A Heart of Time (9 page)

Mom looks a bit taken aback. Her eyes are wide and her eyebrows are pinned about an inch higher than they should be. Dad, though, his lips are sewn tightly together into a small, twisted smirk. He likes Charlotte’s confidence. He has told me many times during my life that he finds confidence in a woman beautiful and sexy.

We all wait in silence for someone to respond, but I’m not sure a response is necessary. “Look,” I finally break through the silence. “Yes, I have been an unhappy person, miserable to be around, I’m sure. I realize it has been five years and maybe I should have gotten over my pain four years ago, but she was part of my life for twenty years. Time hasn’t healed me yet, so what am I supposed to do? Do you want me to pretend I’m all better?” I force a stupid grin. “How’s this? Does it look real enough?”

“Hunter,” Mom says, disappointedly.

“Better yet,” I continue. “Maybe I should have just called it quits. Maybe I should have done what I thought about doing so many goddamn times after she died.”

Charlotte’s hand sweeps across my lap until her fingers touch mine. She squeezes tightly, silently telling me to stop going in the direction I’m heading in.

“You’re right,” Mom says. “Charlotte, you are right, as well. We have all tried so hard to help you become happy again that we have failed to realize how far you have come and what you have overcome. I think I speak for all of us when I say we can have a little more understanding for the time it is taking—will take—for you to find something that will make you smile the way you once did.”

I see them once a week, and Charlotte isn’t normally here, so what they don’t see is that I do smile like I once did. And it isn’t because I’m head over heels in love with this woman sitting next to me, it’s because someone has had enough patience to listen and truly understand what I’ve gone through, what I’m still going through, the grief and sadness I’m living with. Her patience has been something no one else has offered me, and yet, despite my emotional baggage, she enjoys my company as much as I enjoy hers. “I do smile,” I correct Mom. I look at Charlotte, then take her hand and pull it up above the table for everyone to see, eliciting a surprised look from her. “This woman makes me smile, and no, we aren’t a ‘thing’ since I know you love labels, but she is my best friend...and more, I guess.”
More, I guess
. What would more entail? More as in what I think about doing, more as in, what I’ve carefully avoided doing? More as in, when I finally cross that line, will Ellie’s memories slowly disappear? Charlotte’s look of surprise has changed into a glimmer of delight, and I see an accompanying sparkle in her eyes.

“I knew it,” AJ shouts across the table. “Lucky dog, you. That’s a big win right there...trust me.”

Well, that was an easy way to divert the attention away from me. Mom is gawking at AJ, and Alexa is winding up to slap him. “AJ,” mom scolds.

“Whoa, I meant, a big win for
him
.” AJ’s words of explanation don’t work as well as he probably thought they would, and I’m starting to wonder why the blood just drained from his face and why he looks like he might puke.

“Maybe I should say,
I
knew it,” Alexa says, excusing herself from the table. “
Charlotte
. I should have known.”

“Am I missing something?” I ask.

Alexa has one foot out the door when she says, “Oh, you don’t know, do you?”

Charlotte’s hand slips from mine and I am instantly drawing conclusions that won’t do me any good.

“Girls, are you all done?” Mom asks Lana and Olive.

“Yup,” Olive answers, confusion filling her eyes, probably matching the look in my eyes.

“Why don’t you two go on upstairs to play, then? I’ll come check on you in a few minutes.” Both girls flee from their seats and head up the stairs, leaving this room feeling somehow even more constricting.

“Is someone going to tell me what’s going on or—?” I don’t know how to finish that question, and the words coming from my mouth sound breathless, like someone just punched me in the gut.

“Can we talk for a minute?” Charlotte asks, standing up from her seat. I hear her talking, and I can feel her staring, but I’m eyeing AJ and the look on his face, which tells me there’s something I’m going to lose my shit over.

“I haven’t gotten to have one bite of the food I spent an hour cooking. I think our talk can wait.” I keep my focus on AJ’s face, watching as the hue of pink on his cheeks continues dropping shade by shade, ever so slowly, morphing into a paleness resembling a ghost.

I shovel bites of food into my mouth, one by one, as I try to think. Maybe it’s not as bad as I’m assuming it is, but what I’m assuming is that AJ’s lips have touched the lips I have restrained myself from touching for a reason I shouldn’t have. I’m assuming AJ has seen what lies beneath the clothes of this beautiful woman standing beside me. I’m assuming he knows whether or not her breasts are real or fake...a question I ponder every time I see her coming toward me. Whatever it is he’s done, I don’t know whether it has been recently or before I met Charlotte, and that is the only question I have right now, because depending on the answer, it might cause a conflict with one of the ten commandments of respecting thy neighbor.

Charlotte doesn’t leave the room or sit back down, but I can feel her eyes boring into the top of my head. Mom has her face buried in her hands...words have finally managed to escape her, and Dad is sitting at the edge of his seat, waiting for the show to continue.
What does Alexa know?
How did she figure out so much from such a simple remark? AJ didn’t tell her to stop and come back, or ask her what she was talking about, which confirms the right Alexa had to accuse AJ.

Several minutes pass and all of us are still in the same position we were in when Alexa took off. Mom finally makes the first move and stands up from her chair, clearing as many dishes as she can grab within reach. “Harold, come help me in the kitchen,” she says to Dad.

Dad follows, picking up some more of the dishes along the way. Now, it’s just AJ, Charlotte, and me.

“I’m sorry,” AJ says.

CHAPTER SEVEN

“Sorry” was all
I needed to hear. That one measly word packs such a goddamn punch sometimes. Sorry for your loss. Sorry your life sucks. Sorry you live like you’re a zombie. Sorry I slept with the one woman who has seemed to understand you since the day Ellie died. Screw all the sorrys. Screw everyone.

I didn’t give him a chance to explain because as much as I’d love to hear every detail surrounding how he cheated on Alexa with Charlotte, at the same time I don’t want to hear a word about it. How did he even know her? The fucking Olsans’ job, her parents’ house—that must be how—Charlotte must have been there supervising one of the mornings I wasn’t there. Motherfucker. Why didn’t Charlotte tell me? Their stupid encounter at the bus stop that first day—it was a cover up. Why the fuck didn’t either of them tell me?

I’m through the front door before anyone has a chance to stop me. I know Olive is in good hands with Mom and Dad here so I’m leaving. I’m running away like I always do because, really, what other option do I have? I tried dabbling with facing reality this morning at breakfast, and that ended up blowing up in my face. If I keep running, maybe life will trip over its own feet and stop chasing me deeper into the gloom that closes in on me a little more each day I survive through this hell.

By the time I peel out of the driveway, Charlotte has one foot out the door and Dad has Olive in his hands, watching me from the window. Jesus. He couldn’t just distract her for a few minutes?

I have to put it all out of my mind. I need to breathe. I need to catch my breath away from all of them—away from everyone. With no direction in mind, I find myself at the one place I always instinctively end up when I run away.

I shove the gear into park and kick my door open as if I’m being suffocated. I am suffocating. With tunnel vision, I jog down the steps, but I slow my pace when I come closer to the tree. “Tell me I shouldn’t be thinking about other women, Ellie.” My heart is in my throat as I try to suck back in some of the wind that has pinned my lungs against my ribcage. “If you had a chance to tell me what you wanted to tell me before you died, would you have told me to move on or would you have wanted me to live out my life, waiting until it was my turn to join you up there? I need to know. I need to know that what I’m doing isn’t wrong, Ell. I need your blessing on what I do with the rest of my life.”

“You know that’s a tree you’re speaking to, right?” A soft voice pulls me from the darkness of my outspoken thoughts. I turn to face her, failing to recognize the woman at first glance. After a moment, though, I remember her—the woman plucking every last jasmine out of the pre-frozen soil.

“Uh,” I fall short of finding more words to fill the awkwardness between us. I was, in fact, speaking to a tree, very personal words not meant for anyone but Ellie to hear. I look past her and over to the pond, confirming that there is no trace of a flower left to be picked. “There aren’t any flowers here anymore.” What else is there to say to a complete stranger I shared less than a minute worth of conversation with?

She looks over her shoulder to where I was looking. “Nope, there are no more flowers,” she confirms.

“Yeah,” this is becoming more uncomfortable by the second. “Well, I was just venting away over here. Family drama, you know?”

She smiles gently, unveiling a perfect, glowing white smile. Every one of her teeth are perfectly even, and the tip of her nose is aligned with the split of her two front teeth. Her eyes, though, while incredibly symmetrical they are larger than her other features—sort of like an anime character—jade green disks floating in a sea of snowy white. Brushing away a strand of her wavy hair, she breaks her gaze from mine. “I know a lot about family drama. Trust me.”

“Who doesn’t, I guess.” I run my fingers down the side of my face, trying to inhale as much as possible in hopes of stretching out the aching muscles in my chest.

“Tell me about her,” she says, pointing to the root of the tree. “Your wife.”

I forgot I had spewed off this piece of information to her the last time we met. I must have gotten a lot off my tongue in a matter of sixty-seconds. Maybe the conversation was longer than that.

I take a few steps to the side, over to the bench along the stone-covered wall. Sitting down, I wonder if she’ll follow. She hasn’t moved from her spot, but she’s looking between the tree and me as if she’s contemplating a decision. “I don’t bite.”

With hesitation she makes her way over, taking up the spot beside me. “I’m Ari,” she says. “Ariella.”

“Hunter,” I respond, offering her my hand as a gesture, making this awkward meeting more official.

“So?” she urges me on, leaning forward, pressing the tips of her elbows into her knees.

“We were friends since five years old, never left each other’s side. We were inseparable until the day she gave birth to our little girl. That pretty much sums up the story.” My explanation of Ellie’s death gets shorter and shorter each time I repeat it. They’re like preprogrammed words that just roll off my tongue. It makes it easier to have an automatic response, saving me from digging into my rotting brain to retrieve bits and pieces of the why, what, when, and where of Ellie.

Ari doesn’t blink or react when she takes in my words. Her focus remains solid on the small patch of grass in front of us.

“Do you know that poem by Robert Frost? ‘
The Road Not Taken
’?” she asks, finally looking over at me. The look in her eyes makes my gut hurt, but not in a bad way. It hurts in a way that tells me my nerves are still alive, functioning at a normal capacity when I see an attractive woman; although she isn’t the definition of attractive, she’s more ethereal, dream-like. Her skin is smooth and flawless and I imagine it would feel like satin or silk if I touched it. I’m staring at her now and I should look away. I am sitting in front of my wife’s grave, for God’s sake. How much more disrespectful could I be?

With that last thought, I break our eye contact, moving my focus to the patch of grass she was hogging with her stare just seconds earlier. “Yeah, I know that poem,” I say, my voice coming out more stern and short than I intended.

“Well, he says that there are two paths to choose from and he took the one less traveled by. It really is a beautiful thought...” she trails off.

“Yup, it is. It’s a really great poem,” that I cannot remember the words to. Eighth grade English class was quite a while ago and I suddenly remember asking myself what I would ever need poetry for in life. My question has been answered—it’s so I don’t look like a complete loser when a woman asks me about a poem.

“It’s total bull,” she says, shocking the hell out of me. My focus swings back to her face, forgetting what Ellie may or may not be thinking of me right now.

“Oh yeah?” I ask, feeling intrigued.

“No one has a choice in life. No one really gets to choose what path they go down. Every single second of every minute of every hour, day, month, and year we are alive was predetermined for us the moment we were born.” Her voice is growing in volume as if she’s angry with Robert Frost himself. “I mean, how can one person say, ‘whatever is meant to be will be’ offer so much truth, only to be completely called out by Robert Frost, who’s talking about us having choices in life. No one has a choice. Everything that happens was meant to happen and we’re just passengers on this ride. Right?” Holy hell, this woman is fired up. She must have really been screwed over by fate, but this may be the most intelligent conversation I’ve ever had, or potentially the most therapeutic, at least.

“Who said ‘whatever is meant to be will be’ anyway?” I ask.

“Them, that person, whoever ‘they’ are—you know, the person with all the sayings,” she says. Her smile returns, accompanying a soft breath of laughter.

The longer I look at her, the more at ease I feel. I’m not sure why, considering the despise I normally have for being around other people, but something about her takes that distaste away, kind of like what Charlotte has done for me over the past few months. Except Charlotte was fucking AJ. “You may be the smartest person I have ever met,” I offer as a compliment in lieu of a response to her criticism of Robert Frost. In truth, nothing that comes out of my mouth could hold a flame to the intellectual thoughts she just shared.

“Why are you here?” I ask her, not only for the reason of moving away from the poetry discussion I will eventually stumble on but also because I truly want to know why a florist is here in a place where there are no more flowers. I have never seen anyone visit these flowerless gardens at the end of fall, besides a straggling elderly person looking to get his or her number of steps for the day accounted for.

“I...” she stammers on a response. “I just like it here. I feel connected to this place for a reason I can’t explain. It just makes me feel whole when I’m feeling a little broken, you know? So I come here almost every day.” How have I only run into her twice?

“And why are you broken?” I continue.

“I’m literally broken from the inside out. Trust me, it’s not something I’d want to waste your time explaining.”

“There he is!” Olive’s voice shouts from the top of the hill. I turn to find Dad holding her tightly in his arms as he stares down at me with sympathy. Always sympathy. “I told you we’d find him here.” As Olive is lecturing Dad, he takes the stone steps one by one. I want to tell him to turn back and let me have just a few more minutes here but he wouldn’t listen.

“Dad, I’ll—uh—I’ll meet you up at the car in just a minute,” I tell him, hoping he’ll stop coming toward me.

“Who is she?” Olive asks in a sing-song voice. “She’s pretty, like a Disney princess. You look like...” Olive pauses for a moment, tapping her little finger against her chin. “Oh, I know! You look like Rapunzel, but with brown hair.” Yes, Olive’s right. That’s exactly who she looks like.

Ari giggles in response and stands from the bench, making her way over to Dad and Olive. “Well, I’m not Rapunzel, but thank you for saying that. You are absolutely adorable,” Ari says.

A smile sprouts over Olive’s lips, stretching from ear to ear. “Thank you,” she says through a fit of quiet laughter.

“If you don’t mind me saying, Miss, you look familiar, but I can’t quite place my finger on where I know you from. Are you and Hunt friends? Did you go to high school together, maybe?”

Ari takes a couple of steps back, fussing nervously with her hair. “Uh—oh, no, she—we just see each other here sometimes—a common interest, you know?” I chime in.

Dad stares at me for a minute, looking between the two of us with a look I can’t decipher. “Huh, well then, maybe you just have a familiar looking face,” he follows up.

Ari’s cheeks have deepend into a dark shade of pink as she stammers over her next words. “Yeah, I—um—I—I get that all of the time,” she says. She does not get that all of the time. She’s exquisite, honestly—like no one I’ve ever seen before. A lot of it has to do with her eyes though, not just the way they look, but the way she looks at things like she’s exploring everything for the first time, seeing things with amazement. Or at least that is what I have noticed in the thirty minutes we’ve now known each other.

“You know, I really do think I know you from somewhere,” Dad says again.

Ari turns around, reaching for her bag below the bench. “I don’t think that’s possible,” she says, looking as if she’s about to run, yet again. “I just moved here from San Diego a few months ago.”

San Diego? Who would leave San Diego to come all the way across the United States to Connecticut of all places…to work in a flower shop?

“Ari, what is the name of your flower shop?” I say, reaching for her arm before she’s out of reach.

She shakes her head subtly and slips out of my loose grip.

“Dad, Charlotte is real-l-l-l-l-l-l-l-l-l-ly upset that you left her,” Olive says, loud enough that Ari turns to look at me once more as she jogs up the stone stairs. “She said it’s all a big misunderstanding. And a big, big, big, big mistake.”

“Olive, hush,” Dad says to her. And now her bottom lip is in place and Olive is officially pouting. “Oh stop it with the lip. I need to talk to your dad for a minute.”

“I’m sorry,” Dad begins. “I didn’t mean to scare your friend away.”

“She’s not my friend,” I reply coldly. But I would have liked her to be my friend, I think. What am I thinking? Saying? I haven’t dated anyone in the time Ellie has been gone because it didn’t feel right. Now I’m sitting here confused as all hell about how I got my emotions wound so tightly around Charlotte that I actually feel pain for what she did with AJ, and now this...a complete stranger has captured my attention in less than thirty minutes. This isn’t me.