Logan's Flight (short literary fiction - 1137 words)

Logan’s Flight

I have to stop myself from banging my head against the wall. It has been the longest day at work with all of the nutty patients picking today to come in. My mother is one of them and I can hear her talking at the front desk.

My phone buzzes and I slip it out of my scrub pocket. Josh. A short time ago, seeing his name would have made me smile. Now I feel nauseated. Being dumped for the pretty new girl in your boyfriend’s office tends to do that. The air kicks on and I get a chill, sending goosebumps down my arms. I put on my sweater that I keep draped over the chair and sit at the computer in my room. 

For two years now I’ve been a physical therapist at Jensen Sports Medicine. I like my job but the rest of my life is a shit-storm and I have no idea what to do about it. Six months ago I was on top of the world. Me and Josh—my college sweetheart, the captain of the football team and a member of the Chess Club—had just bought a house and were going to get married. But I guess nothing lasts forever. Not when your fiancé decides to sleep with his pretty new co-worker, Jennifer. I’ve always hated that name.

The worst part of the whole ordeal was that he didn’t even try to deny it when I confronted him. It was exactly six weeks ago. 

“Look, Logan, I told you I’m sorry. I’m only human. It’s not like we’re married yet.” He sat down at the table and interlaced his fingers, looking up at me, his big brown eyes not quite pleading, not quite sorry, just trying to convince me to get over it.

My jaw dropped. “Not married yet? Jesus, like that makes a difference! We are engaged, we live together—“

He slammed his hands down onto the table. “Just stop, OK? I feel bad enough as it is. I had a moment of weakness. You know it won’t happen again.”

“And how do I know that?” 

A week later, he had moved out and I had put the house up for sale. I could still afford it on my own but there is no point staying in a place where I was supposed to be married, have a family and it had already fallen apart. Best to just start fresh. Now all I want is a pill that will take away his memory. Or maybe he could be zapped out of my brain like in Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. I thought he was The One. We had a future. Then he got a new job and met Jennifer, who is the complete opposite of me with her sparkling blonde hair, tanned skin and Cross Fit body. I’ve never met her but I hate her. And I don’t trust anyone who does Cross Fit anyway. No one needs to be able to flip a damn tractor tire. Unless it lands on someone on the farm, in which case Jennifer can lift it and save them. Good for her. 

Last night I had a dream that I was paralyzed. I was sitting in the center of a large, dark room in a metal chair and the only parts of my body that I could move were my eyes. All I could see were the faces of my mom, Josh and a few other friends and co-workers. The creepy part was their facial expressions. As I moved my eyes around the half circle in front of me, their faces were smirking with superior and condescending looks. I woke up shivering, sweating and shaking. I’ve had this same dream over and over again for weeks now. Usually my dreams fade away but I can’t shake this one. It lingers all day.  

Mom is now following Dr. Stein down the hall, her diamond jewelry creating a constellation under the fluorescent lights: two carats in her ears, a delicate sparkling cross lying on her chest and three carats on her left hand next to a platinum band. My step-father is generous to her. But, despite her bedazzled appearance, she’s frowning and looking at the floor, clutching her shoulder. She is an undiagnosed hypochondriac who thinks every ache or pain means cancer. I’m glad she’s not scheduled for therapy with me today. I used to have more patience with her but now the irritation has taken over. In the healthcare industry it’s called “compassion fatigue.” Funny how it sounds so gentle and harmless when it’s really so violating. 

I close my door, hoping I can hide out here for a while. I don’t feel like socializing today. Some days—usually when I’ve had enough coffee or just have the fortune of being in a decent mood—I yak it up with my co-workers. But on days like today, I feel like I will crawl out of my skin if someone talks to me. It’s a slow day so maybe I’ll get lucky and no one will come bursting in with a big sunny smile telling me I have a patient waiting. I sit in an old blue plastic chair and lean against the cold white wall staring into space.

A few months ago, I lived in a 2500 square foot home with Josh in the Victorian District of Savannah and had a sparkling diamond on my left hand. My whole life was finally planned out, orchestrated beautifully the way I had always envisioned it. But you know the saying, “if you want to see God laugh, make plans”?  I am the living embodiment of that wickedly ruthless but true statement. I don’t know why I went to school for physical therapy. The idea sounded great four years ago when I was a senior at the University of Georgia, a few months away from a B.S. in Health Sciences. Many things used to seem like a good idea. But now, I feel like a spider caught in her own web, unable to break free. 

I can still hear my mother talking even though she’s all the way in the front office. Her voice grows louder and I can hear bits and pieces: “My insurance should cover that . . . No, call them again, that is wrong . . . I’m in so much pain.” Her voice has escalated to a whine now. “I guess I’ll just have to have surgery if you won’t help me . . .”

Peeking my head out of the room, I see Stephanie, another PT, walking in my direction. She stops and smiles when she gets to me but says nothing for a moment, just puts her hand on my shoulder. We both watch my mother as she stands in front of the desk, one hand gripping her large Chanel bag on her shoulder and the other hand on her hip. She still has not paused from her monologue. I faintly hear Dr. Stein say, “Anastasia, you don’t need surgery . . .” but I can’t hear the rest. My mother’s given name is Anna but she insists on being called Anastasia. She claims it suits her better. But I know the truth. She believes she’s a Disney princess and not in that needs-to-be-committed-to-the-psych-ward kind of way. Then Dr. Stein is making her way back down the hall and she’s wearing that “I have no choice but to be professional” smile. She sees me and raises her eyebrows, because there’s really nothing to say. 

I am so embarrassed. 

      Stephanie squeezes my shoulder. “Maybe you should transfer to the other location,” she says. 

      “She would just start going there,” I say. 

      “True.” Stephanie gives my shoulder a squeeze. “You could fake your own death.” She shrugs. 

 
      I laugh and head back into my room to wipe down the table for my next patient. “I just might consider that.” 

      That night after making a bowl of Ramen, I open up my laptop and search for one-way tickets to Seattle. My best friend moved there last year and has been trying to get me to move ever since. She tried again to convince me last week. 

     “I absolutely love it out here!” Sarah said.


     “Isn’t it cold and rainy, though?” 

She laughed. “You just can’t leave Mother Dearest. Admit it, you would be lost without her.”

     “You’ve got to be kidding! She drives me nuts. I’d love to get away and start over on my own.
There’s nothing for me here anyway.” I got up and began to pace around the room. 

     “Right. So you’ve said for the past year. Do something about it then. You’re young, you have no kids, aren’t married and you sure as hell haven’t had any luck in the man department. So take a chance.”

     “I know but I can’t just pick up and leave! I’m not like you, I like to plan things out, know what’s going to happen.”

     “Well, maybe you should try something different. You could stay with me. It would be great, Logan. You loved it when you came out to visit.”

     “I did. . .”
     “You’re just scared, Loges. I get it but if you’d stop letting fear control you, God, you’d be amazed, hon.”

There is a one-way ticket on Southwest for $120. I slam my laptop shut. I don’t want to think about this right now. My phone on the table lights up with a green bar in the middle of the screen. It’s a text message from Josh. I haven’t talked to him in two months since our break-up. My heart accelerates as I read the message. He wants to have dinner this week. I sigh and toss the phone onto the couch. I’m not going to respond. See how the cheating bastard likes that. 

I remember I still have a half-finished bottle of wine in the fridge. I pop the cork out and swish the pale yellow liquid around, bringing the opening of the bottle to my nose. It’s starting to sour but it still has a good 24 hours left before it will taste like vinegar. My glass in hand, I look around, staring at the bare whitewashed brick walls. I need some artwork to liven up this tiny apartment. It’s actually not that small but I’m still adjusting to downsizing from our spacious Victorian on the outskirts of town. My third floor loft is situated in the heart of Savannah. I love the noise, the distractions. I think if I had stayed in that big old house by myself I’d have gone crazy by now. I go stand by the big window overlooking Broughton Street and watch people walk home from work, couples walking hand in hand, stopping at Sakura to get take out for dinner.

 I jump when I hear my phone vibrate on the coffee table. He’s being persistent. He always is when he wants something. Let him wonder a little longer. 

Two glasses later, I find a green and white pack of Marlboro Menthols in the back of the freezer. No one knows that I smoke. But I don’t really. Only when I’ve had more than one glass of wine, which isn’t often. I sit on my back patio with my now room-temperature wine and light up, inhaling the thick, acrid smoke. It tastes bad. I haven’t had a cigarette in months and once the first puff goes into my lungs, I feel dizzy. My heart does a little jump and I’m nauseous for a couple seconds. Then I take a gulp of wine and I feel better. I finish the glass and pick up my phone and can’t stop myself. I agree to have dinner with him tomorrow. This is a bad idea, I think as I type the message.    

    “So I guess it didn’t work out with Jennifer,” I say. Josh is sitting across from me at a booth in 

Chili’s shoving salsa-drenched tortilla chips into his mouth. A Dean Martin song is playing a little too

 loud overhead and a baby in a high-chair on the other side of the aisle is starting to get fussy. I reach to my left and grab the drink menu.

      He sighs and scratches his head and I notice his nails are still as dirty as they always were and his hair is still as messy as usual. “Are you really going to bring that up? That was nothing. I miss you,” he says, his mouth still half-full of chips.

“I don’t miss you.” I slide my Diet Coke closer and lean in, taking a sip. It’s so fizzy it almost makes me choke. I really should order a mojito. Or maybe a margarita.

He laughs. “Yeah right. You’re here, aren’t you? Stop acting like you don’t care. I’m not buying it. We both know you’re going to take me back.”

I sit back into the squishy booth, my hands wrapped around the cold plastic cup, now wet with drops of condensation. The guy behind me at the next table must be shaking his leg because I feel like I’m sitting in one of those massage chairs at the mall. “Oh my God.” My voice quivers a little because of the nervous leg shaker. I sit up straight. “You’re serious.”

“Baby, come on.” He reaches across the table and starts to take my hand.  

I wrench out of his grasp, shaking him off like a huge bug and shove the tall, cold glass, still filled 

with soda, across the table. It crashes into the front of his shirt, brown fizzy liquid flying in the air, 

spraying the table, drenching his shirt and pants. I hear the cup roll onto the floor but I am already up,

my bag slung over my shoulder. “Go to hell,” I say quietly. He’s sitting there like a statue, his hands 

up in the air, his face red with embarrassment or anger or both. Either way, he looks like an idiot. 

The owner of the shaking leg catches my eye and snickers, his elbow on the Mexican-tiled table, his 

hand cupping his chin. Under the table, his leg is shaking even more violently now. I turn on my heel 

and walk away. As I make my way towards the door, a man at the bar smiles at me then takes a sip of 

his drink. I wonder if he saw me throw Diet Coke all over my ex-fiance. 
 

My hands grip the steering wheel tightly as I drive home but I’m smiling. I crank up the radio and sing along. When I get home, I plug my cell phone into the charger and see I have a missed call. Much to my surprise, it’s not Josh but Mom. I call her back and she picks up on the first ring. “Where were you? Did you not have your phone on you?”

“Sorry, it must have been on silent. Is everything OK?” I let myself fall onto the couch and lie the phone on the table, putting her on speaker.

“Well, no, it’s not actually. I couldn’t get a hold of the office today. I needed to know if I have an appointment tomorrow. They have been giving me the run-around anyway, telling me my insurance doesn’t cover this, doesn’t cover that--“

“Mom,” I interrupt her. “I didn’t see you on the schedule but I’m not one hundred percent sure. I can’t check now. You can call them in the morning or I can check when I get in.”

She sighs. “Well, that won’t help. I need to know. I’m very busy.”

“Busy doing what?”

“Logan. Don’t talk to me that way. Just because I don’t work anymore doesn’t mean I’m not just as busy as you.”

I don’t say anything. I’m not in the mood for this.

She sighs again. “Well, I guess I’ll just have to figure it out. Thanks.” And before I can reply, she hangs up. Fine by me. I lob the phone across the room and it lands on a pillow on the chair. It didn’t even come close to breaking. That would have at least been satisfying.

The next day at work I’m typing some notes when Dr. Stein comes into the room. “Your mother is here for therapy. She requested you.” Her face looks pained.
      “OK, thank you,” I say. I pass by a mirror and my face is paler than usual and my eyes are puffy.  

Here she comes down the hall with all of her pushiness swirling around her. She smiles her sad smile, her large blue eyes stare into mine, searching, desperate, commanding me to “recognize this, acknowledge this! I am suffering greatly but I’m a trooper! I’m tough!”

      I watch as my mother struggles to lift the two-pound weight with her left arm. “That’s good. Try five more,” I say.
      She sighs loudly. “This exercise is too hard. It hurts.”
      “OK,” I say. “Take a break.”
      “I need a permanent break from this! You’re killing me!” She drops the small blue dumbbell to the floor.
      “Anastasia, I’m trying to help you.”
      Her brows furrow. “Why do you insist on calling me that?”
      “It’s your name,” I say, picking the weight off the floor.
      “I’m your mother.”
      “Yes, but right now you’re my patient and it helps me to call you by your name. Just go with it.” I hold out the weight. “Would you please try five more?”
      She yanks the weight out of my hands and begins her dramatic struggle again. “You know, your old mom is tough.”
      My blood is starting to boil and there is a burning tightness in my chest. I turn and roll my eyes. Here we go. I look up at the clock. We have twenty minutes left. It’s going to be a long twenty minutes.
      “I am,” she continues. “I’ve been through so much and I just keep going. Honestly, I don’t know how I do it.” She does her last rep and places the weight gingerly on the table. Folding her hands in her lap, she purses her lips and watches me for a moment before speaking again. “But when you don’t have a choice, you don’t have a choice, you know?” She laughs, a forced, high-pitched sound and stares across the room with big, sad puppy-dog eyes. “Your step-father is always working and I just do my exercises at home, well, what I can do before I get tired. Most of the time I have to run all over town to have more tests, more x-rays—“
      “Go ahead and start your next set,” I say, cutting her off. “You know, the bicep curls.”
      She huffs and picks up the weight again.
      I swivel on my stool and slide back a few inches. “You’ve had all the tests in the world and they found nothing. You have mild tendinitis in your shoulder, that’s it. How bad is the pain right now?”
      She looks down at her shoulder and moves it around. “Did you hear that crunching sound?” I don’t hear it and I tell her so. She frowns. “Well, I wouldn’t be surprised if I have a fracture. It shouldn’t sound like that, should it? It’s pretty bad and those exercises you make me do are making it worse!”
      “Your x-rays do not show a fracture,” I tell her. She narrows her eyes. “And you played tennis yesterday.”
      “Well, some days it is better than others. You seem like you don’t believe me. I need you to support me! I might have cancer in my shoulder—“
      “You do not have cancer in your shoulder,” I say a little too loud. “At the most, you have tendinitis or bursitis, which is something almost everyone gets at some point. It’s not even close to being serious. And I do support you. That’s all I do. It’s always about you.”
      “Now, listen. I was so good to you. I gave you everything!” She drops the weight to the floor again. It makes a loud thud and it’s only a matter of time before someone comes to check on us.
      “Did you ever stop to think that I need you now, too? Just because I’m an adult doesn’t mean I don’t need you to care.”
      She stands up from the table. “You are a spoiled brat! I suffer so much, day and night, with all of these health problems but I don’t burden you with them! I just push through it. You have no idea what I go through.”
      I see her selfish, pitiful face and then another face flashes through my mind. Josh. The way he looked at me last night, his eyes half begging my forgiveness and half knowing that he had me. Knowing that I would come running back. Something clicks inside me and I hear the words coming out of my mouth before I know I am speaking. “You’re a bored housewife. Rob ignores you. But, he gives you plenty of money so you can stay home and wallow in your insurmountable problems, carefully plan how else you will get your necessary attention from all who will listen. You bathe in your pain, your self-pity and your narcissism. You are self-absorbed to the furthest extent. This has been going on for years. Ever since you married Rob. And I don’t know why. He’s a nice guy. And you can’t be bothered to care about me. Your singular focus in life is all of your made-up illnesses. You get a diagnosis of tendinitis and you act like it’s cancer! You are the most selfish person I’ve ever met. Do not request me again when you come in—“
      I realize I’ve been yelling when the door opens and Stephanie peeks her head in. “Everything OK in here?”
      “Yes, we’re fine. We were just finishing up.” I stare at Anastasia and wait for her to leave the room. She mumbles to herself, yanks her bag from the table and rushes out of the room.

That night, I text Josh and tell him I’m moving. I can almost hear his jaw drop on the other end of the line. He has woken up but it’s too late. He begs me to stay, says he’s sorry, asks me to forgive him but I tell him it’s not about him and I wish him the best.

Two weeks later I am squeezed in a narrow seat, my carry-on bag tucked under the seat in front of me. I paid a few extra bucks for the window seat which helps with the claustrophobia. Next to me is a large man wearing tiny silver wire-frame glasses reading his Kindle. Every few minutes, he sniffs and snorts, wipes his nose with a big white handkerchief. I didn’t know people still used those. I hear a baby softly cooing in the row behind me and in the mother’s low and nurturing voice, I can hear a note of nervous tension as she silently hopes he doesn’t start screaming and crying on the five-hour flight. I put my earbuds in and press play on my “Relax” playlist. I smile to myself and lock my phone as the soothing sounds of a piano and strings start to flow into my ears. I can feel the cool plastic of the wall on my shoulder as I lean to my right and adjust my pillow. We are moving now, the vibration becoming stronger and stronger as the plane gains speed and the windows of the airport rush by. Finally, we are in the air and my stomach feels like it is still on the ground for a split second. Pressing my face up against the small window, I look down at my little town and watch as it shrinks smaller and smaller, the streets crawling with toy cars, passing by white and beige buildings that look like faded Legos left out in the sun too long. The world is such a big place and I want to see more of it. I can always come back to visit Savannah. Maybe next year.

 

 

Movies are Weird: Insights on Creativity and Entertainment (short essay - 323 words)

 
“The tremendous leisure industry that has arisen in the last few generations has been designed to help fill free time with enjoyable experiences. Nevertheless, instead of using our physical and mental resources to experience flow, most of us spend many hours each week watching celebrated athletes playing in enormous stadiums. Instead of making music, we listen to platinum records cut by millionaire musicians. Instead of making art, we go to admire paintings that brought in the highest bids at the latest auction. We do not run risks acting on our beliefs, but occupy hours each day watching actors who pretend to have adventures, engaged in mock-meaningful action.”
― Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi, Flow

  

 I had live-streamed Bonnaroo on my laptop on June 15, 2014. I had been talking to my sister who lived so close to the festival site (Manchester, Tennessee) at the time that she could hear the music. We are both huge Jack White fans so she was ecstatic to be able to hear his set live from her backyard and I was green with envy as I sat in Orlando watching it live-stream on my laptop. But I recorded a few bits and pieces of his set onto my voice recorder on my iPhone as I listened. Today I was going through all my old voice memos and heard one from Jack's Bonnaroo set that I wanted to share. It's just something that I've thought of many times and to hear someone else say it was pretty cool.

    He quotes a conversation he had with a movie director one time who said, "I think films are so strange. If an alien came down and walked into a movie theater, and watched [all the people watching] two people talking to each other on a screen, an alien would've said to a human being, 'so you come in here and pay money, your hard-earned money, to sit down and watch two people talk to each other? Why don't you do that at home? Why don't you do that at home?'"

     I just think that's interesting. I've always felt a little strange watching TV or watching a movie. (don't get me wrong, I can binge-watch all 9 seasons of The Office, and I also love Grey's Anatomy) but I've always thought, "why am I sitting here watching other people do things? It's weird. Why don't I go out and do things?"

    It's also a topic covered in a book I read a few years ago called, Flow: The Psychology of Optimal Experience by Mihaly Csikszentmihaly. In it, he writes, "Although watching TV is far from being a positive experience—generally people report feeling passive, weak, rather irritable, and sad when doing it—at least the flickering screen brings a certain amount of order to consciousness. The predictable plots, familiar characters, and even the redundant commercials provide a reassuring pattern of stimulation. The screen invites attention to itself as a manageable, restricted aspect of the environment. While interacting with television, the mind is protected from personal worries. The information passing across the screen keeps unpleasant concerns out of the mind.”

  I guess my point is, watching movies and TV has its place. Sometimes we need to do something mindless and escape our reality for a while. I just think we need to be careful not to go overboard and let our lives slip away. It feels so much better to create something yourself, whether you're dancing, singing, writing, painting, crafting, designing a video game, a website, starting your own biz, quilting, making handbags out of your cat's shedded fur...

Anyone else agree?

Wanted: Someone Who Hates Faith Hill as Much as I Do (flash fiction - 584 words)

     Reaching across the table, I take Charlotte’s hand and squeeze it gently. She smiles and gives me a light squeeze in return. It’s our third date and we’re sitting in a booth in the back corner of T.G.I. Friday’s. I had made reservations (unbeknownst to her) at an expensive French restaurant but Charlotte had insisted on Friday’s because she loves their mojitos. I think she might be a keeper.

     As soon as the server leaves, Charlotte slides the flip booklet in front of her and starts thumbing through the pictures of drinks and desserts. “Ooh, look at this,” she says, pointing to a picture of molten lava cake.

     I nod and start to reply but my heart skips a beat. I look around the restaurant and register the song flowing out of the speakers above us. It’s that song. God, how I hate it. And as if that isn’t bad enough, the music video is on the television above the bar. Why don’t they have football on? Faith Hill is sitting atop a giant peach, swinging back and forth, singing about a kiss that was apparently so powerful she had to write a song about it. I had seen the video years ago when it came out, but now it just seems stupid. The cheesy melody, her perky vocal inflections full of overdone joy, it’s too much. I normally don’t have such strong opinions about music, but there is a reason this particular song irks me so much. I remember being in the sixth grade and having to take the bus to and from school every day.

     I stood at the end of my driveway by our faded black mailbox and watched as the big yellow bus slowed to a stop in front of me. After some puffing noises from the engine, the folded door opened and I looked up to see Mr. Evans. He was leaning over in his seat, his large hand gripping the lever. Wiry tufts of grey hair spread across his hand like old, dying trees in a forest with a peach floor and tiny brown ponds scattered throughout. Looking back up at his face, I watched him raise his eyebrows and give me a half-hearted smile. I hesitated. There was still time to run back to the house.

     He rolled his eyes. “C’mon, son,” he said. “Haven’t got all day.” I did this every morning and every morning Mr. Evans would say the same thing, an annoyed look on his wrinkled and weather-beaten face. I sighed and climbed the steps, praying Benjamin would be home sick today. But no such luck. He was sitting in the back, as usual, away from Mr. Evans, away from any possibility of him hearing what went on back there.

     Benjamin sat up straight in his seat as soon as I stepped on. “Hey, Matt!” he called out. “I saved you a seat. Come on, buddy!” He slapped the seat next to him loudly and laughed, looking around at his friends who laughed with him. My eyes scanned the entire bus for a seat away from him but they were all taken. The only open seats were in the back. Resigned, I made my way back to an open seat two rows ahead of him.

     “Aww, you hurt my feelings,” he said. “I just want to be your friend.”

     I ignored him and sat down, putting my backpack on the floor in front of me. Then I felt a sharp searing pain on the top of my head. Turning around, I realized Benjamin must have switched seats with someone so now he was sitting directly behind me. Hitting me on the head with his book was his favorite, followed by shooting spitballs at me through a straw. And then, like clockwork, “This Kiss” from Faith Hill started playing on the radio. 107.1 WJAM must have played it fifty times a day and I heard it every single morning on the way to school and sometimes on the way back home, too. It was the soundtrack to my torture, courtesy of Benjamin Pruitt, the nightmare of the sixth grade at Lexington Elementary.

     He continued his attack, alternating between the spitballs and the whacks to the top of my head all while taunting me, saying things like, “Why are you such a nerd, Matt?” and “Everyone hates you, why don’t you just jump out the window?” As I yelled at him to leave me alone, while trying to get Mr. Evans’ attention (he was too busy singing along to the stupid song), and dodging the wet pieces of paper flying at me, the words blared from the speaker, “It’s. . .the way you love me, it’s. . .a feeling like this, it’s. . .centrifugal motion, it’s perpetual bli-iss. . .” 

     “Hello? Earth to Matt,” Charlotte’s voice rings in my ears.

     I blink. “I’m sorry,” I say, glancing around. The song is over.

     “What happened? Are you OK? You were gone for a minute there.”

     “Oh, yeah, I—“ I start. Should I tell her or will she think I’m crazy? Hell with it. “That song just. . .it makes me—“

     “Oh, God. I hate that song,” Charlotte says, sticking her finger in her mouth and making a gagging noise. “It’s so annoying. A song about a damn kiss? Really? So lame.”

     I laugh and breathe a sigh of relief. “I couldn’t agree more.”

Sam (Literary Fiction - 1028 words)

 

I think of Adam as my savior. His name is even the same as the first man on earth. This is according to my mother, the star of the church choir and the blondest of all the Stepford wives in Celebration.  Let me just say that I am not an entitled millennial from a wealthy family who ran away from home. The truth is, Adam saved me from a very dysfunctional home. I got out of there a month after graduating high school and have not looked back. Adam was twenty-one and had his own place when I moved in with him. He owns his own business. He comes from a good family. 

I don't know what he is doing with me. 

Sometimes I feel lonely at night, even with Adam lying beside me. It's not normal to be so disconnected from your family, is it? Then the guilt creeps in and I wonder if it was all my fault. Maybe I was a bad daughter. Maybe I don't deserve Adam, my loyal, caring boyfriend of three years. When these ugly thoughts come, I can feel my heart speed up and a thick fog rises from my chest to my throat. I put my hand over my heart, turn my head to look at Adam in the dark, afraid that he can hear my heart pounding, afraid that the sound will give me away, that he will come to his senses and leave me, but he is fast asleep, snoring softly. Then I wonder what it is, this dense air, this substance that is steadily rising up, threatening to pour out of my mouth. Is it the truth? Is it that I'm really a bad person and one day, sooner or later, everyone, including Adam, will see it? The cat will be out of the bag one day, I just know it. I can't fool him forever. Then, as I lie still next to Adam, listening to his steady, deep breathing, I talk myself out of it. It wasn't my fault. My father is an abusive, sick bastard and my mother didn't give a shit. The only thing I did wrong was not leave sooner. But I'm never entirely convinced of my innocence. 

It is July and our air conditioner has been broken for the past twenty-four hours. Our landlord does not seem to understand why we are getting impatient. This cannot be healthy. Adam has taken matters into his own hands and called the air conditioning company himself because that’s what he does. 

I huff and look up at the thermostat. It reads eighty-four degrees. I snatch up a folder from the counter and start fanning myself. "This is insane. When did they say the air would be fixed again?" I close my eyes and tilt my head up facing the ceiling, praying for one small glorious gust of cold air to come out of the vent. 

"Probably tomorrow. The manager said he would call us back by eight tonight to let us know. I'm sure it'll be fixed soon, hon." Adam smiles, tracing his fingertips along my arm. I look into his deep brown eyes, so calm and sure that everything will be OK. He is so Zen all the time, sometimes it is unnerving.  

"I hope so."

He tilts his head and smiles at me. "I know so."

I soften and reach my arms around him, hugging him tight. His damp shirt clings to mine and he smells faintly of sweat and I'm sure I do, too. 

He hugs me back, kisses my cheek and then pulls away, starting to walk out of the kitchen. But he stops and whirls around to face me again where I stand by the oven. "Is the oven on?" His eyes are wide. 

I raise my eyebrows and look at the stove then back at Adam. "I wanted to make brownies." 

"But you're complaining about the heat and that just makes it hotter in here."

I shrug and toss the folder back onto the counter. "I'm going to change," I say. 

"You make no sense, Sam."

"I know." I ruffle his hair as I pass by him on my way to the stairs. 

 

Upstairs in our bedroom, I thumb through my dresser for something light and cool to put on. I come across an old pair of shorts from high school and pull them out, tossing them onto the bed. They are bright blue with faint yellow stripes. My mom bought them for me on a back to school shopping trip. That was her way of coping with the misery of living with my father: shopping. Over the years, my father, Dr. Oren Reilly, had increased his drinking, going from a couple beers a night to the harder stuff, his favorite being Jack Daniels. The night that I called Adam—February 24, 2013—my father had downed a bottle of Jack and I had a busted lip. My mother had been hiding in the bedroom, pretending that everything was OK as usual. Fifteen minutes after calling Adam, I was already outside, standing next to the garage, my "get-away" bag (having been packed a week prior) slung over my shoulder when Adam peeled into the driveway, tires squealing. I was miles away from the house before my parents knew that I left. My mother had called me throughout the night and into the next day, begging me to come back home. She promised everything would be different. That's when I lost respect for her. She was a grown woman; if she wanted to be in denial and stay in that hellish existence with my father, that was her choice. But what kind of mother would want her child to live there?

As I slip on my flip-flops, I hear the doorbell ring and come downstairs. I see Adam making his way to the front door, so I go back into the kitchen to check on the brownies. They are done so I put on my polka dot oven mitts and pull the pan from the oven.  

Wondering who is at the door, I peek out from the kitchen and over Adam's shoulder. There is a young woman with red hair standing on our porch. Adam is leaning slightly to the right, his hand resting on the doorframe and I can see the left half of her body clearly.  

"Hi, neighbor. I'm just across the street," she says, motioning with her thumb over her shoulder. Adam doesn't respond at first. The woman's wild copper hair points in every direction and her white tank top is soaked with water or sweat so that we can see her neon green bra underneath. Her denim shorts hug her thighs and are so short that the pockets peek out from under the hem. Classy. On her feet are hot pink flip-flops that have seen better days. 

She is saying something but I can't hear well enough from the kitchen. I take a few steps toward the doorway to the living room. The woman is smiling at Adam. She says, "So, can I borrow one if you have an extra?"

Adam nods and starts to speak but the woman leans a little to her right and looks at me. I am standing at the edge of the living room holding the pan of brownies. Adam moves slightly to the side and I see her completely. I lock eyes with her then look her up and down. Still looking at her, I say to Adam, "You going to introduce me to your friend?" 

"Oh, she just stopped by, she lives across the street and. . ." Adam trails off. 

"And I asked to borrow a fan if you can spare one. I'm Kristy." She smiles and looks directly at me, mimicking me, looking me up and down. 

A fan? We’re the ones with the broken AC. I turn and walk back into the kitchen. "There might be one in the basement. You’re more than welcome to go look for it," I call out. I can hear the bitchy tone in my voice but I don’t care.

"I'm sorry. Let me go see if I can find it. Come in and have a seat." Why did he invite her in?

"Why not?" Kristy says, shrugging, before choosing the big green chair facing the kitchen.

"Make yourself at home," I call out. What I really mean is, 'get out of my house and stop flirting with my boyfriend' but I don't say it. 

"Thanks."

A few minutes later, Adam comes back into the room holding a large white fan. "Here you go," he says to Kristy. 

After the redhead leaves, Adam turns to me. "Let's go somewhere for dinner. I have to get out of here. It's too hot."

 

The hostess seats us at the far corner of the restaurant and as we take our seats in a booth, Adam begins removing his silverware from the napkin. "You were rude to her."

I lean back in my chair and look away. 

"Hello, Sam?"

"What?"

Before he can say anything, the server comes over, places two gray tinted glasses of water in front of us and takes our order. When he leaves, Adam sighs and looks at me, his eyebrows raised.

 "What do you want me to say?"

Adam shakes his head but says nothing. He looks away and I do the same, staring out the window. We sit in silence until the server is back, setting our hot plates in front of us. 

After a few bites, I put my fork down. "This chick comes over dressed like that, starts flirting with you and I'm supposed to be nice to her?"

Adam slams his fork down onto his plate. His brows are knitted tightly together.

"Now you're mad?" I say. 

I lean forward, my eyes wide. Adam looks down and begins twisting his napkin in his hands. His forehead is wrinkled and he bites his lip before speaking. "I remember when we first met. You were so happy," he says.

My jaw drops. "I was happy? I was running away from an abusive father and a clueless, plastic mom. I tried to off myself. I was just a ray of sunshine."

Adam sighs. "You know what I mean. We were happy together. You trusted me. I just don't know why you'd be threatened by some random woman who lives across the street."

"That service dog over there." I motion with my head. "He looks just like one I used to have."

"He went out the door. I can't see him."

As we stare out the window of our favorite restaurant, a gust of wind comes through the front door, blowing over a stack of menus from the stand. 

"Why does it seem all we do is argue, Sam?"

I shrug. "I used to believe we never would. But, we don't really. Not that much."

Adam frowns and pulled the Peg Board game towards him. He stares at the small wooden triangle with the red, blue and white pegs protruding from the holes. Old coffee stains splatter the surface. 

I slide my chair closer to the table. "Not as much as them," I say, pointing to the television in the corner of the ceiling where two presidential candidates are debating.

 

"Why do you always change the subject?"

I swipe the Peg Board game away from Adam and start playing. 

 "You know what I did a week after we met? I was out shopping and running errands. When I passed by a jewelry store, something made me go inside. I spent an hour looking at rings and had one picked out for you."

"You never told me that," I say. 

Adam nods and pushes his dinner plate to the edge of the table. 

"Well, why would you want to marry me?"

He smiles and reaches for my hand. "Because I love you, Sam, believe it or not."

***

I'm still thinking about our conversation the next morning on my way back from the gym. He was going to propose? I'm way too messed up to be marriage material. He should know that, I think. I pull into the driveway and hope Adam isn't home. I am in a weird mood and don't want him to see me like this. I just want to grab a post-workout snack and lie down for a while, slip into oblivion. Walking into the house, I see a pile of mail on the counter. Great, probably more bills, I think. I flip to an envelope with "Mid-Florida Hospital" printed on the outside. Oh, look, here's one now! Because I don't have enough to worry about.  I open it and the first thing I see is a number that is way too large and a red stamp: "Past Due." Thirty thousand dollars. I feel nauseous even though I haven't eaten yet. I toss it into the file where the rest of the past due hospital bills go: the tall stainless steel can under the sink with a plastic bag in it. I call it the Bye-Bye File. Adam doesn't know about my debt and he doesn't need to. I am already enough of a burden on him. I wish I could tell him all my secrets. They are jumbled up inside me and I feel like an overstuffed trash bag that cannot hold one more thing without bursting open. But it is all so ugly. I can't let it burst, I can't let him see inside. 

I go lie down in bed and the next thing I hear is the front door closing. I look over at the clock and realize I've slept for an hour. When I come downstairs, I see Adam standing at the sink. He turns when he hears my footsteps. In his hand are crumpled pieces of paper and envelopes. Damn. He found them. 

"Sam. What are these?" he asks, holding them up. 

I know what they are without looking. I cross my arms over my chest. "They're nothing. I'm handling it."

"By throwing them away?"

"It's not your problem. Why were you digging around in the trash?"

"I was getting ready to take it out and one of these fell out." He tosses a few crumpled sheets of paper onto the counter. "These are from three years ago and it is my problem. We share problems, that's how this works."

I sit at the table and cover my face with my hands. "I don't want to think about three years ago." About six months after I left home and came to live with Adam, I had attempted suicide. I felt so guilty for running away from home, leaving my mother alone with that monster. I had stayed in the hospital for two days under close observation and had to undergo a psychiatric evaluation. 

Adam sighs and pulls out the chair next to me, sitting down. "Of course you don't. You're better now and we've moved on. But you can't just pretend these don't exist. You told me your insurance paid for it."

I don't know what to say so I sit silently, my face buried in my hands. Who would want to be with someone with all this debt? We are both so young. Why does he stay with me? It makes me so angry, the unfairness of it all. My eyes start to burn. I always cry when I'm angry and this only makes me more upset. 

"Sam, I'm not angry. Let me help you with this. I can call them and set up a payment plan, OK?"

I stand up from the table and wipe my eyes with the back of my hand. "Why aren't you angry with me? You really should be. You always have to rescue me."

Adam grabs my hand. "It's my job and I'm happy to do it."

I laugh. Why, I don't know, but I have a sick, burning feeling in the pit of my stomach and I need to push him away. It's for his own good. "Well, aren't you a saint? God, it's so pathetic." I want to take back the words as soon as I say them. He is silent, looking at me with those kind brown eyes. He only looks mildly irritated. I try to decipher the look on his face and then I realize it is pity. That sends me over the edge. "I can't breathe. I'm going outside." I say before opening up the sliding glass door. I walk outside and close it behind me, looking through the glass. Adam hasn't moved. He looks sad, as if he is about to cry. The glass between us may as well be ten feet thick. My chest aches and I have to turn away. 

Our neighbor's children are outside playing and their laughter, like little bells, drifts over. I feel cold even though it must be eighty degrees outside. As I sit on the old plastic chair on the porch, I decide to skip work tomorrow and go somewhere. Where, I don't know yet. I just need to get away and think. There are two people inside of me; one who wants to run away and be alone, and one who wants to run inside and wrap my arms around Adam and tell him I'm sorry and that I love him. 

 

The next morning Adam kisses me goodbye, saying, "Don't worry about this. I'll take care of it. I love you." He hugs me and it is almost too much. The guilt, the dense fog is creeping up from my chest again and wants to escape but I push it back down.

 

I wait until he leaves and call my boss and tell him I have the flu. Then I get dressed and throw my large straw hat and towel in my bag. I'm going to the beach. It always makes me feel clean. It is the only place I can think. It is about an hour drive and I love long drives. They always make me feel powerful, like I am making a decision, taking control of my life. Maybe if I just spend the day there, I will feel better and I can come back and talk to Adam. But I just can't talk to anyone right now. I feel raw, like my chest is wide open for the world to see and everyone can see my ugly, bruised heart and all its dirty secrets. 

In the car, I wrap my hair in a scarf, roll down the windows and turn on the radio. I have to keep changing the station because so many of the songs make me want to cry. Finally I find an alternative station that doesn't remind me of anything. I sing along and after a while, the air starts to smell salty. It starts to feel cleaner and lighter. I can already feel the fog in my chest dissipating. 

I cross over the causeway, glancing to my left and right, taking in the sparkling blue water, the sunlight dancing on the surface. Cars zoom past me and I realize I am driving slow. 

When I get to the beach, I find a spot in front of a set of steps leading down to the sand. I reach into my glove box and grab a few quarters for the parking meter. Sliding quarters in one after the other, I wait until the little faded screen reads “3:00” and then I grab my bag and head for the steps. 

It's Wednesday so the beach is almost empty. The only people here are a few older people on their morning walk and a family wearing bright neon baseball caps with "Florida" printed on the top in cursive.  

I find a spot about twenty feet from the family and spread my towel on the powdery sand. Tossing my bag to the left, I decide to keep my shorts and tank top on for a while, until the sun warms me a little more. I sit in the middle of the oversized neon striped towel, lean back and close my eyes, feeling the sun's warmth gently pressing onto my eyelids. It's still early and there's a light breeze sweeping over me, giving me goose bumps every few seconds. I shiver and a memory of the hospital room from three years ago pops into my mind. I had goose bumps in that room, too. I had been living with Adam since the night he came and took me away. One night, Adam had been working late and I felt sad and didn't know why. I had convinced myself everything was OK now that I was out of my parents' house. But then I had seen eight missed calls from my mother and a voicemail. 

"Samantha, this is your mother. Your father and I are worried about you. He is sorry he hit you. He lost his temper. . .Sam. You can't talk back to him like that, you know how it makes him. Anyway, honey. Look. He has cut back on his drinking. He is getting help. You need to come back home where you belong, not live in sin with that boy. You know that's wrong, Sam. We didn't raise you that way. Call your mother back, Samantha. If you love me at all, you will call me back."

Somehow my phone had ended up broken and Adam had come home to find me lying on the floor, an empty pill bottle next to me.  The next thing I remember was waking up in the hospital, IVs and tubes everywhere, and Adam sitting on the chair next to the bed. Right before the doctors discharged me, he had taken my hand and said, "You're going to be OK. I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."

 

After a while, I look around the beach again and two birds catch my eye. I have no idea what kind they are, only that they are small and white. One is slightly larger than the other and they are identical except that the smaller one has a marking on its head that looks like the Nike symbol. I decide the smaller one is female and silently name her Nike. Their movements are both graceful and jerky at the same time. The two peck around in the sand for a while, looking for food, until they bump into each other. Nike is suddenly flustered, her wings twitching and she starts to chase after the other one. The bigger one takes off in flight for a few feet then settles back down again on the sand. He sits still and Nike comes over, continuing the assault. The larger one squawks loudly and Nike stops in her tracks and the two stare each other down for a few seconds. Finally, Nike flits off on her little spindly legs. I watch, fascinated with the drama until finally Nike slowly comes back to her mate. I expect the fighting to start up again but the larger one sits calmly while Nike approaches. Her mate takes a couple steps towards her and begins preening her, gently pecking at her feathers. 

      My eyes start to burn and I feel a tear escape and roll down my cheek. He never leaves. Adam never leaves. Maybe he knows something I don't. Well I wish I knew it, too. Then it dawns on me: I must be really tough. Look where I came from and somehow I'm still alive. I'm a fighter. That is something. That is really something.

 

     I wipe my face with the edge of my towel and stand up. The birds who were about ten feet away, fly away when they see me. They disappear into the blue sky, becoming tiny white dots until finally I can no longer see them. I look around the beach one more time. The family to my left is still there and the mother looks over at me and smiles. I smile back and throw my bag over my shoulder.