Dream House

by Stephanie Fournet

  And, later, when she saw that you’d die before you let her starve or drown, she’d welcome you to her bedroll, and you’d make her yip like a coyote under your touch.

  You’d warm her with your body at night in the winter. Bathe her in the creek on hot afternoons in the summer. Brace her in a squat as she pushed your babies into the world.

  Give your life for her and them if it came to it.

  Your lives might be short. But, surely, they’d be simple.

  There’d be no room for misunderstanding. No doubt in her mind that you loved her with all of your wild, Archaic heart.

  The only rules you had to follow were the ones that kept you alive. No dogma to smother you. No laws to confuse you.

  Just lives to be shared.

  Movement in the sky catches my eye. A bald eagle draws me from my fantasy where I live with Stella in a prehistoric Eden.

  I stretch out on my back on the packed clay and sandstone floor of the cave. It’s about as comfortable as bedding down at your local quarry, but I tuck my pack behind my head, rest my hands on my belly, and watch the eagle soar in his predatory circles.

  Before long, my eyes grow heavy, and I shut them, again letting myself picture an Archaic Stella here by my side, envying an ancient me who knew just how to show his woman he loved her.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  STELLA

  I don’t want to admit it, but getting Lark’s text after my blow-up was a relief.

  Correction: it was a relief only after I’d read his whole text. When I saw the words, If anyone should leave, it’s me, my heart hit the dirt. For a terrifying instant, I thought he was leaving for good. Not just for the day.

  And I regretted everything.

  But when I realized he was giving me space for the day, I was grateful. And not just because he said he’d be coming back. When I’d pulled away from the house, all I could imagine doing was going to a bar and ordering a shot of something amber colored and high octane.

  But you can’t really do that at nine in the morning.

  So I took my time. I pulled over, texted Pen for her coffee order, and went through the drive-thru at Johnston Street Java.

  By the time I got home, Lark’s Jeep was gone, and Pen was waiting for me to spill.

  So I spilled. And spilled some more.

  And when she reassured me that Mercury was still in retrograde, but it would be coming out tomorrow, I decided that was my cue to get to work.

  And I did. I ticked off my entire to-do list before it was time to pick up Maisy. And I only thought about Lark seven hundred eighty-three times and I only cried four times.

  On the way home from Maisy’s preschool, we stop at Carpe Diem. What can I say? Me and my kid like gelato.

  And maybe I’m stalling just in case Lark has returned to the house. I need to apologize for what I said. I want to apologize for what I said.

  I’m just afraid to do it.

  Maisy orders raspberry fudge and I get pistachio.

  “C’mon. Let’s sit.”

  Maisy side-eyes me. “Here? We’re not going home first?”

  Usually, when we get an after school treat, we eat it on the way home or—if it’s something messy like ice cream or snow cones—we save it until we get back. Most of the time, I’m in too big a rush to get home and do the dinner-bathtime-nighttime routine.

  Today, I’m not.

  I shrug innocently. “Nah. Let’s eat it here. It’lll be fun.”

  Maisy stares behind her glasses like I’ve just told her we’re packing our bags and moving to Peru. But when I pick a cafe table against the wall and pull out a chair for her, she scrambles into it and digs into her raspberry fudge.

  “Mmmmm.”

  “Mmmmm,” I echo, taking my own bite. But honestly, I hardly taste it.

  I’m wondering where Lark went after class. Probably apartment hunting. Who could blame him?

  Maisy loads a spoonful of gelato into her mouth and then tries to talk around it. “Awe you shtill shick, Mama?”

  “Maiz, I can’t even understand you when you talk with your mouthful,” I correct gently. “Finish your bite and then try again.”

  She gulps her bite before swiping her plump little arm across her mouth. “Are you still sick, Mama?”

  I blink. “I’m not sick.”

  Maisy twirls the tip of her spoon through her chocolaty treat. “Yesterday when Uncle T and I made pancakes, Pen said you weren’t feeling good.”

  “Oh.” I sniff and study my pistachio gelato. “I—um—I needed some rest yesterday morning. But I’m okay now.”

  The way Maisy’s lenses magnify her eyes gives me the feeling she knows I’m fibbing, but that can’t possibly be true. Can it? She’s only four.

  She keeps staring. “But your eyes are all red. Do you still need rest?”

  My nose stings. Her concern is a sweet assault that takes me off guard. I bite the inside of my cheek to stave off more emotion.

  “Maybe,” I manage, wrinkling my nose. “Maybe a little.”

  My daughter brightens. “It’s okay with me if we have Sonic tonight.”

  I throw back my head and laugh. “Thanks, Maisy, I appreciate that. We’re having chicken fajitas.”

  She wrinkles her nose. “With the red things?”

  “Red peppers? Yes.”

  “Eww.”

  I make no apologies for my chicken fajitas. They’re one of the easiest hot meals in my repertoire. The secret? Layer chicken breasts with sliced onion, red bell peppers, green bell peppers, and one jar of mild salsa in a slow cooker, set it on high for four hours or low for eight, and walk away.

  When it’s done, the chicken shreds with a fork, and the flavor is unbeatable. A little guacamole, shredded cheese, sour cream, and tortilla wraps, and you have dinner. The best part is how amazing the house smells when you come home from work.

  I get that a four-year-old might not appreciate this. “What if I pick out the red ones and just give you green ones?”

  Maisy nods, eyes wide.

  “Can we all watch a movie after dinner tonight? Like when we ate popcorn and watched Inside Out?”

  My stomach drops. I don’t know what the vibe will be like once we’re all back at the house, but I doubt it’s going to be all cozy cuddles and cartoons.

  I shake my head. “Nina starts her new job tonight, and I think Uncle T is going to have dinner at her new restaurant.”

  I don’t think this. I know it. Pen’s dropping them off for Nina’s shift any minute now. I don’t know how Nina’s manager will feel about Tyler sitting at the bar all night, but I don’t think my brother cares. According to Pen, he’s not letting her out of his sight.

  It’s sweet and it’s scary at the same time.

  “Maybe you and I could watch Finding Nemo before bed instead.” If there’s a better Disney movie out there than Finding Nemo, I have yet to see it.

  “Lark and Livy and Pen could watch too!” Maisy sings, bright-eyed.

  My insides wither. Maisy has fallen for Lark almost as hard as I have. Is he going to avoid her too? Will he look at her and think of what I said to him? Thank you for not letting me believe you are a better man.

  I try for a brave face. “We’ll see.”

  When we get back home, Lark’s Jeep still isn’t back, and I don’t know how to feel about that. Inside—and, yes, the house does smell like Fajita Wonderland—Maisy dashes off toward her room and Livy greets me from the kitchen table. She’s finishing what looks like a grilled cheese sandwich with a book propped open in front of her.

  “Pen just left with Tyler and Nina,” she says, pushing away from the table with her empty plate.

  I nod. “I figured.”

  Before this weekend, Lark was on Nina transport duty. I know it’s not just her new job and new schedule that’s changed things. Pen made it pretty clear earlier that Lark is on the outs with everyone, and as angry as I was with him—as I still am—I hurt for him, knowing how the last two days must h
ave felt for him.

  Livy rinses her plate in the sink before loading it into the dishwasher. “There’s a speaker tonight at the Student Union. Her lecture is on rape culture and its ties to capitalism. Pen’s coming with me. Want to join? You could bring Maisy.”

  Grateful that Maisy’s out of earshot so I won’t have to explain rape culture or capitalism, I weigh my words. “Um… I don’t think so.”

  Livy blinks at me like she can’t understand why I’d turn this offer down.

  “She’s only four,” I try. “A little young for topics like that. For scholarly lectures in general.”

  Her expression doesn’t change. Livy’s an odd one. Then again, if someone told me she was attending women’s studies lectures while in preschool, I’d believe it.

  “Besides, her bedtime is eight o’clock.”

  “Right,” Livy says on a nod. “Well, after the lecture, we’re gonna meet Nina and Tyler, so we’ll be home after Nina’s shift.”

  I grin. As different as we all are, it’s nice that the people under this roof can lean on each other. That Nanna’s house has fostered a community. After Tyler’s accident, his social circle narrowed down to virtually nothing. The guys he used to hang out with—friends from high school and technical college and the other guys from Guidry Electric came around for a while. They visited the hospital plenty at first.

  But when it became clear that he wasn’t the same, that he might never be the same? I think it made some of them uncomfortable. Especially the guys from work he didn’t remember.

  But now he has people. And, yeah, he can’t hold his own in a conversation with Livy about human rights. I’m not even sure he could follow one. But if he needs help reading instructions on a bag of microwave popcorn, he’s comfortable asking her.

  And for someone who’s as sharp-edged as Livy, she’s feather soft with both him and Maisy.

  “Have fun,” I tell her, smiling.

  She looks surprised, as though there’s no other possible option. “Of course.”

  Because of the gelato, I know Maisy’s not ready for dinner yet, so I start a load of her clothes and fold a load of towels. Pen comes back from dropping off Nina and Tyler, and then she and Nina head out again.

  I crack open that promised bottle of wine. I’m not sure if Bois du Blanc pairs well with fajitas, but I’m past caring.

  After I give Maisy a bath, I don’t put up a fight when she asks for us to eat on the floor of the living room in front of Finding Nemo. It turns out chicken fajitas go great with a third glass of Landry’s local white.

  I don’t pour myself a fourth glass until after I’ve tucked her in and read her Llama, Llama, Red Pajama, Dragons Love Tacos, and The Last Stop on Market Street.

  But while my tub fills and my lavender camomile bath bomb fizzes and froths the water, I start up the dishwasher and empty the Bois du Blanc bottle into my glass, congratulating myself for keeping this self-care promise.

  I turn on the Spotify Bathtub Chill playlist and earn myself thirty minutes of uninterrupted listening by watching an ad for Cox security. Then I peel off my clothes, pin up my hair, and balancing my full glass, sink into Nanna’s perfect tub.

  And I let out an epic sigh.

  No, it’s not a sigh of relief. It’s too full of sadness to be a sigh of relief. But the hot water feels nice, and I’m not drunk, but I have a pretty sweet buzz going. I know there’s some rule about drinking and hot baths, but it’s not like my first three glasses went into an empty stomach.

  But I make a point just to sip this one, enjoying the cool, fruity crispness on my tongue as steam from the bathwater curls the little hairs at the back of my neck and sweat beads above my lip.

  Lark still isn’t back. I shut my eyes against the fresh pain of this realization.

  He’s probably not coming back tonight. It’s hard to imagine him coming back at all. Except maybe to pack his stuff.

  Behind my closed eyes, I see his face from this morning. Before, all I could recall was how I felt. The pain. The humiliation. The feeling of being set up. How he made it sound like deciding to leave me in bed was to teach me some kind of lesson.

  That knowledge still hurts. It was like a stab wound this morning. But now, and maybe this is thanks to the multiple glasses of wine and the caressing water, it’s more like an ache. A deep, intimate cramp.

  And it brings the memory of his face into sharper focus. How awful he looked when I first climbed out of my car to face him. How he paled when I reminded him of what we had shared. How I had let him see something no one else had seen.

  I touched myself in front of him. I touched myself for him. And, right now, I can’t make myself regret it. Even if it meant less to him. It meant something greater to me. It meant that I can trust another person. That I can take a risk and share something sacred.

  And even after what happened Sunday morning, what happened this morning, I can’t regret that the person I shared that with was Lark.

  Because I don’t feel lessened by that experience. Even in the face of this pain. Yes, I feel loss. But I don’t feel less.

  I feel more.

  And maybe that’s what this life is all about. Feeling more.

  I take a sip of my wine and I don’t try to stop the tears that slip from the corners of my eyes. Because it’s been a very long time since I really let myself feel. Feel all of it. Pain. Vulnerability. Joy. Love.

  No matter what happens. No matter if Lark comes home tomorrow ready to pack up and leave, he has helped me to find this depth in myself.

  And I’ll always be grateful for that.

  And even though I haven’t begun to mourn this budding love, this love that feels so much greater and deeper than reason can explain—and I know I will mourn it—I’m grateful for that too.

  My tears fall steadily and my soft sobs make ripples in the bath water until I discover that my legs feel heavy.

  Also, my wine glass is almost empty.

  I shift forward in the tub and set the glass on Nanna’s vanity bench. The slow swish of the bath water gives me a touch of vertigo. Okay, I’m not drunk yet, but I can see it from here. Time to get out of the tub.

  Clutching the smooth lip of the slipper tub to steady myself, I stand, water sluicing off my body. My skin is red from the bath’s heat, and I grab the fluffy towel from the wall-mounted rack and swab my face, neck, and shoulders.

  I go still when I hear the back gate.

  My heart thuds hard, and I know it’s not just from wine or hot water. It has to be Lark. He’s home.

  The irrational urge to go to him rushes over me and I step out of the bath. I scrub water off my back and legs, not even sure what I want to say to him, just that I want to lay eyes on him, let him see what I feel for him. Reassure myself he’s okay, and hope for the best.

  I expect to hear the snick of the back door’s lock. But that’s not what I hear.

  Not at all.

  The sound that carries through my room is at first a squeak, like a protesting of branches in a gale, and then a wrenching, shuddering rattle.

  Too close. My French doors.

  Someone is in my room.

  I yank my robe from the hook on the door and whip it around me. I knot the tie with shaking hands, blood roaring in my ears.

  My only thought as I whip the bathroom door open is getting to Maisy.

  But when I see him, I freeze.

  Hateful eyes. Aquiline nose. Sharply groomed goatee.

  It’s amazing what the mind records in a moment of terror. Like the way the wood is split on the left side of my French door, the deadbolt jutting out like a broken bone… the fluttering of my gauzy curtains as the breeze from the open door teases them...

  The dull black of the crowbar clutched in Kaleb Doucet’s hand...

  The way he bares his teeth, a bubbling of spittle in the corner of his mouth when he speaks…

  “Where’s Nina?”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  LARK

  I rub t
he back of my aching neck as traffic slows where I-49 turns into Highway 90. Sleeping on a cave floor for three solid hours might not have been a good idea, but at least I woke up sure of what I need to do.

  Make things right.

  At least make peace with Stella and my roommates, even if there’s no hope of her and I working things out. And let’s be honest, why would there be?

  I went into this knowing that I didn’t deserve her and then I proved myself right. End of story.

  But I’d like to do what I can to repair the damage. Move her from hatred to maybe just indifference. Or if I’m lucky, tolerance.

  Because I don’t want to leave Stella’s house.

  Not at all.

  I love her.

  And I can’t see past loving her. Meaning, I can’t see a time when it will stop.

  So if I can’t be in her heart, in her bed, I still want to be in her home, in her life. I still want to see her every day. I still want to look out for her. I still want to eat breakfast with her in the morning. Watch her laugh while I tease Maisy and let her call me Bark. Take over for her in the kitchen when she’s had a long day so that she can take a hot bath. Be the one to give her that.

  I want to see her launch her business. Help her if I can. And, God, she’ll be in that house all the time once it opens.

  And I want her to see me finish my last semester of school. Maybe by May, she will have forgiven me enough to come to my graduation.

  I’d like that. I’d really like that.

  And who knows what might happen then? Maybe there will be a chance for us.

  But I know if I can’t stay in that house—that rambling, creaky, magical, joyful dream house—there won’t be any chance at all.

  I glance over at the passenger seat and my peace offerings.

  When I left Kisatchie, I went ten minutes out of my way to Lea’s Lunchroom in Lecompte. Lea’s pies are something of Louisianal legend. People go much more than ten minutes out of their way to get them. The place has been open since 1928. Allegedly, Bonnie and Clyde were regulars. Lea’s homemade pies are to die for.