Fearsome (20 page)

“Jess,” he snaps. “Don’t talk to me like a child. My brother has done that enough over the last twenty years. I may not have a fucking Ph.D. like you, but I know how to take care of myself.”

I fall back on the bed and roll away from him.

“Sorry I yelled at you. I think if I exercise more, I’ll sleep better,” he says, putting his hand on my shoulder.

I’m not giving into to his gentle apology again. I can’t decide if I’m completely enraged with him for dropping his treatment or if I feel sorry for him. I can’t look at him. “Dylan, you already put in thirty miles a week running. Uphill. You should be sleeping like a baby every night.”

I’m watching the shadows of the tree limbs cast by the moonlight as they dance across the wall like nighttime fairies. It’s so strange to be in a home that is now mine with a man that shares my bed every night. I no longer hear my roommates arriving home loud and drunk or the neighbors jamming horribly on their guitars and drums. I’m supposed to be an adult and Dylan, who I found to be sweet and comforting in the beginning of my Hera life, is making me question my own sensibilities. I have misgivings about him, which doesn’t bode well for either of us.

“Besides, I don’t have a Ph.D.; I have a master’s degree. See how little you know about me?”

“I know, you have two masters,” he says. “Okay, exercise is probably not the answer to my problem, but I don’t want to go through a gauntlet of drugs again, the insanity of trying to find the right match. It’s too hard. Besides, I’ve been happy since you came here. You’re my drug, Jess.”

He pulls me on my back so he can see my face.

“Dylan, I’m not enough. I haven’t managed my own life without assistance from caring friends, especially people in this town. Do I look like someone who can take care of a home, manage a career, start a new career based on a dream and take care of a dog? I haven’t been doing this by myself. Besides you, there are a lot of people helping me. If you think I’m enough to help you through this, you’re wrong. Your brother loves you, he wants to help you.”

“I know. It’s not that you can’t help me. It’s that you don’t feel the same way I feel about you.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to. Every time I tell you that I love you, you change the subject.”

“Because this is happening so fast and it’s new. It’s exciting, but it’s overwhelming,” I stammer.

“You don’t have to explain or justify your feelings to me. I’m not mad. Do you think I’m angry at you?”

“How could you not be? You’re doing everything right and I’m coming off as some unappreciative bitch.”

“I never think that and you shouldn’t, either.” His fingers trace lightly up and down my arm.

“I can’t help feeling that way. I have something so good here and most people would envy my situation. I’m squandering my good fortune, but I can’t make myself fall in love before I’m ready.”

“Or ever,” Dylan says.

True. Sometimes I feel smothered by Dylan and I know I wouldn’t if my feelings for him weren’t waning or based on something more solid than our sex life.

As much as I want to help Dylan and keep thinking I’ll eventually fall in love with him, I’m not as happy as someone should be in my situation. I spend an awful lot of time daydreaming in my country home. Most of the images that loop endlessly in my brain are homey scenes of me painting and relaxing on the porch with friends. The only man in every single scene of my domestic tranquility is there because I put him there. Carson.

Twenty-One

When I wake up, Dylan’s side of the bed is empty. He usually leaves for work before I rise, but today there is no cute little note on the kitchen counter with his plans for our dinner or night out. He didn’t even leave me a fresh a pot of coffee.

I feed Bert and shoo him outside so he can do his business. Then I check in with 5 Alpha to tell my team that I’ll be out for the morning, but that they can reach me later in the afternoon. I put on a tank top and some running tights, which I bought last year when I thought I’d become a runner, only to discover that I can’t run unless I’m trying to catch a cab or get the last muffin at Magnolia Bakery. I grab one of the yoga mats Aunt Virginia had stowed in her closet and head out. Bert refuses to walk with me so I let him back inside to wile his hours away in blissful slumber.

I make it to Beyond The Pants in time for the nine o’clock yoga class with Imogene and Lauren. The instructor is a striking woman in her forties with silver hair and deeply tanned skin. Lois is up front, following the moves at her own graceful pace while I like to hide in the back of the class.

The yogi’s voice is deep and smooth; she manages to make her way over to me frequently to adjust my hips or put a palm on my back to guide me into a better position. She has me contorted into some kind of pretzel move that requires quiet breathing and that’s when it occurs to me that it’s conceivable that I really don’t fit in Hera. As much as I have come to love my new little town and how my life seems to be better, maybe I’m a poison for the town, or rather Dylan. I contemplate this and replay last night’s conversation in my head when I realize I can’t move.

“Sweet mother of nuts,” Lois says, bending down to look me in the face. “What the heavens are you doing there?”

One of my legs is tucked under me and the other is bent across the front. I can’t move because the leg under my ass has fallen asleep and that crazy, painful, tingling sensation of paralysis makes me stay put. “I think I did it wrong,” I say.

“Well, if you could see your purple face you’d sure as heck know it isn’t right.” Lois laughs. Imogene and Lauren burst out laughing, too. The class is finished and everyone is milling out with their rolled mats under their arms; except for me, pretzel girl. The instructor comes over and gently removes my bent leg and massages both so I can stand with minimal pain.

“I didn’t get much sleep last night. I think I’m having trouble following directions this morning.” I rub my leg.

“Dylan must be voracious,” Lauren says in low voice as we exit, but loud enough that Lois looks back at me and grimaces. I smile and hurry the girls outside.

“Did you have to say that in front of Lois?” I ask Lauren. “You made it sound like I’m the town hooker.”

“No, I didn’t. I only said—”

“I know what you said. Everyone heard what you said. Did you see Lois’s face? She looked pissed.”

“She’s not mad at you, Jess,” Imogene says as she lights a cigarette.

“How can you smoke after yoga class?” I ask.

“Easy, I keep the cigs and lighter in my yoga bag. Just light, puff and blow.”

I cringe. “What is going on with Lois?”

“She’s not a fan of you and Dylan dating,” Lauren answers. “Actually, she told us a couple of weeks ago that she didn’t think it was a good idea for you and Dylan to date, but I suppose now she’s aware you’re sleeping together. Thanks to me, I guess.”

“I thought Lois liked me. Are you going to tell me the rest of the story? Why is she opposed to me dating Dylan?”

“Oh, sweetie, it’s not you. She’s opposed to anyone—”

“Lauren!” Imogene scolds. “Jess, Lois is concerned that you and Dylan may be rushing things. That’s her problem, not yours.”

A look passes between the two women with Imogene winning the stare down battle and ultimately whatever it is they are keeping from me.

“I don’t believe you two. I don’t have time for these guessing games. I have work to do,” I say and then head down the main street for my long walk home.

I make it as far as The General Store when I see Carson coming out with a bottle of water.

“How’s the yoga going?” he asks with a forced smile.

“Oh, geez. Not you, too,” I say, trying to pass him on the sidewalk.

“What?” he laughs and intentionally blocks my path.

“I came down from my crumbling house on the hill to get my Zen on and relax for a change and I’ve had nothing except the weirdest encounters with everyone this morning. Go ahead, make your crack so I can be on my way.” I stand my ground with my yoga satchel in one hand and my New York Yankees cap in the other.

“Hera has Zen? How do you get that on?” Although this is a rare moment for Carson and someone should record it, I’m too annoyed for anymore evasive or humorous conversations at my expense.

“Step aside, cowboy. I need to get going.”

“Where’s your car?”

“I walked.”

“Ah girly, you and your citified ways,” he says in a Hillbilly accent and I have to laugh. “We don’t walk here. Come on, cowpoke; let me give you a ride home.”

I’m actually relieved that he offers to drive me. I’m not cut out for long, hot, country walks. I climb into the truck’s cab and Carson turns on the air conditioning full blast.

“That’s heaven,” I mumble and close my eyes, letting the cool air chill the sweat on my face.

“Can I ask you something?”

“If I say no, you’ll ask anyway.” I look over at him as he drives with one hand while the other one does that Blackard tic of stroking his chin, which means he’s ready to be all serious again. “What?”

“Has Dylan been acting a little different?” he asks. This is not an impromptu question. Carson has been thinking about this for a while and is trying to say it as delicately as possible without causing me to be alarmed. He’s a planner and I can see that it is difficult for him to ask someone else about his own brother; the boy and the man he has been raising for a lifetime.

“In what way?” I ask in a meek voice I haven’t used in a long time.

Carson glances at me and then back at the road in front of us. “He’s been too low key. Very quiet and distant.”

“Doesn’t his anti-depressant medication do that? Calm him?” I ask, hopeful that maybe Dylan is secretly getting treatment, but wasn’t ready to tell me.

“It calms him, but it doesn’t make him indifferent,” Carson answers. “Jess, I told you he went off his medication and hasn’t been very stable since then.”

“I know. I was just hoping you were going to tell me his behavior was a good sign.”

“Do you think he’s doing well?” Carson asks me. “He’s quiet at work. He does his job, although he’s less talkative. He uses his lunch hour to go running, and before he used to hang out with the guys and eat and shoot the shit. Now he runs like a maniac. Excuse me, poor choice of words. You see him more than I do. That’s why I’m asking.”

“No, I don’t think he’s doing well. He told me last night that he doesn’t want to go back on any treatment program. It’s a sore point between us.”

“I’m sorry,” Carson says under his breath. He parks his truck in front of my house.

“Well, thanks for the ride.”

“Yeah, about that. Sorry to tell you, but I’m coming in. I’ve got my equipment in back and I have to rip out some of the kitchen cabinets we can’t save, so we can slide in your new appliances which will be arriving on a delivery truck in approximately two hours, or less.”

“It’s a good thing I don’t cook or I’d be really pissed off at your lack of notice. I have to get to work anyway.”

“How is that going? Working from here?” Carson asks as he begins unloading equipment from the truck bed.

“Pretty good. I like the quiet of the library. It’s kind of lonely not having my colleagues around and people to eat lunch with, but it’s a pretty good trade-off with the views and the peacefulness. Other than Bert, I have very few distractions.”

“Except for Dylan,” Carson says. “Have you given him his own set of drawers and a closet yet? He spends more time here than anywhere else.”

One minute Carson is concerned about his brother, the next he’s taking jabs at me as if he’s resentful of me or Dylan, or both. I’m too stunned to reply. Carson carries a toolbox and a small ladder, and I follow him into the house.

“Wait a minute,” I say. Carson sets his equipment down on the kitchen floor and turns back to me. “Do you think I’ve caused Dylan to behave this way? Do you think this is my fault?”

“No.” Carson shakes his head in exasperation. “Forget I said anything.” He leans down to pet Bert.

“It’s hard to forget when you keep bringing it up.”

Carson gives me the once over and shakes his head. Then he retrieves Bert’s food dishes to give him fresh water and the dry smelly pellets he eats.

“I was going to do that.” I point to the dishes.

“Don’t be so defensive. I’m trying to help out; I’m not blaming you for Dylan or for Bert’s dirty water dish.”

“Jesus. Something is going on. Between you and Lois and the others, I swear something is going on and no one is telling me. I feel like I’m the star in some crazy Fellini movie, except I’m the only one who doesn’t have a script.” I swing my arms in frustration and whack my hand unintentionally against the doorframe. “Fuck!”

“Are you okay?” Carson comes towards me.

“Leave me alone.” I hold my hand up so he doesn’t touch it. “I have work to do.” I leave and jog up the staircase to my bedroom, pounding my feet as hard as I can.

After a shower and an hour of sitting in front of my computer screens, I realize I never ate breakfast or lunch and my stomach is gurgling. Carson is making a racket, demolishing part of my kitchen, though, and the last thing I want to do is slink down to the kitchen to grab some food while he’s there.

I continue to work, plodding through code that I should know well, yet my thoughts are distracted so I might as well be translating a foreign language. I should be celebrating after what Tom has offered to do with my paintings, but other than Dylan, I haven’t told anyone my good news. The fact that Dylan did not mention it again last night and did not congratulate me or seem happy in the least strikes an unsettling chord.

By late afternoon the house is quiet. The demolition has stopped and I see a large delivery truck pull up in the front yard. I let Carson handle the order since it’s been organized by him and I’d only get in the way. I sit in the bay window and watch the delivery men roll the stainless steel appliances off the truck ramp, Carson directing the way.

I go back to work, joining in a late afternoon conference call with Nathan and my team to go over changes they want to make in one of our software programs before a final product is presented to the client. I listen, but say little. I’m too busy doodling on my notepad, thinking I’d rather be in the studio right now, playing with my paints and inks. I hear the delivery truck drive away and Bert perks up from his place on the couch as I get off the conference call.