Let It Go (3 page)

The sound of his soothing, indulgent tone affecting her in the pit of her stomach. “Maybe,” she says. Her eyebrow rises challengingly, forcing her confidence to return.

“So, what do you do, Savannah Bondurant?” He continues stretching amidst their conversation.

“I’m a writer. For the
Savannah Sun Times.”
She takes note of the bulk in his arms as he leans back onto them, propping himself up, his body language open and angled toward her.

He smiles mischievously, leaning further into her personal space. “Do you write about
sex and the city?”
his tone playful and low, as he references the once popular television series, assuming she may be a fan.

“Something like that,” she giggles, a mixture of pleasure and nerves. Quickly turning the focus on him, “What about you?” she asks.

“Guess,” he says, that seductive smile reappearing. “It’s always fun to see what kind of first impression people have. What do you think I do for a living?”

“Alright.” She accepts his challenge, considering her instincts as a journalist to be quite shrewd. “I’d say by the feel of your hands, you actually work with them. That rules out any kind of desk job.”

“Very perceptive,” he says. “That’s a good quality.” Inherently tending his dating and mating ‘must-haves’ checklist, he crosses off
number three—smart.
A runaway bead of perspiration trails from his forehead to his temple causing one of his tell-tale calloused hands to catch it, rubbing it away.

“Here.” Savannah quickly offers up her
Terrible Towel,
noting his form-fitting t-shirt is nearly drenched.

“You don’t mind?” he double-checks.

“Not at all,” she says, fully aware of the fact that she has already swapped sweat with him, if only in her imagination.

He peels his baseball cap off, revealing a full head of dark, wavy hair, trimmed high and tight as he mops the cotton cloth across his forehead and around the backside of his neck.

“Ah, much better,” he says, looking at the rumpled-up towel in his hand. He squints the corners of his eyes, reluctant in handing it back to her. “I can take it home. Wash it. And bring it back to you.”

“No worries,” she says, grabbing the yellow and black rag from his hand. In a show of support and total lack of conceit, she swipes the towel across her own forehead and down around the backside of her neck, between two long, low-lying braids that sweep over the front of her shoulders.

The genuine action causing him to grow quite content, releasing another warm, infectious chuckle. Keenly aware of the attractive face smiling back at him, he catches himself, midway between reaching for her, his intent to brush a runaway piece of hair from her lip. Reining in his hand, he searches for a subject.

“So, you got it figured out? My job?”

“I’ve got it narrowed down,” she begins, “You’re either in construction, or athletics…maybe football…you’re definitely big enough.” She motions at his long, substantial frame. “Or maybe, you’re a male model.”

“Shit,” he snickers, completely uncomfortable and too humble to even consider such a notion.

“If Mark Wahlberg modeled Calvins,” she refers to the once popular underwear ad, “you certainly could. Besides, look at your eyelashes,” she points out the dark, uber-long accessories. “It’s really unfair, you know. Do you know how many of my friends pay to get those lashes?”

He smiles. “Modeling underwear? Never even made it on my radar. But, if you want a new kitchen table, a hutch, bed frame…I’m your man.” He holds up his calloused hands. “I make rustic furniture. From the tree to your home.”

“A modern day Paul Bunyan, huh?” Savannah jests, her mind recalling a piece of American folklore, quite possibly a new-fashioned female sexual fantasy.

“Yeah,” he chuckles. “Minus the full beard and flannel shirt.” His hand simultaneously runs across his budding five o’clock shadow, now conscious of its presence.

His action draws Savannah’s attention to the ruggedness of his square jawline, wondering what it would feel like against her hand, or any part of her body for that matter.

More gym-goers have flooded their once private corner, reminding Brody of the time and place. “Well, I’ve probably interrupted enough of your workout. I’ll let you get back to it.” He extends his hand for one more contact with hers. “A pleasure, Savannah Bondurant.”

“You too, Brody McAlister,” she returns his formal address, getting back to her push-ups as he walks away.
One, two, three, four…

Chapter Three

An hour later, as the sun is starting to set, Savannah pulls up in front of her house in suburban Savannah. A red sports car sits in the drive, accompanied by its owner, Jack Brigant, who sits on the front steps of the residence.

“What does he want?” Savannah mutters, gathering up her belongings. Shoving her keys inside her purse, she smiles as her hand makes contact with a note left under the windshield wiper of her Jeep at the gym.
Do you like to run, Savannah Bondurant? If so, give me a call sometime. 555-8484. Brody McAlister, male model. Lol!
Prepping herself, she takes a deep breath, exhaling as she walks up the drive.

“You really did it?” Jack asks. Attired in his station #10 Savannah Fire Department t-shirt and matching blue duty cargoes, he sits on the front porch steps, his hands agitating briskly against one another, elbows propped on his knees. “You signed the papers?” his tone still disbelieving.

“Jack, I don’t want to argue,” Savannah prefaces, mindful of how that’s the only thing she and the attractive, sandy blond-haired man seem to be good at these days.

He rises to greet her, his arms open wide for an embrace. Savannah dodges his gesture, sitting down on the step next to him. “We can’t even hug anymore?” he scoffs.

She shakes her head, looking up at the sky, quelling the urge to tell him to call one of his
girls
if he’s in need of comfort, assured they are dutifully waiting by their phones. “It was inevitable, Jack. Why can’t you just accept that?”

“Accept it?” he spins around, the look on his face partially hurt, mostly angry. “Separation, divorce, was your idea.” He points his finger at her, accusing and aggressive in its action.

“Gee, I wonder why?” she throws her arms out, gesturing at him. “I’ve told you a hundred times, I am not a child. Do not point your finger at me,” her voice rising. She calms herself. “Seriously, Jack,” she looks up at him, her eyes anguished, “when was the last time we had a conversation and you didn’t raise your voice at me?”

“Oh, let’s see,” he pauses, calculating, “probably since the time you told me you wanted to sleep with other men.”

She chuckles sarcastically. “So that’s what ‘this isn’t working anymore’ translates to these days?” she spars, noting her exact reasoning for their separation.

“Well, if I’m not doing it for you, basically what you’re saying is somebody else will. It makes me sick to think about some other man holding you. Some other man…” his teeth pressed together, he spews, “in your bed.”

Savannah stands, fed up with his consistent aversion to dealing with the truth and deflection of responsibility by twisting her words, an obvious speed-bump in their ability to reconcile. “I am not having this conversation with you. Goodnight Jack.” She walks toward the door.

“Savannah,” he calls after her, his voice cracking. “I don’t know what to do. I can’t get over you.” He slumps back down onto the step, holding his head in his hands.

Against her better judgment, she turns around, rejoining him on the step, her hand familiarly stroking his back. “Jack, please don’t do this. Don’t cry.”

“Oh yeah, don’t cry,” he sputters. “You sure got that down pat. Shut it all off. Don’t show any emotion.” He looks at her, his eyes now calling on his tears. “I can’t even remember the last time you cried to me.”

“I guess I just learned to depend on myself.” She reflects on the last year and a half, the endless nights spent alone, crying, second-guessing, wanting him—the man she fell in love with, to be lying beside her. “I think I’m all cried out.”

“So, that’s it? You’re over it? Us?” His questions more accusations than inquiries.

“When was the last time you were happy, Jack?” she asks softly. “Truly happy with us?” His somber brown eyes all the answer she needs, he shrugs his shoulders. “Life’s too short not to have what you want.”

“But, I do want you, Savannah,” he argues.

“Maybe,” she says. “Maybe you do want me…that girl you fell in love with eight years ago. I’m not that girl anymore, Jack. And you’re not that same guy. It’s okay. People grow, they evolve, and not always in the same direction.”

He wipes his forearm across the bridge of his nose, clearing his throat, his tears now in check. “How in the hell did we get here?”

Savannah shakes her head. “I’ve asked myself the same question. Let me know when you find the answer.” She attempts to lighten the mood, her elbow gently jabbing him in the ribs.

He huffs, a strained grin appearing on his lips. “So, did you clean me out today at the courthouse?”

“Yep. Took you for all you’re worth.” Her smile quickly fades. “Only took what was mine. My debt, my house, and the Jeep. You keep your place out in the boondocks,” she quips, thanking her lucky stars she resisted moving out there upon his urging two years ago.
And may I remind you, you’re the one who moved out. You’re sure to point out that divorce was my idea. How do you propose we stay successfully married while living in two different households?
She keeps the thought to herself, as rehashing it now would be pointless. Aptly returning to the topic at hand, she continues, “I didn’t touch your retirement. And I figured you’d want the car for the gas mileage, driving in and out of the city.”

“That easy, huh?” he asks. “One lousy signature negates eight years of a life shared. Shouldn’t surprise me, seeing how you never even took my last name.”

“I guess that’s what happens when you elope to Vegas.” She chuckles with the memory, looking down at her left hand, her ring finger empty, as usual. “Jack, we never even bought rings.”

“You said you didn’t want one,” he quickly returns.

“I know,” she says, patting his leg, excusing him from the responsibility.
But you never even presented one,
her internal voice snaps, surprising herself with the now obvious disappointment, resentment maybe.

“Like a bird, aren’t you,
babe?”
Jack begins, annoying her with the use of the affectionate term, still slipping it in every now and then as if to stir bygone emotions. “Free to fly at will. You definitely made sure you didn’t get tied down to me. Didn’t take my last name, wouldn’t move into my house.”

Me? Bird? You’re the one who flew the coop! Moved out to the country. That was never in my plans. I’ve lived in Savannah all my life. And don’t think I don’t know that was your way of trying to strong-arm me. Getting me to do what you wanted me to.
Again, she keeps the reply to herself, knowing it would only ignite a played-out argument.

“Refused to get pregnant,” Jack continues. “It all makes sense, looking back. Even though I had you, I never
really
had you, did I?”

“Jack, nobody gets into a relationship with the intention to breakup. I certainly did not get married to wind up divorced. And I don’t know why you insist on deflecting the real issues,” she adds, wishing she could take back the sentiment as quickly as it comes out of her mouth, knowing it certainly will not change anything.

“And we’re back to this again. It’s my fault we’re divorced,” he says flippantly.

“I never said that.”
And if you don’t quit putting words in my mouth,
she swallows the urge to rebuke, attempting to mediate further arguing, and frankly growing tired of the whole dysfunctional cycle they’ve been spinning in for the past several years. “I wasn’t feeding your needs. And you weren’t feeding mine. We both failed. It’s as simple as that.”

“‘It takes two to start a relationship. It takes two to end it,’” he mocks her previously spoken viewpoints, “and blah, blah, blah.”

She ignores his probing, having given up on the idea that they will ever be able to see eye to eye.

“So you’re just going to give up on me? On us? I never pegged you for a quitter, Savannah,” he continues, displeased with her non-response.

She huffs, an outward smirk forming, buffering her internal anger, recalling all the time spent trying to fix things, all of her requests to seek marriage counseling and all of his refusals, denials and rebuttals. “Goodnight Jack,” she says, meaning it this time, departing the steps for the front door.

“That’s right. I’m sure you have work to do, as usual,” he sputters, standing from his seated position. “Can we at least be friends?” he calls after her.

She stops at the door, turning back to him. “I hope so, Jack. I’d hate to think we shared eight years of our lives and can’t even come out of it as friends. I’ll leave that up to you.” She walks inside, the door closing behind her. Moments later, she hears the tires of his cherry-red souped-up Challenger screeching out of the drive.

The next evening, Savannah and her middle sister Evangeline “Vangie” sit shoulder-to-shoulder amongst a packed house at the local women’s roller derby tournament. Their oldest sister Jacqueline “Jac” participates in the derby. Vangie’s children, Luka (age six) and Zoey (age four), sit on her and Savannah’s laps, their hands fist deep in a popcorn bucket.

“Nice block, Aunt
Jac-You-Up!”
Luka cheers, her Aunt Jac’s roller derby handle, her fist flexed and pumping in the air.

“Go Aunt
Jac-Up!”
Zoey joins in, not quite hitting the mark with her delivery of the moniker, her fist high in the air like Luka’s.

“Monkey see, monkey do,” Luka challenges her younger sister, annoyed by her constant copycat behavior.

Completely unaffected, Zoey smiles, tickling her own underarm. “Ooh ooh eeh ahh ahh,” she jousts. Luka grabs a handful of popcorn and wings it at Zoey. “Mama!” Zoey yells, her bottom lip contorting and protruding from her mouth.