Chapter 3 #2
“Don’t remind me. That was torture. I can’t look at a jar of peanut butter after all those peanut butter, banana, and chocolate protein shakes Mom made me drink.
” I take another little nibble of the cinnamon bun then wrap it back up so I can take the time to enjoy it later.
“I can’t look at horses either without shuddering.
This guy with a cowboy hat and boots was trying to chat me up today.
For many reasons, I did not want to talk to him.
He offered me a—” I shut my errant mouth because it’s aching to tell the whole story, from beginning to end, to Cat.
“He offered you a what?” Her voice is hard.
“Relax, Cat. I shouldn’t have said anything. Never mind.”
“Just tell me what the hell he offered.”
“A ride. In his pickup.”
She’s quiet for a moment, then snorts. “Did he want to give you that ride in the bed of the pickup? Or did he have a bench seat?”
“A literal ride, Cat.”
“Were you stranded somewhere? Were you safe? Are you walking around in the city alone at night? Why did you need a literal ride?”
“Stop, Cat. I was fine. I was just going to say that if I took the literal ride, I would have had to watch everything I said and lie my butt off if he asked personal questions. You know I hate lying. So I don’t talk to people.”
A car honks, and Cat cusses softly. “The men in Chicago can’t drive. Or kiss. I really need to move.”
A small school of fish swims by, tickling my toes before they disappear under the dock.
“Are you eating enough?” she asks.
“Yes,” I lie. “You asked me that last time.”
“I’ll ask you every time I talk to you.” She pauses. “Do you have a place to dance or at least access to a barre for barre work?”
“Yes,” I lie.
“Aunt Birdie won a prize at the county fair for her apple pie.”
“With the crumble?”
“Of course. Is there any other way?”
“That was my favorite.”
“That is your favorite. Stop making everything past tense, like you’re dead. This is only temporary.”
I don’t answer. It’s too difficult trying to imagine how this will end, short of Trey magically disappearing from existence in a puff of black dust.
“Cat?”
“Yeah. Still here.”
“Why did I do it? How could I have fallen in love with someone so cruel? Was he like that when I met him?” It’s not something I hadn’t thought about before.
It’s a topic that has been sanded over and over again so fine it should be smooth and bright as a river pebble.
But I need to say it aloud. Again. I need to hear it from someone else’s lips that it’s not my fault. Because I still am not sure.
“Trey was like that when you met him, but he hid it. He was always like that. Born that way. He’ll die that way.
” She blows out a puff of air. “You didn’t know, so stop blaming yourself.
Most of America doesn’t know who he is, except the other women he messed up before you.
You cannot blame yourself for getting sucked in by Trey.
The guy is smooth. Barry White smooth jazz smooth. ”
I laugh. “You’re so old, Cat.”
“And George Cloony in-his-heyday handsome.”
“George Cloony’s still handsome.”
“Honey, you were so, so sad after Cain died. You still weren’t thinking straight by the time Trey sauntered into your life.
” She pauses, blows out a breath. “I feel guilty. You never would have met Trey if I hadn’t gotten COVID.
I was supposed to protect you. Keep you safe.
Steer you clear of psycholunatic boyfriends.
I should have been there before Trey wore your skinny, lonely ass down. ”
I tuck the phone between my chin and shoulder, push myself up, and stand. “It’s not your fault. And thanks, Cat.”
“For telling you you’re skinny?”
“Yeah.”
“You should try a curve or two, love.”
I hear the hiss of her window rolling down.
She’s pulling into the parking garage across from her yoga studio, poking at a button for a ticket.
“I’m not being followed today, but there was someone parked outside the apartment all evening and night.
I should have gone out and offered him a sandwich. It’s stupid.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize for Trey.” Sharp beeps tell me she’s backing up into a parking spot. “Do you have any good things there besides your new furry friend?”
I look out at the clear blue water sparkling in the sun.
It’s cooled me down enough that the sun feels like solace on my shoulders and back, rather than the agony it was on the last few minutes of my bike ride here.
I think of the treats I got at the bakery and grocery store.
And the 99-cent Sudoku book from Greene’s, tucked in my basket.
Small pleasures I’ve been trying to sprinkle into my days. “Yes.”
Ever since I told her I wasn’t sure if there would be any good in my life again—the kind of good that fills you up and makes you feel like all’s right in the world even when it’s not—Cat told me that even if I didn’t have that overwhelming goodness in my life, that I just needed to keep myself going with small good things. Until the big good comes back.
“I’m trying,” I tell her.
“Good.” She breathes into the phone. “Look for more good things. Meditate. Do one of those ridiculously large puzzles with tiny pieces that you like to do. Have some—” She stops abruptly. We both know she was going to say wine. “Have some chocolate.”
“Okay. Love you.”
“Love you. And go find a place with a barre because I know you were lying.” She hangs up.
I sit on the dock and roughly sketch the pond, then slip my shorts, T-shirt, and shoes on, deciding to brave the wood steps to the wide veranda and peek in one of the windows that’s not boarded up.
It looks like nobody’s been inside since forever—it’s dusty and dark, but the wood floors sparkle in the pocket of sunlight shining.
A small, round table and two rusted chairs are pushed to the side in the kitchen.
In the middle of the floor is a sawhorse.
Drywall is stacked against the wall, as if someone began working in the kitchen, then gave up.
I tuck my phone deep into the satchel. A paper bag from the drugstore tumbles out, reminding me of its existence. I stuff it back in and try to forget about it.
I’ll think about it later.
I’ll have to think about it later.
The hawk is back, sitting on the same branch. He watches me mount my bike. When I start pedaling, he alights from the branch and soars above me, then veers off and away.
When a tortoise crosses my path, slow and sure, I stop and watch it. Trudi’s sweet face pops into my mind, making my heart squeeze as I remember one of the many riddles she told me that Cain had taught her.
“Why did the tortoise cross the road, Mommy?”
“I don’t know. He wanted to get to the other side? Why did he cross the road?”
“To get to the Shell station.” And like she did after every punchline, she’d grab at her stomach and giggle loud and long.
Sadness rockets through me, but I push it away and watch the tortoise make his way to the other side, his front feet shoveling him forward through the sand.
When I set off again, I make it a little farther down the road before my tire flaps hard and loud against the sand.
When I hop off the bike and study it, my stomach plummets to the hot packed sandy road.
I can’t patch the tire with the patch kit I have; it’s a long, wide split. The whole tire will have to be changed.
My only form of transportation has gone caput. I’ll have to push the bike all the way back to Ned’s, then lug my things to the cottage.
All of a sudden, I’m so tired I can’t stand it. The thought of the walk ahead of me makes me want to plop down on the road, belly up, and wail. I finger my flip phone in my pocket. I want to call Cat back and ask her to come get me so badly it hurts.