twenty

  

My doorbell rang just past noon. My dad stood on the front porch, his face beaming with pride that brought a rush of tears to my eyes I had to blink back.

“Hey, there’s my little radio star!” He held up a bakery bag shiny with oil that had seeped from whatever was inside. “There was a special at the bakery. I can’t eat all this...”

While I forced down a few bites of the sticky pastry, he asked to see the leak in my guest bathroom. Once he’d seen the black fur behind the sodden drywall, and the corroded pipes, browned and lacy like a wedding dress stored in a musty basement, he went out to his truck and came back with a full complement of tools and armfuls of PVC pipe.

My first appointment of the day wasn’t for a couple of hours, so I spent part of the afternoon helping him scrub and sand and spray bleach.

Mold, my dad told me, could cause everything from irritated eyes to skin rash to serious head and lung congestion. “You go stay with that boyfriend of yours while things clear up here,” he said with a wink.

My stomach dropped at the word, but I couldn’t tell my father what had happened. He had enough to worry about on his own. I just agreed with a smile like a rictus as he pushed his shirtsleeves up higher and settled in to remove the ruined pipe.

“Dad, you’ve done enough,” I protested. “We can finish another day.”

“Go on, sweetheart,” he said, shooing me away. “I wanna go ahead and get this done.”

“But I’m leaving you with such a mess,” I said, staring at the gaping cavity of my wall and the piles of sodden, blackened drywall we’d removed.

Dad reached out and awkwardly patted my shoulder. “Sometimes you can’t avoid doing a little more damage before you can start fixing things, doll.”

  

With my dad’s insistence that I stay out of my home, I sought asylum with Sasha, but we didn’t see much of each other over the next couple of days, between her work and my back-to-back consultations—including two cheating spouses, one floundering long-distance relationship, a porn addict, and one woman who claimed her husband was “emotionally dead inside.”

But on Friday afternoon her car was in her spot when I parked in the apartment’s visitor lot, and I found her in her bedroom getting ready for a date, contemplating herself critically in front of the cheval mirror in her bedroom in an outfit that looked tailored to her perfect body. And probably had been. I never knew how Sasha funded her clothing habit.

I lowered myself onto her bed, leaning against her headboard to watch the fashion parade. “So who is it tonight?”

Sasha eyed me in the reflection. “Does it matter? You don’t usually care.”

I sat up, stung. “I care. Why would you say that?”

Sasha turned to look at me. “No offense, Brookie. I just mean that you never seem to want to know much about anyone I go out with. Why now?”

I fingered the coverlet, uncomfortable. Sasha made me sound like a rotten friend. “I’m an asshole,” I muttered. “No wonder Kendall left me.”

Sash sighed and came over to sit next to me on the bed. “You’re not an asshole, sweetie. Or at least, that’s not why that asshole bailed on you.”

“Ha, ha.”

She patted my hand and stood, headed back to her closet. “Chin up, baby. You’re going to get through this.” Her voice grew muffled as she rummaged through her clothes.

“So tell me about him,” I called out guiltily.

There was a beat of silence, and then, “No, you’re right. Why bother till we know if he’s just a sprinter or in for the marathon.”

She stepped out in a little wrap dress that made her waist look twelve inches around before the skirt flared into a flippy little flyaway that ended just above her knees. The watercolor blend of blues and greens and teals made her light aqua eyes practically jump out of her face.

“Whoa,” I said involuntarily.

“Good?”

“Gorgeous.” Her expression cleared like the sun had come out, and I swung my legs over the edge of the bed and went over to where she stood. “You look beautiful, Sash,” I said simply, reaching out to fine-tune the silky fringe of honey-colored hair skimming those amazing eyes. “He won’t know what hit him.”

“You think?” But she was over the hump—I could see the confidence come back to her face as she turned to look herself over.

“Mack truck. Have lots of conversation ready, because he’ll be lucky to retain the power of speech.” Sasha giggled, and I went back and sat down, perched on the bed with one leg drawn up under me. It reminded me of a hundred other times we’d gotten ready for dates together, and I was suddenly glad for the mold that had forced me to come spend a few days with her.

Sasha trotted into her closet and came out seconds later with two different shoes on—a beaded turquoise kitten-heeled sandal and a metallic gold peep-toe pump. “Which one?”

I pointed. “The pump. Look at your calves.”

Sasha turned so she could see behind her in the mirror. “Oh. Yeah.” She turned back around to face me. “Okay, I’m gone. Wish me luck.”

“He isn’t picking you up?”

Sasha looked uncertain. “Well...”

“Good girl!” I blurted in surprise. For years I’d tried to impress on Sasha a list of rules for her many first dates, hoping to force her to slow her pace: no getting into strangers’ cars, new men didn’t get to know where she lived, and no going anywhere except the designated meeting spot. Finally my admonitions had sunk in.

Sasha grabbed up her purse—a fringed gold clutch that matched her shoes—and then hesitated. “I feel bad leaving you. Are you going to be okay?”

“Of course.”

She chewed her lip. “Yeah, but I know the whole breakup thing is pretty fresh. Listen, why don’t I reschedule and we can—”

“Sash, go,” I cut her off. “I’ll be fine. When you get home we can sit and have ice cream and cookies.”

She frowned into my face for a few moments, as though staring at a topographical map of some particularly rugged terrain she was preparing to traverse. “All right. Don’t do anything I would do.”

“Wouldn’t do.”

She shook her head. “No... I meant it the way I said it. Do I need to take your cell phone with me?”

“Sash, please. Go. Have fun,” I said, waving her out, hoping against hope that she’d take my advice and not sleep with this guy on the first date.

  

Sasha didn’t make it back by the time I’d created an improvised stir-fry out of the dozens of veggies I found in her fridge. She wasn’t home by the time I finished eating, or cleaned up the kitchen, or sat and watched two Sex and the City reruns. I knew what that meant.

Same old Sasha. When was she going to grow up?

I was dangerously bored—Sasha may have had a point about not leaving me alone. Solitude gave my mind too much room to race, and my thoughts weren’t healthy ones. Trying to distract myself, I browsed the titles on her bookshelves: Snag that Man!; When Love Hurts; Turn Adieu into I Do. I yanked the last one out.

Sometimes when he says, “Goodbye,” what he’s really saying is, “I’m scared.” That’s when it’s up to you to hear the hidden fears and pain of the little boy inside him.

Blech. I snapped the book shut and threw it to the floor. What was Sasha doing with this kind of garbage? No wonder she had so much trouble with relationships.

I checked my cell phone—just to see if I’d somehow missed a text or call from her, I assured myself.

Nothing.

I tossed the phone down on the guest bed and it lay there, staring indifferently up at me with its blank LED eye. I gave it a prod to make it stop. And then another prod. And then some more prods until—miracle of miracles—all that prodding resulted in a text message: We need to talk.

Goodness, look at that. Like a Ouija board. Well, I couldn’t mess with fate. Clearly the universe meant for me to send it, so I thumbed in Kendall’s speed dial and hit send so quickly I didn’t give myself time to remember I was strong and independent, and didn’t want anyone who clearly didn’t want me.

And then the phone and I faced off in a staring contest.

Beep or something, damn you.

Nothing.

There was every chance it didn’t send correctly, I reasoned, so I sent the same message again and waited for the reply.

And waited.

Sometimes cell towers freaked out. Just to be safe, I hit send again.

Maybe twenty or thirty more times.

Nothing, nothing, nothing. I picked up the phone and started hitting the corner of it on Sasha’s nightstand—bam! bam! bam!—until I heard an ominous crack.

The sound triggered a little sanity in me.

Stop this. Get ahold of yourself. This isn’t who you are.

I threw on some flip-flops, snatched up my car keys, and headed out to the Honda.

  

Downtown is a grand word for the business area of Fort Myers. Originally built as a base of operations for the U.S. military to fight the pesky Seminole Indians who insisted on defending their ancestral lands, it was eventually abandoned and lay fallow for ten years before being settled as a residential community. It was another decade before Thomas Edison, our town’s patron saint, discovered the sleepy tropical town of Fort Myers and built his sprawling white riverfront home and laboratory along the Caloosahatchee in 1887 just outside the confines of the downtown area.

I drove past the relentlessly white Edison home on my left, newly restored after damage from hurricanes and termites. Mercurial Florida carries devastating risks you can count on, yet they never seem to deter people from trying to thwart the certain and eventual wrath of nature.

But even Edison’s august patronage couldn’t turn the riverfront town into a metropolis. Despite grand plans over the years, including a recent face-lift and image makeover that renamed the area “the River District,” a term I’d never heard cross the lips of any native of Lee County, the downtown area could only ever be described as “quaint.”

Bricked streets gridded several blocks’ worth of buildings, some of them dating back to the turn of the previous century. Only the old Arcade Theater building still fulfilled its original purpose, housing the Florida Repertory Theater. The rest of downtown’s remaining historical buildings had been bastardized into kitschy boutique stores, restaurants, and lawyers’ offices.

Though I was grateful to one such of the latter, as what Sasha and I called “the lawyer lot” provided one of the best parking areas in town after hours, a secret held by only a few natives that allowed us to find parking even during the most crowded events downtown. I’d shared the coveted secret of its existence with Kendall, and I knew that if he were prowling around downtown tonight, this was where I would find his car.

But there was no black Mercedes in the lot. I drove up and down the gridded streets, checking the street parking on either side, looking for it. Nothing. There were lots off Bay Street near the Harborside Convention Center, and scattered lots in the banking areas and city hall. But no Kendall there either.

Then I made the same circuit again, crawling so slowly past the entrances to every bar he usually frequented that cars behind me honked in irritated impatience. I shot a hand out my open window, my middle finger stabbing toward the sky.

Where was he?

A car in front of me suddenly peeled out of a street parking spot, and I whisked my car into it.

I sent another message. Kendall, we need to talk. Where are you?

I sat in the dark, waiting. After a while I turned off my engine and leaned my head back, lifting my phone in front of my eyes every so often to check the screen.

We need to talk! I punched in angrily. I sent it.

Still no response. This time I called. It went to voicemail after only a few rings, and a haze of red literally filled my vision. Fuck leaving a message. I hung up and called again. And again. And again. Finally the line stopped ringing and went straight to voicemail—Kendall had turned the damn thing off again to avoid me—and this time when his recorded message ended and I heard the beep, I screamed unintelligibly into the phone like zombies were tearing my flesh off.

A girl walking by my car on the sidewalk who barely looked legal jumped about a foot into the air before turning to cast me a nervous look and scurrying away.

I shut the phone off and threw it into the foot well, tipping my head forward over the steering wheel and trying to breathe. Minutes dragged by as I listened to the sounds of the downtown bar scene. Music seeped out of several bars on Hendry Street, bleeding together into a cacophonous noise. Bursts of laughter punctuated the drone of chatter from people passing by on the sidewalk.

What on earth was I thinking? Screaming into Kendall’s voicemail like a crazy person? I needed to calm down. I was acting irrationally, erratic.

I was acting like Sasha.

That thought was all it took to throw me into action. I needed to get out of downtown—Kendall could be anywhere, and this was not how I wanted to run into him. And I needed to steady my fraying nerves. A drink would help take this frazzled edge off—but I’d learned my lesson about cracking open a bottle, so going back to Sasha’s wasn’t the best idea either.

I’d head up 41 toward her house—far from any of Kendall’s usual haunts—and stop somewhere along the way to have a soothing glass of wine. Once I’d unwound from the tight coil my nerves were in, I’d go back to Sasha’s and sleep off this terrible, unsettled mood.

Everything would be better in the rational light of day.