The other Americans I work with, Mike and Sully, are homesick. They talk about the things they miss—decent Mexican food, burgers, people who understand the concept of sidewalk space—but I miss none of it. There’s only one thing I miss, and it’s the very thing I was certain for so long that I didn’t want.
My mother begged me not to run off, but it felt like I had no choice. It was either leave or watch Rob and Erin together, suffer Rob’s daily reminders that I fucked up, that I waited too long, though he’d have no idea he was reminding me of anything at all.
I don’t know why I thought Erin would hear me out. Why she’d choose me over Rob with his degrees and his job and his 2000-dollar suits. I really did, though. And while a part of me hates her for her decision, the rational part of me says she made the better choice.
Once the holidays end, work slows and both Mike and Sully leave, which means I’m the only non-Italian at Bike Tuscany. The local guys are cool, but they’ve got their own shit going on. It’s still better than being in Colorado, though.
I’m reminded of this almost daily—every time I see a couple walk by with that same besotted look Rob and Erin had before I left, anytime I see a couple kissing. Or when, for instance, Rob calls to tell me he just bought a five-bedroom house.
“Why the fuck do you need five bedrooms, Hugh Hefner?” I ask.
“Well, it’s not always going to be just me here,” he says. “And I don’t know about Erin, but I want a lot of kids.”
“Kids? You’re 25. You’re not even married yet.”
“It’s all down the pike, though,” he says. “Sooner rather than later, I hope.”
“Don’t you think you’re moving a little fast? I mean, fuck, you just started dating her last fall.” I know I sound pissed off. I don’t give a shit.
“She’s not moving in yet. She thinks we should wait until next summer.” He laughs, and there’s a dirty edge to it that makes me wish I could reach through the phone and punch him. “I’m not worried. Eventually, with Erin, I always get my way.”
When we hang up, I go for a long run, even though I biked 50 miles earlier in the day. I’m not sure if I’m trying to punish myself or exhaust myself until I’m beyond caring, but either way, it doesn’t work.
28
Erin
Present
For the next two days, Timothy makes my life hell. He dumps more work on me than he does the rest of the office combined. He creates projects and demands first drafts within hours of telling me about them. On Wednesday, he sees me leaving two hours after everyone else and throws another job on my desk, telling me it’s due first thing in the morning.
He’s trying to punish me for not taking the fall, and the parallels between him and my mother surprise me. How is it that I’ve allowed so many people into my life who want to throw me under the bus the second problems arise?
I call Olivia on the way home. She, naturally, tells me to quit. She also suggests that I could easily plant a car bomb in his Prius.
“It’s so easy. One can of gunpowder and five rocket igniters,” she says.
“I knew I could come to you for advice.”
The truth is I didn’t call her to talk about work at all. I simply want to hear Brendan’s name, see how his new apartment is, and any other tidbits she might offer. I ask about the kids, about Will, about Peter and Dorothy. I wait and wait to hear something, but it never comes.
“Have you talked to Brendan?” I finally ask.
“No,” she says. “Why?”
“I was just wondering how his new place is.”
And how he is.
And if he’s dating anyone, and if he misses me.
If he wishes he’d kissed me that night on the dance floor, or if he looks back on it like some kind of bizarre aberration, which I’m certain is how he looks back on the times he actually did kiss me.
“I didn’t even know he’d moved,” she muses. “I bet you’re relieved, huh?”
I tell her I am. And of all the lies I’ve ever told, this is perhaps the biggest.
On Thursday night I’m up late again, struggling to keep my eyes open as I write copy for the world’s least interesting promotional piece on ECU’s new student diversity initiative, when the doorbell rings.
As many times as I’ve thought of Brendan in the last hour I half-wonder if I’m not imagining him when I open the door. But if I were imagining him, he wouldn’t look like he does at this moment. He and Will both have the kind of face that looks etched, carved in stone, when upset, and that’s how his looks now. As he moves into the living room, I begin running through a list of reasons he might be here, and they are all bad. He sinks into the couch, leaning forward, his hands clasped between his knees. His whole body is tense, as if he’s considering fleeing.
“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “I shouldn’t have come so late.”
“Brendan,” I croak, “you’re freaking me out. Is everything okay?”
“No,” he says. He stares so hard at the floor I’m surprised I can’t see the imprint of his gaze on the carpet. “My mom called tonight. She’s having a lumpectomy tomorrow. I guess it’s kind of like a mastectomy, but less invasive.”
I freeze in place, still standing across from him. That can’t be right. Dorothy is young and energetic, and he and Will have already lost their father. It seems too unfair to be true—as if anything has ever led me to believe life would be otherwise.
“Oh God,” I finally manage. “I’m sorry. I didn’t even know she had cancer.”
“I didn’t either,” he says. “No one did. She’s kept it to herself for weeks. I think she only called tonight because Peter forced her to in case something goes wrong…” He stops, swallowing hard, composing himself. “In case something goes wrong tomorrow.”
“Nothing will go wrong,” I tell him. I would give anything right now to be able to swear that, but I guess I can’t.
“You know what I did when she told me? I went to a bar. Not five minutes after she told me, I fucking drove to a bar. And I'm sitting there with this drink I don't want, about to go home with some girl I don't even like, when it hits me how fucking ashamed my mother would be if she could see me. I'm 28 years old, and the minute I get some bad news, I run off like a coward and try to pretend it didn't happen."
I sit beside him and squeeze his hand. "Brendan, handling bad news poorly doesn't make you evil. Did you talk to Will?"
He sighs. "I can't. My mother thinks he and Olivia are under too much stress right now. And she doesn’t want to throw Olivia off right before the race. She’s going to tell them after Western States."
That is just like Dorothy to be more worried about Olivia’s race and Will’s stress level than her own health. She will sacrifice anything for her kids. I’ve always wondered what it would be like to have a parent like that.
“So I guess you’re heading to Boulder in the morning?” I ask.
He looks excruciatingly defeated. "She needs Will there, not me. He’s always handled the catastrophes in our family. What if I make it worse somehow?”
“No one’s asking you to assist with surgery.” He looks unconvinced, and so desolate it hurts to watch. “Do you want me to go with you?” I ask impulsively.
His eyes go wide with relief, as if I’ve just offered him a million dollars or a private plane. "Would you?"
"Of course, if it would help." I think fleetingly of the article Timothy demanded be on his desk tomorrow morning and decide I don’t give a fuck. If I could give negative fucks, I would.
"Yes," he says with palpable relief. “It would totally help."
I scoot closer, and he immediately pulls me against his chest. It feels natural, like something we've done a thousand times. I know I’m enjoying this whole situation far too much. The smell of him beneath my nose: soap and fabric softener and a hint of alcohol. His warmth and his size.
"I don't know what to do," he whispers.
I know that feeling so well. Every time my fathe
r can’t be found, every time Sean sounds like he’s using again, every time my mother cries to me because of some way she’s been hurt, I feel suffused by my own helplessness.
"There's nothing you can do," I reply, "except try to survive it."
When I wake, I'm half strewn over Brendan, who's holding me tight to his chest. He has one long leg over the edge of the couch and the other on the floor. It looks horribly uncomfortable, but he’s awake and seems in no rush to leave.
"Erin?" he whispers.
"Yeah?"
"You were the only one I wanted to talk to tonight," he says. "Even if I could have spoken to Will and Olivia, you'd still have been the one I wanted to tell."
I feel my eyes welling over. I’ve been so busy ruing my own loneliness—but mine is temporary, and Brendan’s is not.
"I'm glad you did."
He pulls me closer. "I don't know why, but this just makes everything feel better."
I don't tell him, but lying like this makes everything better for me too.
Dorothy's surgery is scheduled for 8, so we leave for the hospital shortly after waking. I email Timothy on the way and tell him I’m sick. In four years of working there, I’ve only taken sick leave once, yet I guarantee he’ll be pissed.
When we arrive at the hospital, we’re ushered back to Dorothy’s room. She and Peter both grow animated when we enter, but it's a sort of false, panicked excitement, the kind you see when a mother is assuring her child that the broken bone jutting out of his skin is going to be just fine. They speak too fast, they laugh too loud, and when Dorothy squeezes my hand and thanks me for coming, her eyes brim with tears.
We've only been here a few minutes when the nurse comes in to take her back. Brendan is frozen—not willing to let his mother leave, not willing to say so aloud. He looks at me, panicked and lost. I cross the room and grab his hand, twining my fingers through his as if he’s Olivia’s three-year-old son, Matthew, nervous as we step onto the teacups at the fair. I pull him to Dorothy's side, leaning down to kiss her forehead. He squeezes the life out of my hand as he does the same. Then they wheel her out of the room, Peter following them down the long hallway.
Brendan doesn’t want to eat, so we go to the waiting room, where he sits with his shoulders hunched over and hands clenched.
"What do you need right now?" I ask him.
“Nothing,” he says, but he slides me closer to him, wrapping an arm around my shoulders. I rest my head against his chest and feel his relieved exhale against my hair. “Just you.”
It's nearly two hours before they tell us she's done and in the ICU, and another hour before they allow Peter to go back. When he comes out, I try to send Brendan in, but he refuses, grabbing my hand again.
"No," he says. "I want you there."
Seeing Dorothy is a shock. I'd never say so to Brendan, but she looks bad—her skin so pale it has a bluish cast, papery thin and dry. If I'd been told she was dying, I wouldn't have expected her to look any worse than she does. They've taken all but one line out, but she has bruises and bandages covering her at multiple points, which doesn't look much better.
Brendan asks how she feels. She tells us she’s fine, which can’t possibly be true, and says we should head home.
“I'm just going to sleep all day anyway,” she says.
Brendan hesitates, glancing at me, not sure if he’s supposed to argue. When he finally agrees, she suggests that he go get the car so she and I can “chat” for a moment. I find this almost as unnerving as he clearly does. For a moment he stands, unmoving, as if he wants to refuse, before walking away.
After he’s gone, she grabs my hand. "Thank you for coming out here like this. It would have been so much harder on Brendan without you."
"It was nothing. I'm glad I could help."
"No, it wasn't nothing. I hated telling him about this, thinking he had no one to lean on. And he needs someone to lean on, even if he doesn’t think so.” She sighs. “Ever since Gabi, he just refuses to try. I’m not sure he’s ever going to be serious about anyone again.”
Gabi, I assume, is the ex-girlfriend with whom it ended so badly. I feel a moment of blistering jealousy for this girl who held his heart, something I was never capable of.
“People recover from all sorts of things,” I reply. “He may surprise you.”
“Maybe,” she says without conviction, leaving me to wonder just how bad something has to end for people to assume you'll never enter a relationship again.
29
Brendan
Three Years Earlier
For several months, Italy stops living up to the hype. Whoever coined it “sunny Italy” must have come from the Pacific Northwest, because we get one day of sun here for every seven I’d have gotten in Colorado. Business slows to a trickle, and my ample downtime is spent at bars with the guys from work. I rarely leave alone, but it’s empty. All the things I thought I wanted, when I was so determined to steer clear of Erin, turn out to mean nothing to me.
I’ve begun to contemplate a move to Bali by the time the weather starts to improve and business picks up. That’s also when we get some new staff, including another American, Gabrielle, also from Colorado. Sully set it up, assuring me by email that the girl was “smoking hot”—which is a little fucked up, given that she’s his cousin.
Seb, the owner, asks me to come in on my day off to take her around. He tells me I’ll thank him after I see her. And when I get to the office on Monday morning and find her waiting on the front steps, I have to admit that Sully was right. Italy is full of hot girls, but this one blows them all out of the water: black hair swinging halfway down her back, perfect pouty mouth, almond-shaped eyes.
I don’t sleep with co-workers, but that rule was a little easier to follow when all my coworkers were dudes. When she smiles, it lights up her entire face, and I know that rule has officially reached its end.
The clouds part and the street is suddenly bathed in gold. It feels like a sign. She hasn’t said a word, but for the first time in the six months since the wedding, I feel hopeful. Maybe she’s what will make me forget about all the things I’ve been trying, without success, to leave behind.
30
Erin
Present
I discover multiple missed calls from both Rob and Timothy after I get home from Boulder. I can’t say I really want to talk to either of them.
“Where were you?” Rob demands. “I called your cell. I even called your office, and they said you were home sick.”
I tell him about Brendan’s mom. He’s known Dorothy most of his life, so I assume his silence when I’m done is simply shock.
“Are you telling me,” he finally says, “that you, of all people, took a day of sick leave to comfort Brendan?”
“Are you serious right now?” I ask. “I just told you a woman you’ve known since you were 13 has cancer, and your concern is my use of sick leave? You’re not even going to ask me how she is?”
“Of course I want to know how she is. I also want to know what the hell is going on, because when we talk on the phone, it’s like I don’t even know you.”
“Yeah, Rob, that makes sense,” I reply as I hang up. “I’m pretty sure you don’t.”
When I get to the office on Monday, there’s an ominous Post-it from Timothy on my computer that reads See me. Immediately. I imagine telling Olivia all about this later—the inevitable dressing down I’m about to receive for taking one damn day off. And I know she’ll be appalled—not by Timothy but by me, by the way I’ll take all of the bullshit I’m about to receive lying down.
“You wanted to see me?” I ask as I enter his office.
He continues to look at something on his computer for a few seconds, pretending to work when we both know his entire job involves shuffling my work out to the university and acting like he was somehow instrumental in its creation.
Finally, he turns to me. “We need to talk about what happened on Friday.”
“I took sick leave,” I
tell him. “Because I was sick.”
“And you didn’t return any of my calls.”
“Yes because, I repeat, I was sick.”
“I needed that brochure mock-up for the chancellor’s office Friday afternoon, and I had to show up empty-handed,” he says. “I’m writing you up for insubordination.”
I’ve had it. Timothy lives in constant fear of discovery as a fraud. Let him dig his own grave with this.
“Good,” I say flatly. “Write me up.”
He blinks. “You must not understand what the word insubordinate means.”
“I know what it means. I’m saying good because I welcome the opportunity to go to Human Resources and explain that you’ve written me up for not returning your calls during my second day of sick leave in four years.”
I’m a little impressed with myself. My hands are shaking with anger, but I sound calm, bored almost—like Olivia might, but without the potential assault charge.
“Are you threatening me?” he asks.
“No, I’m just informing you of the logical course of action anyone would take under these circumstances.”
He does his best to look scary, glaring at me and sitting bolt upright. But for some reason, I’m not that scared. He’s just a little man, the kind who bullies children because he knows he can’t scare anyone else, and I am not a child. In fact, it occurs to me that I’ve been the adult in this situation for years, and maybe it’s time someone other than me realizes it.
31
Erin
Present
Eventually Rob calls again, and I force myself to pick up. We both apologize, but neither of us sounds sorry. There’s a forced civility to our conversations now, as if they are held between two warring countries negotiating a treaty. It’s a relief to hang up the phone. I do my best not to examine that too closely.
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