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How could I not kiss her back? Yeah, I agree, I lost myself there, every thing about her so familiar. It took over and pushed me somewhere I know she wasn’t ready for. God help me, but in that moment, every crazy nuance, every unbelievable event of the past thirty-six hours broke open and for a few sweet moments that ached soul deep, I was home.
I’m still shaking a little, my hands tight on the wheel, the fragrance of Eve still haunting, distracting me as I drive Asher home. The night is thick, my lights peeling back the darkness as we ride down the highway.
Asher says nothing as he sits beside me, tapping his hands on his jeans. I should turn on the radio, something to fill the prickle of silence between us.
I don’t remember Asher at all. From Eve’s stories, he was smart, a little bit of a renegade and her favorite. Wiry, this Asher has Eve’s dark auburn curls, his hair surfer long. Our daughter, Ashley, despite her wispy blonde hair, is his ironic spitting image. Tonight he’s wearing a black Guns N’ Roses T-shirt, a pair of cargo shorts, and high top Cons.
“So, you’re into my sister, huh?” he says into the darkness, apparently not able to stand the void.
Your sister is my entire life. I don’t say that, though. Instead, “I’d appreciate it if you just forgot what you saw tonight. At least for now.” I look at him. “We need to figure things out.”
My own words make me want to wince, the line feeling fresh off the set of Friends. But he lifts a shoulder. “I don’t care. It’s your funeral.”
I frown, but I don’t exactly want to know what he means, so I flip on the radio.
Oh great, a little Bad Company rolls on with Feel Like Makin’ Love.
Great.
He’s looked out the window and I think I see a grin.
I flick off the radio and pull onto his street. Stop a few doors down. “Thanks.”
“No problem, dude.” He gets out, slams the door and disappears into the night.
I wait a few minutes, just in case there’s shouting, then head back to Uptown.
I don’t want any more regrets.
My own words are in my head, and I roll down the window, letting the night wind sweep over me, dislodge the carnal desires still stirring inside. I meant it when I said I wish I could do things differently with Eve, get rid of the myriad stops and false starts, but this isn’t quite what I was thinking.
Okay, fine. I admit that’s exactly what I thought for a few minutes there, but now that I’m here, I’m afraid of screwing things up. Again.
And, what I neglected to mention is that time seemed to be looping back around to a familiar song between Eve and me. Late night case, a beer in the kitchen, the sultry summer night wind teasing the curtains at the windows. More than once we let things spill over from the kitchen to her living room, then upstairs to her bedroom.
That’s a couple years away, really, but it started a cycle that we couldn’t break, the hot-cold, on again, off again torrid romance that nearly did us both in. Eventually Ashley arrived. To my great regret, I still had to think about what to do as Eve handed me the little white stick with the plus sign, as if marriage might be a noose that would cut off air to the rest of my life. Practical Eve suggested we didn’t have to be married to make good parents.
But, like I said, Eve is my compass, my anchor, and it took the thought of some other man—and Silas came to mind—raising my daughter, holding the woman I love late at night and the right answer took hold.
I’d like to not have broken Eve’s heart a few go-rounds before Ashley came along.
And okay, I’m a different man now, but like Eve suggested tonight, what if one small change makes everything worse?
What if I screw everything up again…and this time I run out of second, third, even fourteen (I lost count how many times Eve took me back) chances?
My head is pounding, the lateness of the hour, the beer, and even the list tucked into my back pocket of the three coffee shops with the Good Earth brand are aligning to make me want to go to my apartment, pull the covers over my head and wish to wake up. Really wake up and let it all be over.
To be tucked up beside Eve in our fixer upper craftsman, my muse a cement block in my head, our towheaded daughter across the hall wishing for her Gomer.
I’ll live with my nightmares if I can just be assured that I haven’t somehow screwed up everything I already have.
But I have a terrible gut feeling that if I do that, tomorrow I’ll wake up to yet another morning with Burke pounding at my door, eight more lives lost.
I tap my breaks at the light and while I wait, I pull out the list. Like Asher said, three stores, one of them in St. Paul. I know that one is out because I remember the bombing happening on this side of the river.
So, that leaves the other two locations. I glance at the clock—a little before four a.m.
Time enough to do a drive by, see if anything jogs a memory.
