Everything I Left Unsaid(28)

“We have no money! Oh my God! What am I going to do?” Tiffany cried as she collapsed onto one of the seats at the picnic table.

“I can float you—”

“I don’t want your f*cking money!” Tiffany yelled and I knew what she was doing, how Tiffany had all this anger and rage toward herself and her husband and her life and it was only because Joan was standing there that she got it smeared all over her.

“Fine,” Joan said without any heat. “If you need help—”

“You’ve done enough,” Tiffany said, low and defeated.

Joan came back around the bush before I could get my legs to move. I stood behind that bush like a gaping coward, and when Joan saw me she didn’t even spare me a sneer, she just walked on by, head up, shoulders back, armored in her righteous bravery.

“Come on, kids!” Tiffany yelled, her voice just a little broken. A little worn. The fake amount of cheer she had to put into it nearly hiding the trauma. Nearly. She’d clearly had lots of practice. “Let’s open presents!”

The kids came back from the playground, more subdued. Their eyes wary. Their smiles gone.

“Did he leave?” Danny asked.

Tiffany nodded.

“Good,” Danny said, his chin up, and Tiffany sagged against the picnic table.

Enough, I thought, feeling sick and wrung out and worse, so desperately glad I’d never had kids with Hoyt that the guilty relief made me nauseous.

I went back to my trailer and hours later, when it was dark and silent, I went back to get my dry clothes.

And there on the counter, the sprinkles glittering silver and blue in the moonlight, was the piece of birthday cake the little girl had brought me. I picked it up to take it back to Tiffany—I didn’t want it, and there were three kids in that trailer who’d probably love another piece of cake.

Outside the door, Tiffany’s trailer was quiet. The balloons drifted slightly on the breeze, dark bruises against the lighter sky.

“Take it.” Tiffany’s voice made me jump. I saw one of the shadows by the rhododendron shift and detach and Tiffany walk over toward the door of the laundry room. She had a garbage bag and was dumping a handful of paper plates into it.

“Is everything…okay?” I asked, lamely.

“Define okay.”

I didn’t know how. What did okay look like to her? To any of us?

“He’ll come back,” Tiffany said. “He always does.”

“Would it be better if he didn’t?”

Once Smith had taken me out to check a trap he’d set for a coyote that had been harassing the animals, eating chickens and killing the barn cats. And we’d found the coyote, caught in it, crying, its strength nearly gone. Tiffany’s laughter sounded like that coyote crying.

“I have three kids under the age of six,” Tiffany said. “I can’t do it without his money.”

I thought of the three thousand dollars I’d taken from Hoyt’s safe and knew that was the truth sometimes. Sometimes, a woman’s freedom all came down to money.

“Take the cake,” Tiffany said. “We’ve got lots. My kids will be eating it for breakfast.”

Dessert for breakfast.

“Thank you.”

Tiffany nodded and went back to cleaning up what was left of the party in the dark.

I took the cake and my dry clothes and headed back to my trailer.

Birthday cake for breakfast.

It felt all wrong, and not in a good way.





The next morning dawned hazy and close. And the heat made my head ache right above my eyes.

Sweltering, I pulled open my little fridge, steam rolling out of its depths as the cool air hit the hot. On the top shelf, next to my milk and butter and what was left of the pasta sauce, was the yellow cake with chocolate frosting and sprinkles.

For a long moment, the cold air brushing across the exposed skin of my thighs and arms and neck, I stared at the cake.

She said you could have it.

But the cake felt like a means to an end for me, like I was building a palace on top of bones.

“Stop it,” I muttered and grabbed the cake, shutting the fridge door.

I took the first bite and it was a bit stale, the cake nearly hard, the frosting thick to swallow.

That’s right. I should not enjoy this.

I took a sip of coffee and then another bite and my mouth must have been warm enough, because the thick frosting melted slightly against my tongue.

Oh. That wasn’t bad.

But the thought made me feel guilty and awful.

Just eat it.

The second bite was at the center of the cake, where it was moist and untouched by the cold air of the fridge.

The next bite was practically a mouthful of sprinkles.

When the cake was demolished, only crumbs and thick waves of chocolate frosting against the paper plate, I stared down at a blue sprinkle and green colored sugar and felt like vomiting.

And I didn’t know if it was from the sugar or from last night.

Buzzing and jittery, I dropped a few ice cubes in my coffee and headed out to the field.

I thought about Phil, and I thought about Hoyt.

And then I thought about Dylan.

I’d never felt so safe with a man. And I didn’t know if that was because we were on the phone and not in person, or if it was just because of who Dylan was.