Fearsome (21 page)

“I think it’s safe for you to go down and eat now,” I tell him. He cocks his head and then does a wobbly stand before stumbling off the couch and running out of the room.

I stare past my computer monitors to the large tree outside the bay windows, mesmerized by a swaying branch. I don’t even notice the plate being put in front of me until Carson speaks. “Thought you must be hungry.”

He made me a peanut butter and jelly sandwich with apple slices and a glass of lemonade. This is the same meal he used to serve Dylan and me when we were kids.

“Thanks. I’m famished,” I say, finally looking at him.

“The kitchen is almost done. You can use it now, though. I still have to put the new cabinet fronts on, but the appliances are all hooked up.” He perches on the edge of my desk while I eat. His great ass is awfully close to my keyboard. Talk about a distraction.

“Did my Aunt’s trust cover the expense and did Archie already pay you for everything?” I keep my eyes on my plate.

“Everything is in order. You don’t have to do a thing.”

I nod and hold up an apple slice before biting into it. “Really? You think you have to cut up my apples like I’m a five-year-old?” I smile.

Carson shrugs and chuckles. “Habit. I still slice my apples, too.”

I nibble the apple while he watches me, and it seems an odd turn of events that Carson is here instead of Dylan, and that we can be close to one another in this pleasant state without any friction bordering the edges of the air between us as it does when I’m with Dylan.

Being with Carson, I don’t sense that I’m on the verge of something disagreeable taking over. He’s black and white, easy to read. He’s either pissed or pleasant. I may not know why, but I can always read his emotions. By comparison, Dylan is made of many hues in between that I can’t interpret. Dylan is a palette of paint that I don’t know how to brush on paper, no matter how long I stare at the various color combinations. Nothing clicks with Dylan, unless it’s sex.

“Did Dylan tell you my good news? About the art show I’m going to be in this winter.” I say it joylessly.

Carson senses my disappointment. “No. He didn’t say anything about it. Congratulations, Jess. Gin would be very proud of you.”

I want to stay in this lovely room with its warm wood, smells of worn leather and old books and keep talking to Carson. This is where I want to be, but I have to remind myself that he is not mine. I have chosen to be with someone else and it’s a mistake that is entirely my fault.

Dylan arrives with Leo and Daniel from the shop, and they help Carson finish the new cabinets in a matter of hours. I spend the time painting in the studio. In the evening, Dylan brings me down for the unveiling of the new kitchen.

“A dishwasher!” I exclaim and the men laugh.

They even transferred the old food to the new fridge and cupboards and mopped the dust off the floor. Carson is right; I don’t have to do anything.

They crack open a few bottles of beer and talk for a while about business and then Leo and Daniel load the tools into the back of Carson’s truck.

Before he leaves, Carson stops at the front door, turns to me and puts his hand on my shoulder. “Congratulations, Jess. Your show will be great.”

“Thanks, Carson.” I want to do more. I want to hug him for this, but I can’t. Not in front of Dylan.

Dylan closes the door. “You told him about the show?”

“Yes. I wanted to share it with someone. I was surprised you didn’t tell him this morning at work.”

“I forgot, that’s all,” Dylan says, but his dejected expression says otherwise.

“Dylan, this show is a big deal to me and I thought you’d be happy for me. You’re acting like I’ve been called for duty and I’m going off to war.”

He doesn’t say anything. I follow him around the first floor as he shuts off lights. “Dylan, what’s going on? Is this because of our conversation last night? Is this because you’re depressed again and you won’t get help?” I ask, pleading.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” he raises his voice. “You and Carson both, lay off.”

“I’m sick of you acting like this doesn’t affect the rest of us. It has everything to do with me and Carson and your friends,” I say. He avoids eye contact with me, closing windows, shutting off lights and locking doors. I’m right behind him because I need to resolve this.

“Let’s go to bed.”

“You can’t fuck your way out of everything, Dylan!” I shout. “I’m sick of you being so glum, and your answer to avoiding your problem when you’re with me is to screw. You can’t decide that you’ll be happy only during sex and then miserable the rest of the time. You may think that works for you, but it doesn’t work for me.”

Dylan stands on the first landing and stares at me, shocked by my rant. I try to run past him up the stairs to get to my bedroom, but he grabs my arm and pulls me back to him. “I don’t want to make you miserable,” he says. “I thought we were becoming closer. I want to live with you. I thought you’d want me to move in.”

“What? Live together? Dylan, we can’t even work out the problems we have now. You think moving in together and combining our belongings will solve our problems?”

“I practically live here as it is.”

“Yes, I know. And we don’t seem to be doing very well outside of the bedroom.” It’s too late to take back my harsh words. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

Dylan lets go of my arm. “I haven’t done everything the way you think I should, but I do love you. I know if we live together, I’ll get back on track so my—my mood swings are under control.”

“No, Dylan, you have to do that anyway, whether you live with me or not. You have to get professional help. I can’t live with you. Not like this. This is how wrong the situation is; you were thinking of moving in together and I was thinking we need to take a break from us.”

“You’re breaking up with me?” He looks down. His whole body seems to deplete whatever energy it has left. He’s not the Dylan I met two months ago, the gregarious personality that took over a room. The strength and effervescence is seeping from this Dylan. He’s becoming hollow and muted and he won’t let anyone help him.

“We both need to be apart from one another for a while, but—”

“Don’t say ‘
we’
. It’s you that needs to be apart from me,” he says without any hostility. He walks slowly back down the stairs and I want to go after him, but I have nothing left to give him. Dylan picks up the keys to his Jeep from the hall table and walks out the front door without looking back at me.

I sit down on the step and cry, sparsely at first and then it pours out of me. I have never cried over a broken relationship, I’ve never been in this situation where my stomach hurts and my heart aches for something I’ve done, somebody I’ve hurt.

With Dylan’s absence, my bed seems enormous. Bert takes it upon himself to hobble up on the covers and join me. I am awake most of the night, wondering what I could have done better to make things right, however, even a genius can get it wrong most of the time. I get up and find my cell phone. I think about calling Marissa and Kate to make plans to meet them back in the city, instead I text Lauren and Imogene, asking if we can spend Saturday together. I’ll be turning twenty-one and I’d rather have people around me so I can pretend to be happy.

Twenty-Two

On Saturday it rains, bringing with it a cool wind and some relief. It allows me to sleep in and make up for all those late-night wake-ups.

Imogene and Lauren plan to come for the day and spend the night. They show up with overnight bags, junk food, a bag of limes and tequila. “Happy Birthday!” they scream when I open the front door.

“How did you know?” I ask, hustling them off the wet porch.

“Archie told us,” Lauren answers. “He knows everything. He’s like a wizard or something.”

“It’s official; you’re old enough for margarita night.” Imogene holds up the tequila.

“I am so glad you guys are here,” I say with a timid smile before the crying starts.

Imogene and Lauren usher me over to the living room couch and I gladly sit down and bawl uncontrollably.

“I really screwed up,” I say between sobs.

“We heard all about the break up; you don’t have to say anything. These things happen every day. You’ll be fine.” Imogene puts her arm around my shoulders.

“Don’t listen to her,” Lauren says. “You can tell us anything. All we heard is that Dylan has been crashing at Leo’s again. He told us the other day at the diner.”

I wipe my eyes with the tissues Imogene gives me. “Great, now everyone knows.”

“No, only the people at the diner.” Lauren sighs.

“Yep, that’s pretty much the whole town,” Imogene adds.

“Carson was right again. He’s the wizard. I should have listened to him,” I say. “All this time, he knew this would happen.”

“No, he didn’t,” Imogene says. “What did he say to you?”

“I haven’t seen him since Dylan left, but when Dylan first asked me out, Carson didn’t want us to start anything. He said I’d hurt Dylan and I did.”

“Even Carson could not predict this. Besides, you didn’t intentionally hurt Dylan. You look pretty broken up, too, so it’s fair to say that it took two people to make this happen.” Imogene rubs my back.

“Leo says that Dylan hasn’t said a word about what happened. He said Dylan is barely speaking at all.” Lauren’s eyes bug out to emphasize Dylan’s awful state.

“So you finally started talking to Leo?” I ask.

“Oh, God, no. He’s still afraid to talk to me, I guess, but he talks to Bonnie and I stand right there to listen in.”

Imogene shakes her head. “They are so pathetic. They’re both too terrified to ask the other out so they have conversations through my grandmother. Honestly, my grandmother is afraid she’ll have to go on a date with them.”

Imogene and I both laugh at that.

“See, Jess? I’m not doing much better than you. That’s why I have brought the best movies to get over heartbreak.” Lauren digs through her tote bag.

“Like what?” I ask, expecting a slew of sappy romantic comedies.

“I have
Goodfellas
.” She hands me the DVD case. “I have
Dog Day Afternoon
, one of the greatest love stories ever told, by the way.”

“Aren’t these bloody, violent films?” I ask.

“Lauren has a thing for mob movies and crime flicks,” Imogene says.

“No, I watch what my dad watches. It’s our thing. I also brought
Raging Bull
,
Fargo
, and I have two seasons of
Boardwalk Empire
. There is a lot of romance in B.E.; all we need are the margaritas and we can get this party started!” Lauren cheers with a jump.

“I don’t think these movies are going to be much help.” I fan through the gloomy DVD covers.

“It’s going to be fun. Besides, it’s not like we can go out. The rain is coming down sideways. We can’t go out driving in this weather,” Lauren says. “The news said the hurricane has turned into a tropical storm and it’s coming inland. It’s going to get worse before it gets better.”

“Fine,” I say as Imogene pulls me into the kitchen after Lauren.

We mix drinks and fill big bowls with chips and Cheetos, a forbidden food in my parents’ home because my father thought the orange powder was unhealthy, this from a man who stocked our home with Oreos and pudding.

Imogene is rummaging through cupboards, which have been re-arranged by Carson and Dylan when they finished the kitchen. “Where are the friggin’ margarita glasses that Gin used to have in here?”

“I don’t know where anything is,” I say.

“The boys did an amazing job on the kitchen, but I want those fucking giant margarita glasses!” Imogene shouts. Then she lets out a loud gasp that causes Lauren and me to whip our heads in unison.

“What?” Lauren asks.

“Oh. My. God.” Imogene turns around and we see the small, velvet ring box open in her hand with a solitaire diamond ring nestled in it.

I’m staring at it, hoping that we find a scrap of information to go along with it, something along the lines of a love letter from one of Aunt Virginia’s former lovers, but I know this cupboard has been wiped out within the last week and anything in there now—groceries or diamond rings—are from recent purchases.

“Shit almighty. That looks real,” Lauren says.

“It is. The bag and receipt were next to it on the shelf.” Imogene hands me the receipt so I can see the proof for myself. She timidly holds the ring box in her open palm.

I study the receipt. The ring was purchased in the city at a jewelry story in midtown Manhattan, the diamond district. It’s dated last week, the night of my blow up with Dylan. He came home and helped finish the kitchen then hid the ring on a shelf where he knew I’d never look because I can’t cook and never scrounge for dishware.

“Dylan bought this,” I say. Imogene holds the ring out to me, but I can’t touch it. I shake my head and step back as if it’s radioactive. “This is worse than I thought.”

Imogene and Lauren huddle and snatch the ring from its velvet cradle. Lauren holds it up to the kitchen light. “Is this three carats? This is unbelievable. What was Dylan thinking? Men don’t propose marriage after a few weeks of dating.”

“Tell that to my parents. You remember them, Pammy and Mark? Our cooks? They got hitched after three dates and guess who was born eleven months later?” Imogene points a finger at herself.

“No one says ‘
hitched’
,” Lauren adds. “But on the bright side, that’s a great story with a happy ending.”

“No. No,” I say. “This is unbelievable. I had no idea Dylan was thinking about marriage. This is crazy.” I run down to the hall to get away from the ring. I’m getting good at fleeing rooms. Apparently the country life and having so much space to run in my home has taught me how to flee any scene like a crazed chicken. The girls follow me with a tray of margaritas.

“We put the ring back in the cupboard. Tonight we celebrate your birthday. We shall not speak of you-know-who,” Lauren says.