The Achilles Heel (22 page)

“I know this seems so crazy, but I have to figure out what all of this means. I have
to find some answers. Are you all mad at me for bringing you out here?” I asked.

“Annie, go home. Forget all of this‌—‌even Kess‌—‌and go back to Kansas City, or you’re
going to get yourself hurt,” Tori surmised.

“I agree,” Jenna interjected. “This sounds too dangerous. Fly with me to Denver tomorrow
and stay in my guest room. You can take a break from your life, and you’ll be safe
at my house.”

“Claire, would you like to weigh in?” I asked.

“I just want you to be okay, so if that means staying, then stay, but promise us that
you’ll be careful,” she urged.

“I’ll be as careful as possible, and love you all for loving me, but I am staying.
I’m already here, and girls, I’m on to something big. I have to see it through,” I
said.

Leslie didn’t chime in with her opinion, but that was probably coming in a private
conversation later, so I didn’t ask her in front of the others.

“Okay,” I said, dragging the word out as the stress released from my mouth. “I feel
better already. Now, let’s take our stuff down to the beach and enjoy the rest of
the time we have together. We can make some sandwiches, and there should be some rafts
in the shed next to the pool house.” They all just stared at me. “Really, I’m going
to be fine, so let’s just make the most of today, since you’re all leaving tomorrow
morning.”

I’m pretty sure I had ruined our last afternoon together, but I really did feel better
telling the truth. It’s weird how secrets can begin to change you. They slowly instill
paranoia, forcing you to pretend all the time like an actor in a play, and I was feeling
more and more like a liar than just someone keeping a secret; it was becoming exhausting.
More than anything else, I was grateful to these women who didn’t judge me and only
wanted the best for me.

“Let’s go!” Tori hollered, standing at the patio door with large beach bags hanging
off her arms.

“I’ll catch up with you. I have to make a call first,” I said, pulling out Francis
Hutchinson’s (or Hutch as his friends call him) business card.

I waited until the familiar chatter that only a group of women can make together became
softer and finally non-existent, as they made their way down to the beach.

“Soggy Bottom. This is Hutch speaking,” he rumbled over the noisy bar crowd.

“Hi, Hutch. This is Annie Whitman. My friend Kessler introduced us at your bar the
other night.”

“Um, yeah. Oh, hey, Annie,” he said, as though his memory became clearer. “What can
I do you for?”

Why do the majority of old guys say, “What can I do you for?” Is it an attempt at
a joke or are they just trying to keep up with the slang of a younger generation?
The generation behind me uses a word to describe someone like me (single in my mid-thirties)
and it’s cougar, so I could give a shit about keeping up with that.

“I wondered if you had some time to take me diving at the pier in Frederiksted?” I
asked.

“Sure thing, be happy to! My weekends are pretty busy, and I have to open the restaurant
tomorrow, but I have the next afternoon free. Round twelve o’ clock, if that works
for you?”

“Yes, that’s perfect! Do you want me to come by the bar or just meet you at the pier?”
I asked, getting excited.

“Come to the shed behind the Soggy Bottom, that’s where all my equipment is stored.
I’ll need to get you fitted for a BCD vest and flippers. Your car will be fine in
the parking lot for the afternoon.”

“Okay, sounds great. I’ll see you in a couple of days,” I replied, hanging up.

Reeling with excitement, I pulled on my swimsuit and slathered my Midwest skin with
sunscreen. My gut told me this dive was a step in the right direction, and I was praying
that something of interest was underneath the pier.

As I walked out of my bedroom, Leslie sat on the edge of the couch with a concerned
look on her face. Obviously, we were about to have our private conversation.

“Hey, I thought you went down with the rest of the girls. Whatcha doing?” I asked,
still surprised.

“I think I have something to show you, and I’m not sure how you’re going to react,”
she cautioned.

“Listen, if it’s about the phone call that I’m assuming you heard, then I’d be happy
to explain it to you,” I responded.

“No, no need to explain. I know you aren’t leaving with us tomorrow, and I really
didn’t expect you to even entertain the idea. I know you too well,” she said with
a smile. “It’s about Kess, and I think you need to sit down,” she noted, as she pulled
out her iPad with a large picture of him on the screen. The caption read: Top Grossing
Country Artist of 2011.

KESSLER

W
ade waited inside the metal hangar as my Cessna landed at the Nashville airport. High
winds and sketchy weather conditions made our arrival an hour late. The pilot handed
Wade my bag and told him good luck since I was a hot mess of whiskey. The unseasonably
cold air for the beginning of November gave way for a chance of snow, and I forgot
to bring a jacket with me in my rushed packing this morning. As the wind whipped through
my T-shirt, stinging my chest and hollering in my ears, Wade helped me to his car,
laughing the whole way.

“Well, ain’t this a fun change for us? I get to be Mr. Responsible for once, and I
can’t wait for Mama D to get a look at you! How does some shrimp and sausage egg casserole
with bacon butter beans sound right about now? Maybe you could wash it down with a
big ole glass of whole milk!” he shouted.

I let him have his fun; he’d earned it by picking me up and besides, hell must be
freezing over if Wade’s the sober one, but I wasn’t in a talking mood. The silence
made our ride home seem impossibly long, and about ten miles outside of Franklin,
Wade finally spoke.

“Ah, Kess, you can’t be this worried about the meeting tomorrow; your contract is
up. They might use some scare tactics, but there ain’t a lot they can do about you
leavin.’ The only real issue I see is the people you’re leavin’ behind who have worked
for you all these years, but you can’t live your life based on other people’s dreams;
you gotta focus on your own. Everyone and everything’s for sale at the right price;
just take care of the people who have taken care of you,” he assured me.

“Yeah,” was all I said.

He dropped me off at my garage door, and I went inside to take a shower. My mind was
a washing machine, spinning my regret around in circles; my heart drowning in soapy
water.

She seemed so nonchalant when I left. She didn’t beg me or even just ask me to stay.
I thought we had something between us, a fire of some kind. How could I have misread
her so wrong? The way she looked at me on that first night we kissed, running her
fingers through my hair and squeezing her thighs around my waist; that wasn’t just
a regular kiss. The tremble in her hands and rising breath, every time I put my arms
around her, told me she wanted me. I just don’t understand. Did she change her mind?
Did she find out who I am? Oh shit, does she know I lied to her?

I tortured myself with these kinds of questions and obviously, wasn’t going to get
any answers from Annie, who was two thousand miles away. I needed to get a woman’s
perspective, so I got dressed and went next door.

“Oh, my baby’s home!” Mama D screeched as she met me at the kitchen door with a bear
hug.

She stepped back to take a look at me, and her face immediately turned sour. “Uh-oh,
what’s wrong, sugar?” she asked.

I had planned on playing it off like it was no big deal and maybe casually ask her
advice later on after dinner, but instead I blurted out, “I think I really screwed
up, Mama!” I was just as shocked as her because I’ve never talked about women with
Mama D. Her eyes glowed with the nurturing warmth of a lioness, ready to pounce on
my problem. She ate this stuff up.

Mama D led me to the couch in the living room and told the boys to scram until dinner.
Hope walked past, caught a glimpse of me and yelled, “Hey, look who’s back!” before
she actually saw my face.

So there I was with the full attention of the two women I respected most in this world,
about to tell them what an asshole I had become. Hope had already told Mama D about
Annie (just like I knew she would) and that she thought there was something special
happening between us, so I filled them in on the rest.

“No, you shouldn’t have lied to her, Kessler. Your mama brought you up better than
that, but, baby, it isn’t like you killed someone. You’re trying to protect your heart,
and I think anyone can understand that, but you do owe her an explanation. Once you
explain, she’ll soften a bit,” Mama D implored, with Hope nodding her head in agreement.
“Besides, you don’t even know if that’s really the issue. Maybe she’s just guarding
her heart, too.”

“What do you mean?” I asked perking up, intrigued by this point of view I hadn’t considered.

“Well, darlin,’ you two are all hot and heavy, kissing and giggling with each other
and then
bam
, you tell her you’re leaving, and you don’t know if you’ll be back. What’s she supposed
to do with that information? She supposed to beg you to stay and profess her love
to you, just to have you leave anyway? Maybe she knew you were leaving either way,
and she didn’t want to be standin’ a fool and watchin’ you go,” she said sternly,
with Hope still nodding in agreement and this conversation increasingly becoming a
lecture for me instead of a pity party. It was obvious these women were starting to
turn.

Mama D started in again. “Now, I suggest you handle your business here in Nashville,
then you ride that fancy airplane of yours back to St. Croix with your tail between
your legs, tell her who you are; give her your whole life story if she wants it, tell
her you’re falling in love with her, and beg her for forgiveness. After that, it’s
in God’s hands, baby, and at least you’ll know you gave it your best.”

“I
am
falling in love with her, but what if she turns me away? I don’t think I can take
that kind of rejection,” I confessed.

“Yes you can, Kessler. You’ll never regret falling in love, but you will regret not
giving it a shot. Life is full of all kinds of disappointment, so if you have a chance
at happiness, you gotta fight for it. If you don’t have love, baby, you ain’t got
a pot to piss in. Love creates happiness, so go out and get your happy,” she gleamed.
“But first we gotta eat; can’t send you to a big downtown meeting with whiskey on
your breath and an empty belly. Uh-huh, bet you thought I didn’t notice. Drinking
in the afternoon? Shame on you, Kessler Carlisle. You go fallin’ in love then acting
all kinds a fool,” she muttered under her breath as she walked into the kitchen and
started pulling plates out for dinner, still lecturing me even though I was in a different
room.

I smiled at Hope. She patted my leg and said, “You know, I’ve got her number. She
gave it to me the night before we left St. Croix. You wanna call her?”

“Not yet. I want to talk to her face to face. She deserves that.”

About that time, Wade poked his head in the living room. “Can I come in yet?” he asked,
only giving me wink, not a hard time.

Dinner with my family was a welcome feeling, and I sat quietly as the boys gave me
the highlights of football games and the start of basketball practice. Mama D updated
me on the feud she’d been having with the woman up the street over her booth at the
Farmers Market; apparently this lady is trying to get out of paying her monthly fee,
very scandalous. Wade filled me in on the progress of his next album and showed me
the different artwork options considered for the cover. This was as close to my Norman
Rockwell, picture perfect life as I could imagine; the only thing missing was Annie.

ANNIE

T
he pre-dawn breeze of another museum-worthy sunrise blew through my bedroom windows,
banging the plantation shutters against the glass, prematurely waking me up. The covers
were completely kicked off my body, mangled and twisted into a violent heap at the
foot of my bed, as my face laid on a wet pillow case soaked entirely from my own sweat.
I had been dreaming of Jack.

Dreaming was a terrible‌—‌and wonderful‌—‌ordeal for me, and after waking up, it always
trapped me in a fake reality where the emotions of my dream are real, but the reality
of the dream is false. It fucked with me‌—‌a lot.

I can smell my stink.

Reaching for a clean nightgown from my pajama drawer and then changing my mind, I
grabbed running clothes instead.

I’m just going to end up tossing and turning in sheets that need to be washed, and
I already need a shower, so I might as well go for a short run.

I loved pulling on running shoes; my nylon armor protecting my feet from the vast
elements that Mother Nature might try and throw at me. Tying the laces (always in
a double knot) meant that it was time to work and this always felt symbolic. I’ve
never been good at enjoying a hobby strictly on a fun basis. Always starting out with
the best intentions, but inevitably, turning it into a competition with myself, the
hobby eventually becomes a job. Even though this sounds insane, running works for
me on so many levels. Imagine a woman sitting motionless on a couch in her living
room staring at the wall with the stereo blaring music into her face. Not the happiest
image. Now, imagine driving through an average American neighborhood and passing by
a woman jogging‌—‌super normal. The mental aspect of the two women in these scenarios
are the same, so I might as well use running to sort out my head instead of staring
at a wall.

The front door creaked closed in the dense darkness of the house, but outside presented
the polar opposite as the ocean birds squawked the sun awake. I found a playlist that
suited my mood and then was off and running to Kessler Carlisle’s latest album. Last
night, I downloaded every album that Kessler had released over the last twenty years,
and planned on listening to them all. The gruffness in his voice soothed my mind like
aloe on the skin and strangely enough, wrapped him around me, but I guess that’s probably
how stalkers start out feeling, too. Nevertheless, Kessler helped me run my three
miles this morning, just for fun.