Depths (14 page)

I’m such a good liar, I’m actually scaring the shit out of myself.

“Cool.” She stands and brushes the sand off her shorts with the flats of her hands, and she never makes eye contact. “Well, thank you so much for letting me sleep in your bed. And…um, thanks for the eggs.”

The eggs.

The fucking eggs.

This is what it’s come to?

I’m standing by her, my hand an inch from her waist, my mouth a half foot from hers, the words I need to say on the tip of my tongue, when Jason bursts back out on the porch.

“Jesus, Maren, are you deaf? I. Have. A. Meeting. With. My. Boss! Quit screwing around with Carlos and let’s get a move on!”

She looks at me, her eyes begging me to ignore her douchebag boyfriend.

I have a feeling I’m going to wind up beating the shit out of this tool at some point, but now isn’t the time.

“You don’t have to go with him,” I say, and her eyes have this hopeful gleam. “I have another dozen eggs.” It’s a joke. Clearly a joke.

But my timing sucks.

Her face falls and she shakes her head. “I have to go. Of course. I need to. But thank you. So much.”

She turns and flees like a deer running from a hunter, the way she did last night in the kitchen, and my heart has the same nasty emptiness it had last night.

I trudge through the sand and stop short on my deck. I can see them all through the sliding glass doors. Maren is rooting through her purse, and Jason has a hand on Ally’s waist, his head is bent close to hers, and he has one finger pressed to his lips, in the classic ‘shh’ signal. When Maren turns around, he lets go of Ally and pulls Maren close, kissing her on the mouth.

Where I kissed her last night.

The way I kissed her last night.

Ally looks like she’s contemplating murder. I bet she and I could be mistaken for twins based on our expressions alone.

He finally pulls back from Maren and shoots a look of triumph out to me, like he knew I’d be watching like some damn tool. Maren presses her fingers to her lips.

My heart shreds. I feel a distinct, shitty hollowness that I have no clue how to begin filling.

If I had a cyanide capsule in one of my teeth like James Bond, I’d so crack that bitch open and end my misery right now.

I stare at the caller id on my office phone, like I have every day for the last week when Rodriguez Furniture shows up on it. Debating whether or not to answer, like I even have a choice. It’s an internal call. It could be anyone in the company.

Still, I half hope it is Cohen, and half hope it isn’t.

So far, it hasn’t been.

The store he works at is having a massive tent sale, so I tell myself that’s why he hasn’t called at all. He’s just busy. Though, I know more than likely, it’s because I was basically naked with him, begging him to sleep with me that night at his house, and then I left with Jason in the morning.

“This is Maren,” I say, clutching the phone with my sweaty, nervous palm.

“Hey, Maren, it’s Cohen.”
     Cohen. Sweet, sweet Cohen. I feel like I can taste his delectable mouth through the phone.
     “Hey. What can I do for you? Do you need the count for the rugs that are being shipped to you guys tomorrow? I heard you were running low. I figured you’d be calling about it; actually, I probably should have already called you or sent over the specifics. Sorry about that.” Sorry about so many things…
     “Rugs? Yeah. Um, how many are we getting? I’ll make a note for Gen, you know how she loves specifics.”
     “Right,” I say. I tap away at my computer, making mistakes with every keystroke because I can’t keep my hand from shaking. This is absurd. It’s just Cohen. Cohen who smells like the surf first thing in the morning. Whose kisses were so surprising, so passionate and animalistic that I’m wet every time I think of them. I’ve got to stop this. I clear my throat, dislodging the lump that’s stuck there because my body aches for Cohen to be near me. “Okay, so it looks like you should be getting fifty of the Moroccan Trelis rugs, twenty-five shags in assorted colors, ten Chevrons, and ten florals.”
     Silence. Except for the sound of his breathing. I close my eyes for a few seconds, and picture the way that vein on the right side of his neck pulses with each breath. How can a single detail be so incredibly sexy?
     “Cohen?” I clutch the phone tighter. “Did you get that?”
     “Huh? Yep. Ten florals.” His words are tight and clipped.
     “That’s it. They’ll be there within a few days. You should have enough in stock until they arrive. If not, let me know.” I blush when I remember how close I came to going through with my hare-brained plan to screw the order up, just so I’d be sure to get Cohen on the line to help untangle it all. Pathetic.

His voice gets soft on me, making me have to catch my breath. “Will do. Thanks, Maren, fixer of all things.”

I feel the warm blush that always burns my skin when he compliments me creep up my neck and stain my cheeks. Not that I need a ‘thank you’ or his sweet words anyway. Because I love when I make things easier for Cohen. I love feeling needed in a positive way, not in the way that my father needs me around.

But that’s exactly the point: I like to keep things easy for Cohen.

Me in his life, wouldn’t be that. Cohen wants something completely uncomplicated, and I work for his family, which makes things uppercase COMPLICATED. I just have to accept that and remember that I’d be a hiccup in the well-oiled machine that is Cohen Rodriguez’s routine. He would lose patience with me for having to sneak out in the mornings to make sure dad hadn’t passed out somewhere in the house, and that he had groceries in the fridge, and that he hadn’t gotten his electric cut.  

Hell, it annoys me that I cancel plans, cut corners, and tell lies on a daily basis on the off chance that my dad will spring up, his debilitating alcoholism magically cured by my martyrdom, and I can start living a full, normal life again.

If I can remember how to do that, of course.

It’s so easy with Jason because he doesn’t care much about any of that stuff. If I’m honest, Jason doesn’t care much about
me
. The fact that his eyes have been glued to Ally’s rack every single second I’ve seen them in the same space proved that implicitly. And it’s fine, because I don’t expect anything else from him. Jason fits my temporary state perfectly: he’s not the kind of guy you marry. He’s the kind of guy you waste time with. That’s exactly what I need right now, when things are so damn up in the air.

And he’s fine. He’s not the love of my life, he’s not so amazing, but I like his company most of the time, and we do generally have a pretty good time. He’s ridiculously good in bed. I can’t imagine sex getting better than it is with Jason—though Cohen’s kisses tell me I may be dead wrong about that theory.

     “Oh, before you go. This is going to sound weird, but I also ordered a seven-by-ten teal and gray area rug. I, um, I sort of thought it would look great in your living room,” I say. It sounds ridiculous now that I’ve said it outloud. Who am I to pick home furnishings for him? “It’s gorgeous, but if you hate it, I’m sure you could sell it in the store anyway.”
     “You picked out a rug for me? That’s—”

“Creepy?” I stifle a hysterically panicked laugh.

I am a colossal, ridiculous idiot.

“Cool. I was going to say ‘cool.’” His voice sounds anything but cool. The way it rasps against my ears is magma hot, and it burns right through me the exact way his hands and kisses did in his kitchen the other night. “Thank you, Maren.”

I close my eyes and wish I was brave enough. To tell him that I think I could make him so happy. Someday. If he can wait, we might be amazing together.

But that’s the stupidest thought I’ve had yet. Cohen is right for a life I don’t live. And, even though I hate to admit it, I may never live that life. I care about him. I want more for him. So I need to stop being an ass and picturing our life together, because that’s just asking for an ocean of heartache.

I keep it short and platonic. The way it should be.

“No problem. We’ll talk soon.”

“Bye, Maren.”

It’s fine that it hurts to let go. That little jab of pain reminds me to keep my distance.

***

“Dad? You home?” I ask it, though I know he is. Of course he is, where else does he go? I set the bag of groceries on the counter and turn to preheat the oven. It’s meatloaf night.

     “Mare, is that you?” My dad’s voice booms down the narrow hall. I close my eyes and suck in a quick breath and hold it, trying to put myself in the right frame of mind before I see him.

The frame of mind that isn’t full of bitter resentment.
 
     “Pop, I’m in the kitchen,” I say, stacking the cans of vegetables neatly in the pantry. Dad probably won’t eat them, though he should. I stopped wasting money on the fresh ones since I caught him feeding his meals to the neighbor’s schnauzer or hiding them in the bottom of the garbage can, covered up with plenty of napkins—just like a guilty child would do.

Which is exactly what my father feels like to me.
     Once upon a time, my dad was lead singer for a semi-successful punk band. They opened for early nineties acts like No Use for a Name and Blink 182. Girls threw themselves at him like he was a huge catch, and, I guess, he had his moment when he was. But once my mom got pregnant with Rowan and forced him to marry her (his words), his life went downhill.

He tried.

I think he really did.

For years I remember the gardening and baking and being a family. But somewhere deep down, he couldn’t handle feeling tied down, he couldn’t handle the restricted tour schedule, and not being able to go out afterward with the band like he used to. When Mom started her business and poured every ounce of her energy into making it a success, he felt left behind. He’d long quit the band because mom told him to, and then she finally found her dream in owning a bakery. When she eventually left him, after she’d made him toss out his own dream of making it big one day, any other aspirations of ever being a productive member of society went down the drain.
     It’s so damn cliché, but for some reason, women seem to have a thing for rock stars. I guess their crazy lifestyle and talent is a turn on or whatever. What they don’t see is what happens after the fame goes away—when the has-been is living with his twenty-something daughter, unemployed and underdressed.

“Can you put on a robe or something?” I ask. Dad is shirtless, that six-pack in the old photos replaced by a bulging belly, likely full of cirrhosis.

He ignores me.

 
    “What’s on the menu tonight, kid?” he asks back, stretching his arms over his head and grunting like he’s just woken up. At six o’clock at night.
     “Meatloaf and green beans,” I announce. “And don’t argue about the beans. You need to eat more green things, Dad. Doc Snyder says so.”
     “That doctor is a pompous moron.” He runs his hand down his long, gray beard. He looks less dapper, more Unabomber with that thing. I’ve begged him to shave it. Offered to pay for it, even at that stupid barber shop where the ‘barbers’ wear short-ass skirts and serve you whiskey while you get a shave. I’d do anything to make that scraggly mess go away. I’ve explained to Dad that no one will ever hire him with that thing. I think that’s probably part of the appeal.
     “What’d you do today?” I ask. Dad’s been living with me for two years, since his workman’s comp for that BS pulled back claim he made ran out, he lost his apartment, and he didn’t have anywhere to go.  When I took him in, it was supposed to be temporary, just until he found work. But he’s never tried. So, I support him, because what else am I supposed to do?
Mom lives in St. Helena, right outside of Napa in Northern California. It’s a day’s drive away, but neither one of us makes the effort much. She’s long washed her hands of this mess. I’m all that Dad has, and I think she resents me for not walking away from him like she did.
     “Looked at some jobs online,” he says, filling a plastic cup with whiskey.

I frown.

Not because I care one way or another if he drinks anymore. It’s just that everything that he does makes me a little sad. It’s why I tolerate him mooching off of me. It may not be right, or ideal, but I could never sleep at night knowing he was out there on his own drunk, hungry, and all pitiful like. So I let him stay and buy his food and cook his meals and pay his cell phone bill like I’m the parent and he’s the teenager.
     “Anything promising?” I grip the countertop, because I know there isn’t anything new to report. There never is.
     “Nope. Bunch of idiots out there. They all want you to have a bachelor’s degree just to flip burgers! It’s ridiculous. And I ain’t busting my ass for some minimum wage job, either.”
     “Dad, the economy is shit, what do you expect?” It’s harsh, but truthful. He hasn’t worked in years, and he isn’t exactly what HR would consider well qualified for most positions. “I can check with our warehouse department again and see if there’s anything open for you. Even just a night stocking position would be great, you know? They have really decent benefits. You’ve got to do something.”
     Dad takes a long gulp from the cup, sets it down on the counter and walks away. He just doesn’t do well with tough love.
     I toss the remaining groceries in the cabinets, unwrap a frozen pizza and toss it in the oven. Maybe Dad will smell it cooking and come out of his room, maybe not.