Truth or Dare, page 11
A quick glance in the mirror squanders what few minutes I have while she does whatever she’s doing outside. My cheeks are still pink, which means I’m likely windburned. My hair’s in clumps. But I leave it, powdering my nose to dull the shine and rubbing Brick Dust across my lips, at least that’s what the manufacturer calls this shade. I call it the only color you’ll see me in on a sunless day like today, the shade I wore that day, up on that hilltop. When she spread out that checkered blanket across a field of grass, and I can still see those cotton-ball clouds above as we feasted on grapes and crackers talking about our dreams. As she popped the cork (and the question) and slid two stems between her knuckles. Our newly ringed knuckles. And she tasted of bubbling champagne when she kissed me, warm and intoxicating.
Much like this woodstove, which is just where I’m going to stay until she comes back in.
* * *
Sam
Retirement is sweet, especially when it’s your parents who are doing the downsizing and you’re the one acquiring stuff. It used to bother me that Mom was such a hoarder. Now, not so much.
Mind you, the pickup part of that acquisition process requires trips down memory lane, which can be a drag for someone like me who’d rather live in the now and forget my youthful—and not-so-youthful—mishaps. And the pickup part can be a double drag when it involves a few hours in the company of soon-to-be retirees who act more like newlyweds than I do.
Quite frankly I’ve heard more about aging in place and Palm Beach than I care to mention. I half expect to see those two spinning around on mobility scooters (they’ve been mentioned) and sporting Life Alerts. They’ve already joined AARP. And Mom has been asking for senior discounts at stores, in my presence. They have to card her. It’s embarrassing.
On the plus side, though, they’ve finally gotten serious about cleaning out that attic, one that’s warehoused bunk beds, yearbooks, ski poles, trophies, and I don’t even want to know what else. Between my brother and me, we’ve acquired a heck of a lot of that stuff, like two pairs of snowshoes that have been stored in the trunk waiting for the perfect time to spring them on penny-pincher in there.
“Cover your eyes,” I shout as I butt close the door.
“I can’t believe you!”
“Are they covered?” I ask.
“Yes,” she sighs. She’s excited. I know she is. “They’re covered,” begins her lecture, “but I don’t know why—because I know what you have and they aren’t in the budget.”
“I didn’t spend a dime, sweetheart. You can have a look now. And you can thank Gidget.” That would be Mother’s nickname. She does have a Sally Field quality in that never-aging girl-next-door sort of way.
Then I get that moment I’ve waited for. I love springing stuff on this girl. She’s still shockable.
And shocked she is when I shout, “It’s adventure time!”
* * *
Ella
Women fought over me. They used to anyway. Now I barely turn a head.
I’m not talking an all-out clash on the pool table. I’m not saying a physical brawl. Let’s just say I’m dangerously good at playing hard to get. They bit. I dodged. They chased, many of them. I juggled them. It wasn’t always intentional on my part, the playing; it was in self-defense because they craved the competition. Once they won me over, that was it.
Then who was doing the chasing? I was. I called. I left messages under the guise of Let’s remain friends. I bought two tickets instead of one and invited them. I said my computer broke or friends were moving, could they help? Then I ultimately gave up. And that’s when they usually fell in love with me.
I still catch myself doing it now, even with five years and a diamond ring under my belt. I don’t think I could turn it off if I wanted to. I stay at the shop late without calling, say Jessie stopped by. I want her to be jealous, curious, appreciative at least. I know she won’t leave. She doesn’t need a competitor to love me.
What she does need, though, is a grocery list. Ask her and she’ll say a Post-it’s too much effort, that she’ll remember. She likes to stroll grabbing anything that comes to mind. For me, grocery shopping is a weeklong competitive strategy. I use a meal-planning notebook with 100 percent recycled paper, wire bound. I outline the week’s meals in advance. I clip coupons from Sunday’s paper. I organize those by month of expiry and then by year. I keep an inventory of the fridge, the storage freezer, and the pantry to make sure I’m not leaving something out that I might need. Call it a carryover from work. An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure—or at least another trip to the store midweek, which I never have time to do.
We made another trip today because she didn’t remember olive oil. While we were there, I’d like to say that we ran into her coworker but that would be an understatement. The woman mauled her. Maybe she didn’t see me right beside. She wouldn’t recognize me if she did. She doesn’t know me, but she knew my wife. She hugged her like a linebacker. It made me wonder what goes on there if this is how she acted at Whole Foods. I don’t even hug my wife that way in public.
“What was that about?” I asked once we rounded the aisle.
“She just thinks we’re one big happy gay family, that type. That’s all.”
I’m not threatened.
“Is she the one they promoted?”
“Yes.”
The unstyled hair and that ratty old baseball cap. Definitely not a threat.
“The one with marital problems?”
“Yes.”
My wife, how could she cheat on me when she never notices the most obvious advance?
“The one who likes to watch you lift?”
“Oh, stop. She’s not hitting on me.”
She is. But I think occasional jealousy can be good for a relationship. Once in a while, you need a little reminder. And because of that far-from-subtle display today, I opted against buying another pint of ice cream, came home and spent a little more time on myself, put on better than average sweats, held her a little longer. Not like a linebacker, though.
* * *
Sam
I have my paperback propped on my knees as Ella breezes into the bedroom bound in a towel, skin dripping and freshly scented of soap. Her toothbrush foams at her mouth. She talks through it, coming off as a grunting brute.
“You’re spewing germs everywhere,” I say. “Go!”
Then she exits, and I hear the sink.
“I got an email from my mother,” she tells me. “Their power flickered. That’s it. She said if we needed, we could sleep over for a night or two.”
“You told her we’re fine, right?”
“Pretty much,” I hear as her voice grows louder around the door frame. “I told her we did too, but it’s back. And, besides, we’re set on food and have heat. I still think she wants to see us. I told her I’m just always so busy.”
Then she shuts the door, which is generally the sign for…you know. I do realize that this is our anniversary weekend, but I hadn’t planned—well—I hadn’t anticipated that every night be that. Besides, we had that huge dinner and I’m overstuffed and she’s been difficult all afternoon, and I’m still holding a slight grudge.
From the corner of my eye, I catch her dramatic towel fling onto the bed. Onto me. I set my book down. And my specs.
“So.” She smiles innocently. Then she makes her way to the dresser in the buff. I can’t help but admire her. “What’s your book about?” The view is more than mildly distracting.
“This guy’s lunch break.”
She snaps the elastic at her waist. “And?”
“And all the things he sees. He took an escalator. He’s going to buy a pair of shoelaces.”
“And?”
“And that’s about it so far,” I say.
“And you’re that far into the book?”
“Pretty much.”
“I’m surprised you’re still awake.” She yanks a shirt down her torso. A rather loose-fitting shirt. “Sounds about as exciting as watching paint dry. Who is this?” she asks.
I just flip the cover her way.
“Why do you read this stuff?” she asks. Then she crawls beneath layers of thick bedding. Once that pillow heap is adequately propped, she gets out her iPad. This is her signal that I can pick up my book again, which I do with every intention of reading. But the moment I find my spot, I realize she’s already interrupted my flow. It’s kind of like when you’re having sex and the phone rings or the cat starts scratching at the door. It’s kind of over.
So I elect to continue our conversation instead. “Reading email?”
She scans her screen without responding. I suppose I could open the bedroom door at this point because this is not going to lead to anything. Instead I look over her shoulder trying to decipher chains of words across that screen through my I-can’t-believe-I’m-forty reading glasses. And it’s from Ryan.
“Business or personal,” I ask.
“Both.”
I start studying her expression secretly without looking, thinking I can catch anything out of the ordinary. My mind’s on our argument earlier. Women forgive, though. They rage and fume, but come back—they always do. Her finger glides up that screen. It’s not until she laughs, as slight as it is, that I reopen my book. And I pretend to read where I left off. Eventually I get to the line, and the plot thickens. I turn the page. And another.
I catch Ella flipping over to watch a documentary. “Everything okay?” I say.
“Some deliveries are delayed.”
“Does that push orders out?”
“It might,” she says.
“And you’re okay with that?”
“I have to be.” It’s something she’d normally say with a vain attempt at acceptance, but not tonight. Tonight she genuinely seems relieved.
“Hey,” I say. Then I touch her hand.
She’s amused when she turns—her skin still dewy, framed by hair that’s towel dried and combed. I’m thinking she’s perfect this way. I lean in and press my lips against hers, desperately. I keep trying until she’s kissing me back. I don’t mean for this to be as tragic and anguished as it is.
“What was that about?” she wants to know.
I shake my head. “Can’t a girl kiss her wife without raising suspicion?”
Chapter Six: Jessie and Hadley
Jessie
My alarm’s out, so I roll over. It’s damn cold.
She’s got my favorite T-shirt on. It’s long sleeved. The neck bows low enough to show some. The fabric’s twisted like her hair. And my eyes get a mind of their own. It’s not like anyone will know, but it’s enough to throw my stomach in a flip dive, and I realize, what the heck am I doing? Really.
Thirty, sixty, ninety seconds later she’s still sound asleep and I’m still stuck.
So I nudge her shoulder. She squints and makes what can only be described as a satisfied sigh. I offer, “Good morning,” with my guilt-ridden grin.
She covers a yawn.
“It’s so cold,” she says. “Do we have power?”
“Nope. And I’m not getting up,” I tell her, “but you can—I mean, that is, if you really want to. Get out of bed, that is.”
She fluffs a pillow and glares at me from under that hair. “No thanks.”
“I know, right?”
And I’m enjoying the way her eyes dart back and forth between mine. Her face is calm. I tuck my arm under a pillow. She tucks her arm under hers. Then she arches her back into a stretch and, mercy, is she this oblivious to how hot this looks? I watch her lean off the bed to get her glasses.
“I wonder,” she says, pinching joints, “if my phone’s even charged.”
“Hey. Turn it off, okay? We may need it and, besides, I don’t know how long we’ll be here in Girl Scout mode.” She reaches to check the time regardless.
“I work today,” I hear. “Not until later. But still.”
She rumples a brow.
There’s that part of me that aches to keep her here, stay in bed all day. In reality, though, I can’t do that. Work apparently beckons.
“Will I see you tonight?” she wants to know, giving me a once-over. “For the usual?”
I nod, hesitantly.
“How’s this even going to work?”
“How’s what going to work?” I ask.
“I’ll need a shower, you know.”
“Dude, it’ll come back on.” I slide in, fixing on her.
“But we don’t really know—”
“Well, let’s just say, hypothetically, that it doesn’t. Can’t you call in?”
“No. I wish, but no.”
I see my own breath and that’s just insane. “I’ll take care of it. Don’t worry. I’ll give them another call. In the meantime, I think I can take your mind off this pretty easily.”
“Do you now,” she asks. But it’s not what she’s thinking. Believe me, I wish it were.
“I’ve got a couple bottles of Frappuccino in my fridge. It tastes like dirt. But I could get us some. I’m starting to get that lack-of-caffeine headache. Aren’t you?” Her face softens as she sinks into a pillow. “I’ve got some blueberry muffins in there, too, good ones from Ella’s.” I tuck that loose strand of hair behind her ear. It never wants to stay put. “Hey, what do you say?”
Except she just sort of collapses on her back.
“What, you don’t like blueberries—since when? You used to. I’ve got cinnamon rolls in there too.”
I follow her gaze to the silver ceiling tiles, and I’m listening to nothingness. The sun wants to come out. It’s moving shadows across the ceiling, up the wall. And I’m thinking pretty hard on breakfast when our phones ring. A few profanities come from the other side of the bed as I fumble and pat my way to hit the right button. And we listen in, blankets up to our chins, as a recorded voice from the town lets us know that—get this—there’s been a power outage.
“No shit,” I mouth, and her smile returns.
The outage has affected a wide area.
“Why do you keep looking at me like that,” I ask, my voice wobbly.
Crews are working hard around the clock and roads are being cleared.
“I don’t know…”
“You do know.”
“It’s nothing,” she says.
“It’s never nothing,” I say back. I’m curious what she’s got on her mind, why she’s now walling up on me. But this droning announcement is so distracting. “What, what, what?” I snicker. “It’s the hair, right? You like?”
And we’re so done with our phones as soon as we hear: Shelter in place.
I sit, begging. “Come on. Please? Let me go make you some breakfast.”
And she lets out a long-drawn-out sigh like I’m torturing her, tugging the sheet up over her head. I take that as a definite yes.
* * *
Hadley
Sure, I’m relieved when she steps away. I could use a jolt of coffee right about now, preferably the warm and unhurried kind. But cold will have to do. And better her than me to walk around in a heap of blankets. Once I get properly caffeinated, I can maybe head off to work. In other words, our lives will get back to normal to some degree.
Besides, I’m not sure how else I should feel with her acting like this. There’s a part of me that wishes she would go on and on and mean it. But there’s another part that wishes she would stop because there’s no sacrifice in it, no pausing or self-reflection. I think she can be so impulsive at times. Which is why I hate myself for reacting the way I did, getting all wrapped up and confused by her, preoccupied by crazy ideas I shouldn’t even contemplate.
It’s like she never actually hurts like I do. She never collapses from the weight of it, when that part of you is gone, so heavy you can’t even breathe at times but you try. She never seems to lose what really matters.
It’s not that I haven’t caught a glimpse of it, those bits, a few words that slip off her tongue unplanned when I least expect it. And I know they’re big, especially when she darts away like this, like she’s worried about something. Worried about how I’ll react. As if anything she could do or say would change the way I feel for her.
I guess there are times when I might venture to believe she actually loves me. I do think she might. Just not in that way.
Still, if she did (you know) love me, how could she do this to me, glance as if it means something. Pretend as if that touch was an accident, when I know it wasn’t. Mistaking me for someone made of so much more resolve than I really am. More like irresponsible and inconsistent when I’m around her.
It’s like I’m sinking again. That rush. Then I don’t know what to say, and I get annoyed with her. Why do I have to get this way, stupid wishful thinking of me. Yet that frustration, my dependence on her, my always wanting to be near her, it’s the best feeling I’ve ever had in my life.
But I will never be that someone else who keeps her. The most I can be is a mirage she keeps chasing but still never reaches. There are too many beautiful distractions along the way.
Distractions of my own, as well, because I have hassles I should be dealing with, like getting ready for work, which is going to be madness. I can’t think of this. I can’t be thinking of her.
And yet just as I’m texting another reply to Brie, look who dashes in and dives under the covers. And she holds my gaze. I take one of her bottles of too-cold coffee and study those familiar features, all the while she’s reaching for that bakery bag. Then she hands me a bite of breakfast.
And she makes this adorable shivering sound before giving me that smile. “Wrap up,” she says. She sets this plate in front of me and another at her side. And isn’t this how it goes, that even in my silence, she knows me well enough to offer the best one.
And next this. She’s tucking my hair back again. But of course it’s a morning mess. Stop looking at me. Why does she have to be like this?
Chapter Seven: Brie and Ryan
