8. Isaac
Chapter 8
Isaac
“Hey, Brinn,” I say into the ether of her voicemail. “My flight got in a bit early, so I’m on the way home. I think the storm is also starting early. I wanted to let you know I’ll be home in a few—”
A huddled mass on the street corner a block ahead catches my eye. I can’t make out what it is at this distance. The rain is pattering softly, and lightning has begun in the distance. The storm will be here soon enough.
I pull away from the stop sign and closer to the next corner when I spot a familiar color. I wonder if there’s another dog like her in town. Wearing the same color harness. With the same... what is she doing out here? What is she...?
Pressed against her, sitting in the grass and shaking, is Brinn. Her face is puffy and pinched. Her hair lies in damp, limp tangles around her shoulders as she clings to Pork Belly like the pit bull is a life raft.
I slam on the brakes before putting the car into park and hitting the hazards as fast as I can and leaving it in the middle of the street.
“Brinn?”
She’s got her face pressed into PB. PB’s tail wags when she sees me, but she doesn’t pull away from Brinn, letting the sobbing woman hold her without complaint.
“Brinn?” I kneel next to her and reach out to her but stop, unsure if the contact will spook her more.
She pulls her face from PB’s neck and looks at me with tear-blurred eyes. “Isaac?” she says, her voice shaky. She takes a breath and sobs harder. “I’m so sorry.”
Whatever is bothering her, I want to shield her from it. This isn’t the first time I’ve seen her like this, and I can’t suppress the shiver that runs through me as I recall the shell of the woman I met the first time. My hand comes to her back, stroking in broad circles.
“It’s okay, it’s going to be okay.”
She takes a shuddering breath and mumbles something lost in Pork Belly’s tawny fur.
“Are you hurt?”
She shakes her head.
Okay, that’s a start. “Can you get up?” She doesn’t move. “Brinn, come on, stay with me,” I say, hand moving to stroke her hair. “Can you stand up?”
“I can’t look,” she says, lifting her head. My hand falls to her cheek. Her hot tears are scorching as they mingle with the cool raindrops.
I’m not sure what she can’t look at, but it doesn’t matter. “Okay. If you keep your eyes closed, I can help you stand, okay? Then you can keep them closed until we get to the car and get home, okay?”
Renewed panic washes over her as her eyes widen and her arms tighten around Pork Belly, who leans into her again. “No! No car. I can’t—I can’t—I’m sorry.” She hiccups through the sobs, tears falling on my hand.
“Okay, no car.” We aren’t far from home, a half of a mile at most. Easily walkable. I don’t want to leave her to park the car, but the streets are practically empty. Her eyes are red-rimmed, watery, and desperate. I would do anything she asked right now to ease the pain in them. “No car, okay? PB and I will walk you home, and you can keep your eyes closed as long as you need to.” My thumb traces over the curve of her tear-streaked cheek. “Okay?”
She sniffles. “Okay.”
“Let me text someone to grab my car. I am going to take my hand back for one second, but I’m not going anywhere,” I tell her, and she nods again. I send a text to Ramón and promise to Venmo him $20 for moving my car ASAP. “You ready?” I ask as I move my hand to her back again.
She agrees, closing her eyes. Her wet eyelashes rest against her reddened cheeks. She lets go of Pork Belly, who takes one step away from her but no more. I grab her hands and step up, pulling her up with me, giving us both a moment to adjust to being vertical.
She shakes as she holds my hands, and I pull her into a hug. She shudders in my arms. “I’m sorry,” she whispers into my skin as fresh tears leak through my shirt, heat replacing the coldness already soaking it.
“There’s nothing to be sorry for,” I tell her. Her bare arms are like ice against mine as I hold her. “We’re going to go home, and it’ll be okay. I’m going to let go, but I’ll hold your hand. Do you want me to hold PB’s leash, or do you want to?”
“Can I?”
“Of course,” I tell her, giving her a final, gentle squeeze before letting my arms skim over her back and down her arms, taking one of her hands in mine. “Let’s go home.”
Her eyes remain tightly closed as we walk. Pork Belly stays close to her other side. “Curb down,” I say as we step into the street. “Curb up,” I tell her again once we’re across. I bless the fact that there are curb cuts the rest of the way home and that the sidewalks are well-maintained. I’m going to write a thank you note to public works.
We go slowly, which I hate because I want her to feel safe as soon as possible. “We’re almost there,” I tell her when our houses appear a block away. “Do you have your keys?”
Her shoulders drop slightly, an ounce of tension releasing. “Front pocket.”
“Do you want me to grab them?” I ask her, and she nods weakly. “Okay, I’ll grab them when we’re home.”
I steer her home, turning her onto her walkway. “Step up. One—two—Okay, good. I’m going to let go of your hand so I can get your keys, okay?” She swallows but slackens her hand in mine as I pull it free. I reach into the pocket of her shorts and find the sparse keyring warmed by her body.
I take a fraction of a second to examine her. It’s hard to reconcile this Brinn, this shattered, frightened woman in front of me with the laughing, smiling woman I’ve grown to care about.
The package is the same—soft golden brown hair that reaches the bottoms of her small, perfect chest. Shorts resting across her soft, round belly and stopping at her wide thighs. But her normally rosy cheeks are stained red in shame and grief. Her mossy eyes are closed in fear. Her body shakes in anguish, not laughter.
I’ve met this Brinn before. It was the first version of her I met, and every part of me recoils at the fact that this brilliant woman has to carry this version of herself, too.
Any anger I had over being stood up is left in the rain as I unlock her door and lead her inside. When the door shuts behind us, her eyes finally open. She blinks, adjusting to the low light.
“Let’s sit down, come on,” I say, grabbing her hand once more and leading her to the couch. Pork Belly sits next to Brinn’s legs on the floor and rests against them.
While her tears stopped on the way home, they renew as she pulls a pillow into her lap and leans over to sob into it. Thunder booms in the distance, and she yelps and cries harder.
“Brinn,” I say, stroking her back. “Do you have anxiety medication or anything? And some headphones? I’ll get them for you.” She mumbles into the pillow, but I can’t make out the words. “Sweetheart, I can’t hear you.”
“Office, on my desk,” she says, lifting her head briefly.
“PB is going to stay here with you, okay? I’ll get everything and be right back.”
PB stays rooted at Brinn’s side as I get up from the couch and rush toward her stairs. I find the dark room, bookshelves lining one wall and her desk aglow on the other. I want to stop and explore her office the same way she explored my studio, but it’s not the time. Wireless headphones and a plastic orange pill bottle sit next to a camera bag on the tidy desk.
As I reach for them, I bump the mouse, and her screen comes to life. The background is a picture of Pork Belly, smiling with a crown of clovers gracing her head. It’s a gorgeous photo, and I need to ask Brinn for a copy, eventually. Brinn must have taken it over the past couple of days.
All I could think about on the flight home was how much I was dreading facing her. The sketchbook I’d picked up a few weeks ago, suddenly inspired, sat on the tray table in front of me, filled with ideas that reminded me of her and Calysto’s Cove.
Designs for wood sculptures that mimicked the curve of her cheek, that melted into glasswork the dark amber color of her hair. Sketches of driftwood-carved hands next to lists of native grasses. Notes on firing techniques for porcelain-dipped fibers. There was little metal in the plans. Calysto’s Cove and Brinn are too fluid and dynamic for metal.
However good the sketches were, they were pages of reminders of looking over the ocean as I waited for her to appear. I had closed the sketchbook, shoved it back in my bag, and instead tried to sleep off the exhaustion of keeping it together in front of my mom and sister.
As I was driving home, I was so convinced I was going to get my dog and then continue avoiding her until one of us got married or moved. Rejection is something I am used to as an artist, but every moment I’ve spent with Brinn, I felt renewed. Losing that feeling hurt the most.
As I walk downstairs with her pill bottle and headphones and fill up a glass with cool water from her kitchen, I realize it wasn’t a rejection. It was something bigger than me. And that hurts worse because it’s hurting her more. I want to shield her from that, take it away, and give her nothing but sunshine. I know that’s not how it works, but I wish it was.
I sink into the couch next to her. I hand her the pill bottle and water and set the headphones on the table as she shakes out a tablet and washes it down. Pork Belly has not left her side.
“Pork Belly and I will stay,” I say as she picks up her headphones.
“Would it be okay....” She trails off. “Sorry, never mind.”
“No, what were you going to say? I want you to have what you need.”
Emotions flit across her wary face, landing on flushed uncertainty.
“It’s okay, Brinn,” I coax her. “Anything you need, I’m here to give it to you.”
“Can I lean against you?” she asks, very intent on looking at the fabric of the couch.
“Yes, of course,” I answer without hesitation. I slide closer as she puts the headphones on, and I put my arm around her shoulders. “Is this okay?”
She doesn’t answer, but after tapping a playlist on her phone, she rests her head on my shoulder. She takes a deep breath and holds it for a moment. When she lets it out, she times it with my exhale. I hold her as the rain beats outside, now invisible to her with her eyes closed and headphones on.
A warm, wet tongue licks my hand, rousing me from sleep. As my eyes flutter open, I fight the urge to rub my eyes with my Pork Belly-slobbered hand. The world is painted in blacks and greys; the day melted into night as Brinn and I slept on the couch.
Her body is still curled into mine, headphones on, blissfully unaware. Her hair has dried into frizzy waves, and her face is still puffy from crying but peaceful in sleep. She’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
However, she is lying on my bladder, and Pork Belly has moved to the back door, clearly waiting to relieve hers as well. There’s no way I can move without disturbing Brinn. Maybe she’s a heavy sleeper?
As I try to wiggle slowly from under her, she stirs. Damn.
She reaches up to remove her headphones and brushes against my arm. She jolts up like I’ve burned her. “Oh god,” she says as she tears her headphones off. “Isaac.” She looks stricken as she stares at the headphones in her hand before raising her eyes to me.
“Hey.” I try to appear calm, not wanting to tip her into a panic again.
“I’m so sorry,” she says, crestfallen. Her hands fidget with the headphones in her hands. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked you—”
“Stop.” My voice is gentle but resolute. “Brinn, stop apologizing.”
Her frown deepens.
“I’m going to let PB out and go to the bathroom. You’re going to either make us something warm to drink or hang out for a moment, and then we’re going to talk about what happened. And you will not apologize once because it’s okay. I just want to understand.”
She glares at me with sleepy eyes but agrees.
I open the door for PB before shuffling to the small bathroom off the kitchen I spotted earlier. Brinn fills her electric kettle with water and digs out some tea bags.
The image that greets me in the bathroom mirror is not pleasant. The word “haggard” comes to mind. The last three days have not been easy, and the bags under my eyes carry the weight of them.
It’s been three days of holding my mom’s hand as we stood vigil over my sister’s hospital bed. Three days of terror. The first twenty-four hours, we didn’t know if she’d even wake up. The hit and run had left her in a precarious state. Things are less precarious now that she’s awake, but the road to recovery is not a short one. She’ll be in the hospital for a while and faces several surgeries in her future.
I splash some cool water on my face and run my fingers through my hair. It doesn’t do much for my looks, but it helps center me as I walk back to the living room. I find PB glued to Brinn’s leg again as she stares at the steaming mugs of tea on the coffee table.
“Thank you for the tea,” I say, sitting down next to her.
“Thank you for saving me again,” she sighs. She looks so small and defeated.
“Brinn, look at me.” When her gaze doesn’t move from the cups, I take one from her field of vision, and she reluctantly follows it. “You don’t need saving,” I say gently. “You needed help, something everyone needs from time to time.”
“But you keep having to help me,” she grumbles.
“I don’t mind. You’re my friend, Brinn.” Her eyes fall away in shame. “I want to help you, but I need to know how.”
“Is everything okay? With your trip, I mean. You never told me... not that it’s any of my business, but are you okay?”
“I’ll tell you after you tell me what happened.”
She frowns at me. Her mouth opens but closes quickly. After a moment, she tries again. “I....” She trembles as she lets out a breath. The glow of the lamplight makes her seem younger, almost childlike. I want to pull her into my arms. PB leans against her leg a little harder, and Brinn scratches her behind the ears. “Did you know the man who lived here? Your uncle’s neighbor.”
“I never met him, no.”
“He was my fiancé.” My gaze flits to the bookshelf on the other side of the room, where I had spotted a picture of her and a man smiling next to each other in a forest earlier. The guilt in her eyes is clear when I look back at her. “He was a professor at the college.”
“He died,” I say softly, remembering what my sister had said. His car had rolled into the sea in a horrific accident. The solved puzzle is a punch to the chest. I can’t suppress the flinch as it hits me. “Brinn, I’m so sorry. I—”
Her hand comes up to stop me as she shakes her head. “We were on our way home from this stupid horror movie screening a few towns over. It was pouring, and the roads were slick. It was just... unlucky. It was all unlucky.”
Her hands ball into fists before she forces herself to relax them again. PB rests her chin on Brinn’s leg, and Brinn looks at her with a sad smile before petting her. “The car slid off the cliff. I was fine. But he hit his head on the window when we hit the water. I couldn’t wake him up or unbuckle him before....”
Before she had to get out of the car or die herself , I finish in my head. My god.
A tear falls from her chin onto her lap, and she looks at the wet spot in surprise. “When I got home from the funeral a couple weeks later, I—I couldn’t.” She shakes her head as if trying to dislodge the words caught in her throat. “I’ve been stuck in this tomb of a house since then. Leaving is hard. I panic,” she mumbles.
“You have agoraphobia,” I say. Every moment we’ve shared illuminates with the new information. Her “hurt knee” stopping her in her tracks. Her panic attack on my lawn. Her distaste of the Lobster Fest crowds. Finding her panicking near the water. The Stake House. It reflects in context like a funhouse mirror, mocking and shaming my assumptions.
Her lips quirk into a flat, tight affirmation as her head bobs. “I’ve gotten a little better,” she shrugs. “But the ocean is... if I get too close, I... I wasn’t paying attention walking Pork Belly. We got too close, and I panicked.”
“I’m so sorry, Brinn. I didn’t realize.”
“No one knows,” she says. “I mean, my therapist knows. But you’re the only other person.”
I don’t realize I’m holding her hand until I follow her gaze to where they’re entwined. “Thank you for trusting me,” I say, running my thumb across her hand.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “For standing you up. I thought I could be normal, but I’m broken.”
“You’re not broken,” I say. Damned if I am going to let her keep thinking any of this is her fault or her burden to bear alone. “You’re navigating a world that most people don’t understand.” Her watery eyes meet mine. “It’s okay if you don’t always understand it, either. Can I ask you something?”
“Yes.”
“You’ve come with me and PB on walks. Is that the furthest you’ve gone since you came home from the funeral?”
“Yeah. It’s been....” She stops as she searches for the word and finally finds it. “Helpful. Pork Belly helps. It’s easier with her there. With you there. It feels more like an adventure and less like a disaster waiting to happen.”
I can’t help but be thankful for that, to know that I can even be a shred of help and comfort to her. As I look at the halo of frizz surrounding her hair in the morning light, I know I’ll do anything in my power to keep helping.
“PB and I have always wanted an adventure buddy if you’re looking.”