Push(80)

“Carl has no idea you fixed my kitchen, does he?”
“I ended up telling him about it the night you got sloshed at the poker game. But I just told him I fixed your cupboards. I didn’t tell him about anything else. He wanted to know how we hooked up.”
“Oh.” I finish my sandwich and roll over the long list of questions that are now in my head. When I talk again, I am thankful that the bitterness is gone from my voice. “So, was Lucia the one that bought you the gun and taught you how to shoot?” I ask, hoping to hell he won’t say that it was Anna instead.
“Yes,” he says briskly. I don’t think he wants me to ask any more questions, but I can’t stop myself.
“And was she one of the women that you were referencing the other night? One of the women that became a big part of who you are?”
“Of course,” he says wryly. “You can’t almost kill a man over a woman and walk away from it without your life changing somehow. I told you that’s what all that so-called ape shit stuff was about. I temporarily lost it.” He doesn’t sound angry or even perturbed. He is calm and composed—and somehow dazzling.
“Was the tattoo artist one of them, too? Who was she?”
He hesitates for a few seconds before he offers an answer. “Her name was Jenny, and you already know that she was a junkie.” Wait. It wasn’t Anna who created David’s birds? There was another woman. David lost two different women to death. Even if he doesn’t feel it himself, I feel sad for all three of them.
“How did she die?” I ask quietly, nervous about waking the dead.
“Her dealer went psycho.” David is so straightforward about it. So matter-of-fact. “But, like I said, as a couple, we were over months before it happened.”
“And how is she a part of you now? I mean aside from the obvious. Aside from that little hummingbird on your arm.” I brush the small bird with my fingertips. David stills. The space between us crackles.
“I will never lose myself like she did.” He says it with resignation. And an incredible amount of confidence.
“Oh,” I say. Right then, I make the decision to never bring up Anna Spaight. I will never ask him about her. I don’t want to listen to him tell me about her suicide. I don’t want to know about how she influenced his life. I don’t want to know about all the ways that she shaped him. And I don’t want to know if David loved her. I want to stay ignorant about the whole damn thing. Even though it is too late for that.
“Okay,” I add, dropping my chin to my chest. “I want to take a shower now.”
“Are you freaked out?” he asks as he stands up and picks up our plates.
“A little,” I say, looking up at him. “I didn’t mean to make you feel like I was judging you in some way by bringing up the whole Lucia thing like I did. I didn’t mean to make a game out of something so serious.” Those are the words I say out loud, but inside I am choking on my own thoughts. On thoughts of David having to witness the deaths of two women who were such important parts of his life.
“I know,” he says as I stand and follow him into the kitchen, “and I don’t ever feel like you are judging me. That’s one of my favorite things about you. You never make me feel different.” His words stop me in my tracks. That’s it. I haven’t really been able to figure out why I am in love with David, but he just said the precise words that my mind has been searching for. I love him because he never makes me feel different.
I turn him around to face me. He touches my face and plants a knowing kiss on my lips. Once again we are two of the same.
In the shower David washes my back with a soapy washcloth. He rubs it around carefully, and I watch the small flecks of excess ink and skin spin around in the eddy and then drop down into the drain. He washes my hair and my body, and before I know it, I am pinned against the shower wall with my legs wrapped around his waist, my mind and body simmering with adulation. With love. His lips grind into mine, and my fingers scatter through his wet hair. His mouth feels cool compared to the hot water, and when his lips leave mine and sink into my neck, I roll my head back against the shower wall. David reaches down to turn off the water and then he sets me down on the mat outside the tub. He dries us both with a towel, peppering me with soft kisses between swipes of the terry cloth.
When I am dry, David stands sweet and motionless in front of me, brushing my cheek softly. He looks tired. But I think I see something else, too. Confusion. And maybe worry. I wonder why.
* * *

An hour or so after our shower, I reach into my closet to drag out the boxes from Michael. After a brief chat with David, I decide that I need to get them the hell out of here so I have no trace of Michael left in my life. David says that he thinks it’s a great idea, and he’s happy to toss them straight into the Dumpster without a second glance. But I tell him that I need to check them out first. I need to know if there is anything important packed inside. If Michael kept my father’s dog tags, who knows what else he held on to?
David puts his iPhone into the dock, and the loose and melodic sounds of The Kooks fill the room. He sits down cross-legged on my bed and fiddles with the scissors he just used to cut the tape from the cardboard.
The first box I delve into is the one that contained the picture of my mother and me at the family reunion. As I open the flaps, I can’t help but glance over at the photograph sitting on my bedside table and remember how I felt that day. How my mother and father looked and how proud I was to call that man my daddy. David is sitting there, watching me carefully, no doubt ready to scoop me up off the floor if that motherf*cker Michael messes with my emotions again. I know, though, that there is not a single thing in these boxes that is going to rocket me off an emotional cliff. I know that I won’t wind up sobbing on the floor. And I know this because now that Michael is gone, the only emotions these boxes can hold are good ones. The only memories they can dredge up now are the ones that I want to remember. The things that I decide to feel and recount. Not the thoughts and ideas that Michael forces on me.