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Carmen clenched her shaking hands into fists and battled the urge to leave. A desire to go so powerful she nearly allowed to carry her out the door and into the night. Carry her where, though? That was the kicker. She had nowhere else to go. She breathed through her nose and struggled against the encompassing sensation of being trapped.
A door down the hall slammed, the reverberations bouncing against the walls then leaving the apartment silent. The blood was rushing through Carmen’s head, and her panting breath was the only sound aside from the ticking of a clock somewhere. Finally, she shook herself and went back into the kitchen. The wine Sawyer opened still sat on the counter. Carmen wrapped her fingers around the neck of the bottle and threw back a few swigs. With a tight grip on the thing, she wandered back and repacked her strewn belongings, anything to keep her hands from itching with the urge to strangle Sawyer. Her thoughts buzzed so loudly they drowned out his footsteps.
“You’re not leaving.”
Carmen gasped and turned, flinging the shoe she held at Sawyer before she could stop herself. The missile bounced off the pile of bedding in his arms without effect and thudded onto the carpet.
Sawyer glanced down at the shoe, then back to her face, jaw tight. “Promise you won’t leave?” he grumbled. “I want you to be safe. I don’t know what’s going on, but you obviously have your reasons for leaving him.”
“Fine,” Carmen said. She’d come to terms with the maddening fact there was nowhere else for her to go. “I won’t go.” She pursed her lips, refusing to say more. If he expected an explanation from her before he apologized, he had another thing coming.
Sawyer gave a single nod. A chunk of hair, straw blond in the lamplight, swung forward across his jaw. She wanted to push it back behind his ear. Or seize it in her fist and rip it from his stubborn head.
“Night.” He stood for a moment. He opened his mouth. Closed it. Said nothing before he turned and padded down the hall. She considered giving the other shoe a try, but he disappeared into his room.
“Jackass. Stubborn, stupid man,” she huffed. Carmen unfurled the sheet over the couch with a snap and, in a puff of cotton, plopped down and grabbed the wine bottle.
****
CARMEN WAS SURE IF there was such a thing as a sandman, he had abandoned her. Probably off dancing jigs and flinging fistfuls of slumberous grit over the fortunate multitudes. She scowled at the ceiling. The silence unnerved her. To someone who spent most of her life in a city, the silence was a foreign entity. She strained to catch some sound, anything to drown out the cacophony of her raging thoughts. A few times, a faint creak from Sawyer’s room betrayed the fact his consciousness may also be uneasy, but after a while, there was nothing.
Bursting with nervous energy and the blazing remnants of anger, Carmen kicked off the blankets and went to the kitchen. She flicked on the light above the stove. It was always uncomfortable to be alone in someone else’s kitchen. Almost as much so as being in a bedroom. As if the state of the fridge or cutlery drawer offered a glimpse into the person’s soul.
She took a mug from the rack of clean dishes by the sink; it had a faded picture of a red Mustang on the front and a chip out of the rim. Sawyer’s fridge proved—somewhat to her relief—to be uncluttered and passably clean. Carmen seized a half-full jug of 2% and filled the cup.
While she waited for the microwave, her thoughts drifted to her father. A mug of warm milk was his cure-all. Can’t sleep? Warm milk. Growing pains? Warm milk. How many nights had they met in the cramped, throwback kitchen at all hours to sip in peaceful silence? Carmen always wondered what would have happened had it been her mother on those nights instead. Would she have forced Carmen to talk about her worries?
Before the beep could sound, Carmen pulled open the door, retrieved the drink, and stood with the mug cradled against her chest to absorb the heat. The bombardment of memories the simple action stirred was almost more than she could handle. The day had been too much, one long, roiling, chaotic stretch of emotion. She ached with missing her dad, Marcy, and the boys.
To distract her mind, Carmen went over to the fridge. Its sides and door were so covered in layers of photos, the colour of the appliance beneath was barely discernible.
A happy towheaded kid was holding up a Tonka Truck, his huge, tooth-scarce grin eclipsing his face. Three teens stood with their arms over each other’s shoulders. Sawyer and an older boy who shared his looks sandwiched a girl, their petite sister certainly, between their broad shoulders.
Picture after picture. Memories upon memories. Old cars. Sawyer and his dad, their smiles wide as they stood in front of beaters with raised hoods. A beautiful blonde woman with her head tipped to look way up at Dan with love radiating from her face. The hodgepodge of life all held up with little cars, tiny cacti, and fake thumbtacks. Carmen ran a finger over them and lifted a few to peer at the layer beneath.
Sawyer, his face still soft with the edges of youth, stood with a dark-haired girl. Carmen slipped the paper out and turned it over. Sawyer and Celine: One Year. She replaced that one and lifted another. The dark-haired girl again, Celine. She stood on the sand of some crystal-watered paradise, arms spread, and face tipped to the sun.
Photos of the woman peppered the entire fridge, but other shots always covered them. Except one. A wedding photo taken on a beach somewhere. The bride, her face full of joy and the spitting image of Sawyer’s mother, only dark like Dan, stood beside a grinning red-haired man. Celine, her skin tanned and her smile white and perfect, stood with the bridesmaids, their arms all linked. Sawyer was on the other side with the groomsmen. Sawyer and Celine had not been looking at the photographer or the happy couple, but across the frame at each other. Carmen took the photo down and turned it over. Pete and Sasha: August 21st, 2009.
Eight years ago. Carmen had not seen photos of Celine around the apartment, though plenty of other shots hung on the walls and sat propped on shelves. When she commented on them, Sawyer had shrugged with a brief smile. “Mom gives them as gifts. Every year.”
Carmen began to form an idea of why Sawyer reacted the way he did. Slipping the photo back under its magnet, she took another mug from the rack.