Can't Always Get What You Want (31 page)

“I hope I’m that fit when I’m that age,” I say.

“Do you still want to learn how to skate?” he asks. “I said I could teach you.”

“Okay. When?”

“Next week?” Brett says.

“Can’t. I’ll be working night shift, and will have to sleep all day.”

He nods and knits his eyebrows together.

“Hey! I know the perfect place,” he says. “There’s an outdoor skating rink by my house. There’s a winter festival there every year. I think it’s in the second week of December this year. Want to go?”

“Won’t it be busy?” I say. “I’m not sure I want to learn in front of a whole bunch of people. What if I fall on my ass in front of strangers?”

“Don’t worry, I won’t let you fall.” He wraps an arm around my waist and squeezes.

“Second week in December. Deal?”

I snuggle into his side, feeling warm and fuzzy.

“Deal.”

—

It’s early still, so we decide to wander through the mall a bit more. We’re passing a dollar store when inspiration strikes.

“Are you up for a challenge?” I ask.

“Always.”

“Good. It’s the Three Items game, dollar store edition.”

Brett releases my hand and starts stretching in exaggerated movements, as if he’s getting ready for a marathon. I crack up into fits of snorting laugher when he starts doing lunges so deep that his groin nearly touches the floor.

He stands up and cracks his neck from side to side.

“You’re going down, missy.”

I’d loooove to go down…

Brain! Get out of the gutter.

I smile demurely at him. “We’ll see about that.”

—

Once inside the store we split up, and it takes me about five minutes to figure out a creepy combination.

Ha. Take that. There’s no way he could be finished before me. I stride over to the checkout line, and see him leaning nonchalantly against a candy rack, reading the fine print of some candy bar.

“How could you possibly be back here before me?”

He shrugs, feigning a casual demeanor, though I can tell he’s secretly delighted at my outburst. “I’ve been thinking of more combos since the first time we played this game. I’ve so got this.”

His smug, happy expression combines in just the right way with his casual attire and hint of stubble. Pfft. Cocky, handsome bugger.

I hold up my shopping basket.

“Let’s just see, shall we?”

—

“I can’t believe you won!” he cries for the fifteenth time.

I pretend to buff my nails on my chest. “Stick around me, kid, and you might learn something.”

I have to admit, his combination was pretty good. His items were a box of condoms, sewing needles, and a pregnancy test.

But my three items were laxatives, a funnel, and a water gun.

(Come on. Think about it.)

I thought it was a pretty fair fight, but the checkout lady didn’t even bat an eye at Brett’s combo. She stared for a full three seconds at mine before putting it through.

“You have a messed-up sense of humor, you know that?” he half laughs, half shudders.

I stick my chin out proudly. “Yup. Now we’ve both won a round. Next time, it’s the tiebreaker. And I’m going for the kill.”

“What are you going to do with all that stuff?” he asks.

I dismissively wave my hand. “It’ll come in handy.”

“Even the laxatives?”

I shrug, and laugh. “You never know who I might need to pull a prank on one day. Give a pan of laxative brownies to an evil coworker, or something.”

I instantly think of St. Puke. It’d be awesome if I had him running to the bathroom every two seconds.

“Remind me never to piss you off,” Brett says, laughing.

“Who knew you could buy condoms at the dollar store?” I say.

He winks at me. “Who knew?”

I rifle through his carrier bag, and inspect the condom box.

“Don’t worry, they haven’t expired,” he says over my shoulder. “I wonder what they did before condoms were invented.”

“Got pregnant, mostly.”

He rolls his eyes. “Or there was just a lot of pulling out. I bet there were a ton of jizz-filled towels, back in the day.”

I scrunch up my nose. “Eww.”

He smiles with glee. “Just think of it. Grandma and Grandpa, getting it on with their jizz towels on standby.”

“Thanks for that graphic image of my grandparents.” I laugh. “Appreciate it.”

He winks. “Anytime, babe.”

“There were other things people did back in the day to avoid getting pregnant.”

“Such as?”

“Well, some cultures relied on amulets and ritual dances to ward off pregnancy,” I say.

“Bet that was effective.”

I smirk at him. “Sometimes women would soak sponges in lemon juice and stick it up their hoo-ha.”

Brett flinches. “Ouch! Wouldn’t that sting?”

“I’ve no idea.” I laugh. “Other methods included vaginal suppositories made out of dung—”

“As in
shit
?” he exclaims.

“Uh-huh.”

“I don’t believe you. You’re making this up.”

“I am not!” I laugh. “Just Google it.”

“Okay, lemon juice and dung. Got it. No wonder there used to be twenty kids per family. Anything else?”

“A lot of herbal remedies,” I say. “Queen Anne’s lace was a plant used as sort of a ‘
morning after
’ treatment. Some plants were used like birth control pills, while others were used to induce labor in early pregnancy. One plant, called silphium, was considered so effective that it was overharvested during Roman times and now it’s extinct.”

He smiles. “How do you remember all of that stuff? Maybe you should be a pharmacist. You’d be great at it.”

“Ha. Boring lab coat, stuck behind a desk all day, and the risk of being held up at gunpoint for OxyContin. Where do I sign up?”

Brett shakes his head. “Fine. Whatever you say, miss.”

“I did sign up for those courses I told you about,” I say.

“Really? Which ones?”

“The ones on tropical diseases and vaccination.”

“That’s great, babe.”

“They’re really interesting. Did you know that infectious disease is the leading cause of death in developing countries? Things like lower respiratory infections, diarrheal diseases…”

Brett grimaces. “Mmm, diarrhea. Just what I wanted to talk about after eating.”

I laugh. “That’s nothing. You should hear what we talk about in the lunchroom
while
we’re eating.”

—

We spend the next hour wandering around the mall, laughing at each other’s stories and jokes. I love being with Brett. When I’m with him, I feel like I’m being energized. It’s like I’m a better version of myself.

We’re walking hand in hand, laughing so hard that tears are coming out of my eyes, and I don’t see her at first. That is, until we collide.

I automatically step backward. “I’m so sorry, I wasn’t looking where I was going…”

No…It couldn’t be. My body, warm and relaxed only a second ago, feels as if I’ve been plunged into icy water.

“Martine,” I say softly.

“Sophie,” she replies curtly. Some part of me is surprised she actually remembers my name.

“W-what are you d-doing here?”

Geez. I sound like a frightened six-year-old. Well, that’s how I feel right now, so I guess that’s appropriate.

“Wasting time. Gerald came out here for work. I was bored in my hotel room, and was looking for something to do,” she says. Her voice is still menacingly soft. I had forgotten how much of an accent she had. No wonder Aaron could speak French so well.

I have no idea what else to say to this woman. Awkward silence descends thick and heavy between us. I’m suddenly very aware of Brett’s presence.

Please don’t mention Aaron, please don’t mention Aaron.

“I barely recognized you,” she says. She flicks a glance at my hair. “You’ve, erm, changed…”

“Ah yes, well, it was all quite a funny story. You see, my friend Samira has this aunt…”

Martine holds up one of her hands. “I’m sure it’s fascinating, but I really don’t care.”

Ouch!

Her posture is rigid, her scrutinizing gaze taking in every bit of me.

“I see that you’ve gone back on your word,” she says.

“What?”

“You said that you would love my son forever,” she says. “And that nothing would ever change that. Did you think I wasn’t listening? That I would forget? And now I see you, making a public spectacle of yourself with, with…this…”

She gestures toward Brett, eyes narrowed.

Guilt drowns me. I glance at Brett. His jaw is clenched, confusion furrowing his brow.

“I suppose it shouldn’t surprise me, though. You didn’t even attend his funeral. What kind of love is that?” she says.

“You had his funeral in Ontario. I couldn’t afford to go.”

“How could you forget him so easily?”

I pull myself up taller, and look her in the eye.

“Martine. I meant every word I said. I’m just getting on with my life.”

She doesn’t back off from my show of bravery, but simply looks at me with cold, tired eyes.

“You took my son away from me with your selfishness, and I can never forgive you for that. He died here, when he should have been at home. All because he wanted to be close to you.”

Did I just hear a sob?

Oh. That was me.

“Martine, I…”

I could say a million things to her.

But I know she won’t hear it. She didn’t back then, and she won’t now. Despite her tough-as-nails facade, I know she’s a hurting woman who has lost her only son.

And she’s looking for someone to blame.

So, I say the only thing I can say.

“I’m so, so sorry. I miss him too.”

Angry tears spill down her face. She turns on her heel, and marches away.

—

Brett and I drive home in silence. He doesn’t seem to know what to ask, and I don’t even know how to begin. There’s just too much to say.

I know I should have told him about Aaron a long time ago. But how do you bring that conversation up?

“Umm, yeah. I’m incredibly messed up by my first love dying, and I’m not sure if I can completely love anyone else again and…”

Ugh.

He drives me home, and follows me into the house. My pulse is racing, breaths shallow, palms sweaty. Can I consider this cardio?

“Wanna watch TV?” I ask, trying for nonchalance.

Brett settles in beside me, but doesn’t answer. I can’t imagine what’s running through his head. How much of that conversation did he understand?

I select a crappy sitcom that neither of us has ever seen before. He doesn’t speak until the first commercial break. His deep, quiet voice startles me.

“You wanna fill me in on what happened back there?”

My heart pounds loud and hard in my chest.

“You want the long version or the short version?”

“Whichever answers my question better.”

Oh boy. Well, here goes nothing.

“Six years ago, during my first year of university, I met someone. His name was…”

I pause.

“…Aaron.”

—

I’ve told him everything.

Well, not
everything.
I didn’t think he needed to hear me go on and on about how much I loved Aaron, the future we’d planned together, or of all the hot sex we had.

Nope. He doesn’t need to hear that.

But I tell him everything else. How we met, how we fell in love, what it was like to see him die, and how horribly his parents took it. How it influenced my decision to become a nurse. I talked about my reluctance to move on, the loneliness, my breakdown over seeing someone who looked like Aaron, how confused I’ve felt over falling in love with
him,
how I’m still struggling to let go.

Everything.

Once I finish, Brett is quiet. He stays quiet for a long time.

“Say something, please. Anything at all. What are you thinking?” I chatter.

He starts pacing the floor, restlessly running his fingers through his hair.

“Well, that explains a lot.”

I quirk up an eyebrow at him.

“I’ve always had this weird sense that you kept a part of yourself back. Like you weren’t totally ready to share. I just had no idea it would be something like this.”

He stops, and looks at me with accusing eyes.

They aren’t angry. Just hurt.

“Brett…” I choke out. “I’m so sorry. I know this is so messed up, but I wasn’t sure how to bring up Aaron with you—”

“Stop,” he barks, and pinches the bridge of his nose as if his head is close to exploding. “I can’t hear you say his name. Not right now, anyway.”

His expression widens, almost as if a lightbulb has gone off in his head.

“Oh my God…” He trails off. “That’s the name I heard you say in your sleep the first time I came to your house. Isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“And the reason you wouldn’t let me go through your old college boxes with you.”

“Yes.” Hot rivers of tears stream over my cheekbones, dripping off my chin. I don’t bother to wipe them.

“It’s all making sense now,” he mutters, with a tone of resignation. “There were so many question marks I had about you, but now…now I can see it’s all tied up with this
guy
.”

My hackles rise. “Look, it’s not like I wanted him to die, or that I asked for all of this to happen. But it did, and I have to deal with it.”

“Have you? Have you really dealt with it?”

WHAM. It’s like a hammer blow to my heart.

Brett sits beside me on the couch and looks me in the eye.

“If he were still here right now, would you still want to be with him?”

Ice spikes into my chest. I can barely speak through the pain.

“How could you even ask me that?”

He sits as still as a stone, not saying anything.

“That isn’t fair! I can’t answer that!” I cry.

Frustration distorts his perfect mouth.

“Damn it, Sophie! Who would you choose? Just answer the question!” he yells.

My eyes lock on my hands, which are flexing restlessly on my knees. This same question has plagued me for months. Memories of times I’ve shared with Aaron and Brett run simultaneously through my mind.

“I don’t know,” I whisper.

“What?” he replies, his voice flat.