Honey, When It Ends: The Fairfields | Book Two Page 6

  I don’t wake up gasping, or in a cold sweat. My psyche likes to fuck with me far too much for obvious symptoms like those. All I’m left with is a weirded-out feeling, when I open my eyes and remember I’m in Levi’s spare room. My loft is gone. Everything is. I should be blatantly upset, but I’m “out of sorts,” at most.

  Mom always told me my emotions ran like molasses in an icebox: I was so calm, too calm, and it took my feelings ages to catch up to real life, if they ever did. Maybe that’s why I’m not devastated about the fire. Bummed, sure. But I doubt I’ll ever feel truly, deeply sad over it.

  The comforter (I laugh when I see it actually is Kate Spade) smells like the rest of the room: preserved. Technically clean, but deserted. The same smell when you use your air conditioner for the first time all year, or when you store old papers in a new shoe box. Like the dream, it’s not unpleasant so much as unsettling.

  I dig some clothes from my bag, tear off the tags, and grab a towel. The bathroom has the same unused feeling to it. I wonder if most of his house is like this: dead space, waiting to be filled.

  The shower’s big and modern, glass walls and tiles that remind me of sea glass, the way they absorb the sunlight. One of many things I forgot to buy was shower products, so I have to use the splintered bar of soap cemented to the shelf for everything. My hair will frizz like crazy today, but at least it’ll be clean.

  I scrub my face harder than necessary, like it can sweep the dream from my pores. My fingertips sink into the smooth surface of the scar along my cheek and jaw.

  “I never meant to hurt you, baby girl. You know that, right?”

  I rinse fast and open my eyes to remind myself where I really am. Nope. Not today.

  Fire be damned, I’m not about to slip into some wallowing trench of self-pity and question every little hardship I’ve ever had. That’s not my style.

  Problem is, I’m still thinking about it all, the fire and the dream and the scar, when I finally make it downstairs. Levi turns from the stove and smiles, “Good morning,” then frowns. “You okay?”

  “Yeah.” I pull my sweater sleeves down across my knuckles and heft myself out of that stupid trench. “Just, uh...just not fully awake yet, I guess.”

  “Coffee?” he asks. I nod.

  It smells incredible, after twenty-four hours with barely any food and zero caffeine. In fact, the entire kitchen smells great; I notice bacon and eggs sizzling on the stove.

  “Wow. Welcome to the Fairfield Bed & Breakfast.”

  He shrugs. “I haven’t cooked much lately, since it’s just me, so...I don’t know. Seemed like a nice change.” Even from the back of his head, I can tell he’s embarrassed. “Is that okay?”

  “Sure it is. Roommates cook for each other. Right?”

  His eyes are obscured, hair still mussed from sleep and falling in the way. “Right. Well...good.”

  I sit at the island with my coffee and peer into the sugar bowl. It’s clay and squat, painted tan with some trendy farmhouse script labeling the contents. Or what should be the contents: it’s empty.

  “Oh, I have creamer,” he says, noticing, and plates the food before pulling a bottle from the fridge. “I hate that sugar bowl. All it does is attract ants, no matter where it’s kept.”

  “Your ex bought it, I’m guessing.” The whole country-chic thing doesn’t seem like Levi’s taste. Architectural details, like the shower, point more to him.

  “You’ve guessed correctly. It’s funny: we argued about that thing every time the ants came back, but she just wouldn’t quit using it. She loved that stupid sugar bowl. Then, when it was time to divide our stuff, she didn’t want it. Said she didn’t want ants in her new place.” Levi puts a plate in front of me before drowning the other in pepper. “She left a lot of shit behind like that, actually.”

  “So why do you still have it?” I pick up the sugar bowl, its little spoon clinking against the notch in the lid. “Smash it.”

  “I’m not that petty,” he laughs. “I’ll just donate it.”

  “So other people can have ants, too? Come on. It’ll be therapeutic. And fun. I’ll be real, here: even I want to throw it.”

  “I’m not sure I trust you to hold this.”

  “Well, I’m not sure,” I counter, holding up the creamer he gave me, “I trust your ex’s creamer. She’s been gone a while, right? And this is a seasonal flavor. It has to be at least a year old.”

  Levi leans his forearms on the island and studies me, tongue running along his molars. “What makes you think that creamer belonged to her?”

  “Pumpkin Spice?” I open the cap to sniff, surprised to find the foil seal still in place. “Wait. This is new.”

  “It is new. And it’s mine. Pumpkin Spice is delicious.”

  I laugh and stab the seal with my thumbnail. When I lick off the droplets that stick there, I catch him staring.

  “Didn’t realize stores stocked this stuff so early. It’s still technically summer for two more days, you know.”

  “As far as I’m concerned, September 1st is officially fall. I don’t care what the calendar says.”

  “Hey, I like fall as much as the next girl. Boots, jackets: I’m all about it.” I pour a small splash into my coffee, then slide it to him. “I just think the pumpkin trend is way overdone.”

  “Then you probably won’t like the Pop-Tarts I just bought.” He pauses mid-sip and adds, “Or the bagels.”

  “You’re not serious. You really love pumpkin stuff that much?”

  “Yep. Judge me if you must.”

  “I must. And I will.” We laugh again before starting into our breakfasts. I had no appetite yesterday; now I can barely keep from shoveling forkfuls into my mouth.

  “Is it good?”

  “It’s the best food I’ve had since the wedding reception,” I gush, sitting back with my eyes closed. “I can’t remember the last time I had a hot breakfast. It’s either cold cereal or nothing.”

  “I tend to opt for ‘nothing,’ myself.” His tone is casual, but I hear something like sadness, dripping in the silence afterward.

  I open my eyes and watch him a second. “You hate being divorced, don’t you?”

  “Doesn’t everyone?”

  “No. A lot of people are thrilled to get divorced.”

  “Yeah, if they’ve got somebody else waiting in the wings.”

  “What I mean is,” I say, wrapping both hands around my mug, “shouldn’t you be happy you’re out of a faithless marriage, instead of trapped with someone who treated you like shit?”

  “It’s not that black-and-white.” His fingertips brush the front of the sugar bowl, tracing the script. “I made a lot of mistakes, too.”

  “Like what? Did you ever cheat on her?”

  “No.” He wipes his lips with his thumb. “I threw myself into my business.”

  “That’s no excuse for what she did to you.”

  “I didn’t say it was.” Levi watches the cat stake out some sunlight by the back door. “Anyway—yeah. I hate being divorced. You get so used to sharing your life with someone, then one day…it’s all gone. You’re totally on your own.”

  “Sounds like the opposite of a problem to me."

  The way his eyes slide to mine make me lean away. “Have you ever been married?”

  Usually, my response to this kind of question is a quick and proud, “Never.” I’m not only fine with my singlehood; I prefer it. But something about how intensely his gaze holds mine makes me hesitate.

  “No,” I answer. “I haven’t.”

  “Then you don’t know what it’s like when it ends.”

  The silence blankets us. We stare.

  Gradually, we return to our food, the scraping of the forks on our plates amplified.

  “Thank you for breakfast.” I gather my dishes, then his, and edge past him to the sink. “It was really good. Even though I’ll be burping pumpkin spice all day.”

  The air shifts, and I know he’s relaxed. He might even smile. No
t that I turn to check.

  10

  A house is different, with a woman inside.

  I only remember one visit to my dad’s apartment, years before he died. My mom, brother, and I lived in a trailer, so I expected Dad’s place to be incredible, simply by virtue of being a permanent building.

  It wasn’t: yellowed paint, pizza boxes stacked waist-high, and posters tacked into the walls instead of hanging in frames. The air was stagnant and smelled like too much aerosol freshener. I bounced on his bare mattress, lacing my fingers into the cigarette burns in the comforter.

  Cohen’s old apartment was similarly depressing, only cleaner. Same with my first place, a basement in a friend’s house. They just didn’t feel like Mom’s trailer, the rancher we had later, or even the converted van she travels in now. Something was always missing.

  It wasn’t about chores getting done or décor being on point: as soon as a woman put any stake in a place, it seemed warmer. You felt like people spent time there, instead of just coming back to sleep and eat.

  Maybe the difference wasn’t that a woman entered the picture, so much as anyone at all. Two lives felt entirely different from one.

  That’s exactly what I’m thinking about when Mara decides to move my sofa.

  I’m in my office when I hear the unmistakable screech on the hardwood. My tasks for the day aren’t finished yet; I’m supposed to be finalizing details for our events this week. All two of them.

  Work used to be my life support machine. These days, it’s more like a cinderblock chained to my leg. I’m almost happy I have an excuse to go downstairs.

  “Hey,” I call, when I walk into the living room to find Mara leaning her full weight against the sectional, which is turned at a bizarre angle, bunching up the area rug on one end. She’s got the jazz channel blaring, and I have to call twice more before she hears me.

  “Oh, hey,” she smiles, out of breath. “Can you help me move this?”

  “Did you lose something under there?” I pick up one end and lift, pivoting the couch back towards the wall. “It’s easier to just take off the cushions and reach through, honestly.”

  “No, I’m moving it.”

  I freeze. “Moving it?”

  “Trust me, it’ll be a lot better over there.”

  I set it down. “You can’t move my couch without asking. Who does that?”

  “It’s technically our couch. For the next thirty days, anyway.” Mara grabs the corner section and lifts, to absolutely no avail. “Give me a hand, please.”

  “It’s not ‘our’ couch. I bought it. And I liked it just fine where it was.”

  This isn’t true. Lindsay chose the furniture; Lindsay decided exactly where it all went. She placed almost every piece in our home against the walls and in corners to maximize floor space, even though I always thought we had plenty regardless.

  Still, I don’t like Mara’s attitude. You don’t just waltz into somebody’s house and change shit without asking.

  “Fine,” she sighs, letting the couch drop. It doesn’t even make a sound from such a short distance. “May I please move your couch, just to see if it looks better where I think it should go? If you hate it, we’ll move it right back.”

  I stare at her and wonder why on earth I agreed to her living here.

  Then, I remember three things.

  First: how relieved I was to make my mortgage payment this morning. Second: for the first time in two years, I fell asleep before midnight last night, no alcohol, NyQuil, or complete exhaustion required. Just knowing she was down the hall, that the house wasn’t empty, made it easy to close my eyes.

  And third: Mara has nothing. I can stand to share a sofa for a few weeks.

  “Okay.” I lift my side again. “Let’s try it.”

  A smile spreads across her face. There’s already a touch of I told you so there, but mostly just happiness.

  Working together, we get it about two inches off the ground, enough for us to walk the couch into place. “It already looks better,” she huffs, “than it did shoved against the fireplace for no reason.”

  “Because that’s the only place it fits,” I argue, but when I step back and assess the new spot she picked, I realize she has a point. It’s nice to see the fireplace again, and the couch is centered in front of the television. Even the reduced floor space works: the room doesn’t yawn open into one long, awkward expanse, the way it used to.

  “The end tables can go here at either end. Oh, and those lamps! And maybe this console table can—”

  “What’s a console table?”

  “This,” she says, slapping the top of the long, tall table against the wall to the kitchen. “You can put it behind the couch.”

  Following her direction, I move things, nudge them into place, and crudely dust them with my palms. Finally, she steps back and nods.

  “Much better. Come here and see.”

  I stand beside her and take in the view. “Wow. I’m...actually pretty impressed.”

  “Never underestimate the power of binge-watching design shows.” She winks. I have to shift my stare just beyond her head.

  We sit on the couch, me tucked into one corner, Mara curled up on the chaise under a blanket I haven’t seen in years; it was wedged into one of the built-in shelves next to the fireplace, blocked by the sofa. I forgot the blanket, or even the shelves, existed.

  “Did you get all your work done?” Under the blanket, I see her stretch and relax. My eyes settle in the curve of her hipbone.

  “Uh...yeah, kind of.” Look at literally anything else. After her little speech yesterday, I’m not about to prove her suspicions right. “Not much work, these days. But with Cohen gone for the week, I guess that’s good.”

  “You know what I noticed about you?”

  I look at her. There it is again: that shower-conversation feeling. Mara asks the strangest questions, but ones everyone wonders. What do people notice about us? Do people take much notice of us at all?

  Oddly, I get the impression Mara doesn’t have these thoughts herself. Even the way she’s sitting right now, snuggling into the cushions like she’s lived here all her life, like this couch really is hers, suggests nothing but confidence.

  “What did you notice about me?” I ask, already sure I won’t like her answer.

  She nods at my shirt, then my pants. “You always dress like you’ve got some huge meeting. Even when you’re sitting at home.”

  “This is, like, the fourth outfit you’ve seen me wear. One of which was a tux,” I remind her.

  “Okay, but at the hospital? When the baby was being born? You were all suit-and-tie then, too. And last night. And,” she adds emphatically, sitting up so she can flick my tie, “now.”

  “Quit it.”

  Laughing, she pulls away. “Don’t get me wrong, you look sexy as hell in formal clothes.”

  I clear my throat and focus on the television, reminding myself that this is just how she talks: flirty and forward. We’re still a one-hit wonder. That’s what she wants—what we both want.

  “But I also think,” she says, “you’d look good in...I don’t know, some....”

  “Skinny jeans? Boots?” I nod at her outfit the same way she nodded at mine. “T-shirts and leather jackets?”

  “Actually,” she says slowly, “yeah.” We both laugh. “Okay, so I have a pretty set style, myself. All I’m saying is, when you’re not working...why not dress like you expect to have some fun?”

  “All I own are formal clothes and Fairfield Party polos.” I slide the remote to her; she doesn’t take it. “I have some regular khakis, from when I managed the warehouse and loaded the vans with the guys.”

  “Those are still work clothes,” she points out. “So that’s your style, huh? ‘Nothing But Work.’”

  The air feels cracked as I take a breath. “Used to be.”

  The couch cushions shift; she scoots closer, dragging the blanket along with her. “What was your style like, before work took over?”<
br />
  I start to answer, then stop and shut my mouth. This is not a shower question. I’ve never considered what my “style” is, or was, in my entire life.

  “Typical early-2000s,” I shrug, finally. “Trucker caps, graphic tees. I also had a lot of those stupid zip-off pants.”

  Mara bursts out laughing and hits my arm. “You did not! You’re lying.”

  “I really wish I was,” I smile, “since I was in high school by then and, you know, not twelve years old. But they were cheap.”

  “There was a reason.”

  “Yeah, yeah, laugh it up. Saving money was a big thing in my house, though. Mostly because my mom was, like...super against consumerism. She didn’t see the point of dressing us in expensive clothes and brand names. So when I started buying my own stuff, it felt crazy shelling out more than ten bucks at a time.” My gaze follows hers to my suit. “My work clothes were the first exception.”

  Mara stretches out again, this time turning herself on the chaise so her head rests on the cushion between us, right near my hand. “I heard,” she says evenly, blinking up at me, “your mom didn’t let you guys wear clothes at all.”

  I throw a pillow at her stomach. She snorts.

  “First of all, how much has my brother told you about our family?”

  “Between him and Juliet, I know...” She pretends to think. “…everything.”

  “Not true. You didn’t know shit about my zip-off pants.” While she laughs, I look down at my clothes and press my thumb into some wrinkles. “Anyway, I guess all I wear is work clothes because…that’s all I had to wear, for so long. Or wanted to.”

  “I was just teasing. I mean, it’s not like I’m big on variety, either.”

  I lift my leg to tap her snow-white sneakers. “The trainers are a first.”

  “Yeah,” she sighs, “I excavated these bad boys out of a bargain bin. Not my first choice for footwear, but anything was better than those heels. Weddings always give me blisters.”

  “Speaking of the wedding, thank you for bringing my suit jacket back to the room.” I pause. “You, uh...you left your garter in the pocket.”