The Man I Love (The Fish Tales, #1)(88)

“It’s Daisy.”

While the calls had tapered, the written communications stayed steady—little notes, a scribble on his birthday. A Christmas card. When her return address changed abruptly from Philly to New York City, he opened the envelope to read about her new gig with the Metropolitan Opera Ballet. Then he chucked it.

“Are you there?”

He was caught off guard by her voice. Usually it was tentative and submissive. Laced with apology. Tonight it was soft, but confident. Conversational.

“I’m here,” he said.

“Hi,” she said.

Say hello, he thought. It won’t kill you.

“Hi,” he whispered.

“It’s the nineteenth,” she said. “I was thinking about you.”

The nineteenth of April, the fourth anniversary. “That’s right,” he said. He slid his fingertips along the side of his nose, his face melting into his palm. Eyes closed, he tested his memory. Was it still there?

Yes, it was still there.

She was still there—rolling on top of David with her hair a tangle.

“How are you?” she asked.

Shattered, he thought, one helium balloon rising above the bunch crowding his mind. “I’m fine and I have to go,” he said. “I’m late for a game.”

“Erik,” she said. “It’s been almost three years. Are we ever going to talk about this?”

Three years and she was still linked to David in his mind. He couldn’t even have a conversation without seeing them in bed. It was ruined. He couldn’t do this. Without another word, Erik hung the receiver back up, and went to his game.

Days later, UPS knocked on his door, needing him to sign for a large box. The return label read D. Bianco with a Manhattan address.

He slit the tape with a kitchen knife, and opened the flaps to find a veritable time capsule of his belongings. Things obviously left in Daisy’s room at Jay Street.

My necklace, he thought. It’s in here. She had it.

He unpacked the box, stacking everything carefully, sure the next item retrieved would be his lost treasure. He took out a pair of jeans, two button-down shirts, and his Mickey Mouse T-shirt. All the clothes were folded nicely and smelled of fabric softener. Daisy must have washed them. Next he found his Leatherman and Swiss Army knives, a plastic baggie with a capo, guitar strings and picks, another baggie with his ring of allen wrenches. His hardcover book of Swedish folk tales, his zippo lighter.

He unpacked it all and the box was empty. Taped to the inside was an envelope with a note. Not a card, nor her nice stationery, but a scrawl on half a piece of loose-leaf paper:



I’m sorry, Fish. I regret what happened more than you will ever know. I will always regret it. I think about you every day and I’ll love you until I die. But I’m done now. I won’t contact you anymore. Dais.



He stared at the Fish, not recognizing his own moniker, not coming from Daisy. She had never called him Fish.

He put down the note and inventoried the items again, went through them twice, including the pockets of all the clothing.

His necklace was not in this box.

He sat on the floor, surrounded by bits and pieces of a past life, and wasn’t sure what it all meant.





Drummed Out


“Directory assistance, what listing please?”

“Last name Bianco,” Erik said. “First name Daisy. On West Eighty-Sixth Street.”

A brisk tapping of keys against a background hum of voices and more tapping.

“I show no listing for Daisy Bianco.”

“What about Marguerite Bianco?”

“Margaret?”

“Marguerite.”

“Spell that, please?”

He did, and waited through more tapping.

“I show a listing for Marguerite Bianco on West Eighty-Sixth. Hold for the number, please.”

A click and a crackle, then a chopped, automated voice began intoning digits. Erik wrote them down and hung up.

He was falling apart.

It had begun a month after Daisy sent back his things, when it dawned on him he was waiting to hear from her. She’d said she was done, but so what, she couldn’t have meant it.

I’ll love you until I die, she wrote. She wasn’t done. She’d never be done.

Month after month passed, and nothing in his mailbox.

He realized he wanted to hear from her. As painful as the communications were, he had looked out for them. Even with no intention of responding to her, he must have subconsciously needed the regular bit of assurance the bridge wasn’t totally burned.

More months passed, and he realized the depth of his reliance. The streak of cruelness at its bedrock. He had been punishing her. She was full of guilt and remorse and he sucked on that like a piece of candy. A gobstopper of spite set like a sticky, snarling pitbull at the door kept slammed shut in her face. Knowing damn well her unrelieved chagrin meant she would hold her end of the structure up, no matter how much firepower he threw at it.

But then she had enough.

I’m done now.

Daisy let go and the world collapsed. Erik was buried in rubble and ruin. Buried alive. His chest torqued tight around his heart. He couldn’t get food down his throat. Couldn’t get words to come up. Tonight he was pacing his apartment, riddled by an agitated depression and filled with a shamed remorse over the loss of his necklace.