The three of us stand in silence for several seconds. Awkward.
“Tim Barnes,” Tim finally says, extending his hand to John. Doesn’t he know that men have lost limbs for less? I eye John. His face is completely unreadable.
“John Moss,” John says, pulling his hand from his pocket and extending it toward Tim. They shake hands. During this exchange I think I’m having a small stroke. Maybe this is just another thing Dad and I share.
“Are you one of the siblings?” Tim asks, looking from me to John.
“My name would probably be Hawkes if I were,” John answers, his face showing his amusement.
“Ah,” Tim answers, fully picking up on John’s tone.
“John is our attorney,” I cut in. I let my hand fall on John’s arm as I formally introduce him. I can feel the curve of his bicep through his suit jacket. His muscle twitches under my hand. Heat surges through my body and as if I’m being electrocuted, I tighten my grip. This time, he doesn’t pull away.
“Attorney? Why do you need an attorney?” Tim asks, as the mist begins to morph into droplets of rain.
“People usually call an attorney when they have a legal issue,” John explains mockingly. Tim’s entire body stiffens. He glares at me.
“You ready to go?” Tim asks, eyeing his car.
“We needed an attorney because Dad gave Huston his power of attorney and not the second wife,” I explain, finally easing my death grip on John’s arm. He shifts his weight and moves a few inches closer to me. I feel my blood pressure rise. My heart beats faster. I… feel. Dangerous… dangerous.
“That’s bizarre,” Tim says.
“My Dad’s bizarre,” I joke, trying to lighten the mood.
“Oh, so you know him now?” Tim asks, chuckling. I know he’s trying to be funny, but making a joke about my strained, yet budding, relationship with my father stings.
“Wow,” I hear John huff.
We fall into an uncomfortable silence once again.
“So, I’ll just wait in my car and you can… I’ll just follow you to the… Just let me know when you’re done here,” Tim stutters, turning and walking quickly toward his car through the now falling rain.
“Pleasure meeting you,” John calls after him.
Tim turns around, briefly thinks about coming back. I’m willing him, willing him to just walk away. John looks unaffected, downright relaxed, as he watches Tim. I can’t help but imagine Tim as a young man, his underpants pulled up somewhere around his shoulders, having this same internal battle. He tightens his fists, his face tense, and looks from me to John and back again. The rain falls.
“You, too,” Tim finally manages, his entire body deflating. He turns and walks to his car, beaten. A wide smile breaks across John’s face as he turns to me.
“A proud moment,” I say, turning to him.
“For both of us,” John says, stepping closer.
“He’s a… it’s a…” I stutter.
“It’s a little late for explanations,” John finishes, his head tilting just so.
I have a vision of a tiny pinprick of light miles above this prison floor. Tilting my head back, the rain falling on my face, I take the deepest of breaths.
A way out.
“It’s not too late,” I say, looking John in the eye. Straight. Shooting right through those black-as-pitch eyes and diving, body and soul, down to where the memories of me… the memories of us live.
Tim honks the horn off in the distance. Ah, yes—please make me break up with you faster than I was already going to. We won’t even make it out of this parking lot as a couple now.
John rips his gaze from mine. I take pleasure in noting it was difficult for him.
“You’d better get going,” John finally says, his voice low.
“John—” I start, my hand outstretched.
John cuts in, “I trusted you and you broke my heart.” His mouth tight, his eyes focused. I recoil, my stomach churning, my legs about to give way. I open my mouth to say something.
John holds up his hand, stopping me, and continues, “I’m going to take a page out of your book and just…”
And he walks away.
I watch him retreat to his car as the rain starts to really fall around me.
“Who is he?” Tim asks, as I fold into his car seconds later.
“My ex,” I say. I’m so tired of lying.
“Is he even your family’s attorney?” Tim asks, clicking the indicator right… left… right… left.
“Yes,” I say, my purse on my lap, my seat belt unbuckled.
We are silent, save for the clicks of the indicator.
“So… dinner?” Tim offers, looking over at me.
I am silent. The words I need are stuck in all the broken-down architecture of the last five years. But they are coming.
“Grace?” Tim asks again.
“I need some time,” I start.
“To get ready… take a shower?” Tim says, starting his car up.
“To myself. Alone,” I say, hating that I sound all cryptic and mysterious.
“I wasn’t insinuating we shower together. I know you aren’t into that,” Tim says, trying—once more—to defuse the situation.
“You’re the perfect guy,” I start.
Tim reacts. His face flushes.
I continue, “Just not for me.”
Tim turns the car off. I shift my body in the passenger seat and grab the door handle.
“Look, you’re going through a really difficult time. You’re going to need someone,” Tim offers. I pull the handle and the door clicks open.
“I already have someone,” I say. I push open the door and climb out into the fresh, cold air.
“Grace?” Tim calls.
“I’ll see you back at the office,” I say, slamming the door.
I tilt my head back. That pinprick of light that was so far away from the prison floor is now within reach.
chapter eleven
You from around here?” a soft, gooey lady asks me as we stand in line at the B&B’s breakfast buffet the next morning.
“Pasadena,” I say, putting on my best early-morning etiquette. The woman puts a luscious-looking blueberry scone on her plate, adding a dollop of clotted cream for good measure.
“Up here for the holidays?” she asks. Flashes of the ICU, Dad’s rumbling cough, being herded out of his hospital room like interloping trash, Tim’s surprise visit. I trusted you and you broke my heart…
“Absolutely,” I lie.
“Are you here with your husband?” the woman asks, now eyeing the array of fresh fruit. I stare at her. My night of panic-stricken sobbing, chocolate and Frasier reruns looms large.
“It’s more of a family vacation,” I say, spooning a big helping of oatmeal into my bowl.
“Isn’t it just…” The woman trails off as I grab an Earl Grey tea bag and pour myself a mug of hot water. I smile and put what I hope to be an insurmountable, yet polite, distance between us. It’s probably only about a foot—but in breakfast buffet yardage it should be equal to the Serengeti Plain.
She scoops up some fresh strawberries and piles them next to the scone and clotted cream. Only in California. Fresh strawberries in the dead of winter. I spy a small Adirondack chair just outside on the veranda. One chair. The gooey lady is still talking. Apparently, she and her husband are from somewhere in Minnesota and just love coming out here every year. She says something about the weather.
“Have a great morning!” I manage, walking out onto the veranda with my breakfast and fresh mug of tea.
“Happy almost new year!” the woman replies, waving wildly as I walk through the French doors to freedom.
I set my mug of tea on the ground next to me, balancing the plate of fruit and yogurt on my knees, along with the overloaded bowl of oatmeal. The fresh, cool air blows my still wet hair. I breathe in deeply. I pick up my mug of tea, taking a long sip.
Am I here with my husband? I repeat. The breakup scene with Tim fla
shes in my head. I can’t help but feel relief. I know I did the right thing. Staying with Tim was a sham. One of many.
I’m in love with someone else.
I look back at the gooey lady as she settles into her table, blissfully unaware of the furor her simple question has caused. Husband. How do perfect strangers always seem to ask the exact question that makes you feel terrible about yourself? Because they don’t know not to ask it, I suppose. I set my mug back down on the ground. You have most people in your life trained to behave a certain way and then along comes a blundering stranger and whammo… are you here with your husband? Why don’t you ask me if I’m pregnant—that question always goes over well with women you don’t know.
I dig into my oatmeal. Husband. The idea that there could be such a union between two people where one isn’t compelled to flee always baffled me. Just because you have a piece of paper doesn’t mean anything. Mom and Dad never divorced. He just walked away. Back to that again. I take another sip of my tea and set my mug back down on the ground.
Trust.
Such a giant concept for something you can’t touch. I take another bite of my oatmeal. I trusted you and you broke my heart. It was always about trust with John. With me, for that matter, as well. And even when we danced around spending our lives together, there was still this escape hatch we each kept in some part of our hearts. As a crisp breeze blows across the blooming gardens of the B&B, I can no longer fend off the memory of the last time I tried to escape the terror that being in a real relationship caused.
“John?”
“Grace… Grace?”
Leo and I are standing at the end of a row at the Ahmanson Theatre trying to find our seats. Instead we find John, my boyfriend, sitting in the middle of the row with a tiny blonde woman who, I hardly need to point out, isn’t me. His black wavy hair is carefully combed and he’s wearing a suit and tie.
“What’s going on?” I ask, my tiny lamé evening bag a tragic prop to this turn of events.
“Nothing much, what’s going on with you?” John says, standing. Blocking?
“That wasn’t actually a casual greeting, John. I mean, literally, what’s going on—here,” I ask again, motioning to the confused woman just behind him.
“Hey, if it isn’t Griffon Whitebox,” John says, extending his hand to Leo.
“Not in public, man. Not in public,” Leo warns, sneaking glances around the Ahmanson for possible hacker fan boys or Feds.
“Oh, right… right,” John says, shaking my younger brother’s hand.
“Did you want to introduce us to your friend?” I ask, motioning to the woman.
“I’m going to go find our seats… good seeing you again,” Leo says, taking the tickets and waving goodbye to John.
“This isn’t what you think it is, Grace,” John starts. He bends just that much closer. The black eyes. The heavy-lidded black eyes that made me—compelled me—to write startlingly bad poetry.
“Really?” I ask.
“No… it’s not.”
“Oh… okay. Um… Miss?” I say, craning past John.
“Tammi,” John says.
“Tamm… Are you kidding me?” I say, leaning back to John.
“She’s a paralegal over at O’Melve—”
“Hey, Tammi?” I say, easily moving past John—our bodies so used to each other. Being close… curving, bending.
“Yes?” Tammi answers, confused.
“So, what do you think this is?” I ask. I can feel John just behind me.
“It’s a… He asked if I wanted to see a play. I said… I said yes,” Tammi stutters.
“And what do most people call that?” I ask.
“A… a date,” Tammi confesses.
“Which, for the record, is what I thought this was,” I say, bending back toward John.
John laughs. “Are you sure you’re not the lawyer?”
“This isn’t funny,” I say, finally starting to walk out of the row of seats toward Leo.
“Grace… Gracie?!” John calls after me.
“No… seriously… a play? You hate plays. But… have at. She seems nice,” I say, my voice flat. I scan the theater for Leo. John takes my arm and stops me.
“Grace… this is just a casual date.” John’s voice is quiet.
“Yeah, that seems to be the consensus,” I say, tugging my arm away. John takes my arm again and pulls me in. Close. So strong, yet so gentle.
“I was the one who tried to have a conversation with you about—” John starts.
“So, this is how you react when I tell you I’m confused about what ‘getting serious’ means,” I add, my lamé bag jumping around as I do giant air quotes around “getting serious.” I’ve been waiting for the other shoe to drop for months.
“Confused? You refused to even talk about it,” John says. True, but I thought if we talked about it, he would say he wasn’t ready. That he didn’t love me back. If we didn’t talk about it, we could just keep going on as we were.
John continues, pulling me even closer as people continue to head to their seats, “I thought that meant you didn’t want to get serious,” John whispers, his mouth tight.
“And now I know why,” I say, motioning at Tammi. Am I relieved? Why am I relieved?
“It’s not like I’m fucking her!” John yells.
And the entire theater screeches to a halt.
“Well… I’m glad we cleared that up,” I say, tucking my little bag under my arm. I see Leo stand up in the far corner of the theater.
“Grace…” John says… his voice quiet… pleading…
“Have a nice life,” I say, turning to leave.
“Have a nice life? All your shit is at my apartment! You going to walk away from your toothbrush? Your clothes? Your laptop?” John’s face is stunned, hoping this is all a joke. I tug him up the aisle and into the Ahmanson lobby. He allows me to.
“You don’t get the answer you want, so you start seeing other people? You couldn’t wait for me to figure it out?” I blurt, as I find an unpopulated corner down a long hallway.
“I thought you didn’t want to talk about it, because you didn’t want to get serious,” John says.
“And this is your solution?” I ask, pointing back to What’s-Her-Name.
“It just kind of happened,” John sighs.
I stop. Stunned. Nothing to respond with. Too angry to be broken. I’m sure it will set in soon.
“I don’t know how to do this,” he says, looking at the ground.
“This… what?” I answer, trying to steady my breathing. The lights in the lobby flicker—on and off, on and off. The play is starting.
John hesitates. I can see his face moving and contorting with a conversation in his mind. The lobby is clearing out, our little corner becomes more and more private.
“Take too long to decide and I just might walk over to that usher and ask if he wants to get lucky,” I crack.
John jolts up, looks at me, then the usher, and just… laughs. I can’t help but laugh. The usher I’ve pointed to looks like Burl Ives.
As Burl Ives closes the house doors behind him, John takes a step closer. He looks at the ground for the briefest of seconds, takes my hand and looks up. We lock eyes.
“When you didn’t want to talk about…” John trails off.
“Getting serious,” I finish.
“Spending the rest of our lives together,” John corrects. I recoil, John pulls me closer, his other hand tucks a piece of hair behind my ear. His hand lingers at my cheek, so soft. His face is inches from mine. His breath hot and quickening.
“Is that what that conversation was about?” I mumble, my hand now at his belt, pulling him closer.
“Yeah. So when you changed the subject…” John starts, his eyes closing just a bit as I undo his belt.
“It was imperative I ask you what you wanted in your coffee,” I say, my hand now sliding down the front of his pants.
“Black. You know I like it black,” John says, his ey
es scanning the dark hallway as I kiss his neck.
“Maybe I was trying to change the subject,” I whisper, centimeters from his ear, my breath ruffling the flips of his black hair.
“Maybe,” John repeats, his hand at my waist. He pushes open a small door, revealing some kind of janitorial closet. He whips me around, his hand on the small of my back, and leads me into the small room.
“I hope Tammi doesn’t mind that you didn’t come back,” I mock, as John lifts me onto some kind of stack of crates. I steady myself—grasping his shoulders. I’m overcome with the feeling that I could hold on to John in a hurricane and yet stay firmly on the ground. I pull him even closer. John slams the door behind him with his foot.
“Who?” John says, pulling up my dress, my little lamé bag falling to the floor.
Five years later I can still feel the heat of his body. I sip my tea to calm down and can’t help but smile. I lost all thought when I was with John. But it wasn’t the nothingness I feel with Tim. I was free. No niggling voices of doubt and insecurity that plagued all my other relationships. Relationships built on the sturdy foundation that unavailability meant love. My relationship with Tim now seems like a giant middle finger to real love and intimacy. I know that now. Who am I kidding… I always knew that.
If Dad, the one man bound to me by biology, could leave, why wouldn’t every man after?
As I gather my mug and now empty oatmeal bowl, I wonder if I’ll ever learn that lesson. Will I ever give someone a chance to prove my theory wrong?
“Are you wearing the same thing you wore yesterday?” Abigail asks, as we climb out of our cars in the hospital parking lot later that morning. I look down at my outfit: jeans, white T-shirt and camel-colored cashmere hoodie. It’s all I could fit into that damn backpack.
“It’s not anything of yours, if that’s what you’re insinuating.”
“Ha ha,” Abigail allows.
“I changed my panties,” I say, blowing on the tea I bought at the organic market across the street from the bed-and-breakfast. I slam the door of my car.
“Charming,” Abigail says, zooming the minivan door open to reveal Emilygrae and Mateo both elbow-deep in their mini plastic baggies filled with Cheerios. Emilygrae kicks her feet wildly as Mateo leans forward against his car seat restraint. Freedom is nigh. Evie slides out of the front seat.