Page 45 of Just Between Us

I turn the words over and over in my mind, and I can’t help but wonder if his melancholy, on-edge distance has something to do with that, if whatever he was reaching for in the dark is still just out of his grasp.

My house feelsdifferent without Cassie here, and it’s fucking with me.

She’s been gone several hours now, but I can still feel her everywhere. I knew damn well she used my shampoo and conditioner last night, but even still, her sweet scent managed to permeate my senses.

I stand at the kitchen sink, staring at the patterns of the backsplash, and then at the room around me. On Cassie’s first night here, when she told me she expected a mojo dojo casa house, I almost told her right then how far off she was. Six months ago, this house was full of touches of Julie but devoid of her. Her throw pillows were on the couch. The wall colors she picked out. A painting she bought at a flea market hanging above our bed. For a year and a half, I couldn’t bring myself to change any of it, yet seeing it every day was torture.

Penny and Josie knew this. One afternoon they showed up with paint swatches and garbage bags, and I knew it was time. With the help of my parents, we gutted the place in one weekend. New paint, new furniture, new bed, new art. Anything I couldn’t bear to look at was donated or boxed up and stored in my parents’ attic.

All except my poetry books. The majority of my collection was gifted to me from Julie. She scoured used bookstores, eBay, antique shops, anywhere that might sell poetry books. And on my bookshelf they stayed.

For about a week after, I hated my house. I kept thinking,What the hell have I done?Then one day I walked through my front door, and for the first time since losing her, my house was just a house. Not a daily reminder of all I’d lost.

So, yeah, Cassie had no idea how far off she was.

In truth, I don’t know how to feel about seeing Cassie in my space, in my bed. I liked it. Probably too much. When she finished her tea, she said there was a lot to take care of, and I drove her home. The drive felt normal on the surface. Small talk, easy enough. But I noticed the way she kept it light, which felt intentional. That’s the thing about Cassie. It’s hard to hide much from her, even when you’re trying.

And I was trying. I could feel myself putting distance there, brick by quiet brick. Before she hopped out, she reminded me we’re on for karaoke, and leaned down to give Mutt a kiss on his snout.

But now, back in my empty house, I feel rattled.

Something happened yesterday—a sliding doors moment. Cassie curled into me while she napped, the two of us quietly sitting together, scrolling on our phones, her in my bed.

Fuck. It’s not supposed to be this way.

Cassie hates when I smoke, but dammit, right now I could use another. This morning, when I needed one she didn’t say a word. Grabbing the pack from the counter, I stride to the patio door and step out into the September sunshine, cupping one hand around the cigarette and flicking the lighter. I take a long inhale, letting the burn fill my lungs.

This shit is terrible for me. But I already feel less frayed at the edges, my nerves calmer.

When was the last time I dreamed abouther? Three months ago? I don’t even remember much from it. No concrete detailscome to mind, just impressions dislodged from my subconscious. But I knew it was about her. There was a sense of loss, and then the dream was over and it was already slipping through my fingertips. Dreams are always that way. Like trying to hold onto water.

And the worst part? When I woke up, it wasn’t her I felt I’d betrayed by having Cassie be the first woman in my bed, no matter how chaste it was. No, my guilt resided in the fact that with Cassie beside me, perhaps the honesty of darkness isn’t so bad. The mind can be a torturous thing, how without our permission it can bring pain to the surface you thought you’d managed to bury.

I drop into the closest chair and tip my head back while the nicotine stems my frustrations. You’d think I’d be over this by now. Two years is long enough, dammit.

“You should be over this,” I mutter through clenched teeth. “Stop making it so fucking hard.”

Scrubbing a hand over my face, I drag myself back to the present, to the sunshine beating down on my skin and the breeze in my hair. I don’t want to think about what little I remember from my dream or pull at the thread to see what else unravels. That door has stayed shut because I fear beyond it lies madness.

Frowning at my half-smoked cigarette, I stub it out in my dick-shaped ashtray and go inside to grab a shower. I’ll head into town in a bit and grab some nicotine patches and gum. I’ve tried them before, but who knows? Maybe this will be the time it sticks. A couple days ago, I told Penny I’d check on some blown fuses at the studio, and I need to do a few run-throughs for an upcoming recording. Maybe an hour or two there will distract me until it’s time to head to the bar for karaoke.

What I won’t do is sit here and let the past crowd the present.

Not today.

By the time I’m dressed and climbing onto my bike, I feel like myself again.

Hair still damp and skin clean, my nerves no longer hum like exposed wire. I turn the key in the ignition and rev up the engine.

A bike ride is exactly what I need.

I pull onto the highway toward town, letting the September air hit me. Only forward movement, breathing in and breathing out.

The grocery store is quiet this time of day, which suits me just fine. Heading to the counter, I ring the silver bell to alert the cashier I’m up here. As a kid, Mom would have to put a hand over the bell to keep me from ringing it over and over, annoying everyone within earshot. As crazy as it sounds, I feel a similar urge right now, just once for the hell of it.

A guy ambles up to the register and I ask for a box of patches and a few packs of gum. While he grabs what I need, a Senior Center van pulls into the parking lot, and out pours at least a half-dozen little old ladies, most of them I know or at least recognize. The cashier is just setting everything on the counter when a tiny presence steps up in line behind me. Turning, I see silvery blue hair, deeply lined skin, and a dentured smile. Mrs. Margie Koonce. I’ve known her my whole life.

She cranes her neck around me to see what I’m buying and then clucks her tongue. “Trying to quit?”