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“Shepherd is there now, yes? If she needs something?” Kellan asks, reading my thoughts.
I nod. Sometimes I think I have a visible reaction when thinking about my husband. I’m not surprised Kellan has picked up on it.
A moment stretches between us.
“You know,” he says, “I was doing some research today and I also called a buddy of mine whose mom went through Alzheimer’s. There’s a facility in Dallas that he took her to. Supposed to be amazing. And, according to him, they have flexible payment plan options that are unmatched anywhere in the state.”
I close my eyes and sigh. Money. Sometimes it feels like the entire world revolves around it.
My eighty-one-year-old aunt, Jennifer Willmont, my only living relative, was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease seven months ago. When I realized her former husband and her only living child weren’t giving her the care she needed, I drove 270 miles to Dallas, where I packed her up, and moved her into our home in Blackbird Cove. I had my husband’s blessing at the time, but based on the thick air of tension that has settled in the house, I don’t think I do anymore.
Without meeting Kellan’s gaze, I loop my finger around his. “Thank you for listening.”
As Banjo snores in the backseat, we stare into the murky darkness ahead. Straight ahead, a steep, craggy cliff glows in the moonlight. Two weathered picnic tables sit haphazardly at the base of it, covered in graffiti. Dueling oak trees flank the space, each a different shade of orange. We’ve named them Laverne and Shirley. Laverne is my favorite of the two. She’s turned a glorious shade of yellow-orange. Almost golden. Below them, a blanket of brown, brittle leaves cover the ground.
Kellan leans over. “It’s okay to get help for her, Rowan. Twenty-four-hour professional care can be a blessing at this point.”
“I don’t need a break, Kellan.” I pull my hand away and scrub my palms over my face. Kellan is right. I know he is, but I’m not ready to let her go.
Not yet.
SEVEN
ROWAN
Kellan and I first came to “The Cliff” while working a lead on one of our first cases together. Once a park, now shut down due to budget cuts, the small clearing sits under a cliff on the outskirts of town. Families used to hike up from the lake to picnic under the soaring oaks, but now it’s just leaves and rocks. I remember Kellan commenting how beautiful it is. Funny, I’d never noticed. That’s the thing about Kellan. He shows me things. Not physically, but cerebrally. He makes me see things in a different light, notice things that I never have before. Appreciate them. After that first case, we met again on a warm spring day for a working lunch. I was the one who suggested the place. Two lunches turned into three, then a meeting after work. Somewhere in there, The Cliff became “our” place. Sometimes with coffee, sometimes with wine, sometimes with a six-pack of cheap beer.
We’ve spent hours at a time here, just the two of us, talking about the silliest things. What we would do if we won the lottery; if alien life exists; why he never wears cologne; why I always wear my hair in a ponytail; our celebrity crushes; our spirit animals, and our most embarrassing moments (his involves a feral fox, a bottle of silly string, the end of a broomstick, and seven stitches in a very private place). We’ve engaged in several heated debates, analyzing in great detail if Die Hard is a Christmas Movie (it’s NOT), if a hotdog is a sandwich, and finally, whether Tony died in the final episode of the Sopranos (this last one went on for a while).
We’ve even discussed religion and politics.
In a weird way, Kellan has become my best friend. Someone I can always count on to have my back, to listen, and to make me laugh.
With Shepherd, more often than not, I feel like a mother to him. With Kellan, I feel like a partner.
To be honest, I’m not sure what is happening here. But I do know that I have not stopped it. That I have indirectly accepted this immoral behavior by allowing it to continue. Our relationship has been alarmingly easy for me to justify. Then again, it’s easy to justify things that make us feel good, isn’t it? Before Kellan, every day felt like a fight. Between me and my husband, me and my job, me and my aunt’s dying brain, between me and myself. Kellan’s entry into my life has changed all that.
Maybe the former marine is nothing more than a distraction. Or maybe it’s the simple fact that Kellan makes me happy. He makes me feel pretty and respected. He listens to me—he hears me. When I’m with him, I catch a glimpse of the woman I used to be: the strong, confident, fresh-faced ball-buster I was before this job sucked every piece of joy from my soul.
I’ve read a lot about this phenomenon. The emotional toll of being a homicide investigator. The statistics are jarring. Substance abuse, suicide, divorce, mental illness, reduced life expectancy—we score off the charts. Something about the demand to stay strong under pressure despite being witness to the most heinous acts a human is capable of. If we crack emotionally, an entire case can unravel, a victim never gets justice, and a killer walks free. The pressure is real.
It gets exhausting.
I should insert here that Kellan and I have not had sex. We haven’t even kissed. Although I’ve considered both many times—mainly the former. It surprises me, this almost animalistic desire I have to make love to this man. It is so unlike how I feel toward my husband. The mere touch of Kellan’s skin against mine makes me wet while not even a bottle of lube can prepare me for sex with my husband. With Kellan, it’s just different. Everything between us feels natural, everything happens as it should. My body responds naturally to him. If I am in perimenopause, I’ve decided that Kellan is my cure.
Or is it that he is my escape from it? Or my escape from something else, perhaps?
We sit in silence for ten minutes, windows down, listening to night slowly move around us. Crickets, cicadas, nocturnals skittering through the trees and under the brush.
Eventually, I turn my head, soak in his profile. The strong, sharp edges.
“Why do you do this?” I ask.
Moonlight is splashed against Kellan’s face like warpaint. I like his face in shadow. It brings out the brightness in his blue eyes.
“Do what?”
I gesture between us. “Me. This. Keep meeting me here. Doing this.”
