Almost Broken (2 page)

“She fell asleep before we even made it to see the bears,” he says with genuine disappointment.

I laugh. “She had a good run. Let’s take a lunch break. She might wake up in a half hour or so,” I assure him. We make our way over to a picnic area, and I pull out the sandwiches his mom made for us.

“Thanks.” He takes one from my hand. I hand him a sanitizing wipe, and he takes it, amused.

I really am a mom now.

I unwrap my own sandwich and bite into it. My taste buds have died and gone to heaven.

“Oh my gosh.” I moan.

There’s a glint in his eye. “Good isn’t it?” he says, tearing through his own.

“This may be the best sandwich I have ever had,” I say, diving back in.

“My mom makes the best sandwiches.” He says, finishing his in record time. I now know why his mom made five for just the three of us. I giggle and hand him another one. He smiles. He looks like Cal, he sounds like Cal, but...

“So, other than hanging out at the zoo? What do you like to do?” he asks in between bites, his green eyes on mine and the lone butterfly in my stomach gets a friend.

It’s like we’re on our first date. Well, except our one year-old is asleep between us in her stroller. Actually, I feel like I’m tagging along on Caylen’s playdate. I take one of the juices his mom packed and take a sip

“Most of my time kind of revolves around Caylen.” I shrug. “But when I get a breather and don’t use it for a nap, I try to squeeze in some drawing,” I tell him, resting my head in my hand.

“Drawing huh? Are you good at it?” he asks curiously. And now I’m having déjà vu.

“What do you mean?” I joke.

He laughs. “Well are you drawing stick figures,” he asks, crumpling up the plastic that his sandwiches were wrapped in and shooting it in the nearby garbage can. It goes in.

“Impressive,” I joke.

“That’s
my
talent, making trash shots.”

“I can do a little more than stick figures.” I laugh.

“What about you? Is trash ball really your talent?” I ask, making use of the excuse to really look at him. He looks like Cal, he has his voice but he doesn’t necessarily sound like him. This guy, that wears a t-shirt and jeans, plays with kids, and jokes around, is different. And today, unlike the day we talked in my hotel room, he seems care-free, unburdened, and it’s refreshing.

“Well, I play the guitar,” he says, leaning on his elbows. “But you probably already know that.” When he runs his hand through his messy hair I remember when he’d let me do that.

Wait, what?

“You…play the guitar?” I ask in disbelief, and his eyebrows raise.

“Yeah…I never…umm, Cal he never…?” he asks awkwardly.

“No!”

“I used to be in a band,” he says with a shrug, and my mouth drops open.

“You’re kidding?” I can’t believe this.

He nods shyly. “We played a few gigs here and there, it’s not like I was selling out concerts or anything,” he says modestly.

“You’re in a band?” I’m completely shocked.

He smiles, then he sighs. “Used to be,” he adds.

“Well it’s a little hard to stay in the band when you never know if you’re available.” His playful smile has completely diminished. I nod my head and think about the fact that every moment Cal was with me was an interruption to his life. I can’t help but feel a little guilty about that.

“Can I ask you a question?” He leans forward on the table.

I bite my lip. Usually that means there’s a really awkward question following. “Sure,” I say preparing myself.

“Well,” he says, running his hand through his hair again. Cal used to do it as a flirtation; I think Chris does it when he’s nervous. “Do you come from money or something?”

I can’t help but let out an amused gasp. “Uhm, no. Why do you think that?” I ask hesitantly.

“It’s just, well the car you’re driving isn’t exactly a base model and then, uhm…the ring you threw at me the other day looks pretty expensive, and Chicago isn’t exactly the cheapest place to live, and you never mention having a job…” he says, letting out a nervous laugh and rubbing the back of his head.

“Oh no. Well…” I try to think of how to explain this.

“You—uh—Cal made good money working for the Crestfields.” I see his hand tighten around his drink.

“Do you know exactly what did I
there?” he asks tightly. I know his dad didn’t have an obvious affection for them. It would seem Chris’ opinion of them must not be much better.

“I don’t know much. The details of your job were mostly confidential,” I say, clearing my throat. Now I wonder what his job was. I can’t imagine him being entrusted with such a valuable position knowing he could become Chris at any time.

He lets out an angry sigh and shakes his head.

“The only thing you told me was that you were a liaison for Public Relations and Research and Development,” I say with a shrug. There’s another round of silence. I reach in the bag Mrs. Scott packed and hand him a juice box. He smiles gratefully and takes it.

“A shot of Tequila would be a little better, but grape juice should work just as well,” I joke. He nods as he opens it and drains the little box. I’ve been trying to restrain myself this entire time, but there’s so much I want to know, and I know he wants to know about me. We’re like two polite strangers with a kid. Anything too personal would be going into the realm of intimacy, or maybe that’s my own paranoia.

“Now is it my turn to ask a question?” I say quietly, playing with my empty sandwich bag.

“Go for it.”

“You don’t remember anything?” I ask, folding my hands together. His head tilts a little to the side.

“Not just about me or our...my life with Cal, but before me...?” I ask, and I’m waiting with bated breath. If he could just remember something about us, about me, our life together. It’s pathetic. I know, but it would make me feel some consolation. If Cal loved me and he’s apart of him, he should feel something. Even if it’s locked away in another part of his mind, he should remember something…His eyes lock into mine, and for a second, he looks at me how Cal used to, with an intensity that overwhelmed me, that used to consume me. This time it spits me back out.

“I’m sorry, Lauren, but I don’t remember anything,” he apologizes and stares down at the table. I try to pretend like the words aren’t a knife through my heart. I can’t do this. I can’t cry and feel sorry for myself every time I’m around him and things don’t go my way. This isn’t about me or him. It’s about
Caylen.

“No it’s okay. It’s nothing to be sorry over.” I plaster my practiced smile on my face. I really hope he buys it. So what?
Even
if he remembered something, it wouldn’t matter anyway. It’d just leave the single thread of hope more time to catch fire, the fanning of a flame I need to stomp out fast.

“It looks like rain,” he mutters, and at first, I think it’s an attempt to fill the increasingly awkward silence that has followed this discussion. When I look up at the previously sunny sky that’s become overshadowed by darkening clouds, I know it’s not.

“It does.” I sigh. At least Mother Nature is doing us a favor, excusing us from our uncomfortable little outing. We grab our items and throw them in the trash. I push the stroller as we make our way to the parking lot, ending what started as a nice trip to the zoo. Thankfully, Caylen was sleep before her mommy managed to suck all the fun out of it.

When
I was six years old, my aunt had come to stay with us for a few days. She sucked as a cook, but always insisted on doing it. She told me one morning that when I got back from school she’d have my favorite cake waiting for me. As a six year-old, kid I was stoked. Cake was one of my favorite things. Who am I kidding? It still is. I told all my friends about it, thought about it all day at school, and when I got home, I ran straight to the kitchen. There it was on the counter. A two-tier cake with blue icing. My favorite color. She was so excited for me to try it. She cut me a huge piece, but before I could take a bite, my mom sent her to get something out of the kitchen. The moment I took a bite, I spit it out. I can only imagine the face that I must have made. I told my mom how bad it tasted, and that I didn’t want anymore.

My mother sat next to me and told to me that when my aunt asked how I liked it, I had to tell her it was really good. I was confused. It wasn’t good. It was awful, and I told my mom. She then explained to me that my aunt worked really hard to make the cake for me, and it’d make her really sad if I told her I didn’t like it. As a six year-old, I reminded her that I
would be lying
and that
she
had told me lying was wrong. She sat me on her lap and said sometimes lying was okay if it was for a good reason. She told me it was just a
little white lie
and would make my aunt happy. When my aunt came back into the kitchen and asked me how the cake was, I told her it was good, and I’d finished all of it. She was happy. I felt good about making her happy even if I didn’t really like the cake. I had told my first white lie. Sometimes I wonder, if I had told my aunt the truth all those years ago, that she couldn’t cook, would she have actually learned how to do it, and not suck completely?

If a white lie makes people feel good even if it’s not really helpful, what I just told Laruen has to be black lie. I didn’t do it to hurt her, but it is ultimately for her own good. I told Lauren what she
needed
to hear. At 28, I’ve told my first black lie. A lie that did the exact opposite of making her feel good. When Lauren asked me if I remembered anything, it felt like time froze. It wouldn’t be good for her—
for us
—if I told her that I had started to remember things about my life as Cal. I don’t even know if they are really memories.

Do I remember anything? I wish she would have asked me this the last time I saw her, then I wouldn’t have had to lie, but of course she asks me today.

Technically, I don’t know if I’m remembering anything. It could just be an overactive imagination. Extremely vivid dreams that don’t feel like any other dream I’ve ever had. The only way to actually confirm they’re not dreams is to ask her, and I will not do that.

Not now at least. I don’t want to make this whole situation any more confusing than it already is. That would just give her false hope. I thought I may have seen that hope in her eyes earlier, and that would be dangerous. Her hope is for them, which is hope for Cal, and I can’t give her that. Like a person who holds on to someone on a ventilator long after the doctors have said they’re gone.

Cal.

Cal is a selfish prick. Over the past six years, I never remembered anything. Not one single thing and now, now I start to.

It’s him. I know it is. He’s
sharing,
and if he’s decided to do it, it’s not for my benefit. It’s for his. He wants me to tell Lauren I’m remembering. He wants her to not give up on them, and I won’t hold her hostage to this guy, a memory, a hope for a future that doesn’t exist.

I want to be her friend. I want a relationship that’s uncomplicated and amicable for our daughter. I think back to my conversation with Dexter this morning.

“Just go back to his life, Chris. Cal won’t like it if you marry Jenna, Chris. Just leave all you worked for behind and do what makes Cal happy, Chris.”

I never thought Dexter would be anyone’s spokesperson. I know there has to be something in this for him, and that’s what scares me. Dexter doesn’t bother with anything unless it’s in his own best interest. And usually, what’s in a Crestfield’s best interest is in direct opposition with mine.

What was with all the riddles, it being Dexter’s suggestion and not Cal’s to try out his life? What does that even mean? Cal wouldn’t like it if I wanted Lauren, if I moved back to Chicago? If that’s the case he’s even more self-absorbed and selfish than I thought. I’ve already stepped into the role he left empty, the one good thing he ever did.

I haven’t had as much fun as I have today in a long time. I hadn’t been to the zoo in years with everything going on, and until lunch, everything was going great. For a little while, the heaviness of the situation was gone. We were normal, like everyone else. Two parents with their little girl, no extra drama or baggage. Before this conversation with Lauren, we had a clean slate. Nothing but honesty and cooperation between us.

Now there’s a lie, a lie that changed things between us, one that made us opponents instead of being on the same team. I know it’s just paranoia. I’m just not used to lying to people. How the hell do people do it so easily? I’ve only said one sentence, and I feel so guilty. The worst part is she doesn’t think I’m lying. I’d feel better if there was a hint of skepticism, or distrust, but she believes me. She took everything I said as the truth, and that’s eating me up.

She’s different now. Something in her expression changed right after I told her. Something left her. It could be the very thing I wanted to see gone. Her hope, and the energy that poured out of me the day I talked to her in her hotel room is trickling back in. We haven’t said a word to each other since we left the picnic table. She won’t even look at me now. Before, I’d catch her stealing a glance at me every now and then, but not anymore. I don’t know why it almost hurts that she won’t.

You killed her hope, dumbass! She’s in mourning, you fucking idiot!

Those words slam into my brain. A thought so clear it’s like it’s spoken to me.

“Are you okay, Chris?” Lauren asks. I notice I’ve stopped in my tracks. She’s more than a few steps ahead of me, turned around, her eyes narrowed in on mine.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” I say aloud and catch up with her. Second lie. I’m far from fine. I’m losing it because even though my thoughts should be mine, I’m starting to think the one I just had wasn’t. My phone starts to go off. It’s the text ring tone Jenna set for herself and my heart does double time. I see it’s only a one word message.

Hey.

But it’s enough to make the feeling I just had dissipate. I quickly type out.

I miss you,
and stuff my phone back into my pocket. Lauren takes Caylen out of her stroller. The message goes off again, and I pull out my phone.