Love to Love Her YAC (42 page)

“You wanna know something crazy?” she asks
after several minutes.

“What?” I ask softly, tucking a curl behind
her ear and planting a kiss on the back of her neck.

“Tawny reminded me earlier about a
conversation we had years ago—I must’ve been thirteen or fourteen,
so that would’ve made her only eight or nine. We used to lie over
there in the grass on the side of the house around this time of
night and watch the sun go down. One night we were lying out there,
and I was singing ‘My Sweet Lord’ to her, because it was her
favorite song at the time. When I got to the end she made this big
prophecy that I would end up finding the love of my life by singing
to him.” She laughs a little. “She’s quite the clairvoyant.”

I lean to the left just enough so I can see
her face. “Am I the love of your life?” I ask.

She smiles as she continues to stare straight
ahead at the last of the light bleeding across the night sky. “I
believe you are,” she says. She ducks her head to kiss my fingers
laying over her right shoulder, and softly she begins to hum. After
a moment her voice breaks clear and even over the words sung by
Corinne and Ruthie on her birthday all those months ago.

“
Rhiannon rings like a bell through the
night,

And wouldn’t you love to love her?...”

The answer to that is as easy as breathing. I
do.

I am enormously thankful to my beta readers,
Mallory Hoy, Martina Holder, Lisa Niedergeses, Kelly Harris and
Megan Diffenbaugh. This book would be only a fraction of what it is
without your thoughtful input. Special thanks to Mallory for her
imaginative idea, Martina for her words of encouragement, Kelly for
her amazing cover design, and Megan and Lisa for their medical
expertise. I am also eternally grateful to Molly Harris for her
hilarious contributions. Finally, thank you to my husband for his
ceaseless patience with and nurturing of my newfound passion.

Connect with me online:

Twitter:
http://twitter.com/renaekelleigh

Facebook:
http://facebook.com/renaekelleigh

Amelia – 1:15 AM

“C
ome on, girl,” I
whisper, crouching down to rouse Gretchen by scratching behind her
ears. At eight and half years old, the dog I’ve raised from a puppy
is practically elderly – especially given that, to my knowledge,
she’s a Lab-Weimaraner mix, and neither breed typically lives
beyond ten to twelve. Still, she can be quite spry when she’s
excited. As I start backing toward the door in the laundry room
that opens into the side yard, her ears perk up, and she climbs
nimbly to her feet, ready for action. Considering the injuries she
sustained recently, I’m relieved she’s getting around with only
minimal favoring of her left side.

Suddenly a voice can be heard from the front
room, and I freeze, my heart pounding in my ears. Gretchen watches
me curiously but takes her cue from my halted posture and refrains
from coming any further. After another moment of silence, I
convince myself Grady must’ve been talking in his sleep, and I
allow myself to resume breathing.

I continue my approach toward the exit while
looking back at Gretchen. “That’s right, come on, baby,” I say
encouragingly, keeping my voice low. As soon as we reach the door,
I hook her leash on her collar and lead her out into the wet grass,
then close the door as quietly as possible behind us. I creep
around the front of the house, and Gretchen scampers along behind
me, eager to find out where we’re headed in the middle of the
night.

My sewing machine and two suitcases are
already loaded in the trunk of my Kia Rio, along with Gretchen’s
food and water bowls. I open the back door and nod my head for the
dog to jump in, which she does happily. Then I fight to moderate my
pulse as I climb behind the wheel and turn my key in the ignition.
Even though Grady has been passed out on the couch for a couple of
hours, a drained whiskey bottle clutched loosely in his sweaty
palm, I’m still scared to death he’ll wake up and catch us
leaving.

I reverse down the driveway and turn to cut
through the alley that runs parallel to the main road. Only once
I’m past the first couple of stop lights on the next street over do
I begin to breathe easier. I drive across town to my friend Lydia’s
place – she’s the only close friend I’ve made since I left Chicago
to move here with Grady. I’ve kept her abreast of all the ins and
outs of our failing relationship, and she sympathetically
volunteered to host Gretchen and me until I can save enough money
to move back home.

Once I’m parked on the street in front of
Lydia’s duplex, I let the dog out before opening the trunk lid to
lift out my luggage. A light flickers on as the front door opens,
and Lydia steps onto the patio in a pair of boxer shorts, her torso
wrapped tightly in a faded knit sweater. She waits while I wheel my
two suitcases up the sidewalk with Gretchen following closely on my
heels. As soon as we’re inside, she shuts and locks the door, then
turns to throw her arms around my neck. She kisses my cheek, then
leans back. “I’m glad you’re here,” she says.

I release a heavy sigh. “Me, too,” I tell her
with a nod. “I promise you, we won’t stick around any longer than
we have to.”

“Pshh.” She waves her hand at me. “I’m not
worried.” She kneels to lavish attention on Gretchen, whose tail is
wagging in recognition, and says, “I’m dying to talk to you about
everything and how you’re feeling, but I’ll bet you’re
exhausted.”

A yawn escapes me as if on cue. “Rain check?”
I ask.

She smiles sadly at me. “Yeah, girl, of
course. You know which room is yours. I’ll be extra quiet in the
morning so I won’t wake you when I leave.”

I wish Lydia goodnight, then head down the
hall to the first door on the left, where there’s a futon folded
flat with clean sheets and blankets stacked on top of it. I close
the door behind Gretchen and myself; when I turn around, Gretchen’s
standing in the center of the room with her head cocked to one
side, peering at me like she’s afraid I’ve lost my mind – and maybe
I have. Hell, I still have no clue what I’m doing or where I’ll end
up. All I know is I couldn’t hang around that house one more day.
My heart is broken in so many ways, but I take it as a good sign
that the pressure in my chest is already beginning to lift just
putting a few miles between myself and Grady.

I met Grady at a karaoke bar in Chinatown
when I was studying fashion design at the art institute in Chicago;
he was majoring in business at Loyola. We started dating, and
within a couple of weeks I was in love and would’ve followed him
anywhere. Seven months later I did exactly that – Grady graduated,
and I dropped out of school to move with him to Carson City, where
he’d accepted a job at one of the casinos.

Thinking of the jagged path our lives have
followed in the year since I made that fateful decision is enough
to make anyone dizzy. Looking back now, I can see the bliss I felt
was actually more akin to the artificial calm sailors describe as
being characteristic of the eye of a particularly devastating
tropical storm.

First off, Grady’s job wasn’t what he’d
expected. Its ongoing mediocrity served as a daily reminder of
everything we’d risked to move out here. He felt guilty for asking
me to give up my education and leave my family behind; shortly
thereafter, he took up drinking on a nightly basis to take the edge
off his feelings of hopelessness. I tried to help him feel better
by reminding him I don’t need a diploma to design clothes, but in
those rare moments when I was truly being honest with myself, it’s
true there were times when I regretted the choice I’d made.

About six months after the move, Grady took a
turn for the worse. He became highly temperamental and at times
verbally abusive. I questioned the reason for this shift in his
behavior until I found the coke hidden in a plastic baggie at the
bottom of his underwear drawer. I confronted him and pled with him
to get help, threatening to leave him if he didn’t. He broke down
in tears and promised he’d do anything I asked – but he never did.
For a while he seemed to get better on his own, but then a month
and a half ago he lost his job, and everything went right back to
the way it had been, only now we had the added stress of being
unable to make ends meet financially. To this day, I’m still not
clear on the exact reason for his dismissal. From my perspective it
had appeared out of the blue, but on second thought, if Grady had
received prior warnings, I doubt he would’ve divulged that
information to me.

Then, four days ago I came home from my part
time job teaching yoga at a Bikram studio downtown to find Gretchen
cowering beneath the kitchen table. It didn’t take long for me to
piece together what had happened. Apparently, in his state of
drug-induced stupor, Grady had neglected to let the dog out.
Consequently, she’d been forced to relieve her bladder on the
laundry room floor next to the door. When Grady noticed the mess,
he’d set about teaching Gretchen a lesson by kicking her repeatedly
in the side and cracking a couple of her ribs.

Sick with anger and worry, I’d called Grady’s
friend Jamie to pick him up and told him not to come back till he
was sober and prepared to stay that way. Meanwhile, I’d called
Lydia and asked her to get a room ready for me – I’d been burned
too many times not to have a Plan B in place as well. Sure enough,
yesterday Grady found his way back home, and he wasn’t in any
better shape than when he’d left.

…And that brings me to now. I’ve had
enough.

I change into an oversized sleep shirt, then
sit on the edge of the mattress to weave my long hair into a loose
braid. As I reach for the pillow Lydia laid out for me, I glimpse
the ruby engagement ring adorning my left ring finger. Grady gave
it to me just one week after we moved here when we were still over
the moon, thrilled at the prospect of starting out on our next
great adventure. He never did have it sized, however; consequently,
the ring has a tendency to fall to the side from the weight of the
modestly sized gem. I set my mouth into a firm line as I twist the
ring off my finger and drop it into one of the pockets on the
outside of my suitcase, then study the subtle indentation it left
behind. I open and close my fist a couple of times, getting used to
the fresh feeling of emptiness, then lift my feet off the floor and
tuck my legs up next to me on the lumpy mattress. It doesn’t take
long for me to lapse into a fitful sleep.

Adam – 5:30 PM

“W
here do you want
it?” Blake huffs from the landing outside the entrance to my
apartment. Wedged in the doorway between us is the gray faux-suede
sofa I just bought at one of the furniture outlets to complete my
new living room ensemble. I was thankful when my friend and former
roommate agreed to let me use his truck to transport it, and even
more appreciative when he offered to tag along so he could help me
carry it up the flight of stairs and into my new place.

My sweaty palms fight for purchase on the
bottom of the sofa as I turn my head to look back at the mostly
empty living space. “There, across from the TV,” I reply with a nod
of my head. Blake acknowledges my request with a nod of his own,
and I stumble backward as he takes a step toward me.

“Jesus Christ, this thing is deceptively
heavy,” he says as we cover the remaining distance to the appointed
spot. We both bend our knees and squat to gently lower the sofa
onto the hardwood floor. Blake drops heavily onto the armrest and
combs his fingers back through his hair as he looks around the
room. “It’s starting to look good, man,” he says. “Like a real
home.”

I glance around at the plain walls and bare
windows and think if this is what Blake considers homey, it’s a
good thing his girlfriend is in charge of the decorating at their
new place. “You wanna grab some dinner? My treat?” I ask. “I owe
you one for today.”

“Rain check,” he replies with a sigh as he
shoves off the couch and climbs to his feet. “I told Rhiannon I’d
take her to try that new Indian place by campus tonight.” As an
afterthought he adds, “You can come if you want.”

“Naw, thanks,” I chuckle. “Don’t wanna
interrupt date night. You kids have fun though.”

He claps me on the back and turns to leave.
“All right, call me later,” he says over his shoulder. “Let’s pick
a night next week.”

I wait for the door to swing shut behind him,
then take a seat on my new couch and stare blankly ahead at the TV.
I only moved in here a few days ago, and the folks from the cable
company have yet to come out and work their magic. I have my gaming
console hooked up, but honestly I haven’t felt up to playing video
games in weeks. Maybe the day has finally arrived when I outgrow my
adolescent inclination to shoot guns and blow shit up.

This building only has two units in it, one
upstairs and one down, and I’ve only met my downstairs neighbor
once. She’s around the same age as me, and she works rotating
shifts as a nurse at the hospital. She seems nice enough, sort of
chubby with blond hair and pink cheeks. I’d been concerned about
noisy neighbors, but so far she’s barely made a peep. Originally
I’d been excited about the prospect of some real peace and quiet,
but now the silence strikes me as unnerving.

In an effort to distract myself from the
eeriness of the hush that hangs in the air, I stand up and make my
way into the kitchen for a beer – apart from a carton of leftover
lo mein, it’s all I have in my fridge. As I pry off the cap, I pull
out my phone and find my twelve year old brother Bennett in my list
of contacts. The phone rings twice before he answers.