I'll Be Damned (Anna Wolfe Series) (3 page)

"Must be nice," I answer, annoyed.

"Okay, girls," Jack says, trying his best to maintain the peace.

Cara doesn't blink and jumps right into discussing her job at Coach, which she refers to as a career. She only took the job to obtain the twenty percent discounts on their handbags. I lean back in my chair, feeling aggravated, fidgeting with the champagne-colored dinner napkin while wishing I could disappear. Our entrees finally arrive and discussions continue to flow. I’m grateful to enjoy a more normal topic like sports and careers. I’ve always wanted to make a dent in the world, and my ambition never ceases. In second grade, I had a collection of gold stars next to my name for completed homework and classroom tasks. I was ridiculed for my achievement, which I expected. The bullying I got just for being me is what really hurt. I was different and everyone knew it. Gosh, I hated my grade school years. They called me horse-face. What a name. I used to come home in tears after the daily ridicule they’d unleash on me. Every day, I had to be on the defense, constantly concealing my wounds. It quickly turned into a full-time job. As the years passed, I realized the kind of attention I received could ruin my own integrity if left untreated, so I toughened up. Something inside me stirred one day, as if finally awoken. That was when the objects began moving inexplicably, and the classroom windows shattered. I shake my head, recalling them, but wanting to forget the memories that hurt too much.

Janie pinches my arm to get my attention. “Ouch! What’s that for?” I cry, rubbing the sore pinched area.

“Anna, can I stay with you until the wedding?” she asks in a murmur.

I shoot her a quizzical look. “Janie, you don’t have to, I'm fine.”

“I want to,” she answers, slowly elevating her voice. “We don’t get to spend any time together, with you living down here and all. Nick will drop me off at your place after dinner. His flight’s tomorrow, so it works out perfectly,” she finishes, flicking her wrist like it isn’t a big deal. I know she’s lying whenever she dismisses me so easily. It’s her way of saying shut up. 

“Mom and I would feel a lot better," Jack intrudes, looking my direction, "if there was someone keeping you company," he finishes with a nervous laugh.

I understand their concern, but I’m twenty-nine years old and I do know how to dress myself and tell the difference between my left and my right, and have for some time now.

“Oh, Jack, you always make sure everyone is taken care of,” my mother chimes in. 

I sigh inwardly, not understanding what the big deal is. Jack and my mother live on Hilton Head Island, which is only a thirty-minute drive; so if I were in dire need of sugar or company, I could always jump in my car. They moved there after falling in love with the island, which isn’t a surprise; it has that effect on lots of people. They left the hustle and bustle of New York City behind for a restful lifestyle. They bought a charming home right on Forest Beach, along with the two lots of contiguous land. Coligny Circle and The Salty Dog are simply a bike ride away. Life is good for them.

“Well, I guess I'd better be going. I have a load of work to catch up on and not enough time to get it done,” I announce. I stand up, smoothing the non-existent wrinkles out of my dress. "Here," I reach in my clutch and pull out three twenties.

"Don't even think about it," Jack insists. "You know better. Dinner is on us," he says pointing to my mother and him.

"Thanks, Jack," I respond, bending down and planting a kiss on his cheek.

“Anna? You know you can call me if you need to talk, right?” Cara reminds me. “We’re heading back to New York tomorrow, but I’ll be in touch three weeks before the wedding!”

“Okay,” I respond reluctantly. Accepting Cara's help is like borrowing money from a banker… you end up owing more than you can afford. I called her once at three in the morning after leaving a bar, desperately in need of a ride. She told me to call a cab and hung up on me. I still don’t remember how I managed to get home that night. After a few quick embraces, I exit the front doors and nearly sprint to my car. I hurdle in the driver's seat and flip on the ignition, listening to my engine purr. I stomp on the gas pedal, speeding off like a bat out of hell. I grab the knob on the radio, twisting it until my concerns are carried away to the tune of “People Are Strange”
by The Doors. What a coincidence, I chuckle, rolling my window down. The night's muggy air pours in, blanketing the seats in a familiar clamminess, and reminding me why I love the South. On nights like these, I wish I could keep driving until I’m in an unknown town with new faces.

I turn left, focusing on the dimly lit back road ahead of me. There are barely any street lights, but thankfully, the moon illuminates my path with its bright glow. My house is in Springfield, forty minutes from downtown Savannah. I don't like the idea of living so far from the city, but when I stumbled across my house, the commuter time seemed a small sacrifice in comparison. Something about it felt like me, that I was home. It was built as an old sawmill from the nineteenth century and used to mill lumber. In 1910, it was renovated into a Folk Victorian after the industry died down. Needless to say, I have a lot of land with very few neighbors - privacy at its finest! I pass the road leading to the town of Rincon, knowing my turn isn't far off. A phantom throb passes through my muscles like an aftermath. What are these spasms? My sporadic muscle cramping isn’t normal. I wish I could share it with Janie, but the last thing I want to do is worry her. Lately, I feel detached from everything. I mull it around in my head, trying to decide whom I should see first - a shrink or a family doctor. Either way, I know something isn’t right.

A few turns later, I’m pulling into my driveway. I still feel exhausted from the anxiety that Cara stirred up. Gosh, what is it with her? She’s so different from Janie and me. I drag myself out of my car, leisurely walking to the porch. I can't wait to leave these annoying worries at the door. I reach the front porch steps, when a loud rustling from the trees makes me stop and freeze with terror. Normally, I would chalk it up to a squirrel, but the crackling of the leaves tells me it’s a lot bigger. Sweat beads line my forehead and a lump of fear lodges in my throat. Every muscle in my body tightens, almost doubling me over. I wait in silence as the minutes tick by without a sound. We're in a standoff, each waiting for the other to make a move. I peek at the trees behind me where the noise originated, finding nothing. No red eyes or white mask; it’s just my paranoia getting the best of me. I tell myself it’s an animal, but I can’t ignore the feeling of dread that churns my stomach, heavy as a brick.

Cautiously climbing the porch steps, with my senses on high alert, I emerge at the top and take a quick inventory. The two moss green Adirondack chairs sit idly next to the porch swing, suspended from the ceiling. It gently sways in the light breeze, gliding next to the flower pots. Looking over my shoulder, I walk to my door, and unlock it, but quickly bolt it behind me. The sound of the deadbolt sliding calms my frazzled nerves. I press my back against the door, and exhale a long sigh of relief. My mind refuses to admit it was anything more than a stray cat.

I peel myself away from the door and stroll into the kitchen, flicking on every light switch along the way. After that terrifying false alarm, the last thing I want to do is roam around in the dark. I blatantly ignore the vast emptiness that does its best to welcome me home. I walk straight to the freezer, searching for something to feed my depression. I've already eaten, but I feel the need to drown my thoughts in a gallon of ice cream. After all, this is a safe form of self-pity, and at least, I can acknowledge it. Self-pity is the most hazardous emotion, if ignored. Anger? That’s nothing. Anger goes away with a good trip to the gym. Sadness vanishes as soon as you talk to a friend; but self-pity is like a virus, destroying one’s happiness without the person realizing it. Thankfully, I’m not the type of person to indulge in it too much. I seize a pint of Breyer's Mint Chocolate Chip ice cream and a large spoon. I sit at the kitchen table, plopping heaping mounds of frozen mintiness onto my tongue, enjoying every second of melting goodness. My appetite eventually ceases from the sugar overload, prompting me to put a hard stop to my secret gluttony. I stroll to the sink and rinse my spoon off contentedly.

The sound of my door unlocking sends chills down my spine. My breath retreats back into my lungs as I temporarily forget that Janie is coming over and has a key. I exhale a panic-stricken bubble. In an instant, Janie marches through the door, accompanied by a clatter of clicking nails on my hardwood floor. I turn to see her and Rutey, her Border Collie mix, walking through my foyer. He’s a handsome fellow, all black fur with a patch of white on his chest. He’s extremely smart and well-mannered, more than most men. Janie loves to bring him here because there are no limits to where he can run. What I don’t understand is why he always chooses to come back. I dry my hands on a towel and walk over to greet my guests.

“I hope you don’t mind, but I brought the big guy with me,” Janie says, patting Rutey’s back as he strolls towards me with his tail wagging.

“Of course, I don't mind!” I say in a baby voice, as I bend down to greet him. Like clockwork, Rutey is face to face with me, determined to lick away the awful day I had. I feel grateful for his cleansing, considering I’ve been wading around in knee-deep mucky thoughts for weeks. 

“You know you don’t have to stay with me. You have a husband who requires attention," I say, cocking my eyebrow suspiciously.

Rutey rolls on his back, exposing his white belly. His pink tongue lolls over his teeth as he rubs and squirms on the floor. With both hands, I scratch his belly, making both of us smile. The overwhelming feeling of satisfaction almost makes me consider adopting a dog. They have an addictive, magnetic attraction for love. Loyalty? That’s a given. Unconditional love? Check. They really define the true meaning of both, not the watered downed version humans practice. Dogs are in a relationship for the long haul, not a brief sabbatical. People say you learn something new every day. I must be lucky, seeing I learned two things today. First, the widely misused comment,
all men are dogs
is complete bullshit. It insults dogs. Second, I theorize that if I fill my house with love, maybe emptiness might not be such a frequent visitor. 

“Yeah, I know, but I feel like you need me.”

“Is it that obvious?” I reply, laughing.  Lately, my emotions have been floating close to the surface. 

“Kind of, but there’s another reason I’m staying with you. I need to talk to you about something.”

I feel another emotional intervention brewing. I know I've been upset, lethargic and downright negative, but I don’t need another intrusion on my surplus of feelings with regard to my situation. There are other things on my mind too, not just a stupid boy. I walk away from her, hoping she gets the hint. She follows me like a shadow until we’re both sitting on my couch.

“Nick and I are getting a divorce,” Janie blurts out.

I sit in shock. Words refuse to form, not that it matters, since my mouth would be unable to utter them. What? They are perfect for each other. No fighting, no need for long drawn-out talks or separations. Nick’s the type of guy who makes a woman feel like she’s the only one in the room. He’s romantic, sentimental and fiercely protective in a good way. I don't understand. “Janie... What...? Why? This doesn’t make any sense…” I stop speaking, unable to find any words.

“Anna, it's hard to explain.”

“I think I’m capable of keeping up.”

“I'm serious. This is a big deal... obviously. We haven't been happy for a while and forget passion and excitement… I don’t even know what those two words mean anymore,” Janie says as a blank look glazes over her chocolate-brown eyes. She’s so pretty, far prettier than I. Her beautiful chestnut hair is accented by wisps of strawberry-blond highlights. That, along with her slender build, afford her the compliment of looking like Nicole Kidman’s sister. She starts fidgeting, which is out of her character, so I get the sense she’s holding something back.

“That's normal, Janie. What do you think love is? What you see in the movies? I mean, come on! Even the relationships in Hollywood are recycled,” I respond, chuckling nervously.

“Anna, I know you think I’m crazy, but trust me when I say I need to do this.”

“I guess I understand,” I lie, “but I don’t want you to break off a marriage in the hopes of finding anything remotely close to what you think might be out there. You have a great guy who loves you and treats you well; why risk that? Don’t go chasing the wind.” Janie stares at me, not knowing how to rationalize her dissolved love to someone who used to want it so badly. “Janie, I'm sorry. I don't mean to sound unsupportive, but are you sure you’re making the right decision? The grass isn't always greener," I say, hating myself for resorting to a cliché.