A Fine Mess (Over the Top) (14 page)

As soon as I step off the plane and power up my phone, eight texts appear from Sawyer.

You left an hour ago, and I’m horny.

Two hours. How am I supposed to last three weeks?

I can’t stop thinking about us on that paddleboard.

Do you know you taste like strawberry?

It’s uncomfortable walking around with a constant hard-on.

What if it doesn’t go away until I see you?

I think I need medical attention.

If I jerk off in the airplane bathroom while thinking of you, is that cool?

I cover my face with my hand, sure everyone knows what I’m reading. He’s still midflight, but I type a message.

Sounds like a dangerous condition. Call me when you get home. I might be able to help.

I grin as I hit send. He’ll land in a few hours, enough time for me to get my bag and drive home and wait for his call. Maybe I’ll put on some lingerie. Not seeing him for three weeks will be torture, but the phone calls should be fun.

I follow the signs to the baggage claim, practically dancing on the spot as I wait for my luggage. When I was in this airport a week ago, my world was crumbling around me. The man I loved didn’t want me, I’d lost my best friend by breaking up with Kevin, and my need to shop had spiked. Now I’m reborn. Being with Sawyer is better than I ever imagined, physically and emotionally. He’s air, elastic matter, filling every room he enters, leaving little space for my anxiety. And God, the sex. Already my body craves him. I almost did exactly what he mentioned in the airplane bathroom.

Moving to Vancouver is my perfect solution—a fresh start away from the farmhouse. I’ll put things in order here, make sure the mortgage is paid and the grounds are tended, my secret self locked forever behind those doors.

A moth to a butterfly.

The ring of people around the carousel grows, and a lanky kid pinches his nose. “It smells,” he complains to his mother.

I lift my nose in the air: rubber, metal, and something sharp, astringent, as though the floors were recently mopped. Gone are the sun and sand and salt and sea. But I still have Sawyer. My phone rings then, and I frown at the name on the screen.

I hit talk. “Kevin?”

“Hi, Lily. Sorry to call. It’s just…I…shit…”

His voice cracks, and my frown deepens. “What’s going on? Is something wrong?” I hope he’s not calling because he misses me. I’d never leave Sawyer for him, never go back to a relationship that’s all history and no heat, and to say it would be painful, to admit I’ve moved on.

An eternity passes before he says, “It’s my dad. He died. This morning. He had a heart attack. Really sudden. My mom found him in the garage. Working on his car. Slumped over the hood. He was already gone.”

Kevin replays the tragedy as though reciting a shopping list, a slight tremor in his voice, but I’m shaking. The words barely compute. Jim.
Gone?
I missed his last Christmas. His wife has been left behind; Grace will never share an evening walk with him again. Gone. Gone. Gone. He won’t attend his daughter’s summer wedding. Kevin’s future children will never meet their grandfather. Never again will I hear his roaring laugh.

My lips tremble.

“I’m at the house,” he says, his voice thick. “Your folks are here, but I told them I’d call you. I
wanted
to call you. Just…not because I need you that way, but you’re my best friend, Lily. You were, at least. You knew him. And my mom’s acting weird. I didn’t know who else to call.”

My pink bag drops onto the conveyor belt and glides toward me, the remains of my week with Sawyer inside: the bikini he slipped his fingers under, the nightgown he lifted over my head, the dress I wore as we sipped drinks and ate dessert and touched in knowing ways. It doesn’t hold the trinkets I bought the day he arrived. I gave them to the hotel staff, a gift for them, freedom for me.

The bag slips out of sight.

“I’m so sorry,” I finally say. Empty words. Useless. My throat burns. “I’ll drive up tomorrow. I’m glad you called. I’m here for you. I always will be. I just can’t believe he’s gone.” I force air into my lungs.

“I know. I keep thinking it’s a hoax or something. Like a sick joke. He just bought a necklace for my mom. I helped him pick it out for their anniversary.” A deep sigh carries across the line. “I’m not sure how I’ll be able to leave her alone in this house. She’s acting weird.”

“Don’t worry about that now. I’ll be up tomorrow afternoon. I’ll help out however I can.” I don’t ask more about his mother. I just want to get off the phone; he doesn’t need to hear the sob creeping up my throat. “Tell my folks, okay?”

“Sure. And thanks. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

The second I end the call, I slap my hand over my mouth, barely containing the strangled sound trying to escape. I hurry to the bathroom and lock myself in a stall. My chest heaves, my vision blurs. Jim and my father taught Kevin and me how to ride bikes. They took us to our first rodeo. I’d sometimes ride on Jim’s tractor with him when he was cutting the lawn. He was my neighbor, a second father, and now he’s gone.

I may not have been as close with him as I was with my nana, but it cuts. A wound reopened. I roll my fingers over the jade bracelet I made last year, the stones borrowed from antique earrings:
A woman boards the
Titanic
and watches as the land slips away.
I’ll have to tell Sawyer the news, but I can’t fall apart the way I did after my nana. Not in front of him. Never in front of him. I’m moving to Vancouver, locking that part of myself in the farmhouse. It won’t be a relapse. It can’t. Somehow I’ll keep it together.

I slow down as I near the long drive that leads to my childhood home. The whole trip passed in a fog, the cars and scenery blurring by. I was here a couple of weeks ago, a quick visit after spending the day at my farmhouse, but it feels like it’s been a lifetime. The snow is higher, the air cooler, our sprawling property thick with memory: Jim helping to fix our barn door, Kevin tossing a ball with his father.

When I pull up to the garage, I turn off the car and sit. And sit.
Poundpoundpound
goes my heart. It’s hard to swallow. Our wraparound porch encircles the broad house, the gray shutters a contrast to the cream wood. The road to the stables is freshly plowed, the new roof buried under snow, the red walls bright against the winter landscape. Everything is so
still
.

I open the car door, and the cold stings my face. God, I miss Belize. And Sawyer. Particularly Sawyer. At least he’s coming soon. When I told him what happened, he insisted on booking a flight. My feeble attempts to claim I was fine fell on deaf ears. “Try that shit on someone else,” he said. “I’ll be there in a few days. Plus, I’ll get to see where you grew up. And meet your folks. And spend time in Teenage Lily’s bedroom. To comfort you, of course.”

Even in my frazzled state, I laughed.

It will be good having him here. Hard at first, but Kevin will understand. I hope, at least. Kevin is nothing if not compassionate, and he was as keen as me to move on. Sawyer calms me, blots out my anxiety with his charm and humor. I’ll need him now more than ever.

I push into the house, the screen door slamming behind me as I drag my suitcase in. Quiet greets me, my folks likely at Kevin’s. I close the main door, sealing out the harsh wind, and drop my bag at the foot of the stairs. I turn into the living room, my eyes slipping over the space, along the cream walls and dark hardwood floors. Unlike the stories I often invent, the tales in here bring my childhood to life. I pause on the places that speak of Jim: the chair he’d sit in when over for dinner, the landscape painting above the fireplace he helped my father hang.

The few framed photos on the mantel haven’t changed. Normally, I barely notice them. Today, I look. I take the time to see. The first is of my high school graduation. I’m arm in arm with Raven and Shay, our fancy dresses skimming the floor. We skinny-dipped that night, the three of us splashing into the pond behind the barn. The memory blankets me. The next two are of me with my parents. The last one, the largest of the four frames, renews my ache. Kevin and I are on our fathers’ shoulders, holding up a silver cup they won at some fishing thing.

It’s a candid moment, Jim’s head thrown back as though I can hear his raucous laughter and the old sixties music he always played. The silver cup sits beside the frame, and an itch bubbles under my skin.

Take it. Keep it. Save it.

I slip the small treasure from the mantel. My folks won’t mind. It’s just a memento. Something to hold, a keepsake to remember. Any normal person would want such a thing.

Normal, normal, normal.

Heart thundering, I zip it into my bag before I trudge to Kevin’s.

The snowy path between our homes is well used, his property just beside ours. We’d run between the two places as kids, our lives divided by nothing but a row of trees.

I knock on the door and stamp my feet to keep warm.

“Coming!” Kevin’s voice calls.

Vapor curls from my lips with each sharp exhalation. Not only do I have to face Kevin’s grief, but I have to tell him about Sawyer. There’s no avoiding it. This should be about his father, his loss, but the news I bring with me is big, too, my heart racing faster than it did in my house. With Sawyer coming, I have to confess I’ve moved on.

Kevin opens the door, and his Adam’s apple drags down his neck. “Lily.”

He’s always been slight, fine-boned, but his narrow shoulders seem thinner, his smooth-cheeked face younger, his straight brown hair neater, parted as always to the side. It also doesn’t look like he’s slept much—dark circles cradle his green eyes.

We both hesitate, then he opens his arms. I rush him hard, hugging his lean frame. “I’m sorry. So, so sorry.” My tears gather, but I blink quickly. My crying won’t help his family cope.

He sighs and presses his cheek against my head. “Come in, we should close the door.” He shuts out the cold and studies me. “It’s nice to see you. You look great. Tan. Raven mentioned you still went to Belize.”

I offer a weak smile. “It was beautiful.”
And I was there with another man
, I don’t say. He needs to know the basics, though. The fact that Sawyer and I are together. If Sawyer weren’t showing up here in a few days, I’d avoid it altogether, but I don’t have that luxury. Suddenly, my winter jacket is stifling, the scarf around my neck a noose. I tug on the suffocating yarn. “There’s something I have to tell you, and the timing is awful, and I feel really weird about it, but—”

“Sawyer was with you? Yeah. I know. Raven called when she heard about my dad and mentioned you didn’t cancel the trip. I got kind of pissed. Didn’t think it was smart for you to be there on your own. She let it slip about Sawyer.” He looks down then, at our bodies close from our hug, and he steps away. “It was hard to hear it. I won’t lie. Not because I want us back together. We’re both better off. There’s just a lot of history, and I worry about you. I don’t like what I’ve heard about the guy.”

My pulse taps a restless tune, Kevin’s understanding and loss composing the rapid beats. I’m relieved he knows, eased that he’s not upset or angry, but my hackles go up. “Sawyer might not have a good track record with women, but things are different with us.”

He narrows his eyes, a hint of accusation behind his stare. “It’s serious, then? This soon?”

“I don’t know. Sort of.”
Definitely yes.
The words
I love you
nearly spilled free when I said good-bye to Sawyer in Belize, like they had several times before. Panicked I’d freak him out, I tamed the urge. Still, Kevin doesn’t need to know. “Nothing happened while you and I were together. I swear. But we’ve been close for a while. As friends, with work and everything. The rest happened naturally. He’ll be here in a few days.” I exhale and twist my hands; this is the last thing we should be talking about. “How have you been? I still can’t believe your dad’s gone.”

He stares at me a second longer, then scrubs a hand down his face. “I have my moments. I’m fine one second, then emotional the next. Comes in waves. It’ll take some time, I guess, but I’ll be fine.”

“Are your sisters here?”

“Yeah. Everyone’s in the living room. Except my mom. She’s upstairs.”

“She must be a wreck.”

“I’m not sure that’s what I’d call it.”

A thump sounds from above, and we glance at the ceiling. Their house is a smaller version of ours, simple in its country charm, cute sayings hung on the walls, floral curtains and couches. As kids, Kevin, his sisters, and I would tear from room to room, jumping on the beds and making a mess, laughter and shouts ringing down the hallway. There’s only stillness now, the hushed murmurs from the living room accentuating the somber mood.

“What do you mean?”

He drags a hand down his face again, pausing to rub his eyes. “She’s been packing all his things up. Like she wants to erase every memory of him. It’s kind of nuts.”

“Like, everything?”

He shrugs. “Yes and no. She’s being smart about it, keeping some stuff and making sure Amanda, Kaitlyn, and I all have the things we want, but she’s working nonstop. Practically through the night. Wants to do it all on her own. Her room is filled with boxes.”

I fist my hands so tightly, my nails nearly break skin. When I saw the stacks of boxes in my nana’s house, her life contained in cardboard, my anxiety spiked. I needed her things in a way I’d never experienced before. A primal urge to keep it all close, to keep her memory alive.

My neck tingles in an all-too-familiar way.

He gestures to the living room entrance down the hall. “Why don’t you say hi to Amanda and Kaitlyn? And your folks. They’ve been waiting on you.” As I remove my coat and hang it on the hooks by the door, he adds, “I’m glad you came, Lily.”

“So am I.” Except I can’t stop picturing those boxes. I inhale deeply, the familiar scent of pine thick in the room. I exhale to the count of three. When our family cat died three years ago, I shopped for two days straight. Before my first job interview, I bought enough necklaces to lasso an elephant. When stress or sadness hits, it rushes through me like a tsunami, calm and safety achieved through purchases. Owning things. Keeping memories afloat to prevent my drowning. Today, like when my nana passed, the urge intensifies in a different way. All I picture are those boxes. Jim’s memory exists in his things. Tossing them is akin to killing him all over again—his life, his stories—pieces of him given to strangers. I can’t let it happen.