Sneak Peek of Rescue Me
One of these houses is mine. I’m just not exactly sure which one.
A sigh pushes out, weighty and exhausted, from deep in my chest. The sun set hours ago, back when I was still on the highway. Trying to read the tiny print on each of these mailboxes isn’t easy after staring out the windshield for the past two days. My eyes practically crackle, begging me to close them.
Sleep. Just go to sleep.
“That one! I…I think.”
I pull up alongside the curb, letting the heavy engine rumble on as I flip through photos on my phone. Martin sent me a picture two weeks ago, a selfie of him with a large tan house behind him that looks like the one I’ve stopped in front of. Unfortunately, the homes on either side of it are mirror reflections.
Normally, Martin’s preference for uniformity doesn’t bother be. Tonight, though, I wish he had picked a weird bungalow with daisies painted on the siding and a turquoise front door. Just so I know, without a hint of a doubt, that I am parking in front of my house.
And I am definitely parking because I need to pick one of these clone homes before I drive myself mad puttering around this neighborhood all night.
As I shut down the engine, the whole car settles as if she’s ready to sleep for the night.
“Enjoy your rest, Penelope,” I mutter to the steering wheel.
I need a bed bad. A pounding started in my temples way before I even crossed the Louisiana/Mississippi border. The headache comes courtesy of long hours in the car paired with my hair being pulled up into a high, messy bun. I’d let the heavy mass down if I wasn’t terrified of its condition. Two days’ worth of greasiness has built up. I doubt removing my hairband would even do anything. The hair would likely continue sitting on top of my head, permanently reshaped.
My priorities have changed: before a bed, I need a shower. The vision of scrubbing a thick lather of shampoo into my scalp plays in my brain like a porno. I can imagine the transformation of the knotted mess into its normal smooth cascade.
“Butter on bread,”my mom always says when she affectionately tugs on a strand.
Not sure I approve of being compared to a boring slice of white bread, but I take comfort in the fact that she’s simply referring to my complexion and hair color rather than my personality.
When I push the car door open, the heavy New Orleans air embraces me. It is almost as warm and wet as an actual shower but nowhere near as refreshing. The humidity sits on my skin, weighing me down as I trudge up the front walk of a house that I hope is mine.
The easy solution would’ve been to just call Martin on Friday night when I decided to change my travel plans. That way my fiancé would be waiting out on the porch, ready to wave me down.
Instead, I chose the surprise method. I’d like to convince myself that this is a romantic gesture.
I just couldn’t stay away from you for two more weeks!
In reality, my silence arises from shame. Whenever I let my thumb hover over his number, I couldn’t even imagine how the conversation would go.
“Hey, honey! Guess what? I lost my job!” I whisper under my breath and pause with my foot on the bottom step leading up to the elevated porch.
Well, I guess I could say that.
Now that I’m here, potentially a few steps away from Martin, the words don’t seem so inadequate. Depressing? Yeah sure. But I can clearly envision his face, how his blond brows will dip in the middle as he scowls. Not at me but with me. I can taste the glass of red wine he’ll pour me as he rages over the unfair treatment.
That’s when I realize why the need for surprise. I don’t actually want to talk about how I got fired from my dream job. All I want is to see my anger reflected in the face of my partner. To feel connected to him in a way I haven’t in a while.
With the moving plans, and Martin preparing to start his residency down here, and me trying to finish up all my large projects before going remote, we’ve barely talked. I can’t even remember the last time I looked him in the eyes during a conversation. We usually just shout to each other from opposite rooms.
And sex? Well…it’s been some time.
As I knock on the mystery door I hope is mine, I make a resolution. Whether I find Martin in this clone house or the one next door or the next street over, when I finally locate my fiancé, the first thing I’m going to do is stare deep into his eyes. I’ll hold his gaze until our connection is firmly reestablished. Then—after a shower—I’m going to jump his bones.
Light spills into the dark night from around the edges of the curtains. At least that means whoever lives here, hopefully Martin, is still awake. After the polite taps of my knock ring out, the steady pad of footsteps sound behind the door. I brace myself, ready to stare my fiancé down.
Only, Martin doesn’t open the door.
A small slim woman dressed in a robe stands before me. She is adorably petite. I could practically fit her in my pocket. Her bare feet peek out from under the floor-length robe, and her long brown hair lays in a damp mass over her shoulders.
Envy spikes hard through me. Clearly, this woman has just taken a shower. My greasy strands weep in envy.
Also, her appearance makes it clear my navigation skills have failed me. I am no closer to my own glorious shower, having no idea which one of these houses Martin bought for the two of us to live in.
“Sorry. I thought this might be my house. Do you know a blond man? About so tall?” I hold my hand a few inches above my head like the sleep drunk idiot I am.
I’m ready to continue describing my fiancé out of pure desperation when I notice the woman’s face. With a stranger knocking on her door at midnight, I would expect confusion or annoyance. But if I had to guess, her slack-jawed, wide-eyed stare is closer to horror.
Apparently, my need for a shower is even direr than I knew.
“I told you I’d get it…” The familiar rusty voice drifts from behind the stranger as my fiancé trots down a set of stairs visible just over her shoulder.
The showered girl shuffles back, so I have a clear view of Martin, clad in only a pair of gym shorts, his hair just as gloriously damp from a recent cleaning as the woman in front of me.
Our eyes meet. His top half stops, but his bottom half doesn’t get the memo. Instead, one of his bare feet slips on the wooden step, and he lands hard on his ass, shocked gaze never leaving mine.
So, this is the right house.
It’s just everything else in the world that is wrong.
Whatever way I might want to interpret this situation is made impossible when I flick my eyes back to the stranger, who I now realize is wearing my green, cotton robe. Red splotches scorch along the tops of her cheekbones, and guilty tears pool on her lashes.
Something dark and sickening rolls in my stomach, but I flash freeze it. After one last look at the boy I’ve loved since my senior year of high school, I turn to the girl he chose to hurt me for.
“You can keep the robe.” Reaching out, I clasp the doorknob. “And the man.” I wrench the door closed on the most devastating scene of my life and sprint back to my sleeping car.
Penelope revs to life, more dependable than any man could ever be.
I shift into first gear and tear down the street, not caring who I wake up. With the roar of my sweet girl’s engine, I can’t hear Martin shouting.
But I can see him. In my rearview mirror, he sprints down the street after me. I skid around a corner and lose sight of him.
And he loses me.
I drive in an emotional fog, unable to dislodge the frozen ball of grief in my chest. The devastation sticks to the inside of my skull, blocking my ability to think.
It’s only when I almost run a red light that I realize I shouldn’t be driving.
Pulling into the next parking lot, I somehow end up in the drive-through lane of a fast-food joint. Functioning on autopilot, I roll down my window when I reach the speaker.
“What do you want?” The woman asks with the complete disinterest that can only be achieved by someone employed for the night shift at a drive-through.
The question hits me hard. Acting as a chisel, it splits the ice in my chest apart.
Grief flows free.
“What do I want?” I laugh, high-pitched and manic. “Oh, I don’t know. How about a job? Or a home? Maybe my dignity?”
And now I’m crying.
“Um…we serve chicken.”
I’ve gone insane.Martin’s betrayal has turned me into a raving loon who drives around New Orleans in the middle of the night scaring fast-food workers.
This isn’t me. I’m not this type of weird.
“Oh. Right. Of course.” Swiping away the tears blurring my vision and pulling in a few choking breaths, I attempt to read the glowing menu. “I guess a family meal then.”
“Eight, twelve, or sixteen pieces?”
The cracked ice in my chest has given way to a massive aching hole.
“Better make it sixteen.”
“You want it with sides?”
I’m not going to be able to manage many more of these questions without the crazy laughing/crying returning.
“Yeah, whatever sides are popular. And biscuits, please. I’m gonna need a whole lot of biscuits.” A sob makes the last word come out choked.
She rattles off the total, and I pull around to the window to pay. A short woman wearing a goofy chicken hat gives me a kinder smile than I was expecting after my breakdown.
“I slipped an extra biscuit in there,” she whispers while passing me the armload of fried comfort.
“Thank you,” I mutter, keeping my eyes to myself and hoping I never run into this lovely woman again.
For a moment, I park and consider consuming the entire order myself.
The idea is tempting.
But I still need a shower and a bed.
Penelope’s engine purrs like a comforting embrace, as I pull back out on the road. The headlights point toward my childhood home.
My parents are about to get a late-night visitor, bearing fried chicken and a broken heart.