I laugh as she lifts a knee. Jesse drops her hands and backs up. “Did I ever tell you how amazing you are, sweet Clary?”
Clara smiles. She’s lovely with the light reflecting off her dark hair, supple skin, and black-lashed green eyes. Most girls her age are. I was, too, but you never see it on yourself until it’s long gone.
The doors open, and Ethan emerges with Holly. “Mom said you could go?” he asks Jesse. “I knew she would, after she was done freaking out.”
“She didn’t even freak out.”
Ethan puts his hand to my forehead. “Feeling okay?”
“Haha.” I narrow my eyes when his words click. “You knew he was volunteering?”
“Okay, so we’re going in,” Jesse says with a wince. “Good luck, Dad.”
The kids file through the door. Ethan faces me, wearing his patronizing don’t-provoke-the-crazy-lady expression. “He asked if he could, and I said it was better to ask forgiveness. You have to let him out of your sight once in a while.”
His comment both pisses me off and makes me glad I didn’t react the way he expected. “I do let him out of my sight, but this isn’t like his first car trip alone. One wrong move and he’s dead, Ethan. Sorry if it seems crazy I’d worry about that.”
Ethan’s fingers brush my arm. “Hey, I know. But he’s twenty-two, Rosie, and he can do what he wants. I’ll be with him. You know I’d die before I let anything happen to him.” I nod. Ethan loves the kids as much as I do, of that I have no doubt. “We’re not going far. Only to that grain warehouse on Bertelsen. We zip there, we load up, we come back. I told Barry to put us on the safest route.”
“You did?”
“It’s not like I’m dying for him to go.” He widens his eyes in terror. “Plus, I knew I was going to get in trouble and would have to do something to make you forgive me.”
I laugh, my irritation lessening. He made it as safe as possible for Jesse, but he did it for me, too. “You’re an ass.”
“But I’m your ass. I’ll take care of him, I promise.”
He tugs me into his arms, presses his lips to my hair, and I allow myself to relax in his familiar, comforting embrace. I take a deep breath. The skunky odor of weed is also familiar, but it’s most definitely not comforting.
“You smell like weed,” I say quietly.
Ethan’s arms drop, and he disengages with a frown. “I didn’t smoke any, if that’s what you’re saying. Besides, pot’s not opiates, Rose.”
I hate when he calls me Rose in that disdainful tone. I have no problem with weed, might smoke some if I had any, but Ethan does nothing in moderation. A toke of weed leads to waking and baking, and that leads to a pill, and so on and so forth. It’s part of his sobriety, part of the promise he made to me and the kids.
I could say that, but I’ve said it all in the past, and it’s hard enough for me to say what I need to say next. It’s always bad—either start the conversation and start a fight, or keep silent and have it eat me up inside. “It’s just…before. You seemed high or something.”
“When?”
“Inside. When Barry was talking. You seemed out of it.”
I brace myself when Ethan’s jaw tightens. “For fuck’s sake, I don’t even know what you’re talking about. I’m tired. If you haven’t noticed, I’ve been a little busy taking care of sick people. I’m not allowed to be tired now without you thinking I’m doing dope?”
“That’s not what I’m say—”
“Then what are you saying?”
His voice and bearing are intimidating. I feel myself shrinking down, down, down to the asphalt. It always goes this way, even after promises it won’t, and it usually means he’s using. “I’m asking. Are you clean?”
Ethan gazes across the lot, his head moving side to side as if astonished by my question. “Yes, Rose. I’m clean, and you still want nothing to do with me. So, what’s the point?”
The words sting, likely because they hit home. But the point is to do it for himself, for his kids, not based on what I do or don’t give him. “I don’t want nothing to do—”
“You barely let me touch you. You’re cold as fucking ice. I’m trying, but you’re not at all.”
“I am trying.” It comes out a whisper. Against my better judgment, I’m trying, and it still isn’t enough. He expects me to forget everything he’s said and done because he’s moved past it, but it doesn’t work that way for me.
“Yeah, I can see you trying.” His words drip sarcasm. “Don’t you think I see you with him?”
Sweat springs up on my back and my hands go cold. “What? With who?”
“With who?” Ethan parrots, his voice high-pitched to mimic mine. “With Barry. Hanging on him, kissing him. You’re nicer to him than you are to me. Maybe you could make it a little more obvious so everyone knows.”
I stare at him, both utterly baffled and wholly relieved. Even when there might be something to see, he sees only what he’s fabricated. “That’s insane,” I sputter. “I kissed him on the cheek because he—”
“That’s not the point. The point is that you barely touch me. Like I’m a fucking leper.”
“I told you I needed time. I—”
“How much time? A month? A year? Have you seen the rest of the world? How much time is left?” The bitter expression he casts my way alters to heartbroken, complete with trembling lips. “Just say it already, Rose. Say you’re done.”
So much of me wants to, but the words won’t come. They’re big words—maybe the biggest I’ll ever speak—and the fallout will be immense. “I need time,” I whisper. My eyes fill and overflow against my will. “Why can’t you give me that? I should be able to ask if you’re clean without…”
I choke on my tears and turn my head, overwhelmed by him and myself and this situation. A hundred feet away, fabric flaps on the fence. I want to hop it and run. I hate fighting, hate the way Ethan not only doesn’t let me get a word in edgewise but also knows me well enough to see part of my heart. But mostly I hate the way my throat closes up and prevents me from fighting back. The way I turn teary and silent and weak.
“Take all the time you need.” Ethan’s voice is clipped, moving toward the building. “I’ll sleep somewhere else tonight. I’m sure you can find someone to sleep in my place, if you haven’t already. Maybe I’ll see you in the morning before I leave.”
I spin around. “Ethan, that’s not fair—”
He slips in the doors, letting them close behind him. I can barely remember how the conversation imploded, but it ended the way it usually does—I lose the thread at his onslaught of words and accusations, and then Ethan storms off, leaving me in tears. Later, he’ll apologize, and I’ll do my best to forgive him. Except I don’t think I can forgive him anymore. I’m done—if not aloud, then in my heart.
Through the glass, I see Ethan stop to talk to a few guys I don’t know. They laugh and head out of the room together. Families are pulling up chairs, setting blankets on the wood floor in preparation for the movie. Gabrielle sits with her brood, the youngest in her lap while she leans against her husband’s chest. It’s like looking back at Ethan and myself fifteen years ago. Though nothing is ever as simple as it appears on the surface, they seem content.
I wipe my eyes and pull a tissue from my bra. I can’t go inside until I look like I haven’t been crying, and that’ll take a while. At least my phone is in my pocket for entertainment.
Tom materializes at the glass, and I pivot away before he sees my face. The door creaks open. Slow footsteps advance until he stops beside me. “I didn’t see you come in. You okay?”
I can’t tell Mitch, who will—rightfully—tell me it’s insane to do this any longer. I’ll never tell Pop because it’s too shameful. The daughter he thinks he knows would refuse to let Ethan twist her around this way. I swallow a few times, fighting back new tears, and then lose the battle.
After a minute, Tom pats my shoulder. Thump. Thump. Thump. It’s so awkward that my tears turn to laug
hter that might scare him more. “Poor Tom,” I say between giggles. “Sorry you came out here yet?”
“Maybe a little.” That C appears in his cheek, and he shakes his head. “Not sorry.”
I blow my nose, then find my pack of tissues and use two more. It’s going to suck when I run out of tissues. I always have them, between occasional crying and constant Oregon allergies.
“Sorry,” I say. “Done. Promise.”
“Want to talk about it?” he asks.
The light from the doors illuminates his concern. I never want to talk about it, but maybe that’s part of my problem. I’ll leave out the Barry parts, which are too mortifying to tell anyone, especially Tom. “I asked Ethan if he was smoking pot because I smelled it on him. He said he wasn’t, and then he got angry at me for asking if he was clean. It turned into a fight. He doesn’t think I’m trying to make this work.”
“Are you?”
The question is simple. The answer isn’t. “I think so. I don’t know. It’s more like I’m trying to find what’s left so that I can try.”
“It sounds like you’re doing the best you can. That’s all he can ask for.”
“Tell that to Ethan.”
“Want me to?”
I laugh, though I’m not entirely certain he’s kidding. “No one else needs to be embroiled in my drama. In fact, let’s stop talking about it.”
“All right. Do you want to go in?”
“No.” It’s peaceful outside, even with a clatter from far off; zombies are forever knocking things over in the dark. “You can, though.”
“I’ll stay.”
That makes me happier than I want to admit. “Okay,” I say, and breathe in the cool air.
“Do you want to sit somewhere?”
“I want to go to the museum, but I’m not sure we’re allowed.” I point across the side lot to the entrance of the Lane County History Museum. I spent the afternoon staring at the small building from my food truck. “I haven’t gone in years. I usually go during the county fair.”
“During the fair? Why?”
“I feel sorry for it. Everyone is more interested in eating funnel cakes and riding the Ferris wheel. It looks lonely.”
“It’s a building,” he says. “How can it look lonely? Is it sitting by itself in the cafeteria? Staying home alone on Friday nights?”
I laugh. “I don’t know, it just does.”
“Well, we can’t have that. Let’s go.”
“I’m not sure we can. I’ll ask Barry tomorrow.”
“What’s the worst that could happen?” he asks.
“They’ll yell at us and tell us to get out.”
“That’s definitely something to be afraid of.”
“I’m not afraid.” I cross my arms, though I am a teensy-weensy bit apprehensive. “I just don’t like to break the rules and get in trouble.”
Tom finds this entertaining, judging by his high-and-mighty chuckle. “I don’t know what you’re doing, but I’m going to the museum.”
He starts across the lot. I glance around, see no one, and follow. He’s right—the most they’ll do is tell us to leave. Still, I feel as if any moment an alarm might go off, scaring the bejesus out of me and marking me as a problem. I’m not proud of my goody two-shoes side, but I can’t help it.
I catch up as Tom reaches the metal doors. He pulls one open and holds it until I step inside, where nightlights illuminate the space with a soft yellow glow. Once the door closes behind us, my heart slows enough for excitement to outweigh worry. The museum is a large windowless space, with a few offices and the admissions desk in front. A row of antique vehicles, ranging from a covered wagon to a Model-T, are lined up in the center of the room. A photo exhibit takes up one corner, an old toy exhibit another. Antique furniture lines a wall, along with a case of clocks.
It’s full of tiny treasures, and it’s all ours. I clap my hands. “Remember when you were a kid and dreamed about getting locked inside the museum or a department store overnight?”
For a moment, I think Tom will say no, but then he grins. “I wanted Disneyland. No lines, and all the food and souvenirs you wanted.”
“How would you run the rides?”
“I was seven. That wasn’t important.”
“Good point.” I find the lights and switch on enough to see without losing the ambiance. “What should we do? Upstairs first?”
Tom nods and follows me up a carved wooden staircase—itself taken from the old courthouse—to the small mezzanine, where I become very aware it’s only the two of us. I briefly fret about what people will think if they realize we’re both missing and then discard the thought. I’m too content to care.
We wander past a display of old medical equipment. Most of it is thick steel with evil-looking edges. “Jesus,” Tom says. “No wonder everyone died.”
I laugh. The resuscitation contraption is basically a bellows of death. An antique amputation kit looks more like a torture device, with its saw and blades. “That belongs in your gym,” I say.
Tom reads the placard that describes in detail how surgeons amputated limbs in the Civil War, which involved bone saws and dirty equipment in unsterile conditions. He grimaces. “At least most of them got chloroform. Can you imagine?”
I shake my head, though I can imagine Tom doing whatever he has to do. We inspect antique household items and books, then a collection of old-fashioned hats that a sign invites us to try on. I don a cowboy hat and stick a pink flowered hat on Tom, who stares at me unblinkingly while I giggle.
“You can take it off,” I say. “But it suits you.”
“Well, if it suits me…” He smiles and leaves it on.
The mezzanine ends at a collection of vintage beauty products. I stop in front of a century-old book that’s opened to wrinkle reducing facial exercises, then sigh and tap the glass case. “Was there ever a time when women were allowed to age? I should take this and study up.”
“You don’t need it,” Tom says so quietly I almost think it my imagination.
I peek at him, find him still wearing the ridiculous pink hat, and laugh as I remove it. My cheeks are likely just as pink from his compliment, though I know for a fact the man wears reading glasses and everything close is probably blurry.
We descend the stairs and make our way through the final exhibit, where Tom declares the antique toys almost as deadly as the medical equipment, and then we peruse the small gift shop. Aside from old-fashioned toys and postcards, there are books on Oregon history as well as old-timey stuff and the wilderness. I pull one, titled Nature’s Garden, from the shelves. “This is all about food you can find in the wild.”
Tom squints over my shoulder while I thumb through pages covered with color photos. “You can eat acorns?” he asks.
“I guess so. It might be good to know one day.”
He sets another copy of the book on the counter, then removes a tome titled The Lost Ways. He riffles the pages. “This has everything from pioneer cooking to how to navigate by the stars. Let’s take them when we go.”
I nod, though the thought of returning to life beyond the doors makes me want to cry again. There isn’t much left to see, and I dawdle over every vehicle from the wagon to the Model-T at the end of the line, my anxiety increasing by the second. According to Ethan, he won’t be in our room, but I’ll lie awake awaiting—and dreading—his possible arrival.
“Want to sit for a while?” Tom asks.
“Sure.” I duck under the velvet rope at the driver’s side, only realizing afterward that I could’ve at least tried to play it cool. “You want to drive? Some men get weird about not driving.”
“I think I’m secure enough in my manhood to not imaginary drive.”
I sit on the leather bench seat that resembles an old parlor couch. My cheeks ache from smiling the past thirty minutes. If there’s anything bad about this jaunt through the museum, it’s that my passing fancy has taken a seat, put up its feet, and decided to stay a while. And the wors
t part is that I can’t find it in myself to care. Being with Tom makes me feel good, and it’s been a long time since I’ve felt that way.
Tom settles beside me and leans back. His legs are long enough that he keeps one to the side, his boot resting on the lip of the open doorframe, and his shoulder brushes against mine. He smells of shampoo and deodorant and something warm and woodsy underneath. I don’t know what it is, but it isn’t weed, which is a plus.
I can feel his warmth, hear his soft breathing, and my mind moves to that night with Ethan. The real thing sits a centimeter away. If I turned my head, and he turned his, we’d be near enough to kiss. My heart speeds up, seeming loud in the silence, and I run my fingers along the wood steering wheel while I inch farther away.
I have no idea how long it’s been since we last spoke, but probably long enough for it to be weird. I blurt out the first thing I think of. “There’s a spring in my butt.”
Conversationally, the statement leaves much to be desired, but it breaks the silence. Tom chuckles. “Mine, too. Do you want to get out?”
“No.”
“Me, neither.”
“We need driving music.” I dig in my pocket for my phone. “What should it be?”
“You choose.”
I scroll through my music, debating. “The closest I have to Model-T times is Billie Holiday.”
“Lady Day,” Tom says. “Good choice.”
“Any requests?”
“Any of it.”
I queue up an album and set the phone on top of a wooden box in the center of the dashboard, of whose purpose I have no clue. The first notes of “All of Me” play, and then Billie’s voice comes in, rough and sweet and pure magic. It isn’t surround sound, but my tension drains away as the music fills the space around us. I won’t let Ethan, or the thought of seeing him in the future, ruin this, too.
“How many times have I heard this song?” Tom asks, though it isn’t a question. “But I never get tired when she sings it.”
“I’d listen to her sing the phonebook.” I turn sideways in the seat to face him. “You know who can do a mean Billie? Your daughter.”
The Cascadia Series (Book 1): World Departed Page 56