Triangles (10 page)

some energy that does

not die? Some thread

of life that continues

beyond the grave.

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What if flesh does

not, in fact, limit us?

I DON’T DISCUSS THIS

With Vern.

Neither does

he mention Valerie,

our earliest, strongest

connection, though I

suspect he wishes

otherwise.

She has been

gone for four years.

Vern is beyond ready

to move on. And I think

he’d like to move on with

me. Problem is, I see

him as hers. And

in him, I see her.

And anytime I’m with

Vern, I can’t help but think

of my treasured friend, standing at the altar in ice blue. Valerie isn’t a memory, nor is she a ghost.

She is, forever, a presence.

THE COUNTY EMPLOYEE

Parking lot is a huge rectangle,

maybe a quarter mile around.

We complete half of it at a brisk

pace, exchanging a bit of workplace gossip—who’s getting divorced,

who’s sleeping with whom, who

has recently entered rehab. On the far side of the asphalt, the tenor of our conversation changes when Vern

asks,
So, are you seeing anybody?

“You mean, like, seriously dating?

No. I was, but … didn’t work out.”

I spare him the grisly details, or

maybe I spare myself. I don’t want

to talk about Geoff or even think

about him. “How about you?”

He shakes his head.
I haven’t been
with anyone since … It gets lonely,
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you know? I mean, the kids keep
me busy enough. But it’s not the same
as having a best friend around—

someone to confide in. To trust.

“I’ve never really had one of those, not one I slept with, anyway.”

I have. And I miss her. But I can’t
keep mourning forever. It’s toxic.

We turn the corner, and I walk

even faster, trying to avoid what’s coming next. But it’s inevitable.

Hey, slow down a little, would you?

So, I was wondering if maybe we—

you and I—could see each other.

I don’t know what to say. That I was closer to Valerie than to my own sister, and so it would feel incestuous? Am I just being stupid? He’s cute. Sweet.

Gainfully employed. But I don’t think I could ever fall in love with him. “Vern …

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Listen. This last breakup was difficult.

I decided to spend more time with Harley, give myself a vacation from dating.” True enough. “Maybe in the future?” Cop-out.

A COP-OUT

According to Encarta, is

a “feebly transparent

excuse for refusing to face

up to something.”

Excuses,

apparently, should be

thick with honesty. Opaque

with believability. They

are

best offered up cold,

no time to invent elaborate

embellishments or

futile

misdirection. But where

is the dishonor in

fabricated justification

if

one is attempting to spare

fragile feelings?

Can deceit, not

seen

or even intuited, perhaps

be the proper choice?

A deception uncovered might

be forgiven if viewed

through

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a veil of compassion.

Holly

DECEPTIONS

Come in many sizes:

Huge.

Like lying about going

to the movies, while

really meeting someone

to engage in extramarital

boffing—even if the boff

happens to suck, so isn’t

even close to worthy of all

the ensuing guilt. Gack.

Big.

Like telling your parents

you’re spending the night

at your girlfriend’s, when

in fact you’re going to a drug-

and booze-soaked party with

with your horny boyfriend.

Medium.

Like claiming you’ve taken

up running completely for

its health benefits, though

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you know it’s more about

all that positive attention.

Small.

Like writing erotica in

private moments. Dirt,

floating in your bathtub.

THE

FOURTH

WEDNESDAY

IN

JUNE

I inform my family that I’m going

out to a play with a friend. Don’t

know why I feel the need to lie,

except if nothing comes of this writing thing, it will just be another whim lacking follow-through. My last hobby was watercolor. I took a class and

everything. Really enjoyed the creative process and my teacher said I had

a talent for landscapes. He even offered to introduce me to a friend who has a gallery. But then Papa got sick and I quit the class and just never picked up a brush again. Maybe someday. Or maybe the writing will fill the same artistic gap inside me. Who knows?

I tuck the journal with the unfinished story deep inside my purse. Not sure if I’ll find the courage to pull it out.

Not sure I’ll find the drive to finish it, 168/881

let alone keep working on the collection I envision writing.
Vanilla
is supposed to be only the start of a themed anthology that I think about calling
Essential Oils.

ON A WEEKDAY EVENING

Starbucks is pretty low-key.

Easy enough to find the
High

Desert Muses
. They’re the only group in the place. “Hi. I’m Holly.

I called … Betty, I think?”

I’m Betty. Welcome, Holly.

She is an older woman, late

sixties, maybe.
Let me introduce
everyone.
There are five tonight, though Betty says the group

has eighteen members.

At the table is Sally, who is

around Betty’s age. The two

of them write romance.
Bodice

rippers,
Sally claims.
Good stuff.

Sahara is a couple of years older

than me. She’s penning a memoir

about her time as revue dancer

and casino guru’s wife. On the far

side of the table is Daniel, a second-year college student, working on

a dystopian horror. And finally,

Bryan, who happens to teach English 170/881

at Mik and Trace’s high school. Thus, his drive to write teen fiction.

I sit beside Sahara and across

from Bryan. I can’t help but notice his striking green-apple eyes. Mostly because of how they are focused on

me.
What are you writing?
he asks.

My face flares, but whether it’s due to his attention or because of what I’m writing, I’m not sure. “Um, uh …

well, I’m just sort of getting into it, but I, uh … started a piece of erotica.” Sally is unfazed.
Great market

for that, especially if you go straight
to ebook. Betty will be an excellent
resource for you too. She’s penned
her fair share of the spicy stuff.

My expression must say more

than I want it to because everyone

laughs and Betty says,
What? I may
be old, but my memory’s still good.

And my husband isn’t quite dead yet.

Way too much information.

But hey, if she’s willing to share

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it, I guess I can take imagining it.

Wait. Maybe not. But I’m laughing

too. I think I like these people.

AND THEY ARE, IN FACT

Really good writers, to a one.

Bryan’s contemporary young adult

novel will hit kids smack where they live.

I know, because I’ve got three living there now. Dystopian horror is not my thing, but Daniel can build an exceptional scene, one that puts you right on the edge of your hard plastic Starbucks chair.

When I ask him where he learned to

write like that, he says,
I took creative
writing at Western Nevada. You should
check it out.
The community college is right here in Carson. “I definitely will. Thanks.” As a general rule, I’m not much into romance either, but the bodice-ripping kind could possibly make me change my mind. And Betty’s leaves little doubt that she can write erotica. Steamy! Sahara’s writing is probably the weakest of the lot, but she can put a paragraph together, and her sensory details are vivid. Around the table, 173/881

the critique is accurate. Not unkind, but not exactly easy, either. I could learn a lot from these people.

SO WHY

When they ask if I brought anything, do I shake my head? “Maybe next time.”
No problem,
says Betty.
Most people
don’t read the first time round. I hope
you come back to us. This is a good
group. You can trust their opinions.

We have fun traditions too,
says Bryan.

Like going out for drinks after we finish.

Who’s up for it tonight?
His head rotates, person to person. But only Sahara says,
Heck, yeah.

The smile she gives Bryan makes me think they’ve got something going on. But when he looks at me with those riveting eyes, I find something beyond friendly attention there. Heck, yeah. “Sounds like fun.” As we start toward the door, Bryan falls in so close behind that his breath falls over my shoulder, teasing the pulse in my neck. He wears some delicious 175/881

woodsy scent. Stop it, Holly! Never again, remember? That’s what I promised myself after that disappointing night with Grant. So why am I more than a little interested in this game?

IT IS A GAME, PURE AND SIMPLE

And likely dating to Victorian

times. I’d say all the way back to

the Neanderthal era, except primitive people had no use for flirtation.

We meet up at Kentucky Kate’s—

as the name implies, a country-

flavored tavern. Jace and I used

to come here once in a while.

Don’t ask me why. Country

isn’t really my thing, or Jace’s,

either. We enjoyed slumming

it, I guess—cheap beer, with

peanut chasers, toss the shells

straight onto the wooden floor.

The place hasn’t changed a bit.

There’s an open booth in back.

I slide into one seat, Sahara

into the opposite, leaving Bryan

with a choice. He sits across

from me, which might disappoint

me, except his long legs end up

knee-to-knee with mine.
What’s

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your pleasure, ladies? I’ll go to
the bar. Service can be slow here.

He nods toward the cocktail

waitress, who must be at least

seventy, but is completely charming in a short, frilly square-dancing dress.

When he goes for our drinks,

Sahara starts peppering me with

questions.
How long have you

been writing? Married? Have kids?

She is bubbly and enthusiastic,

which normally might bother me,

except she makes the conversation

all about me. Most women like to

talk about themselves. By the time

Bryan returns, three margaritas

in hand, Sahara could fill him in

on my pertinent stats. She doesn’t.

She redirects the conversation

until it’s all about him. Will he get a cost-of-living increase? Is his

job safe? How’s his wife? The last

question makes me scope out his

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ring finger. It’s bare. But so is mine.

Sahara’s cell warbles. She glances at the caller ID. Decides to answer.

IT’S HER MOTHER

Who needs her help
right now,

despite the late hour. Sahara

apologizes, polishes off her drink, and goes. Leaving Bryan and me

all alone. Well, except for the bar full of cowboys. He acts like there’s no one else around, however, all

his attention lasered directly toward me, courtesy of those incredible

eyes. He’s got an amazing smile

too. Every now and again, our hands brush as we reach for peanuts.

The energy exchange is real.

Palpable. I go ahead and give him

a brief rundown on my family.

He talks about his accountant

wife with little emotion. When

he discusses his students, though,

he comes alive. I watch his mouth

when he speaks, wonder how he

kisses. I’m aware of his scent—that 180/881

evergreen cologne over warm male