Lost Along the Way (6 page)

“Come to Laramie with me this weekend. It’ll do us both good to have some time away.”

He nodded slowly. “Okay. I suppose I might as well.”

Not exactly the enthusiastic response I’d been hoping for. I inched closer, moving my caress from his arm to his back, suddenly wanting nothing more than for him to turn to me and take some measure of comfort in my arms. To go to bed with me and let me do my best to erase all his insecurities. For a moment I imagined us as we’d once been, locked together in passion, all our cares lost in the pleasure we found in each other’s embrace.

But those days were well in our past. Even if he turned to me now and allowed me to lead him to our bedroom, I knew our movements would be rote, our roles preordained, our passion mostly feigned. I knew in the end, we’d fall asleep on opposite sides of the bed, both of us wondering when our lovemaking had become so mechanical. I was almost relieved when he pulled away.

“I think I’ll go to the gym for a bit. A few laps in the pool will do me good.”

“Sure,” I agreed weakly. “Good idea.”

I didn’t bother to wait up.

T
HE
REST
of the week went much as Sunday had. Chase suddenly developed a need to visit the gym each evening. I didn’t bother to ask why he didn’t go during the day, while I was at work. I knew he was avoiding me. Avoiding discussions of his job search, or lack thereof. Avoiding any chance for me to mention his music again. And most definitely avoiding any time when I might initiate a bit of intimacy between us. I wasn’t surprised when, on Friday afternoon, he begged out of going to Laramie with me, claiming he needed to spend the time searching for a new job.

I drove north with my heart heavy and my throat tight.

Was this how love ended? Not with arguments and ultimatums, but with the horrible, lonely silences that stretched into sleepless nights?

I wasn’t looking forward to facing my parents’ empty house and was therefore relieved to find Landon already at work when I walked in the front door, although I stopped short at the sight of him.

“What in the world are you wearing?”

“It’s an apron.”

“No kidding.”

The apron in question was bright green and reminded me of something June Cleaver might have worn. It was cut wide across the bust, narrow at the hips, and hung down like a skirt past the hem of his shorts. His hairy legs stuck out from underneath it. Frilly bits of eyelet accented the line of the bust and the pockets on the skirt. It looked completely ridiculous on his broad, masculine frame.

“Isn’t it fantastic?” he asked, grinning. “I found a whole box of them. They’re over here.” He rushed over to an open box on the couch, so excited about his find, I half expected him to pull out a puppy. “This one has matching oven mitts!” He put them on, although they barely fit over his wide hands. He waggled his mittened fingers at me. “See?” He turned around, hands on his hips, and batted his eyelashes at me over his shoulder, looking like the world’s ugliest pinup girl. “I’d make a fabulous Stepford wife, don’t you think?”

I couldn’t help but laugh. “I’m pretty sure no Stepford wife had quite so much facial hair.”

“Oh well,” he said, pulling off the oven mitts and tossing them back in the box. “Those Stepford husbands don’t know what they’re missing. And, um, speaking of husbands….”

“Oh God.” Was he going to ask me about Chase? For one glorious moment, watching Landon in his outrageous apron, I’d forgotten about the train wreck of my life. I plopped down on the only empty couch cushion. “What?”

“You know Mr. Jones? The cranky old man who lives next door?”

“Vaguely.” I seemed to remember my father having an ongoing argument with him over the crabapples from my mother’s tree dropping into Mr. Jones’s yard.

“Well, I thought you should know, he told his entire poker group you and I are having an affair.”

I laughed before I could stop myself. “God, I wish.” I realized how wrong the words sounded the moment they left my mouth. Landon’s wide-eyed expression told me I’d caught him completely off guard. “I only mean,” I rushed to explain, “the life Mr. Jones imagines for me sounds far more interesting than the one I’m actually living.”

Landon quickly turned his back on me, moving to clear the boxes off the other end of the couch.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean….” And yet, I wasn’t sure what to apologize for. Was I sorry for insinuating I wanted to have an affair? Yes. But protesting too much might insult Landon more than letting it lie, and my words had stirred images in my mind that I didn’t want to examine. I thought instead of Mr. Jones and his damn poker buddies. “Is it going to cause trouble? For either of us?”

“Mr. Jones’s rumor-mongering, you mean?”

“Yes.”

He shrugged. “I doubt it. Laramie’s come a long way since Matthew Shepard. I’d just steer clear of that little hardware store on the south side, if I were you.”

I’d never been a Mr. Fix-It, and I couldn’t even have said the last time I’d been in a hardware store. “Shouldn’t be a problem.” I watched him move another box to the stack by the door. He was still wearing the apron. “Find anything else good?”

“Another box of porcelain cats. Several decks of playing cards. A teapot shaped like Santa’s sleigh. And about thirty tea towels.”

“What exactly is a ‘tea towel’?”

“Well—”

“Is there one to match that apron?”

He bit his lip to stop from grinning and said in mock solemnity, “I didn’t think to look.”

“What a shame.”

We lapsed into silence, him digging through a box, his cheeks a bit redder than usual, me trying not to stare at him too much even though he was the only thing of interest in the entire living room. I focused instead on his birds, spinning wildly as the wind gusted toward the east.

“If Lulu were here,” Landon said at last, “she’d probably say your aura is off.”

“Oh really?”

“It’s dark.”

“What color’s it supposed to be?”

He shrugged as he dug through what appeared to be another pile of dishtowels. “I don’t know. I can’t see the damn things. But it doesn’t take a psychic to see something’s bothering you.” He put the towels aside and came to sit next to me on the couch, positioning himself sideways so he was facing me. “Can I see your hands?”

“My hands?”

“Yeah.” He reached out and took my left one—the one nearest him—and pulled it toward him, turning it over to study my palm. “Lulu had me take her to a palmistry convention last week.”

“Oh really?” I couldn’t keep the skepticism out of my voice. “You believe in that stuff?”

“Well, it depends on what you mean by that. Do I believe I can look at your palm and predict your future? No. But… it’s interesting to see the patterns.” He traced one finger across my palm, following one of the lines. It tickled. “For example, see this line? This is your head line. Straight across your palm and pretty deep. That means you’re a logical, analytical person.” He smiled up at me. “Fitting, isn’t it? Especially for a Taurus.” He focused on my hand again, tracing the grooves, raising goose bumps on my arms. “Can I see your other hand?”

It seemed absurd, and yet I had no reason to say no. I turned toward him and offered my right hand. He took it and repeated his examination, running his fingertip lightly over each of the heavier lines on my palms. His hands were warm. His grip gentle. His fingers were rough with calluses, but his touch was pleasingly light. I found myself relishing it, wanting him to trace those lines more. It was a simple thing, but it felt wonderful. It’d been ages since anybody had held my hand. It seemed pathetic, and even more pathetic that I was suddenly so desirous of such an innocent gesture of companionship.

“So,” I said, trying to keep my voice casual. “Am I going to die tomorrow or what?”

He didn’t laugh. “I don’t think so.”

“That’s comforting.”

He touched a spot on my palm. “A bit more of a sun line than most. Fitting, given that you’re on TV. Your heart line almost intersects your head line. That doesn’t surprise me either. You’re right-handed?”

“Yes.”

“Hmm.”

“What?”

“A lot of differences between your palms. I think that means you’re in a transitionary phase, but I don’t remember for sure. I might have dozed off during that part of the seminar.”

But the word shook me. “Transition?” Did that mean Chase and I really were ending?

Landon glanced up at me. “It’s not surprising. You’re in the process of cleaning out your childhood home. Saying good-bye to your parents. That’s probably the biggest transition any person makes.”

“Oh.”

He looked back down, lightly brushing his thumbs over my palms. He leaned closer to examine a spot just below my pinkie finger. “Would you say Chase is your first great love or your second?”

“First. And only.” And yet as soon as I said it, I realized the way Landon had worded it. “Wait. You’re saying I’ll have two?”

He stood suddenly and turned toward the kitchen. “I’m not saying anything of the sort. It’s all nonsense anyway, right?”

I wished I’d kept my mouth shut. I wished he was still tracing the lines of my palms with his hardened fingertips. I stared down at my hands, feeling as if they’d betrayed me. “Right.”

“Are you hungry? I went shopping earlier. I could cook you dinner.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“Would you rather go out?”

He was already in the kitchen, his fists on his hips. The green apron seemed less out of place on him now than it had at first, and suddenly, I found myself smiling. “No. Let’s stay in.”

I caught his smile as he turned toward the fridge. “You could put on some music. It might help cheer you up.”

And he was right. I found a mixtape from my high school days in my old bedroom and popped it into my parents’ obsolete stereo system. I sat at the breakfast bar listening to music I’d long since forgotten, chatting with Landon while he cooked. He sang without regard for key, occasionally even danced a bit as he crossed the room from fridge to sink, to counter, to stove, still wearing that ridiculous green apron, and I couldn’t help but wonder at how happy he was, and how contagious his happiness seemed, and how much joy he must have brought my mother in her final years. I laughed at him more than I should have, although it seemed to delight him when I did. And although I knew I’d regret the wine in the morning, I had to admit, it was the most fun I’d had in years.

I
T
WAS
after eleven o’clock when I pulled into my Westminster driveway on Sunday night. The house was dark, but Chase’s car was parked on his side of the driveway. I slipped in as quietly as I could, undressed and brushed my teeth, and then climbed into my side of the bed.

“You’re home,” Chase said quietly. His back was to me, and I’d assumed he was asleep.

“I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t.” He was silent for a moment, and then, “Each week you stay longer than the week before.”

I winced, knowing it was true. The thought of facing him again each Sunday made me linger longer than I should have. “There’s a lot of work to be done. I’m trying to get through it all as quickly as I can.”

His head moved on the pillow as he nodded, but he didn’t speak.

“How was your weekend?” I asked.

“I got a job at Chili’s. I start Tuesday.”

“That’s great.”

“I suppose.”

“You’re not happy about it?”

“As happy as I should be, I guess.”

But his voice was flat and devoid of emotion. It echoed the aching emptiness I felt as I lay staring at his unmoving back.

“Chase?”

“Yes?”

“What’s happening to us?”

I sensed his sudden stillness. Tension stretched between us like shadows across the bed. “I have no idea what you mean.”

“Don’t you?”

He sighed. “It’s been a long day.”

I hesitated, feeling like an intruder in my own home. But that was ridiculous. I rallied my courage and moved closer. He wore only pajama bottoms, and I kissed his bare shoulder and put my arm around him. I slid my hand down his soft stomach to the elastic waistband of his pants.

He stopped me before I could go any further. “Not tonight, Daniel.”

I sighed, resting my forehead against the back of his head. “It’s been ages.”

“I know, but….”

“But what?”

“You have to be up early.”

“So? Let me worry about that.”

“It’s not that simple.”

He pushed with his elbow, squirming away, trying to make room between us, and I flopped onto my back, feeling defeated. “How can you claim there’s nothing wrong between us when you clearly can’t stand to have me touch you?”

“I’m just tired. You’re blowing it out of proportion.”

“Am I?”

“Yes.” His voice was firm. Final. Definitive.

I lay there with my heart aching and my throat tight with tears. I wanted to say something, yet I had no idea what. I wanted to beg him—not for sex, but for some sign he still loved me—but I feared I’d burst into tears if I tried to speak.

After what felt like an eternity, he spoke again. This time his voice held a hint of tenderness. “I won’t pretend things are perfect right now. We both know they’re not. But it’ll get better. We’ve hit a rough patch. That’s all. We’ve been through them before. We’ll get through it again.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive.” He sighed. “We’ll talk about it another night.”

A rough patch. It was true we’d weathered our share of them, but this felt different to me. I found it hard to believe his reassurance, and what little faith I had shriveled to dust as the week wore on. He was working nights at his new job, which meant we were only together when we were sleeping. In our early years, we would have made it work. He would have risen early to have breakfast with me before I left for work, even if he went back to bed after I left. I would have stayed awake waiting for him in the evenings so we could talk about our day and make love. But now we barely acknowledged each other. If I was awake when he came in, I feigned sleep, and no matter how much noise I made in the morning, he did the same.