Wanderlust Part 13 "Broken"

Forgive this formatting, dear reader, if it's ALL HOSED UP. It has realigned itself three times so far this morning. So any issues that are not urgent are staying. Because if I get it up (heh) straight, it's staying up (heh again).

Today is the last day in the BIG DAY PARADE that started last week. Tomorrow, I put my head down and do four days of writing. I've managed 1-2K each day these past few, but in my head I have a lot more than that to process. So you know where I'll be tomorrow. Ass in seat, banging out Johnny, zombies, and I think a haunting story. Ole!

Happy Monday. More coffee, please!

XOXO
Sommer

Wanderlust
Part 13
by Sommer Marsden

Johnny gave me a brief nod. He seemed satisfied that I wouldn't provoke him or pick at the wound he'd inadvertently inflicted. After all, looking at him, couldn't I assume a lot of things that might not be true? He'd simply done the same.

I ate the rest of my food but to a degree it had lost its taste.

"What do you want today, Snowflake? Stay in? Go out? Do an instant replay of yesterday?"

"Yes, yes, and yes," I said. My purse started to ring and we both froze. It was the sound of our bubble of make believe being popped.

In my mind we were safely tucked away from the world. My cell phone was a pin bursting that balloon. The little bit of real life puncturing his upper floor apartment and the lazy morning light and the food eaten at small breakfast nooks under cheap lighting.

"I don't want to answer that," I said.

"You have to deal," he said. "Very few good things come from avoiding what needs to be dealt with." He kissed the top of my head and said "I have to go make the bed."

He was lying. The bed was made. I had made it myself after we got out of the shower while he had put away the few clean clothes in the basket.

It had been an odd domestic scene that I had refused to really focus my attention on, because under all the amusement I felt over it, I also felt a strange rightness. And I didn't like that.

Somewhere in me, I denied my right to happiness and it felt like he did the same. We were simpatico that way. One broken person spotting another.

But I didn't like to admit that I knew I was broken. Even to myself.

I knew who it would be, of course I did, but my hands still shook as I pushed the button to accept the call

"Yes?"

"Are you coming home, Really?" Jackson didn't sound angry. He sounded confused and mildly stunned. That made it worse, I could have rallied my own angry had he been mad at me.

"I don't know. But not now. Right now I'm not."

"You're father called to say he wanted to lunch with us. I'm not even at the office yet and—"

"Just tell him I'm sick," I said. I dumped the debris from my breakfast into the bin and then did Johnny's plate too.

Look at me, world. Look at me being domestic…

"He'll call you and—"

"Then I'll tell him I'm sick," I sighed. And I was feeling sick. Sick with a life that had felt like an ill fit for years. Sick with the weight of trying to be someone I wasn't on the surface so I created a pretty image for the people who felt it was their right to look at my life like a god damn painting.

"Like a god damn painting," I said.

"What?" Jackson snapped. "Are you drunk? You're not making sense."

"Not drunk," I said. "Not at all. Wide awake, I'm not sleeping," I laughed.

He didn't get the music reference and it made me shake my head. Jackson had never been one for music beyond whatever was on the radio when he pushed the button. Sometimes he couldn't even be bothered to change the station if he didn't like what was on.

"Just tell me where you are and I'll come get you if you can't drive," he barreled on.

"Jackson!"

He wasn't silent, but I could feel his trepidation and confusion over the phone.

"What, Really?"

Snowflake

"I'm not drunk. And I'm not coming home. You can tell him I'm sick. You can tell him I left. You can tell him I'm selling myself in the alley down on Baltimore Sreet for a hit of cheap wine and a five dollar bill—"

"Aurelia!"

I smiled at the old-maid tone in his voice. I loved Jackson on some level. The same way you love a good dog or a favorite teacher or someone who is kind to you and at least tries to understand you. But I did not love-love Jackson. He did not quicken my blood or flutter my belly or make me wet between the legs just by looking at me.

He didn't stun me with his words or a single touch or the feel of his lips.

I loved him the way I loved my favorite vintage boots or my best friend Marie from fifth grade or my cat Sheba who died when I was seven.

I loved the idea of loving him more than I did, but had never quite managed it.

"Because you can't fake that shit." I said it aloud startling even myself.

"Look, something is definitely wrong with you—" I could hear the concern in his voice and I felt guilty. But not guilty enough to go home.

"You're right. What's wrong with me is too much doing everything but what I want to do. I won't be home, Jackson. I don't know when I will be back or if I ever will. Feel free to tell daddy whatever you like. And if you call this number again—"

"Really," he breathed.

"If you call it again, I won't answer. Okay?"

"Really, whatever is wrong we can fix it," he said.

"Jackson—"

"Whatever is the matter, we can work it out. We can fix it," he said again.

"Oh, honey," I said. I think it was the most gentle tone I'd ever used with him. I usually resented him for a myriad of sins that were not his own. "I am fixing it," I said and disconnected the phone.

One tiny sob escaped me and I allowed myself that pain. It came mostly from guilt and also—interestingly enough—from a sense of freedom.

"You okay, Snowflake?" he asked from the doorway, making no move to crowd me.

"Yeah," I said. "I'm fine."

"Good. Anything I can do?"

I cocked my head, looking at his rugged face, wishing he would come over and kiss me. I was ready to not be standing in his kitchen by myself.

He read my mind, or maybe my face. He walked in and tugged me to him by the waistband of my jeans. His lips were soft and I could still taste coffee on his mouth.

Finally, I answered. "Yeah. You can. You can take me for a ride. I want to go for a ride. Some long and winding road. Somewhere where there's not much to see but what there is to see."

He smiled. "I can do that."