Page 40 of Call Out
“I should’ve asked you sooner. In my head you always were.” Instead of celebrating with smiles and hugs, his shoulders sag. He silently unhooks his helmet from the handlebars.
“I guess it’s official. Why don’t you like cars?” The question pops out before I realize I’ve said it.
His eyes fly to mine like he’s fighting the urge to unravel his past or order me to mind my own business. I’m uncertain which will win until he thumbs my chin.
“I was involved in an accident when I was at college.” He tips forward, kisses my cheek and retreats. I wait patiently, wondering if he’ll give me more. Instead, he secures the chin strap on his helmet. Mounting his motorcycle, he cranks the throttle. “I have to get going now, okay. I’m working late tonight,” he shouts over the engine. “I’d like you to be in my bed when I get home.” This time his statement isn’t riddled with sexual promises; it’s laced with something more.
“I’m doing the late shift, too. I gave Dot and Louise time off. They deserve it after everything that’s happened.” My hands dangle aimlessly by my hips, so I stuff them into my robe's deep pockets, finding a gnarly tissue. “I’ll see you tomorrow, boyfriend.” I waggle my brows and grin.
A ghost of a smile dances on his lips. Without speaking, he responds with a nod of his head and pulls away from the sidewalk. I pad along the path, inhaling the powdery scent of rose petals. We’re official. I’m Danny Rocco’s girlfriend. He’s mine, and I’m his.
So why don’t I feel like swinging from the happy tree? I sense a degree of sorrow tucked away inside my man. It’s distracting us from true happiness. He owes me more. I shouldn’t have to second guess or think before I speak. Real bonds are based on the foundation of truth and honesty. Both of which are born from trust.
Passing through the hallway, a buzz of sexual awareness hits me at the staircase. Last night's five-star welcome home party drifts into my thoughts. I’d missed Danny so darn much that words weren’t enough. What a hypocrite. I inwardly demand answers, yet when he shows up, I’m all over the guy like an intense heat rash.
My sensible instincts demanded intel until I spied his inner struggle unfold on my doorstep. Compassion collided with weakness. All I craved was our insane connection again. My heart took the lead, and my brain switched off for the night. We chose passion instead of conversation. I fed the flame of togetherness with intercourse instead of discourse.
Fate has finally gifted me with a respectable man. A guy with a secret. I know one half of Danny like the earth only sees one half of the moon.
So what if he had an accident and destroyed his parents’ car? Who cares if he swore an oath to never drive again? We’ve all made mistakes. Even me.
Four years ago I placed an order for new underwear. During the checkout process, I somehow altered the quantity without even realizing. Two weeks later, three hundred pairs of the same stockings arrived, and Nonna was charged an unspeakable amount to her credit card. Thankfully, the company issued a refund, and I returned the order. I didn’t get away from that blunder unscathed. Nonna rattled me for being careless. I was banned from online shopping for a month.
Obviously, it’s not really trauma, although I still triple check my orders. Every. Single. Time.
Subconsciously, I stare at her barren armchair in the sitting room with a crocheted mustard blanket folded neatly on the footstool, and her lampstand is void of classical literature.
The Psychology of Survival after Trauma.
A chill bristles over my scalp. She’s gone. I’m surviving in the wake of death. I live alone in this old house with chintzy clashing patterns and dated mahogany furniture. Every day I focus on the residents at Blossom Grove to block out my loneliness. They accept their days are numbered, and I’m the one they will leave behind.
I’ve got my own trauma to recover from.
And now I’m antsy and frustrated at Johnny’s bad timing.
Danny was going to tell me something.
Patience, Viv.
Nonna said the best remedy for a runaway mind is a cup of hot sweet tea. That’s the tonic for a pinch of perspective. Which reminds me of the specialty tea caddy. Danny did his research and bought me something so simple, a gift that holds a deeper meaning. Tea for his place. For me. For the mornings, after we’ve slept side by side. I guess I really have been his girlfriend all this time.
I groan, hating how unsettled I’ve become. Nonna drummed in a stereotype. Ideals for a worthy man. Acceptable careers. Commendable attributes. What she failed to tell me was how to react when a man displays both admirable and secretive traits.
Yeah, Nonna. You forgot to prep me for the in between guys.
I’m running in circles, wishing she had taught me to take people at face value instead of building skyscraper expectations. Relationships are gratifying and utterly confusing. My intuition is wonky and biased. I have no one to offer me constructive advice anymore. Where Wini’s wisdom once belonged, is now an empty void.
Walking around the furniture en route to the kitchen, I flinch when a misplaced book catches my eye. I stop and stare. A stray book sits on the coffee table. My childhood book, Little Red Riding Hood, rests on the surface as if it was tossed in a rush. The spine sits on my Green Fingers Gardening subscription, and the cover hangs precariously over the edge.
Nonna gave me that book a long time ago. For years we wedged it between The Famous Five and The Secret Seven—until now.
Flipping it open, I flick through the old pages. A random corner is folded like a triangle bookmark. My brow creases when I find a short passage underlined in a charcoal smudge. It’s either eyeliner or crayon.
“Never trust a stranger friend; no one knows how it will end,” I whisper the quote, then glance over my shoulder, suddenly uneasy.
Johnny didn’t shut up about the cookout all day. I was trapped in our ambulance with no escape. His grin flipped upside down when I told him I wouldn’t be sinking a shit ton of beers. At one point I had to talk him out of buying a keg. In his head, tonight is basically a grown ass version of a boys’ night in, with the addition of kids and a wife.
I appreciate that he’s buzzing for the company, so I pretend to be all in. I’m not, though. With every house party comes the usual, ‘let’s grill the guests.’ That's why I typically avoid social gatherings at all costs. Flamin’ burgers and booze equals life stories and childhood tales—none of which I wish to retell. My school days were happy. Every single memory involves my wingman, Jeff Greer. I’d rather not rehash the good times, the life before death.
