“Of course. Just let me know if that’s the case, and I’ll be here,” I tell Penny as I push through the door and leave with my stack of books in tow.
I skip down the steps and start the walk back to my car. More people are walking around with their dogs, throwing frisbees in the town center. I look up and see the man with his daughter eating at Odette’s diner, Planet Pancakes, walking toward his truck up ahead. As he opens the door, I squint to make out the decal on the driver’s door. “Torres Builders,” I say.Renovations and Constructionis added in script beneath the names in bold, gold lettering. I slow my pace, hoping he will drive away without noticing me. I hear the door close, and a few seconds later, I hear the engine start.A diesel, I think to myself, as I hear the deep rumbling of the start-up and rhythmic puttering of the motor.
As I inevitably approach his truck, I fight the urge to look up, but I must be a glutton for punishment. Because I can’t help myself, I direct my sight and look into the driver’s side front windshield. I almost halt in my steps when I see him staring at me. I refuse to look away as I approach his idling truck. A muscle tics in his jaw, and I lift an eyebrow in challenge. His lips twist upward in a snarl, and when I think he might open the door and confront me for my presence, for some reason annoying him, he twists his upper body to look behind him, breaking our eye contact. He pulls away from the parallel parking spot on the street without glancing again in my direction, and I don’t bother looking back.
“What the fuck was that about?”I mutter to myself. He acts like he hates me, and I don’t know why. What the hell did I do? I don’t even know him or that adorable little girl who looked at him like he hung the moon and stars. How can someone look at another person that way without reason or knowing them? Frustrated with that weird encounter, I finally get to my car, toss my books into the front seat, and drive back to the lake house with one goal in mind—purging.
I take another sip of my latte and bob my head to the strong,repetitive beats that echo around me. “Not Like Us” by Kendrick Lamar plays through the Bluetooth speakers throughout my house. I jump onto the sectional couch and dance to the quick, rhyming lyrics, rapping with the countdown of the song as I jump off and run back toward my parents’ bedroom. I lug out another bag of clothes that I have not so delicately loaded into a garbage bag and plop it down on the foyer flooring.
I look over and count seven bags of my father’s clothes. For the first hour, I stood in the center of their room looking around, remembering when I would jump into my parents’ bed when I was a little girl, after having a bad dream. My dad would pull back the covers as I got in, and my mom would rub my forehead, whispering about safety and love. How many countless nights did that happen?
I let one tear fall before I broke the trance, tore my sight away from the bed, and went into extreme purging mode. I opened the closet and threw my dad’s clothes in first. I had no use for them. I didn’t even check the pockets. I don’t care. I just tossed everything into a bag, fighting the urge to smell his cologne just one last time. There isn’t a point in torturing myself any longer about things like that.
Next, I entered my mother’s closet and did the same thing. I don’t want to keep anything here. The items in this house are only clothes they would wear here, and there aren’t many summer clothes and even fewer winter ones. Occasionally, we would visit the lakes region for their winter events, such as the ice fishing derby or snowmobiling, but that stopped after I went to college.
The summertime here has always been our thing, and that’s where the memories lie. I look in the bathroom and leave my mom’s facial and toiletry products where they are. I clean up the counter and neatly place everything in the drawers, minus the toothbrushes and open toothpaste tubes, which I throw out. I shut off the light, feeling like I had a productive day.
After I drag the last trash bags out of the house, I go back inside, walk toward my parents’ room one final time, and close the door. I close the door on the hurt, the memories that are too painful to remember, and lastly, the lies and betrayals that seem to linger in the air. The answers to those questions may never come, but I havethis nagging feeling that they, like all lies, will come to light and hurt those left to endure the pain when the truth is finally set free.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The look I gave her had to be done. I saw her talking to the waitress as Odette took us to our table, and it was the first time in a long time I looked at another woman besides my wife—myex-wife. Referring to her that way is still hard. The words seem foreign on my tongue, and sometimes I forget, but she forgot about us long ago. Even that is hard to get used to. I’m barely twenty-six years old, and I have an ex-wife and a young daughter who is just turning five, although sometimes I question if she is going on sixteen. God, I hope she isn’t like us as teenagers. I’m sure the little hellion won’t get away with much around us—correction, aroundme. I’m not sure my ex will ever be able to grow up and stop being selfish. It’s hard to see the woman I fell in love with anymore after all she’s put us through:the addiction, the mood swings, and worst of all, the depression.
Even with the music playing, I can hear the girl from the diner’s voice clearly as day. That laugh. That’s what makes me want to get a better look at her. Maybe with me pushing her up against a wall, my cock in hand, ready to thrust into her. What noises will she make then?
It happens in slow motion. I see the red crayon fall, and then someone stops to pick it up. Her voice is low and soft, a melody carrying a tune toward me, and I watch her crouch down to speak to my daughter.
“Hi there. I think this belongs to you.” That soft and sensual voice is a cruel awakening for me, causing whatever went through my mind to vanish, and the rugged exterior I show every female who tries to talk to me returns as she extends the crayon to Catalina. My daughter smiles at the woman, who is still crouching at my feet. Her kneeling before me makes my cock spring to attention. My gaze roams over her little white sneakers with pink stripes, roaming upward to those long legs that peek out from her almost too short skirt, where her panties are hidden from view only because I’m at the wrong angle. If I was in front of her, I’m sure I’d be able to witness how the thin piece of fabric would probably hug her folds. Upset with myself for having these thoughts, I speak almost too harshly, startling the woman as I watch her attention rise.
“What do you say, Catalina?” They can hear the intonation of my voice, probably from trying to calm the rising feelings of lust I’m trying hard to suppress. It hasn’t been an issue for a while now.
That is until my world is nearly knocked off its axis when she turns to look at me, and I am hit with the most devastating, beautiful whiskey-colored eyes. The warm brown and reddish tones remind me of my favorite beverage, which I’d like to lap up, hoping to get drunk on her. I take in her appearance: delicate heart-shaped face, perfect little bow-shaped lips, and pointed chin. I notice her taking mine in, and I know she likes what she sees, which bothers me. Sometimes, the most beautiful package can have the worst surprise inside. My expression hardens, and a scowl makes my lips turn downward, snapping her out of whatever fantasy she imagines.Her eyes widen, startled by my expression, before squinting in confusion.
“Thank you.” Catalina wakes her from her trance-like state. She must realize that she was staring at her dad, and I hope she didn’t notice the way I returned the sentiment, because I don’t want to lead her on, just like I have turned down invitations for coffee or playdates. Yeah, that’s the most common one, and I won’t fall for it. I won’t let them use my daughter as a means to get to me, either. I can tell she’s embarrassed because her cheeks flush, as do her ears, cutely peeking out of her messy bun. She abruptly turns to Catalina to address her.
“You’re very welcome.” Before it gets any more awkward, she bolts from the spot, waving at Odette as she leaves the diner. I track her movements, feeling annoyed that she has affected me this way and angry with myself for wanting her. She turns, walking down the sidewalk, blowing a puff of air at a strand of hair that has come loose. I continue to watch her, unable to look away. It’s like a disaster waiting to happen, and I have a front-row seat to witness it all. When she looks up, her eyes meet mine. She looks at me with loathing, mimicking me, almost making me laugh. I see her continue staring at me without looking away. She doesn’t smile at me, and although I want to, I certainly don’t smile back.
She disappears from my view, and I fight the urge to look for her and follow where she goes, tracking her path. Does she live in town? Is she from here or just visiting? Maybe her family just rented a house here, which isn’t uncommon. Lots of vacation rentals are available here on the lake. The waitress comes to take our order, and I haven’t even looked at the menu, so I decide to order what I had last time, not wanting to waste any more time. I know it’s getting late, and Catalina must be hungry after only eating a bowl of cereal before we did the garden work early this morning.
Catalina orders a big Belgian waffle with strawberries and whipped cream on the side, and I order my usual, eggs Benedict. The waitress leaves, and another one comes over to refill my black coffee. I am easy when it comes to my beverages. I don’t like the mocha caramel macchiato swirl, whatever shit. I am a black coffee, no frills, and especially no bullshit, kind of guy.
I’m not hard to please. Just don’t get addicted to drugs. Ignore your daughter selfishly. Cheat on me. See, not too bad, huh?
From what I gathered, I’m not sure about the last one, but I know that my ex was into older men. She kept calling an older man to the point of infatuation. She didn’t even try to deny it when I confronted her. Although she tried to explain, I was fed up at that point, and I didn’t want to hear anything she had to say. The manipulation had worn me thin, and I was tired of seeing Catalina getting her feelings hurt. I kept thinking about all those times she’d been the last one picked up from daycare, staring out the window while waiting for her mom. She was the only one left with the daycare worker after hours, where they charged by the minute until I arrived. So many times, they gave us chances, until finally, we had to go in for a meeting. It was our last chance, so my mom offered to do the pickup for me to help out. The way the childcare specialist looked at me with pity initially, and then with protectiveness toward my daughter, was enough for me to make a change. I still didn’t know if it was the right one until recently.
Six months later, here we are. It was a little easier to purchase a house in this area during off-peak time, and a client gave me a heads-up about this home. And I am grateful she did. The house was never listed, and we were able to agree on a cheaper price because it needed repairs. Only took a few months of work. I am a homeowner at a young age, and I own my own business with established clients, thanks to my dad. My parents are the reason I was able to finish college after getting my girlfriend pregnant. My parents helped with Catalina, and I finished my engineering degree. I owe them so much.
“Hey, Papá,” my little princess interrupts. I look toward her, not realizing I had zoned out after scaring off that young girl who was just trying to be nice.
“Yes, mi angelita?” She beams at me, and I know I will say yes without a doubt, no matter what she asks me for this time.
“Can you sign me up for t-ball today?” I forgot about that. She loves baseball, the Red Sox, obviously, and I told her we would sign her up for the program I saw advertised in the town newsletter. This town has a newsletter that provides all the important informationin a cute and concise format that comes in the mail to residents, letting them know of all the services available at the time.
“Mija, the recreational department isn’t open today. I’ll tell you what. I will sign you up first thing Monday morning, okay?” She looks at me, searching for the truth.
“Okay,” she points her fork at me, “but don’t forget.” She stares me down, and I want to laugh at her imitation of my face when I get angry. Her lips pout, and her eyes narrow.
I almost want to laugh, but instead, I just nod. “Of course, Catalina, I won’t forget.”
