Blind Kiss(15)

6. Nine Months Ago


PENNY

Checking my calendar for the fifth time that morning, it occurred to me that it was the first day since my son was born that I didn’t have some obligation that had to do with raising a child, running a household, or being married. There were no soccer practices or guitar lessons after school. It wasn’t my carpool day. I didn’t have a grocery list to fulfill, or science project supplies to buy, or bills to pay, or laundry to do. I just had coffee to drink and a backyard to stare at.

I kissed my son good-bye for the day, came back inside, and took a bubble bath. I knew it would be the highlight of my day, so I took my time. It was fall but sunny and warm out. I decided to shave my legs on the off chance that someone would see them. My husband had been at work since before I even woke up, and he’d be away for the next two days on business in Michigan or Minnesota. Some place colder than Fort Collins, was all I knew. He stopped telling me where he was going, and frankly, I stopped caring.

My life was usually an exercise in completing the same list of responsibilities over and over again. It was mundane. I felt like I was losing myself, who I was, and what my dreams were. But I had my bed and a roof over my head—at least that’s what my mother would tell me. And magically, there were only a few things to do today.

After turning up the heater to seventy-eight degrees, knowing it would piss off my husband, I walked around naked for a while and thought about masturbating, but I was too lazy. I weighed myself twice—once before I ate a bowl of cereal and once after. Then I went through all of Facebook . . . literally. I looked at the profile of every single person I was friends with from high school, and then I looked at the clock. It was only ten a.m.

I threw on a pair of tattered sweats, put on some music, stretched, and did some dancing in our loft, which my husband had converted into a tiny studio for me. My only outlet for creativity.

At eleven, Gavin texted me. This wasn’t unusual. He always texted me in the morning. He lived an hour away, in Denver, where he owned a garage and made his own hours so he could come and go as he pleased. The man had two college degrees but preferred working on cars and living in a studio apartment above a tattoo parlor. If Gavin wanted to add a new tattoo to his collection on a whim, he could easily do just that. There was no cohesiveness to his ink, no well-planned sleeve. Though most of his forearms were covered, it was by piecemeal artwork. He didn’t have health insurance but he had plenty of tattoos. That was Gavin.

Not that I could judge him. I was thirty-five and had never had a job. I’d had some very random luck with stock investments but that wasn’t exactly a career.


Gavin: Hey . . .


Me: What’s up? I’m dancing.

There was a long pause, so I took my phone downstairs to pour myself more coffee.


Gavin: You’re dancing?


Me: I was, now I’m drinking coffee. What’s up?


Gavin: I’m lost, P. I need you.

It had been a long time since Gavin had said anything like that to me.


Me: Where are you?


Gavin: In your driveway.

I laughed in shock, then ran to the door and swung it open. It had been two months since I last saw him—almost the longest we’d gone since meeting each other fourteen years ago in Ling’s psych study.

He was standing on the porch right outside, looking at me with sad, tired eyes. “What’s going on?” I asked.

He leaned his body to one side to look past me into the house. “Where’s whathisface?”

“You were in our wedding, you know his name, and he’s away on business for two days. Tell me what’s wrong?”

“Milo?”

“He’s at school.”

“I didn’t want to impose.”

“How long have you been out in the driveway?”

“An hour or so.”

“Doing what?”

“Staring at your house.”

“That’s creepy. Get in here, dork.”

I stood aside so he could come in. He didn’t move. He was wearing his usual boots, jeans, and a T-shirt, with no jacket or flannel. He had his hands deep in his pockets, his arms pressed to his body, and he was shaking.

“What are you waiting for? Come in, you’re cold.” It wasn’t that cold out but he was practically shivering.

He walked in and basically collapsed into my arms, his warm breath on my neck. “Fuck, Penny.”

“What?”

“He’s dying. For real.”

I knew he was talking about his dad. He was the only man Gavin gave a shit about.

“Oh no. No, no.” My heart was broken in an instant. Broken for Frank, Gavin’s dad, whom I loved, and for Gavin, my best friend, whom I also loved.

His dad lived in the house at the end of our block, so when Gavin came to Fort Collins, he usually came to visit both his dad and my family . . . or his dad and me, rather. He loved Milo and got along fine with my husband, but when he came over, it was to see me. I knew that.

“I’m so sorry,” I told him as I held him. He started to cry. “Talk to me.”

I took his hand and led him to our living room. His eyes were puffy and red. He pointed to our couch and asked, “When did you get that?”

“Recently. Buckley chewed up the other one.”