“Give it up, Flo. It’s never going to happen and you know it.”
She growled unhappily through the phone. Flo, by the way, knew all about my childhood obsession with Graham. She’d heard it all — the sea urchin save, the lofty LG status, the hometown hero-worship phase. And, of course, she’d had a front row seat to our shaky introduction when I moved back to town, along with our past few months of strained interactions at various get-togethers. Despite this, she held out — severely delusional — hope that one day, I would develop a case of selective amnesia so immense, I’d drag Graham into bed with me to work out our myriad differences using a far more tactile approach.
Like I said…delusional.
“I simply don’t understand how Des can call someone like him his best friend,” I declared, not for the first time. Desmond, Flo’s boyfriend, was one of the most genuine, gentlemanly guys I’d ever met. A professor at the local university, he taught courses on New England history and folklore, read copiously, tipped generously, and — most importantly — treated my oldest gal-pal like the earth-bound goddess she was. “They’re nothing alike.”
“Graham’s not half bad, once you get to know him. He grows on you.”
I snorted. “You know what else grows on you? Fungus. Bacteria. Mold. Leprosy.”
“Come on, Gwennie. You’ve never even given him a chance! You’ve been so busy hating him, you’ve overlooked all his good qualities. It’s almost like you try not to see his good side on purpose.”
“I find it hard to believe hehasa good side.”
“Maybe you need to look harder, then. Or maybe you need your eyes checked. Seriously. Have you seen the man? He’s like a cross between a badass action hero and an All-American heartthrob, with some deliciously domineering undercurrents that, you can just tell, make him a great lay.”
She was not wrong — though I had no plans to admit as much. “Being attractive on the outside doesn’t mean much if the insides don’t match.”
“They do, though, that’s what I’m saying! Desmond told me Graham is the smartest person he’s ever met. Do you know how difficult it is for a man who works inacademiato admit there are intelligent people outside that strange, insular scholastic sphere? I mean, Graham hasn’t even been published in a peer reviewed journal! Can you imagine thehorror?” She giggled. “Plus, he’s hugely successful. His consultant company, Gravewatch, makes bucketloads of money. He takes on cases for law enforcement agencies all up and down the east coast. He even works with the Feds sometimes. He’s the real deal.”
“About that...” I took a large sip of wine in preparation for her reaction. “Turns out… I may have misunderstood when you told me what he did for a living…” I quickly filled Flo in on the unfortunatefixermishap. It took her a long, long while to stop laughing. So long, I had time to finish my final few mouthfuls of lo mein, rinse the plate, and load it into the dishwasher.
“Oh my god,” she gasped, breathless. “That is very possibly the funniest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“I’m glad someone is amused by the mess that is my life.“
“Gwen, even you have to admit, that’s hilarious. You thought he was a handyman. Ahandyman. Graham Motherfucking Graves! Badass extraordinaire! Crème de la crème of private investigators! Hold on, Desmond just walked in, I have to tell him about this…”
As she recounted the misunderstanding to her boyfriend — which resulted in both of them breaking down in yet another fit of hysterics — I finally kicked off my blush pink stilettos. The tile floor beneath my feet was icy, but it felt strangely good against my aching soles. I could practically see my breath, the kitchen was so cold. I fought off a shiver as I sipped my wine.
Like any self-respecting New Englander, I had stubbornly refused to switch on the heat, determined to make it to September’s end before I caved to the plummeting fall temperatures. But soon no amount of cashmere sweaters or wool socks would be enough to keep me warm. While my house was gorgeous and historical, it was also drafty and poorly insulated. My heating bill each winter was astronomical.
It still caught me off guard sometimes — that it was mine.Myhouse.Myheating bill. For so long, it had been Aunt Colette’s. A place of refuge for the summer months when I was a kid, then later a fun place to visit during breaks between my semesters at UMass Amherst, where I’d gotten a rather superfluous degree in interior design. Granted, the degree likely would not have been so superfluous if I’d actually gone into my field of choice.
I never got that chance.
Not for lack of trying, though. Shortly after graduation two and a half years ago, I had a job lined up in New York City. My dream career — or, so I thought at the time — at a fancy design firm where I’d be making six figures, plus hefty stock options and a signing bonus. It was more money than I’d ever dreamed of making right out of the gate. A far cry from the girl who grew up in a string of trailer parks, living off food stamps, intimately familiar with the act of going to bed hungry. It had taken years of studying, a hard-earned academic scholarship, seven letters of recommendation from my professors, and dozens of interviews… but I had finally done it.
I had gotten out.
I had left behind that life of switched-off utilities and repossessed cars and empty refrigerator shelves and eviction notices. No more particle-board furniture, no more houses on wheels. No more yelling or hiding or trying my hardest to disappear. Diploma in hand, I was poised on the cusp of a brand new sort of life at the center of the most vibrant city in the world, where I would live in a chic modern high rise full of stylish, solid wood housewares. I would dress to impress. I would sip black coffee while I power-walked down sidewalks and hailed taxi-cabs with a sharp, practiced whistle, just like the lovable workaholic stars of the cheesy romantic comedies I loved to watch.
But then, my phone rang.
There was a nurse on the other end. She told me she worked at Salem Hospital. I still remember her exact words — the words that changed the entire trajectory of my existence, picked me up off my chosen path and hurled me, without recourse, down an entirely unexpected one.
Your Aunt Colette has had a stroke, the nurse told me, her words punctuated by machines beeping in the background.You need to come. Come quickly. You’re her next-of-kin. You have power-of-attorney. You’ll have to make some tough decisions…
Just like that, nothing else mattered. Not the stock options, not the fancy apartment, not the rom-com montage. I emailed my prospective employers an apology for wasting their time, hopped on the first northbound bus, and hightailed it back here as quick as I could. And here I stayed, living in Aunt Colette’s house and visiting her every day at the assisted care facility once she was transferred out of the ICU. There was no one else to visit her. She’d never married, never had kids. Her only other relative was my mother — her younger sister — and neither of us was holding our breath for her to show up and help.
After the stroke, Aunt Colette lost her ability to speak. Thankfully, we’d never really needed words. We got each other from day one.Same wavelength, that’s what she always used to say. At her bedside, I’d sit and tell her stories from my crazy college days and read her the newspaper — she always liked the local crime blotter, as people called to report some objectively odd things in Salem — and try to help her drink syrup-thickened water like the rehab therapists had shown me, even though it was difficult for her to get anything down without choking.
I didn’t resent Aunt Colette for derailing my post-grad plans. I owed her more than I could ever repay. She had been there for me as a kid, letting me spend every summer with her in Salem. Yanking me out of my dysfunctional childhood — which mostly meant yanking me away from my dysfunctional mother — long enough to show me a different sort of life, filled with art and music and books. A life empty of yelling and crying and Mom’s parade of asshole boyfriends, each somehow worse than the last.
Those twelve weeks I spent with Aunt Colette each year were the only bright spots in the dark recesses of my childhood memory banks. They were also the only time I ever felt safe. Secure. The only time I knew I could go to bed without fear of being shaken awake in the middle of the night by Mom whispering that we had to leave,right now, that the car was already running in the driveway and I had two minutes to pack a bag before we left it all in our rearview. For the millionth time.
God damn it, Gwen! Quiet! You’ll wake him and then we’ll really be screwed…