Final Part Two: Tequila Street, Again

           This isn’t my first time in an interrogation room. It is my first time spending Christmas Eve in handcuffs. I usually spend today with a guy I just met at some bar who’s lonelier than I am. These handcuffs aren’t very kinky compared to mine. The light fixture above my head has been flickering every thirty seconds. I’ve been tapping my fingers up and down the scar I got from my last visit. The arresting officer had bent me over the hood of my car, overpriced makeup falling out of my pockets, my knee burying into the metal. A kleptomaniac, a scumbag, he had called me. As if my self-esteem needed to be any lower. After all, I’m the middle-class white girl who’s been pretending to live in the 90210 my entire life.

I look up, interpreting the flickering as Morse code from God: tequila Tuesday is not justified by coupling it with 50 cent tacos to create hashtag tequitaco Tuesday. Why is it always Tequila?

            A thud echoes from the sole door in the room. I elongate my short neck so that I might catch that fat dude off guard. He came in only 30 minutes before with enough questions to make anyone feel as on edge as I do now: “What time did you do this, and that, no not that.” It’s hard enough to remember what happened, but it’s even harder to come up with a story to make myself seem less guilty. I lean over the table too far, spotting crimson stains on the door handle. Sweat drips down my back. No one ever died in an interrogation room, right? I can’t go now, I have too much to prove, and by that I mean I have too much to prove to Marge, my parents, everyone else who thought of me as a “scumbag” just as the officer had said.

Suddenly, all those movies that kept me under the covers as a kid flood into my mind. I block out the “One, two, Freddy’s coming for you” from A Nightmare on Elm Street by placing my hands over my ears. It didn’t work for me as a pre-teen, but maybe it would for a nightmare I created myself. I wasn’t this scared before. I’ll never forget the unamused look on my mother’s face after she bailed me out when I stole all that makeup the first time I was here. 

            The door opens and a man with grey slacks, a tucked in off-white button down, and a loose tie steps in. His eyes fixate down at an open manila folder. I feel like one of those people in sit coms who suspect they’re on a reality TV show. Tell me I’m being Punk’d because he’s a far cry from the fat man with rosacea. His eyes dart up towards mine, my mouth becoming agape. That shade of blue in his irises isn’t fair. I shrug off my embarrassment by leaning back in my chair. I try to hide the fact that I want to smell the collar of his shirt and watch his face light up because it tickles him. It’s going to be a lot harder to convince him—

            “Miss—Ah, here we go. Lily, is it? And a Miss.”

            “Ex-cuse me?” I flatten my tongue.

            He pulls out the chair across from me, chuckling. I must’ve missed the joke. “Oh, no no. I’m sorry, I can’t pronounce your last name.”

            And here I thought dumb, donut-stuffed cops were a rumor. “Vans-Bur-sick. Didn’t the other guy tell you?”

            “Other guy?” He looks up, pressing his lips together. I can’t tell if it’s intentional. “George? The uh—” he puts his hands up around his waist a foot away from his shirt.

            I’m on the edge of my seat, my breasts nearly touching the table. His eyes look flirty, but I assume it’s the lights. I straighten my back attempting to look as uncaring as possible, crossing my arms. I’m not here to bring someone home. “Yeah, who are you?”

            He smiles. “These lights need some adjusting.”

            “Last time, they…”

            “Last time?”

            Damn it, I’m already slipping. “Who are you, anyway?”

            “Well, I’m—“

            “No, you’re the good cop. And this isn’t necessary,” I say, lifting up my cuffed right hand. I could pat my back for that one.

            “I’m Adam Couldry.”

            “Well, thank God you didn’t say Freddy. I’m tired and pissed the fuck off, Adam. Mister, right?”

            His smile does a 180 that looks cute as hell and he sets the folder on the table. “Lily—“

            “No. I already got hammered with questions about something I did not, I repeat, I did not do. This is my purse. I got it as a gift. I’m not even Christian,” I say, laying my head on the table. “Jesus Christ.”  I’m tempted to peak up to see how much of this he believes.

            “We got the video footage back,” he says, handing me a stack of black and white still photos from inside the Nordstrom’s I was in last night with my girlfriends, if they can be called such. We had decided to go on our own shopping spree knowing that no one was going to leave presents under our miniature, pink Christmas trees. I never brought money because I had none to spend.  After being kicked out of my parent’s for being arrested the first time, I swore off celebrating a holiday that involves buying for others. I don’t need anything from anyone. I can take care of myself. 

I’m confused at the sight of the pictures. I can’t even tell my friends and me apart in them. I tilt my head side to side as if I’m warming up for hot yoga. His eyes fixate on me, making me hold back a surprised look. A slender woman circled in the photograph has hair two shades darker than mine. The quality of the picture is terrible. I squint, realizing the woman is Marge. My best friend, my “sister” as we girls call our closest companions. She’s always wearing next year’s version of whatever I wished I owned.

            I met Marge when I worked at Macy’s in high school. She yelled at me for not knowing how to exchange a dress she bought for one she wanted. She moved to a different cashier, but not before saying, “You could be a total babe if you used less eyeliner and more lipgloss.” She winked at me, and I immediately felt accepted. I found her at school the next day with the popular clique. I made it my mission to be one of them, although I ended up more like a waterboy than a member of their team.

I shake my head. Random, broken images of our last shopping spree pop up. Last year it was whiskey, now that I think about it. All that makeup instead of a purse. But always with Marge. The images continue to flash in and out of my head to the echo of my own voice whispering “I’ll never do it again.” I swallow hard. I can’t believe the cops think it could be Marge, a girl who can afford to randomly buy twenty dresses and only return two because she feels like it. They don’t know my hair was wetter, darker last night. They don’t know it was me. He doesn’t know.

            Adam organizes them back into a pile, “You’re free to go. We know you didn’t take anything.”

            I stare at the table long after the pictures are removed. That’s it?

            “Miss, I mean, Lily? It’s getting late. You better get home.” He frees my hand, walking over to the door.

            I stand up, my heart dropping into my stomach. I’m leaving. Last year I left, right after I was shoved against the two way mirror, asked to whisper to the people on the other side who heard it as yelling. Where I left to was a cell with a roommate who ate toilet paper. It wasn’t this easy. But Adam wasn’t here last time, either.

            “I’m so sorry to put you through this and on Christmas Eve no less,” Adam says, holding the door open. My feet struggle to keep up with my legs.

            “It’s fine,” I say, feeling like the littlest girl in a Russian doll set.

            “I would offer to buy you dinner,” he laughs, “but they’ll be serving omelets in a few hours.”

            I don’t know what makes me more nervous: his attempt at humor or that fact that I’m getting away with stealing. We exit the room into the unusually crowded hallway of uniforms. I can count the smiles on one hand. “I could go for one of those,” my voice cracks. I feel stupid for making a joke, thinking that it’s going to give me away.

            He walks alongside me, an imaginary heater floating between us. He takes a deep breath, “Oh, I mean. If you want?”

            I look up at him, regretting it as soon as I do. His eyes are a defibrillator to my rigid, scared heart. I never go for the good guys and they never go for me. “Wh-what?”

            “I thought you were asking me to, uh, breakfast?” He scans my face. God forbid I have stress acne right now. “Wow, that is clearly inappropriate. I’m so sorry.”

            I wipe my sweaty palms against my sides, laughing. “You apologize too much. I love breakfast.”

            “No Christmas plans?”

            “I live alone.”

            “Family?”

            “They—“ I choke, not wanting to explain how my parents disowned me.

            “I get it,” he says. “I get off at 7. Too early?”

            “Not early enough.”

            “Eight it is. The Broken Yolk across the way. Look for the cops standing outside with donuts in their hands.”

            I laugh, more at myself because I can’t believe I’m having this conversation right now. I’ve never met a cop who even smiled at me. It’s as if they always know I’m a bad person.

A lady with a floor-length skirt pulls Adam aside and he disappears into a filing room. I don’t mind. All I can think about are cheesy omelets and how to get the hell out of this station. I turn towards the woman again, realizing she checked me in last year. Her hair was black. Mine too. Except my face looked like something out of a Picasso painting with all the bruises. I’m not a classy drunk. I’m not even a normal drunk.

I shake off my chills and find my way to the double doors that lead out. They should have exit signs, but then I remember the people who actually want to leave never do. I clutch my purse as if my grandmother made it for me. The double doors were gray last night but they’re as bright and blue as Adam’s eyes now. My mind wanders. I want to order something small at the restaurant. Or maybe big. Or maybe I’ll stuff him with enough breakfast to make him incoherent enough to do anything but kiss me. But I want to hear him talk. I’ll order hash browns and take huge bites as I listen to the sweet melody coming out of his mouth with the occasional head nod (sorry I’m eating and have drunchies from too much tequila and not enough tacos).

            Who am I kidding? Can I really go on a date with a cop? What if he asks for a second date? I can’t decline with the excuse that I might commit another crime and it would be better if we were just friends. I don’t know what I’m doing anymore. I’m tempted to call Marge and ask for advice. I want to hear her “Hun, let me tell you…” speech that always gets me into more trouble than I was before. But it’s all I know.

            Outside, the sun peaks over the Broken Yolk. I haven’t slept and I won’t for a while. Freddy didn’t even need to haunt me. I head away from the precinct, counting cops cars lingering in front of the restaurant as lions would to a flock of gazelles. All they have to do is turn their heads and see that I’m the weakest prey. My stomach grumbles. It wasn’t my fault entirely. I’m never good enough. I’ll always be Marge’s little in the least popular sorority.

I attempt to find my car, less than surprised that it has been towed or borrowed by my “friends”. I don’t bother to take out my phone. I can use it as an excuse after breakfast to get Adam to stick around a little longer. Maybe I have a fetish for a man in uniform.

I adjust my coat and head towards downtown instead. How ironic of the local precinct to be in the heart of the social life of LA. I cover my face out of fear that someone might recognize me looking like a mess. I don’t want people to look down on me anymore than they need to. I can only act for so long. I’m trying to change, to get better. I close my eyes for a moment, putting together the puzzle pieces of last night. Margaret (Marge) was there, of course. Janie and Anne too. No, Anne bailed last minute. Marge saw the purse first. I touched the strap first. Anne would have stopped me.

I shouldn’t have tried it on. Marge and Janie had bags filled with Prada, Gucci, the works. I had my half-bitten nails that weren’t properly manicured according to Marge. I would have wanted the bag on a normal day. All it took was a little liquid courage to convince myself I deserved it.

            “Fuck,” I say, holding my forehead. “I am Freddy. I’m the monster.”

            I like Adam. He’s funny and nice. I don’t meet a lot of guys like that. I don’t want to miss the chance at a normal relationship considering I’ve never had one with anyone before. It hurts that I think he likes me too. He doesn’t know all the terrible things I’ve done. It’s going to come out, whether it’s while we are eating breakfast or after we’ve been lying in bed all day. I don’t think I’m ready for someone to know that much about me when I don’t even know who I am. I stare at my boots clacking on the concrete. “3…4…lock the door....”

            “Excuse me, Miss?”

            “I hate that word,” I say, turning to face a boy no older than seventeen with an apron around his waist. A hand drawn sign hangs loose in his hands.

            I read it aloud: “Fresh scones, half off. Wow, how generous.”

            “They’re reallllly good. I promise.”

            “Thanks, but I’m not hungry.” I walk away like I have somewhere to be in Canada, the thunder in my stomach sending a shower of laughter to the barista.

            He puts a fist over his mouth to cover it up. “It’s okay to be busy today.”

            “I’m not--” I start to say, staring at the barista’s boring brown eyes. A knocking from inside my chest shakes me. Adam’s face fades from my mind, the trail of tequila becoming a mustard-colored pool around a pyramid of designer purses. Numbers swim through the river, climbing up the shelves. Marge stands at the top, donuts floating out of her mouth singing “5…6…”

            “I’m tired of being the underdog,” I whisper.

            “Excuse me…?”

            “Uhm, uh do you have…blueberry?”

            He nods. “The size of your face if you could believe it.”

            “I’ll get a coffee too.”

            “So you don’t have anywhere to be?”

            I laugh out loud, startling him. “Let me just make a quick phone call.”

            I step aside, dialing Marge. She answers, sounding groggy. “Hey Marge—no no I’m fine darling, really. Listen, I have this gorgeous friend who’s dying to take you out to breakfast. Would you like to meet him?”

            If Adam identifies Marge as the perp, I’m off the hook. If Marge is in jail, I’m the leader of the clique. Then I am the 90210.

Final Part One: Results

           Ed sat on the floor, staring at the envelope. Jenna Tacinelli stood out on the front. He hadn’t seen or heard that name since it floated away with the oak leaves a few summers ago when she left him. She took all her things and probably some of his things because she still loved him, or so he told himself when he couldn’t sleep. He didn’t know many “J” names now that he thought about it. But it wasn’t the J in Jenna on the return address that took him by surprise as much as the “Jason” inside.

            “Ed, what is that?” He shot up, turning around to face Leila, his wife. His pot-pie- cooking, Facebook-stalking, dog-breeding wife.

            “Nothing,” he said, not attempting to hide the envelope.

            She raised an eyebrow, “Then?”

            “It’s a work thing,” he said. He knew the word “work” would cause her mind to shift elsewhere. She’d walk away swaying her birthing hips that they recently discovered can’t bear children.  

            She shrugged, mimicking the image in his head perfectly as she went towards the living room. She was beautiful in the most average sense of the word. He stared at her hips, seeing them narrower than they were. He resented her for not being able to give him a child. He grew up in a household of three sisters and two brothers. They were his only friends and he wanted to give his children that privilege to. He thought he would never get the chance until today.

            He opened the envelope again, forgetting how fast his heart was beating. Thump, thump,

thumping on his guilt. He never told Leila about Jenna. Leila compares herself to every woman she sees. She’ll whisper things like “God, she’s so thin” or “I wish I could pull that off.” He especially couldn’t say anything now. He had lain in bed with Leila and listened to her cry for weeks on end after in-vitro failed for the third time. They couldn’t afford another one. The doctor never used the word infertile but Ed knew. One word in the letter stood out to him:

            CONSISTENT, or in other words, Ed is the father.

            He could have had DNA 12, 13 or 12, 14 but he had 12, 15 and so did the tested “child”. That child belonged to Jenna. She must have known he would understand the letter because she used to show him reports like these from her work at the hospital, laughing when a couple decided to call their kid “Dick” or “Gay”. Ed met Jenna at the hospital after accidentally slicing his thumb open while making a meal for himself. She made him laugh and smile in a way he did not even think was possible. He always told her after that that it was “love at first sight”, to which she responded by sticking her tongue out at him playfully. She was infatuated with him to say the least, but Ed was the one in love. He rubbed his thumb over the doctor’s handwriting at the bottom that read “Jason.”

            There were worse names. He knew Jenna picked that one because she used to cry from laughter at his fixation (OCD as his therapist calls it) on little things like words and letters and whether the door was really locked. She didn’t mind his nervous ticks. She paid close attention to them as if they fascinated her, making Ed less anxious about having them. She knew all of his habits. And she certainly knew his first thought would be how the J in Jenna and the J in Jason form a bond that the E in Ed would never be a part of. And he might have wanted to be a part of her again. Did the letter mean she did too?

            “I’m going to the grocery store,” Leila shouted. “Do you need anything?”

            He swallowed several sentences, acid reflux creeping up his throat. “No!”

            “No, thank you,” she said in an irritated tone. “No one respects me.”

            Husbands learn to block out 90 percent of the nagging that doesn’t lead to a divorce and only briefly handle the other ten. He had gotten good at it after being with Leila for five years. He never learned to love Leila the way he loved Jenna. Leila and Ed met through friends of friends. He always assumed they would only ever be just that until he realized he would never get over Jenna if he didn’t try to move on. He didn’t think Leila would say yes, but a part of him knew she wanted someone desperately enough to be okay with marrying someone who wouldn’t love her completely. He appreciated Leila even though he didn’t love her.

And then the letter.

            He waited to hear the garage door close before picking up the home phone. He was one of the few members of his Saturday night poker club that still had a house phone. It felt heavy. Jenna knew all of his friends, all of his secrets. He used to spoil her with flowers, chocolates, every romantic cliché there was. All she had to do in return was smile and make him laugh.

            He dialed five, then six, then ten digits. The ring bothered him because it seemed to get lower, lower, lower…

            “Hello?” Her voice sounded sharp.

            “Oh, hi.”

            “You called me, who is this?”

            “It’s Ed, Ed Bass?”

            “You got it?”

            “It’s nice hearing--What?”

            “Did you get the letter or not?”

            “Oh—” he gulped away from the phone. “Yeah, I did.”

            “And?”

            “You sent me a letter…”

“What’s your point?”

“The date on here is dated 5 years ago.”

            “Come on Ed, I got the test done as soon as I could.”

            “Why now Jen? He’s a kid, isn’t he?”

            “It’s not like you would change any diapers, Ed. You hate dirt.”

            He laughed, surprising himself. “I didn’t know I had a fucking kid.”

            “Should you?”

            “I’m not the one who left.”

            “Ed—”

            “Is that why you left? You knew I wanted children.”

            “You know that’s not why I left.”

            “I don’t know. I—should I visit him or?”

            “You mean, may you?”

            “Yeah—”

            She coughed. There was some static and moving around of things that Ed couldn’t identify. She had to be in the kitchen, he thought. He pressed his hand against his stomach, a technique his therapist taught him when he needed to calm down. Focus on your center. He couldn’t contain his building rage. She listened to him tell story after story about his siblings, about his love for big families. It’s like she forgot who he was, what he meant to her. He wanted to believe he meant more than a letter and a phone call. He pressed his ear to the phone, wanting to absorb into it.

            “Hi,” a young, perky voice said.

            “This…isn’t Jenna. Who is this?”

            “Jason,” he giggled.

            His stomach did somersaults towards his spine. He set the phone down for a moment, placing a hand around his neck. He couldn’t take it. His OCD made him find similarities between his voice and the high-pitched one on the other end of the line. He fought back tears. Ed worked hard to forget Jenna after she left him without even saying goodbye. He worked hard to love Leila even when he knew he couldn’t. It wasn’t her fault, it was his. He compared Leila to Jenna more than Leila compared herself to everyone else. He worked hard to make children to fill the emptiness in his heart. Jason gave him hope and hurt him at the same time.

He hadn’t had the chance to overthink all the details of Jason’s life: whether he learned to walk too late or too early. Was his first word with a lisp or without?

            “Jason, can you ask Jen—mommy something?”

            The giggle came with a nod Ed imagined.

            “Ask her what your first word was.” God damn it, Ed thought. The first time he speaks to his kid and he has to get obsessive on him.

            He heard exchanged whispers.

            “Cheeeeeeeeese,” Jason said.

            “Cheese, huh? That’s good.”

            “Gotta go, dad.” Click.

             Click, Ed thought. Onomatopoeia’s bothered him. The sound rattled in his frontal lobe like a 25 cent bouncy ball. He forced himself not to dial back. He should have said “goodbye, son.” or “son” or “bye, sorry son son my son.” Leila would be home in a few minutes. The grocery store was a quick walk away and she took advantage of it to walk the huskies or poodles or whatever dog breed she was keeping this month. They were her babies. He hadn’t felt that way no matter how many times he cleaned up their shit in the front yard.

            He gave Leila a house, a stable income, and a marriage. She had her babies so he could have his, right?

            He set the phone down after he heard the garage open. He thought he was over Jenna. Or he had gotten good at pretending to be. Now he had the rest of Jason’s life as a reminder that he wasn’t. He tried to forget the nights they spent camping in the backyard because Ed hated the woods, the meals that fell flat because Jenna couldn’t cook but had too much pride to ask Ed for help. He tried to forget the freckles on her nose that he counted over and over again. Afterwards she would ask how many and tease him when the number came out different than the last time. Now he wasn’t sure he wanted to forget. Ed held his chest, as scared as he would ever be. He realized he couldn’t forget what was in his heart because it wasn’t with him anymore. It’s been with Jenna this whole time. And he wasn’t going to stand around and wait for another phone call.

            “I got some bananas,” Leila said, walking toward him with three bags in hand. “A little help?”

            He grabbed a bag, setting it on the counter. He tried to gather himself. Her hair frizzed out the way that Jenna’s didn’t.

            “I’m going to Wisconsin this weekend,” he said, rummaging through the groceries like he had an appetite.

            “What, why?” She took a can of beans from a bag.

            Part of him wanted to smile and say “I’m a father, dear,” instead he said “Work. A conference.” He didn’t want to hurt Leila any more than he has.

            She nodded her head, “Was that the call?”

            “What?” He looked at her, panicked. Leila didn’t know about Jenna. She didn’t know anything about him really. She knew his favorite color and his favorite food but not his deepest childhood fear. He liked it that way. Then he remembered the perky voice. “Oh, yeah.”

            “You could’ve just told me right away,” she said, smiling. “Bring back some cheese.”

            He laughed. “Cheeeeese, right.”

            She gave him a concerned glance, leaving the fridge open likes he tells her not to do.

            He helped her put away the food, mentally calculating the little things that would lead up to meeting his baby for the first time. He was going to find Jason, but a part of him knew he was really going to see Jenna.

#

            He booked a flight for that weekend. Sitting around the house with Leila breathing down his neck, whispering cherry tomato-smelling nothings had him fixating on what to pack, what to say when he got there, what to say if Leila happened to call. On the day of the flight itself, he walked out the door overly-packed, waving to his wife without looking at her. The term “wife” distressed him. He Googled the word using three different dictionaries because he realized he didn’t know what wife stood for. The definitions meant little compared to the synonyms: spouse, partner, woman, life partner. He asked himself if he knew that when he married Leila. He never considered Leila to be his life-partner. It seemed restrictive, almost a prison sentence. He wondered if Jenna still loved him, what he would do if she did. Could he leave Leila and his life behind to be with Jenna and Jason? He couldn’t answer it now

            “Call me when you get there,” Leila yelled.

            The airport, take-off, and landing took up the same amount of space in Ed’s memory as

did the taxi ride to Jenna’s apartment. He regretted not calling to tell her he was coming. He hoped she would admire the spontaneity he always lacked. He still felt anger towards Jenna, but the beating of his heart overpowered that rage. He spent several years with her, infatuated with her ability to make everything fun and light. Unfortunately, that same light-hearted attitude applied to her ability commit. He never popped the question, but he never had the chance to. She was gone when things got too serious, when Ed was at his happiest.

The taxi driver hummed elevator show tunes in spread out versus as if rapping. “First time here?”     

            Ed focused on the frost collecting on his window. “No, I’ve lived here before.”

            “Where you from?”

            “Seattle.”

            “A lot of people kill themselves there.”

            “I don’t blame them.”

            The driver continued humming like it wasn’t the first time he’s had that conversation. He pulled up to a curb in front of an apartment complex in what seemed to be middle class suburbia. Ed thought about Forrest Gump coming back to Jenny and young Forrest after years of emotional tug of war. He didn’t run a marathon or go to war, but he might as well have. He spent years drowning himself in work and working on his relationship with Leila even though he knew it would never be the one he wanted. He shut the door to the taxi and began up the stairs to apartment 2B. “Jenny,” he whispered. He coddled the block of cheese he picked up at the airport.  

            He took a few steps back, holding his cheeks to keep them from sucking in past the bone. She left him, what was he doing there? Why did he still love her so goddamn much?

            The door opened by itself. Ed looked down at a boy that almost stood past his thigh. He

had the exact same features as Ed: brown hair, blue eyes, and freckled cheeks. The test results
didn’t mention that.

            “Who arrrr you?” Jason asked.

            “I’m—Ed. Is mommy home?”

            He shook his head.

            Ed kneeled down. “You’re by yourself?”

            Jason nodded.

            Ed stepped into the apartment, peering around. Things were scattered everywhere, a sock here, a shirt there. It looked like someone had robbed the place. “You shouldn’t open the door for strangers.” He realized his harsh tone, clearing his throat. His heart beat fast, worried that Jenna had been kidnapped, killed, the worst of the worst. There were never any good scenarios with Ed. He always assumed the worst.

            “Vroooooom,” Jason took a toy car, flying it to a coffee table in front of a TV stand.

            “Do you know where she went?” Ed asked, going to the fridge that was cracked open. He couldn’t keep his eyes off Jason. He ran his hands through his hair, scratching his scalp. He wasn’t ready to be a hero. He just wanted to pour out his heart to Jenna.

            “With Adum.”

            Ed didn’t have time to reflect on what looked like an empty dresser. “Wait-what? Adam?” He put his hands down.

            “Mommy’s fwend.”

            “Did she say where she was going?”

            He threw the car on the carpet, making a distinct boom sound. “Iono.”

            Ed stared at Jason. He helped produce this living, breathing onomatopoeia.

 A stack of papers on the counter in the kitchen caught his eye. He shuffled through bills, expecting to find a random note until he stumbled across a letter addressed to him. It had his name written in Jenna’s handwriting and nothing else. He opened it with as much anticipation, caution, and fear as the first time:

Dear Ed,

            I’m sorry I cannot be there to greet you. I’m sure you look as well as you did all those

years ago. I am leaving with my boyfriend Adam to South Africa for experimental field work. I

don’t know when I’ll be coming back. Jason is yours in the meantime. Have fun.

            Love, 

                      Jenna

            “Have fun?” Ed threw the letter as hard as he could, watching it float to the carpet like the last oak leaves in the fall. He shouted. He wasn’t as surprised as he wanted to be. She left him once, she could leave him again. But this time she left Jason too, and that hurt him the most. She could break his heart, but now she would break the little one that they made together. Was she trying to insult him or drive him insane? Both?

            Jason stared up at him, sucking his thumb.

            “It’s okay, s—buddy.”

            Ed pulled out his phone and dialed. The ring, riiiing, riiiing got higher, higher—

            “Hello?” Jenna’s voice cracked.

            “Are you kidding me?”

            “I’m sorry…”     

            “You’re sorry? I flew all the way over here with this god damn image of Forrest Gump in my mind thinking that’s exactly what you wanted.”

            “What?”

            “You should—”

            “It’s what you want.”

            “What if I hadn’t come? Jason opened the door to a complete stranger.”

            “I knew you would.”

            “You don’t know me that well anymore. It’s been a long time, Jen. How selfish are you?”

            “You’re not mad because I left.”

            “I was mad when you left the first time. I can’t believe you set me up like this.”    

            “You’re mad that I’m over you.”

            “How—” Ed put the phone to his chest, letting it move up and down with his breathing. Jason attempted a somersault into the couch, bumping his head and crying. Ed thought about smacking his head too. His mother told him that seasons change, people don’t. He remembered when Jenna left the first time, but to Europe instead of South Africa because of more field work or fun work or whatever work gave her the excuse. “Wisconsin is a prison made of cheese,” she had said. He didn’t find out where she went till months after.

            “Jen, I think I still love you.”

            “I don’t, Ed. I’m sorry.”

            “No, Jen. I know I still love you. We have a kid together.”

            “He’s your baby boy.”

            “Do you love me? Did you ever love me?”

            “Ed, I’m with someone. You are too.”

            “Jason is ours. We could try again.”

            “Ed, you’re married.”

            “She’s---different.”

            “And I am too. I have to go.”

            She hung up. Ed held his hands over his eyes. He didn’t want to cry anymore. He held onto the counter as if it were the idea of Jenna. He grasped it tight, the tips of his fingers turning pale. He hit it with his fist. He walked to the front door of the apartment, surprised he forgot to lock it. Locking doors was one of his most prominent habits. His mind was too much of a mess to fixate on anything. He had never felt so sad because of someone he never really had.

            Ed looked at how clueless Jason was. He put on a smile. “Jason, do you like cheese?”

            “Noooo,” he replied, sticking out his tongue. Ed could already tell Jason would irritate

him with his smell, his noises, and his constant need to be entertained. He would be a constant reminder of Jenna. But he had the feeling he could love Jason, more than he pretended to love Leila and more than he loves Jenna. It didn’t matter what Leila said or did. It didn’t matter if Jenna came back or not. Ed could never forget Jenna. The pain would never go away, but he wanted to try.

            “Let’s get out of here.”

            “I’ll never leave you, son,” he continued. He took Jason’s petite hand, leaving the cheese on the faded rug near the TV stand.