My Soul to Keep (7 page)

D
AVID
S
HYKOVSKY IS QUITE
possibly the most perfect male I’ve ever met. He says “thank you ma’am” and “please” and rises from his chair when a woman enters the room. He has the shoulders of a linebacker and the waist of a dancer, knows his downward dog from his warrior pose, and can quote every word of every Lyle Lovett song ever written. He makes a mean chocolate pie with cooked pudding, not instant. He can rebuild a transmission and choose the right wine to go with the fish he just grilled. Take him to a party, and he can hold an animated, engaging conversation with a sack of shelled corn.

And he never leaves crumbs in the butter.

His one failing, other than the fact that he owns a funeral home in Hillsboro, is that he put up with me for almost a year and a half. Which, of course, is why I eventually lost respect for him.

I met David shortly after Peter Terry ran a bowling ball through my life and scattered every scrap of my carefully ordered world into the gutter with a slap and a clatter. I was the worst version of myself during our time together—catastrophically anxious, chronically forgetful, and relentlessly self-involved. I was even more cranky, compulsive, and impulsive than usual. And obsessive, of course. That goes without saying. The smell of Pine-Sol alone would have been enough to run off the average boyfriend candidate. David, however, remained sweet, thoughtful, and thoroughly magnanimous throughout.

Then, to his credit, he broke up with me.

Since I’m not completely mentally challenged, I realized in short order what an idiot I’d been. I promptly threw myself at his mercy and begged him to take me back. He declined a golden opportunity to gloat, told me he cared about me but cared about his own sanity more, and
wished me well. Then he wiped my tears, walked me to my truck, checked my oil for me, and kissed me good-bye.

I’d been pouting ever since.

And now here he was, standing on my front porch at ten thirty on a Monday night, handsome and clean and patiently waiting for me to let him in. And I was demonstrating all the backbone and resolve of a wad of chewed Juicy Fruit.

I turned and whispered to Liz. “It’s David. What do I do?”

“Open the door.”

“No.”

“Dylan, open the door.”

“I cant.”

He knocked again. “Dylan? I can hear you in there. It’s me.”

“Dylan!” Liz said.

“What?”

“The man is standing on your porch. Open the door.”

“How do I look? Do I need lip gloss?”

“Dylan, let the man in.”

I checked my fly and straightened my shoulders, then undid the latch and swung the door open a few inches.

“Wow,” was all I could think of to say. Not a particularly brilliant choice in hindsight, but at least I was able to vocalize.

He gave me a little wave. “Surprise.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Can I come in?”

I took a step back into the foyer and opened the door.

David walked inside and gave me a kiss on the cheek. He was wearing the cologne I’d bought him in Italy—an earthy, tobaccoish scent that used to drive me off a cliff every time I smelled it on him.

“Liz, you remember David, right?”

“Of course I do. David, it’s good to see you again.” Liz picked herself up and stood to greet David, who gave her a gentlemanly air kiss on the cheek and a warm, genuine hug. Then he bent down to say hello
to Christine, who jumped into his arms and clung to him like a baby monkey.

“Where have you been?” she asked plaintively.

“Just real busy, sweetie.”

“I turned six, and I got a bunny,” Christine said. “Why didn’t you come to my birthday party?”

He looked at me.

I smirked back at him.

I wasn’t about to bail him out. It’s not the dumpee’s responsibility to smooth things over with mutual friends. Everyone knows that.

“I saw a funny purple pen with a big hairy ball on the top the other day, and it made me think of you,” David said. “If I’d known you were coming to town, I would have bought it for you.”

Christine conned him into sitting on the floor with her to play pin the tail on the bunny, which David did because he’s a fabulous human being who is impervious to self-doubt or fits of ego. How many men do you know who would sit cross-legged on the floor with a six-year-old and try to tape a paper tail to a bunny’s rear end?

I studied him. He was wearing old chinos that were faded and worn and butter soft and looked devastating hanging on his lean frame. A T-shirt that said “I’m big in Japan” hugged his shoulders and matched his blue eyes. He had new flip-flops, which he’d kicked off to sit on the floor with Christine. His skin was browned from the sun, his hair glinting in the light.

I was in real trouble here.

I watched the three of them play and talk, unable to join in, of course, because I was too busy obsessing. What was he doing here? Had he been out with anyone else? How did I look? I glanced down at my chipped toenail polish. When was my last pedicure—Christmas? Was that a tattoo peeking out from under his shirt sleeve? His hair looked lighter. Had he been to the beach or something? Who went with him?

What if he wanted me back? Should I play hard to get or sign up now without the recommended twenty-four-hour waiting period?

He started telling Christine knock-knock jokes, sending her into spasms of laughter and inspiring her to make up her own.

“Knock, knock,” Christine said.

“Who’s there?” David said.

“Orange.”

“Orange who?”

“Orange you gonna kiss Miss Dylan on the lips?”

She squealed and giggled as I cowered in the rapidly widening asphalt chasm in my living room floor.

“Time for bed,” Liz said suddenly.

“Mommy, no!”

“It’s way past bedtime, Punkin. Let’s go.”

She dragged Christine out of the room, returning a few minutes later. She hugged David, then stepped back and looked him over. “You look terrific. I’m glad you came by. We all needed some bad knock-knock jokes.”

He feigned disappointment. “I was shooting for terrible.”

“I’m turning in,” she said. “See you in the morning, Dylan.”

They said their good-byes. We heard Liz shut the bedroom door.

He turned and looked at me. “Hi.”

“ ‘Hi’?” I crossed my arms and shifted my weight to one foot. “That seems insufficient, don’t you think?”

“How about, ‘Hello’?”

“You’ve had all this time, and you came up with ‘hi’ and ‘hello’?”

He grinned. “I worked on it, though. Did you notice how polished my delivery was? I practiced in front of a mirror.”

“You drove an hour in the dark to say hello?”

“Didn’t you see
Jerry Maguire
?”

“Tom Cruise?” I laughed. “Pick someone else. He’s a nut.”

“Yes, but he can deliver a line.”

“Try it again.”

He backed up a couple of feet, mustered a look of tearful sincerity, and put a hand across his chest as though in pledge. “Hello.”

I squinted at him. “Nope. No buzz, David. Sorry.”

“You complete me?”

I raised an eyebrow. “Our status would make that seem disingenuous.”

“How about, ‘You had me at hello’?”

“That’s her line.”

He threw up his hands. “Got any Shiner?”

“Sure.”

We walked to the kitchen. David made himself at home on a bar stool. I opened a can of pistachios—my class-A company snack—and put out an extra bowl for the shells. David started in on the pistachios as I popped the top on his beer. My beer mugs had been in the freezer since January, unused. It was strange to need them again.

“I saw you on the news,” he said.

“I was on the news? When?”

“Sunday night.”

“I was on TV?”

“The interview with Maria. You were standing behind her.” He set his beer down and looked at me. “You were there, weren’t you? When it happened?”

I nodded.

“I’m sorry, Dylan. I don’t even know what to say.”

“There’s nothing to say.”

“How is she?”

“Better than you’d expect, I guess. She’s keeping it together.”

“It must have been terrible.”

“It’s still terrible.” I rubbed my eyes, then ran my fingers through my hair. “I feel like I could sleep for a week, but I have these appalling dreams. I can’t get away from them. I have these awful visions of what might be happening to him.”

“This is Gordon Pryne’s kid, right? The man who raped Maria?”

“Yeah. Nicholas. He looks so much like his dad, but he’s such a sweet little boy, David. So trusting. He’s kind of small for his age and really shy. You have to draw him out. He has this pet turtle named Bob that he walks on a leash.” I fought off tears, reaching for a paper towel
to dry my eyes, then looked at David and shook my head. “What are you doing here? Why show up after all this time?”

He cleared his throat. “When I saw you—on the news, on TV, standing there behind Maria … You didn’t know the camera was on you. And I hadn’t seen you in such a long time.” He pushed his beer away. “Your hair’s longer.”

“That happens.”

I waited for him to finish his story.

“You looked so sad, Dylan. I just didn’t …” He stared at his beer.

“Didn’t what?”

“I just didn’t think …”

“Didn’t think what, David?”

He pursed his lips and looked at me. I could tell he was trying to decide whether to tell me what was on his mind.

“Come on …”

“You’ll say I’m being patronizing.”

“David, just spit it out.”

He took a breath and interlaced his fingers around his beer mug. “I didn’t want you to go through this alone.”

“I’m not alone,” I said defensively.

“I realize you’re not literally alone—”

“I have friends.”

“I know you do. I didn’t mean that. I just meant—”

“What, exactly?”

“I care about you, Dylan. I wanted to help. I’m trying to be nice here.”

“Nice? It’s not nice to show up on my doorstep like this. It’s been six months.”

“Four and a half.”

“Okay, practically five. Why did you have to show up at my house? And why now, of all times? I’m holding myself together with Scotch tape and paper clips.”

“I wanted to see you. That’s all. I thought I could offer some—”

“Comfort? I don’t find your presence comforting, David. I find
your presence upsetting. Couldn’t you have been nice in a voice mail? Or an e-mail?”

“Can you cut me a break here?”

“A break? You broke up with
me
.”

“Yes, but reluctantly.”

“You insulted me.”

“I did not.”

“You said I was too much trouble.”

“I never said that.”

“You did.”

“I said I couldn’t handle all the trouble you had in your life. I said I wanted to be more important to you than the latest catastrophe.”

“Well, here’s a little news flash for you, David. You’re not more important to me. This catastrophe is officially and appropriately more important to me than you are. It’s more important than I am. That’s the natural order of things. Catastrophes are, well, catastrophic, David.”

“I realize that. That’s not what I meant.”

“Life doesn’t just go on without skipping a beat, you know. Some things demand immediate attention.”

“I didn’t mean that. I just—”

“What did you mean then, David? I don’t ask for these things to happen.” I took a breath and walked the length of the kitchen, trying to calm myself down. “Look, I’m not even really involved. I’m just some target in a gigantic video game. Running around hiding in manholes, trying not to get vaporized. You think I like all these bombs going off in my life?”

He pushed his beer away. “No. I don’t. If I implied that to you ever, I’m sorry.”

Neither of us said anything. David got up to leave. I stopped him and pulled him back to the bar stool. I sat him down and stared at him for a second while I forced myself into the penitence I knew he deserved, then hiked myself up on the bar and sat facing him, my bare feet on the worn knees of his chinos.

“I owe you so many apologies, I don’t know where to begin.” I
reached for both his hands. “I’m sorry. I am.” I shook my head and squeezed his hands, loving the feel of his fingers wrapping around mine. “But geez. After all this time …” I looked down and blinked away a tear. “Why do I always manage to feel attacked when there’s no enemy in the room?”

He shrugged. “Who says there’s no enemy in the room?”

I looked around, half expecting to see Peter Terry standing in the doorway, overcome suddenly with that eerie feeling you get when someone’s watching you.

“You’re shooting at the wrong guy, sugar pea,” David was saying. “Next time, maybe you should find out if you’re dealing with friend or foe before you unload your clip into him.”

“So which is it? Friend or foe?”

“Friend.”

“Friend. I don’t know if I can be friends with you, David.”

“I don’t know if I can be anything else, Dylan.”

I hopped down and went to the fridge and poured myself a glass of wine. I set the bottle down on the bar, took a sip, and closed my eyes, letting the taste settle in on my tongue.

“Sauvignon blanc,” he said, tilting the bottle so he could read the label. “New Zealand?”