October 27

8 Days Before the Storm

 

 

No one breaks in during the night. I’m out of bed at five a.m. and I remove the bottles then busy myself cleaning nothing that actually needs to be cleaned. Nadia’s up at six-thirty, chatty and excited because Floor Day for me is a Friday and also Sleepover Day for her.

Janelle’s neighbour has a daughter turning five. She plays with the twins, and Nadia’s been over several times since she was three—they’re all friends. With so much going on this year, I’ve held off on kindergarten; Nadia will start in the New Year—the school understands—but it’s meant finding a lot of other opportunities for socialization. So after breakfast we let in the people delivering the hardwood floors and their supplies, then we pack her bag. I drive her to Whitehorse for noon, spend half an hour visiting and ensuring she’s okay, hit a few stores in the city, and then head back.

I know the timeline and discussed it with the guys before I left, so I know they’ll be there when I get home, but I find an additional truck in my driveway.

Three visits in a week.

I don’t want to be paranoid...but I wonder.

I wonder if I’ve completely mistaken the source of the graffiti in my house, if I’ve made a justified but very incorrect assumption about who I should suspect.

Owen is the one who brought Montgomery and the Lost Ones Advocacy Network here.

Owen knows all the rumours about me in town, that everyone believes I murdered his oldest friend.

Owen is suddenly here all the time.

I don’t know him well enough to judge him. I don’t sense a threat but that doesn’t mean it isn’t there. Men who manipulate, who are predators, practice their skills the way the rest of us practice knitting and guitar and video games. They are very good at what they do. There’s been a bit of boundary pushing—even in the name of helping, that’s a habit that can lead elsewhere. Insinuating himself here today without asking only underscores that.

I carry my shopping bags into the house and more of the floor is done than I’d expected—they’re already three quarters through. Owen’s right in the thick of it and gives me a smile and a wave, which I return before I start putting things away. I leave a couple of bottles of red wine on the counter, which I intended to keep in a cupboard for evenings with Janelle or even just myself, but there is a reliable way to glimpse a person behind the everyday mask. Something used on women every day to lower their guard and inhibitions.

I will use every tool at my disposal to figure Owen out.

 

*

 

They finish work on my floor just after five in the evening, while I’ve been at my laptop working at the kitchen island for the bulk of the day. Janelle texts to say everything’s been going well at the party and I unwind a little at that, to know Nadia’s taken care of, with people she considers family so close by. I can relax, do what I need to do, and not worry that I’ll have to drive to Whitehorse in the middle of the night to get her. Even though I know she’ll be okay, that she’s never had a problem before, and that Janelle is right there, it’s hard to put that concern aside. It’s hard to accept that she’s a secure, happy kid, that she hasn’t had trauma, that even Nick going missing hasn’t left her feeling uncertain in this world.

That is not how I grew up, not what I have ever known, and it isn’t just trusting that she’ll be okay tonight—it’s trusting that I’ve done my job as her mother and kept her life stable and healthy and that she’ll be just fine overall.

The others are heading out, Owen trailing a few feet behind them. I follow and he looks back at me as he nears the door. “Sorry I just kind of...inserted myself, but I talked to Brennen in town this morning and I told him I’d be by later to help, if I had time. He didn’t seem to mind.”

I’m paying for the flooring job, not by the hour, so I’m sure the guys were glad to only have a few hours left to do tomorrow instead of a full extra day next week. “I appreciate the help.” I lift my shoulder to indicate the kitchen behind me. “Do you want to stay for dinner? I was just going to throw a pizza in the oven. Open some wine. Unless you’ve agreed to let me pay you...?”

Now I’m second guessing whether he’s just that predictable, or if I’m the one falling for his manipulation—whether he’s deliberately getting me to feel obligated toward him by refusing payment. Because that’s something women fall for.

“You don’t have to,” he says.

“I know. Nadia’s at a sleepover tonight, though, and it’s just me here alone, admiring my really nice floor.”

He grins widely and looks back at the dark espresso-coloured hardwood. “They’re turning out real good. You sure you don’t mind?”

“I’d be glad for the company,” I reassure him, and he slips off his hat again as he follows me to the kitchen.

 

*

 

We’ve retired to the couch, which currently is sitting on the slate tile not far from the front door while waiting for the hardwood to settle. There are two bare strips of subfloor still: one to reach the stairs to the upper floor, the other to the fireplace, and they’ll be finished tomorrow.

I have the fire going, it’s added a soft glow to the room, the light glinting off our wine glasses. A chill has worked into the air and I wonder if the faint rain tapping on the windows will turn to snow tonight. The fire, at least, chases the cold dampness away. I still prefer the slightly lower temperature to the claustrophobia of heat, though.

We each have a glass of red. I’ve had two glasses, because I figure he’ll notice me nursing while he’s still sober, but once we move to our respective thirds, I open a second bottle and start refilling every few sips. More goes into his glass than the splash in mine, and when one’s holding one’s glass, it’s common to drink out of habit rather than desire.

So I’ve got that warmth spreading through my veins and a happy grin, but all of it is just a little exaggerated, enough to make me seem drunker than I am but not ridiculously so.

“I had no idea,” I say, leaning back in my seat. My legs are crossed, back against the arm of the sofa. “He said you grew up together, but...”

Owen’s all relaxed and loose, mirroring me except he’s bigger so his arm’s on the back of the couch and legs are more sprawled. “Yeah, I was the local latchkey kid. My place was first on the walk home from the bus and usually I had a key, but one time I forgot it and I had to crawl through a window. That’s when he made me come home with him to his sitter’s because he knew there was something wrong there.” He tosses back a lot of his wine and I casually lean forward, refilling his and adding a splash to my own.

“How old were you?”

He looks to the ceiling. “I think we were...nine?”

“That’s young.”

He sighs. “Yeah. Didn’t seem weird then. Didn’t realize anything was wrong with it until his sitter, then Mrs. Sparrow, looked at me funny and had this little conversation. I went to Nick’s for dinner until my dad got home.”

“Were you still a latchkey kid after that?”

A minute of silence passes while he scratches at the back of his neck and frowns into his wineglass. “For a week I went to the sitter with Nick after school, then Dad assured everyone he had someone coming to watch me. Got my ass beat and learned not to forget my key anymore.”

I’m surprised by the sudden sympathy I have; it’s followed by a burn of guilt for getting him drunk and taking advantage to peel back the layers of him for my own gain, but then I remember that graffiti on my floor and the fact that he’s never so much as spoken to me about the weather before. And I think of Nadia and her safety, and I know my protective streak, my need to ensure we’re both safe, will win out over any feelings of guilt.

“I’m sorry,” I offer.

“Yeah, it’s fine. Guess I kind of killed the good wine vibes.”

I abruptly drain the rest of the wine into his glass, set the empty bottle on the small strip of subfloor in front of us, and lean over with my drink extended. “Cheers to getting the good wine vibes back.”

Our glasses clink and he grins at me over the rim before tossing some back.

So his father was violent. That can go one of two ways: either the victim uses the trauma as an excuse to extend the cycle of violence and hurt others, or they go the opposite route and never hurt anyone. And I don’t know what category he’s fallen into. Nick never told me enough.

“Didn’t Nick ever invite you over? The past few years?” I ask at last.

“Whitehorse is...a little too busy for me,” he says, avoiding my gaze.

“When we moved back to Red Fox Lake, though. We lived there for over a year.”

“He kinda...had a whole new life in Whitehorse. You know, you drift apart from your friends. Saw him a few times when he—when all of you—moved back. Just...didn’t quite connect. I thought maybe, if I could help him with the house some...”

“I’m sorry,” I say honestly. “I would’ve liked to have gotten to know you through Nick.”

“Yeah...always seemed like there’d be more time.” He blinks and there might’ve been the start of tears there, I’m not sure. The light is low enough that I can’t tell. He sighs. “What about you? Latchkey kid too?”

I have a very carefully curated past with other people—fragments, never details. “Not quite, but there was...neglect. Nick’s family seemed like the opposite. Like they were so close. I didn’t know if it was, like, rose-coloured glasses, or...?”

He shrugs. “They fought like most families, but the Sparrows were real good people. Nick lucked out with them.”

And I lucked out with Nick. Nadia was raised by a man who knew what good parenting looked like. At least until he was gone.

“Well...” I look down at my glass. “We’re out of wine but I think there’s some liquor in the cupboard.”

He looks past me to the door. “I still have to drive.”

“It’s early. Let me see what we’ve got.” I don’t need to check my phone—it is actually early, the sun set at six-thirty and it’s probably only eight or so. Just feels later with the darkness, and that’ll only get worse as we head toward December. Our shortest day of the year has less than six hours of daylight.

I rise steadily but reach out to grip the couch as I wobble just a bit. My head does give a little spin but swiftly rights itself and I’m on solid ground as I head around the island into the kitchen.

Nick and I were never big drinkers. Out here, it’s easy to become one—the winters are so long and dark and isolating. A few casual drinks with Janelle and other friends, sometimes a glass of wine with dinner. I don’t like being drunk, I don’t like giving up any control or any awareness. Not anymore. So the bottles in the cupboard beside the fridge have been there since I moved into the unfinished house, and before that they’d been in the Red Fox Lake apartment for over a year, and I think a few were brought from Whitehorse. Some gin Janelle brought over as a housewarming gift, rum because I like the odd cocktail.

I settle on a good bottle of Scotch—one of Nick’s favourites.

I don’t hear Owen rise but suddenly he’s there in the kitchen, a few steps away. My back is to him and as I open the bottle, the smell hits me, and again...I can pretend. For barely a second, Nick is home and Nadia is in bed and we’re having a drink in our new house around the fire.

My heart aches.

I pour the drink, two fingers’ worth, and turn with the glass extended. Owen takes it and leans with his back on the counter, looking out over the dim house and taking a long drink.

I rest my hip on the counter and watch him. I can’t think of what to say, how to swing the conversation back around to the rumours in town, to whether he might even slightly believe them—to get some hint that he might’ve been responsible for the graffiti.

Alcohol just inhibits what’s already there. I never believe the stories about how someone is a completely different person when drunk—that inclination is always there below the surface, and there are always tells. I don’t know Owen well enough to determine if there are hints while sober and even drinking there hasn’t been anger or suggestions of anything.

He tosses back the rest of the drink and we stand there in silence for a moment. He sets the glass down and I debate if my intentions will seem obvious if I grab the bottle again to pour more.

Then his hand touches my hip and my gaze travels up; he’s closed the small distance and I manage to take in a breath before he leans down and kisses me.

I’m a little loose and comfortable from the alcohol, so even as I internally brace and calculate, I hold as if I’m actually calm. I debate the possibilities—how drunk he is, what he’ll push for. What I’ll allow, what I can get away with should he not accept me denying him—if he can be placated with a handjob, if I can make it through without being forced to give more. If I even want something myself, because it feels good—too good—to have lips on mine, to be touched by someone after a year without. If I can even fully consent when I’m afraid to find out what will happen if I don’t.

But he doesn’t do anything else. Barely even slips any tongue. It’s a slow, languid, mostly chaste kiss. When his lips leave my mouth, his forehead tips down against mine and we hold there. My heartrate drops, and it’s only then I realize how high it had climbed—the spike of terror was so normal, so natural to me, I didn’t notice it at first. I doubt he’s picked up on my reticence; whatever stops him likely has nothing to do with me.

He pulls back again, avoiding my eyes. “I should, uh...I should get home.”

“You can’t drive—”

“I’ll walk.” He heads toward the door, gets his coat and boots on.

“Owen—” Not like he can call a cab, we don’t have them out here, but I can’t even offer to drive myself because I’d let up that I’m much more sober than I was pretending.

He heads out once he has his boots on, gone in an instant. I follow to the door and watch out the window beside it, the frosted glass obscuring the details. He does indeed walk right past his truck, disappearing down my dark driveway. It’ll be a forty-five-minute walk back to Red Fox Lake. A vehicle out there would be rare, and while it’s dark, at least the drizzle has lessened and not turned to snow yet.

I lock up and get out the jars again to balance on the doorknobs before I head up to bed.