?

  Not likely. Even if the TSA no longer associates me with a mad woman, other people’s paranoia regarding my American-born mother’s Lebanese heritage gets me pulled aside anytime a terrorist attack has recently happened. Man, flying sucks. Why can’t it be like the good old days? Grandpa Brandt used to woo me with tales of adventure in the air. Remembering the luxury of a PanAm jet in the nineteen sixties always set off a spark in his blue eyes.

  Then again, he also told me of the thrill of flying missions in a Messerschmitt. Dad’s Nazi father bombed innocent people, but I’m often subjected to a secondary screening because Mom’s parents fled a country with a heavy Muslim population. How does that make sense? The frequency of those additional checks had just lessened when Abby pulled her little stunt. Given her stupidity though, I can’t say I blame the TSA for the extra precaution.

  After popping my bag into the overhead, I scrunch into a window seat. With all of the money I rake in, work should spring for First Class. Instead, I’m trapped in Business Class with other schmucks who spend more time elsewhere than home.

  Flying makes me so punchy I can hardly stand myself.

  I’m quick to get into my pre-liftoff stance—laptop tucked under the seat, begging to be grabbed; the best black coffee the airport has to offer, warm and jammed into the pocket before me; and my tattered paperback of Logan’s Run tubed in my hand, where it will likely remain the victim of my tension. Years ago, I found this poor old buddy abandoned in a LAX phone booth. Although I’ve scarcely read a word of it, we have traveled together so much I think of Logan as a companion. Whenever I see him, memories of watching the movie version on TV comfort me with the nostalgia of being a kid. I would love to pop back into my sofa-cushion fort and escape reality with Logan again.

  Or in other words—to try to flee from inescapable fate like the people in Logan’s Run. For them, a flashing red crystal signaled the end of their lives was near; for Abby, it was a red carpet.

  Anger burns through me, cumulating at the base of my neck. Time and again I have tried to find Abby’s loyalty to her sister, Ingrid, noble. But how do you find virtue in succumbing to blackmailers?

  It is fine if a woman wants to sell herself. However, there is nothing on earth that makes it okay for anyone to roofie someone’s glass, let alone photograph the resulting rape as if it were a consensual piece of art. Years later, Ingrid had built a life in the political spotlight as an advisor to the governor of California. Once she was prepared to make her own bid for office, harassment came. Never-ending financial demands, along with threats of exposure, had Ingrid fearing the end of the career she had built and the humiliation of the family she loved.

  Outside my window, heat ripples off the engine as we ramble to the runway. Those waves are the universe’s way of calling me an idiot. Abby hated heat, so how was I stupid enough to miss that her and Ingrid’s sudden trip to Brazil to clear Abby’s head of pre-wedding jitters was a decoy? Stupid, foolish me should have known something was up. Instead, I tried to blame our constant fighting on wedding-related stress. After weeks of escalating battles, all that fighting had left my heart shredded. The only thing I cared about was giving Abby the space she needed so I wouldn’t lose her forever. I was such a mess that had they told me they were actually going to Columbia to run drugs, I still would have been oblivious to the truth.

  A few days later, my girl—that sweet, sweet woman I planned to call my wife for the rest of our days—lost her life because a bag of the coke she was smuggling broke open, sending her heart racing and her head spinning—foaming at the mouth, choking and convulsing until cardiac arrest seized her heart and left her dead …

  Right on the red carpet …

  Her eyes locking in an eternal plea for help and gasping her last breath as a handcuffed Ingrid screamed.

  Stop it! You didn’t see it. You don’t know.

  Still, my stomach lurches, and I swallow the building sick. Were her final thoughts of controlling her convulsions? Did she plead her case to God in hopes of salvation? Did she die knowing we loved her? Or did she die thinking everyone she left behind would hate her forever?

  I pull in all the air I can as the plane lifts and begins its ascent. Once we break through the clouds, the worst part of my journey will be over, yet I feel more pain than relief. I blink my building tears into submission and curl Logan so tightly his pages may be permanently rolled. Time and again those assholes harassed Ingrid for “a little more money”. What made Abby think they would finally walk away after “one last favor”? Worse, why didn’t she turn to me for help? Did she think I would fail her? I always come back to the same thing: Abby knew I would’ve called the authorities. Having the story go public would have been hell, but it would have been a living one.

  Not only did Ingrid go to jail and lose her sister, she stole Abby from me. They each swallowed a quarter kilo of cocaine, yet Abby convulsed alone. The Feds tried to get Accessory to Murder charges to stick, but the guys heading up the operation were so slick the blackmailers couldn’t even be traced to the deal. I can’t believe those assholes nearly came out unscathed! Abby died, and they are only serving ten years for extortion. It’s disgusting and unjust!

  The anger burning in my veins has me curling Logan into a spiral. The fact Abby has a permanent home in the ground and Ingrid is stuck in jail for twenty years is proof their way was not the right one. They should have let me help!

  But they didn’t, and no one will ever be able to pick Abby up off of that carpet and breathe life back into her.

  Finally, the captain comes over the speaker. Whipping out my laptop so I can lock my mind into a proposal sends relief cascading over me. Yet despite my determination to put my mind elsewhere, the image of a running man on the cover of Logan’s Run captivates me. I haven’t read this book because it will throw the truth in my face. As strong as I am, deep down I am a runner like he is. My best friend doesn’t even know I was ever engaged, let alone we share the misfortune of losing our fiancées to tragedy. In fact, the only people in my life now who know about Abby are my family.

  Not only is Abby a reality I would rather not face, she is a part of my biggest fear. If every person only gets one true love, and Amber was it for Brandon and a drug smuggler was it for me, he and I are screwed.

  Why Don't You Do Right

  BAILEY

  Darla’s ringtone fills my living room, breaking my moment of bliss. Although I’m half pissed Carlos is out again, I am relieved to have a day off both from work and from his crap. When I answer Darla’s call, background noise comes over the line—chatting, laughing, and a television. “You must be at your second home,” I say.

  “Where else would I be? Especially after the day I had. Before he left work on Friday, Oliver somehow pulled the padding out of my chair without so much as a cut, then didn’t return it until after lunch. You should see what I did to his stapler. Not only is it jammed, when he pries it open, mini-spring ‘worms’ are going to pop out like he has opened a trick can of nuts!”

  The level of perk in her voice has my eyes scrunching and head cowering. Lord, needing out is enough, but I sense the second shoe is about to land on my head. “You’re at Mulligan’s because you are seeking courage to call me.”

  Her air of perk drops. “You know me too well.”

  I back into the corner of the sofa, bracing myself. “The happier you force yourself to sound, the worse the news. What’s going on?”

  “Hold on.” Once the occasional passing car replaces the ambient bar noise, she grabs a breath and shoves out what I don’t want to hear. “You know how Rox and Jacqueline are starting a dating service and are taking me and Oliver with them? We’ve been researching the online competition. Today I was on Bulletmatch and well … ”

  She doesn’t need to say another word. The rise in her pitch followed by hesitation, along
with how my life has been lately, have me accepting my pain is about to deepen.

  “Bailey, I hate to say this, but I found a profile for Carlos under the name Barry Grey.”

  A wave of hurt flows through me from the punch she just landed in my gut. Carlos isn’t worth the water loss, yet the tears well. I was already certain he was cheating but … Damn, this hurts. I deserve so much better.

  I try to muster strength and make light of the situation, but my words waiver. “Barry Grey? Like Barry White? That figures. He probably thinks he is the smoothest sounding mother to ever get a woman to drop her panties.”

  Darla’s chuckle is forced. Of course she sees through me. “I’m glad you took it there, because my mind went to Christian Grey and a Fifty Shades thing. Kinda made me wonder what the two of you have been up to, or if he’s implying what he’s looking for.”

  She’s got my tongue. Not only am I pissed over being cheated on, but now I know part of the reason why. That perverted bastard! I’d say being with this man is going to turn my hair grey, but I will probably go bald from pulling it out first.

  “Hey, Bailey? You okay? Do not let that piece of nothing get you down. If he can’t see how amazing you are—”

  I flop into a better position. This conversation has me needing to lie down. It sends the welling water running across my temples and into my hair. My sniffle reflects sorrow while the force of it shows I’m livid. “At least now I get part of why he is doing this.”

  “You mean the Christian Grey reference?”

  How much am I willing to disclose, even to the person I trust like God? “I am definitely up for fun and games, but at least Christian Grey understood people have limits.” Gah! My skin just crawled so much it may have run out of the room and into the shower. If Carlos could have respected my boundaries …