5 #2
“I don’t mean yours.” He yanks his hands from his face.
“I mean Taina’s. You know those nightmares she used to have?
The ones of you and your family in the car, a crash, and then she crawls and crawls to find you?
They’re back. Every night, she screams awake or keeps herself up until she’s exhausted so she doesn’t even risk having them.
Two years straight, she didn’t have a single one. Now they’re back.”
My vision grows spotty as panic slides down my throat.
Of course I know the nightmares. Before Mathew, I was the one who had to lull Taina back to sleep or spend hours consoling her, reassuring her I was fine, we were fine, and everything was fine.
I wasn’t in the car crash that killed my parents; neither was Taina.
But since they died, like me but worse, Taina has had this paranoia that I would be next, a worry she’d deny during the day and cry about in the middle of the night.
She told me how real the dreams felt, how she felt every piece of shattered glass sinking into her knees as she crawled from the flipped car, following a blood trail she knew was mine, screaming for me over and over, and I would never appear.
Stress made them come more frequently, or whenever I was going through something. A breakup, a divorce, a job loss. Anytime my life felt like it was scrambling, it was as if Taina synchronized with my emotions and they became hers, but worse.
“I didn’t know,” I whisper.
“Of course you didn’t, because she’s my wife.
I’m the one who has to deal with anything you throw her way.
You couldn’t just keep your problems, your problems.” His voice tinges with disgust. “When I signed my marriage certificate, it only had Taina’s name attached.
I didn’t sign up to become a caretaker too. ”
I try to swallow, but there’s no moisture in my throat. “I’m sorry.”
He blows out a breath. “I’m sure you are, but that doesn’t mean anything to me.
Already she’s talking about going away, taking you on a trip to get your mind off the consequences of your own goddamn actions.
It’s happening all over again. You take up all her time, use up my money, and I have to grin and bear it because Taina can’t handle seeing her older sister in trouble. ”
He says the word older with a laugh, and it feels like a jab in my stomach.
“I won’t let her go on a trip,” I say, but the words come out fast and jumbled like the syllables are nervously tripping on themselves.
“I’m going to get a job. I’m going to move out.
I’ll find something to do for now, during the day, the night, whenever you want some alone time. I’ll be invisible.”
“You’d be invisible to me already if not for Taina,” he snaps, his patronizing control finally cracking.
“I’m not dealing with this again. I won’t figure out how to fix the rift in my marriage.
I’ll give you three months to get out—three months only.
If you’re not out, you—” He shakes himself and takes a fortifying breath. “You and Taina can leave.”
I’ve always considered myself a brave person.
Not that I’m not easily frightened of things, but because no matter how fearful I am, it never deters me from doing what I need to do.
But now a knot of fear in my chest tangles itself into a bond so tight it feels like it’s a permanent addition to the organs that keep my body functioning.
I cannot ruin my sister’s marriage for a plethora of reasons, mainly because I love her more than anything in this world.
Another reason is that Taina cannot be alone.
She clings to people. Not in an overbearing way—in a quiet, secretive way.
Because she’s so wonderful, so giving and charming and funny, people don’t realize when she’s formed a permanent place by their side.
But she only does so when she’s fully in love.
Taina has had many boyfriends, many “almosts” and “could have beens,” but she’d told me she was in love with Mathew the first night she met him. She knew they were perfect for each other. She’s pretty sure our parents made a deal in heaven and sent Mathew to earth to take care of her.
I can’t be the cause of her divorce. I don’t want to even imagine how she’d react. But of course she’d resent me; she wouldn’t be able to stop herself. Right?
It’s one thing to feel not good enough for anyone else, but to know that my own sister might see me that way after ruining something she’s wanted for so long—fear burrows in my chest. That would kill me.
“I’ll be out in three months,” I tell him. “I swear.”
No matter what, I won’t set foot in this house again, even if I have nowhere to go.
He gives me one final look. “I hope so.” Then leaves.
At the sound of the door slamming shut, I press my palms into my eye sockets. I almost laugh. Whenever I think I’ve hit rock bottom, there’s another pitfall to tumble into.
It used to be that, despite accumulating my fair share of misfortunes, I’d always thought I had a weird, pitiful sort of luck.
I lost my parents, but Taina was supposed to be in the car with them the day they died—she got sick and stayed home with me—so I got to keep my sister.
Whenever I thought I wouldn’t make rent while getting Taina through school, some good Samaritan left me a large enough tip to cover expenses.
When I ran out of food stamps, the local shelter would host a food drive where I could pack up two weeks’ worth of groceries.
No matter how bad things got, somehow, barely hanging on, I could pull through.
This time, it looks like my luck has finally dried up. What else am I supposed to do? I’ve already applied to jobs I’m overqualified for and underqualified for, and the money I have saved up was meant to buy my share to save the dog shelter.
Since I got Storm, it’s been my dream. I’ve just had too many responsibilities to really work toward it.
Do I have to give it up?
Should I give it up? I haven’t saved enough yet, anyway. I could use that money to move out and cover rent for a couple of months as I continue to get rejection after rejection, before I get evicted again.
Why can’t I be lucky? Not pitiful lucky, actually lucky, with my own happily ever after?
I bury my face in the cushion and scream.
The muffled noise tears my throat as I release it, trying to let go of this choking bundle of emotions lodged within it. I only stop when I feel my phone vibrating in my back pocket.
I snatch it from my jeans to answer on the fifth ring. “Hello?”
“Lucinda?”
I sit up so fast that the room spins. “Hello?” I say again, checking the screen, but I don’t have the number saved as a contact. “Who is this?” But my subconscious recognizes the voice now that time has passed and I’m completely sober.
“Ah,” he says into the speaker. “You didn’t save my number. Understandable since we were supposed to be perfect strangers, but I saved yours, sorry.” When I don’t say anything, he adds, “It’s Anders.”
“I know,” I say, then slap my forehead. “I mean, hi. Well. Why are you calling me?”
I haven’t thought too much about him because I’ve been preoccupied with my glaring unemployment, eviction, and the brother-in-law who hates me. The last time I saw him was when I ruined the wrong wedding.
His first love’s wedding.
Oh shit. I hadn’t thought of that detail in particular. Is he happy with me? Angry that I wrecked the special moment between two people he still weirdly cares about? Confused by me? All of the above?
His answering chuckle, even muffled by a phone speaker, sends a quick zing of awareness down my spine. “How are you? When I tried looking for you after the almost-wedding, I heard you already left.”
How are you? This was not the first question I thought he’d ask me—not that I thought he’d ask me anything. I never thought we’d have another interaction in my life.
I’ve already trauma dumped on him once and don’t think it’s why he’s calling me now, so I go with, “I’m fine.”
“You live in New York, right? That’s what you told me,” he says, and he means You may or may not have given me the wrong name, and you wrecked a wedding, and you have a track record of being a complete weirdo, so I’m not sure if you were telling the truth about your place of residence.
But I don’t feel like admitting that I now live with my little sister, so I tell him, “Yes.”
“Perfect. I’m in the city for work this week, our offices are based here, and I was hoping we could grab coffee.”
“Why?”
I don’t mean to sound so short, but I’m too confused about him reaching out and on the tail end of misery from speaking with Mathew to think of anything other than single-word responses.
He only chuckles again. “I’d like to see you. Talk. And, honestly, I have something to ask.”
“You can ask me now,” I point out, trying not to sound like I was screaming into the couch cushion only moments ago.
“I’d rather do it in person.”
Curiosity tickles my spine straight. Though I only remember bits and pieces of our night together, the small bundles of memories among the black spots are all pleasant. He was charming and never creepy, comforting but not too soft.
And, of course, whenever our hands brushed or our shoulders knocked into each other as we stumbled around the hotel in search of snacks, an arrow of heat shot between my legs.
My fingers dance along my lap. I could say no, but there’s no real reason to, just like there’s no reason to say yes. But an excuse to get out of the house seems more appealing than flinching at the creak of every footstep I hear whenever Mathew walks along the kitchen floor above.
It’ll take me another two hours to get back into the city, but at least the drive will help me clear my head. Or, if I want to drink, I can take the train.
“Make it dinner tonight, and I’ll say yes.”
“Dinner,” he repeats without hesitation, “tonight, so say yes.”
“Yes.”