The Story Of Us Part 1

The Story of Us.

D. Nichole King.

Chapter 1.

Present Day.

8:22 p.m.

I open the oven to check the chicken cordon bleu again. I'm sure it's dry by now. I close the door and reach for the gla.s.s of wine I poured thirty minutes ago. Maverick's wine gla.s.s is full, untouched, and probably warm. The candle on the table is still burning, and it crosses my mind to blow it out before the wax runs down to nothing.

I walk over to the table, blow out the candle, and top off my own wine with Mav's. As I do, my attention slides to my phone. At least he texted me, I think, reading it one more time.

Meeting running late. Be home when I can.

He doesn't have control of the meeting, of course. He's the low man on the totem pole at the firm and that comes with certain expectations, including late hours when everyone else gets to go home. That may or may not be the case tonight. I just wish it didn't have to be this night.

Especially after what happened this morning.

My fingers move over the keyboard of my phone, responding to the text he sent fifteen minutes ago. Again, once I have my message typed out, I delete it. Now isn't the time for explanations or "I'm sorry," and chances are he's turned his phone to silent like he does during work hours.

I take my wine and phone into the living room and curl up in the armchair. Morocco, our overweight black cat, jumps onto my lap and nudges me with his head. He and I have spent many late nights alone. He seems to think this is our routine now.

"Don't get used to it," I tell him, smoothing my palm down the length of his back to his tail. He purrs immediately. "This is only temporary ... I hope."

I'm referring to our current situation. Us living in this cramped apartment, Maverick working late, and me taking summer cla.s.ses because I didn't return to school last semester. I'm better now, but I just don't feel ready yet. Honestly, I'd rather wait until fall semester to return. Maverick insisted though, and I didn't have the energy to say no.

"I need to get settled into this job, Alieya, and you need to do something to keep your mind off of..." He'd trailed off, because we both knew the rest, and he didn't want to bring it up, for fear of my going dark again.

Law school and then the firm have taken their toll on him. This last year has taken its toll on the both of us.

I glance at the textbooks on the floor, the ones I abandoned to make dinner. I have a term paper due on Monday and an exam on Thursday. I should be studying instead of sittting here, but Morocco is comfortable. I don't want to disturb him. Plus, I haven't finished my second gla.s.s of wine yet.

My phone rings, and I knock Morocco in the head as I reach for it. He's only fazed for a moment before he nestles back into my lap. He'll expect some extra love from me though.

I look at the name. It's not Mav.

"Hey, Finley," I answer, masking the disappointment in my voice. She'll know; she always does.

"Still not home, huh?" she says, and I can hear her frown. We're so in tune with each other. It's what happens when you've had the same best friend for twenty-two years.

"No, and I think I've ruined the chicken."

"But you have wine, right?"

"On my second gla.s.s."

She snorts. "Second? Girl, what is wrong with you? I taught you better than that."

I smile. Finn is a wineaholic in a good way. Her parents are connoisseurs, and their daughter will follow in their footsteps. Because of her, I've never tasted bad wine.

"Do I need to come over?" she asks.

She lives two hours away, and we already met for brunch today. "No, silly. I'll be fine."

"You shouldn't be alone on your one-year wedding anniversary. That has to be a bad omen. I mean, who's going to eat that disgusting frozen cake?"

"I'm not alone," I insist. "I have Morocco. Morocco likes cake."

Finn is quiet for a moment, and I can guess the face she's making. Her mind totally went in the wrong direction.

"We're cuddling on the chair," I say to the eye roll on the other end of the phone.

"Cat cuddles aren't nearly as good as man cuddles. Do we need to have this conversation again?"

"No, no. I'm good on the semantics, thank you."

"You know, they make items for the specific needs of lonely women like you."

I feel my cheeks redden. "I'm not that lonely."

"Maybe not yet. But if this continues, you might be." She says it half joking and half not. If I'm not careful, I'll have a large box from G.o.d knows where of "items" to keep me company, sent courtesy of my BFF. Good Lord, what would Maverick think?

"It won't continue. He's only been at the firm for twenty-five months. It'll get better." I bite the inside of my cheek. "It has to."

He promised.

I don't have to see her to know she's nodding empathetically on the other end of the phone. We've had this conversation before, and as much as she wants to believe me, she doesn't. Her best guess is two more years of husbandless nights.

That mixed with my own ghosts is a scenario I won't be able to endure. The newest one still haunts me daily.

"Are you sure you don't want me to come over?" she asks. "I have a fuzzbuster. I can be there in one hour flat."

"No way. I won't let you get in a car accident for my sake. Besides, he'll be here soon." The clock on the wall reads that he's only an hour late. "I have homework to keep me busy."

"Wow. Fun. Sounds like the perfect anniversary date to me: you, your cat, and The History of Drawing."

Morocco nudges my hand, because I've stopped petting him. His head perks up and green cat eyes gleam with discontent. I rub him behind the ears to pacify him.

"My cat and the History of Drawing have never let me down." Finley knows I'm lying. Morocco can be an a.s.shole, and I earned the worst grade of my college career in The History of Drawing, which is why I'm retaking it. Visual arts might be my thing, but the history of it is not.

"I guess you'd better get to that rocking night, then. But if you need me, you call, okay? No matter what time."

"I will. Thanks, Finn."

"Oh, and have another gla.s.s of wine. Can't hurt."

I tap my half-empty gla.s.s. Girl has a point. "I'm going to the kitchen now."

"That's my bestie," she says.

After we hang up, I top off my wine. Morocco is at my feet, weaving through my legs and purring loudly to make sure I haven't forgotten about him. I stare at the empty table, still set for when Mav arrives. The dim rays of dusk illuminate the unlit candle in the center. I tilt my head to see the shadow the light creates s.h.i.+ft a little to the side. It's sorrowful and desolate, like the scene was meant to be drawn.

I get my notepad and pencils and pull a stool into the spot that shades the area. The lighting from outside won't last long, so I get to work. I start with the basic shapes, building inward and creating layers. The window and blinds in the background, the surface of the table, the empty plates, the silverware, the candle. I lay out the shadows, allowing them to stretch over the paper and add depth. I fill in the half-empty gla.s.s of wine beside my plate and touch up the highlights.

Finally, I add the chairs. One tucked in under the table, untouched. The other, scooted backwards and empty, angled slightly toward me.

I finish just as the evening light fades into darkness. The colors are dull, somber with more sable mixed into each hue. Normally, I'd go back into the drawing to put in little nuances and details, but tonight I don't. Tonight, the real-life scene in front of me is enough.

I close my sketchbook and leave it on the counter. The microwave clock has ticked off another hour, and he hasn't called or texted again. Emptiness swirls in my stomach. This isn't how it's supposed to be. One year married, and I'm alone? I dump the rest of my wine down the drain and settle back into the armchair. Morocco is happy to join me.

I flip on the television. Like my homework, the shows don't interest me. I haven't eaten, and I don't care about that either. I didn't even remove the chicken from the oven. All I want is Mav's arms around me and his kisses was.h.i.+ng away the memory of this night and too many previous nights. I want him to come home and whisper that this is only a small moment in time and it won't last forever.

I need to hear that everything is going to be okay.

I squeeze my eyes shut, and I can almost hear his voice saying the words he uses when I feel like I can't take it anymore, when colors morph into grays-like now.

I lean my head against the cus.h.i.+on and think back to when we were sure we'd have it all. When we were carefree and happy and nave. Before school, before life, before these last six months. How quickly that all crashed around us.

Morocco nuzzles my chin, and I stroke his back, thinking about how I fell in love with Mav's smile the first time he flashed it. I let the memory overtake me as I drift off to sleep.

I wake to the sound of the doorbell. I rub my eyes and squint at the clock-1:53AM. I slept that long? Where's Maverick?

The doorbell sounds again. It takes a second to process that someone's at the front door.

"Off Morocco," I say, groggy. He stands on my chest and arches his back, taking his time. I pick him up and drop him onto the floor. It has to be Finn, I think, shuffling my way to the door. Who else would be here at this time and need to ring the doorbell?

I'm not sure whether or not to be grateful for her arrival. I told her not to come, yet having her here would ease my disquiet. She probably brought more wine.

The last time she showed up in the wee hours she was wearing footed pajamas and had a gift bag with a matching pair for me. She also had wine and a chick flick. That was two weeks ago.

I unlock the door and open it, ready for whatever Finn has conjured up.

My smile fades when it's not Finn on the other side. Instead, a police officer stands in front of me.

"Are you Alieya Tavare?" he asks.

I can't speak, so I nod that I am.

"I'm sorry, ma'am, but there's been an accident."

Chapter 2.

Cancun, Mexico 27 Months Ago Finley has one of those bodies. You know, the kind that's perfect without ever having to work at it. Flat stomach; hourgla.s.s figure; long, toned legs; and a solid D cup. If I didn't love her so much, I'd probably hate her. She's wearing a bikini today that would fit a Barbie doll. Her one-hundred percent real b.o.o.bs remain perky despite the tiny string holding them up. Mine is a halter tankini, solid black for slimming purposes, where only my back and a small strip of stomach shows. I feel like a whale.

"Stop picking at your suit and go get us margaritas," Finn says, nodding toward the hut bar farther down the beach.

"It's ten o'clock in the morning." I don't mention that our flight landed in Cancun not two hours ago. All I want to do is sleep. I don't mention that either because Finn's already glaring at me for my "it's too early to drink" comment.

"It's spring break, Miss I'm-too-tired-for-the-beach. We agreed to sleep on the plane so we wouldn't spend precious time sleeping here. That's why we booked a red-eye flight."

"That was before I got stuck in the center seat between Snore Beast and Extrovert Extraordinaire. Did you know the same bunion can be surgically removed twice? I do now, and in graphic, step-by-step detail. Sleep was impossible." Finn, on the other hand, landed a window seat next to a woman with indigestion who spent most of the flight in the bathroom. Utterly unfair.

"You got an education. Come on, girl. We get seven days in paradise. Why waste it on sleep?"

"Because sleep is necessary for survival."

"Bah." She hands me a few bills. "Margaritas will help."

There's no use arguing with her. I take the money and accept the fact that I'll be a half-asleep zombie by dinnertime.

"You're bossy," I say.

"You love me."

Barefoot, I stumble over the hot sand. I vaguely wonder how I'll get two filled-to-the-brim margaritas back to our spot unscathed. I also wonder if they even serve margaritas this early. As soon as I make it to the counter though, I see a bunch of other college students with colorful icy beverages. I guess that answers my question.

"Dos margaritas, por favor," I say to the bartender. I have now exhausted my Spanish vocabulary. Hopefully he doesn't ask me anything.

He grins at me, his dark eyes scaling my body as his hands maneuver over the bottles of liquor. I don't take his obvious onceover personally. I'm sure all of the bartenders at this hut check out anything with two legs and a set of b.o.o.bs. I'm not here for a spring fling, and no amount of dark skin and long eyelashes will sway me.

I'm single, and I have no plans of changing that status, even for one night.

"Dos margaritas para la senorita bonita," he says, sliding the gla.s.ses to me.

I hold out the bills, trusting that Finley gave me enough, but he takes a step back and holds up a hand. "No, no. Cortesia de la casa."

I have no idea what he said, but he refused payment for the drinks. "Oh, um, okay. Thank you."

"On the house, beautiful." He smirks, gaze blazing as it works up my body again.

I smile back, taking the drinks. "Thanks again."

I can feel him watching me as I walk away. I might not be here for the guys, but if they want to check me out and give me free alcohol, who am I to say no? It doesn't have to mean anything on my end.

Finn is talking to some guy when I return. She's lying on the towel, ankles crossed, and sungla.s.ses low on her nose as she peers up at him. Judging by her expression, she's flirting her way into some social event she'll likely drag me to.