then suddenly you're left all alone with your body that can't love you and your will that can't save you. natalie dawson • forty
professor • humboldt hills
The screen porch of Natalie’s cottage was the selling point for her purchasing the property. Affixed to the back of the house, she spent most of her evenings in the twilight of summer holed up in the space, working through her to-be-read list and imbibing a combination of cheap wine and pre-rolls from the dispensary in town. She justified this by insisting to herself that it was her time off work, that she could do with it what she pleased. That she was allowed to indulge—she’d earned it.
The truth of the matter was that she found she couldn’t face anything as of late without being under the influence. This surely said a great deal about it, but whatever it was, she wasn’t willing to address it.
It was on one such night, the fireflies dancing haphazardly in the large yard behind her, a glass of wine in her grasp and a book in her lap, when she found herself interrupted—startled—by the ring of her phone. No one called anyone anymore. She bent over, checking the screen for a familiar number, and was met with a 310 area code. No potential spam warning beneath it. Still, she chose to ignore it.
And then the chime of a voicemail.
Intrigued, she set her wine glass on an end table, tucking a makeshift bookmark—a receipt from the Thai restaurant—into her book. She reached for her phone, unlocking it to view the transcript of the voicemail. Hospital and mother and emergency contact. .
It might have been the wine or the pot or the having not spoken to her mother since she was 17, but Natalie felt her stomach fall to her feet, her throat flooding with saliva. She thought she might be sick. She sat up slowly. There was a moment of deliberation: perhaps she could just ignore the call.
This, of course, was not what she did.
Clicking the return phone number, she waited to be connected with the caller for some clarification. It could be nothing. It might be nothing. It’s probably, she reasoned, pleaded silently to a God she did not believe in, nothing.
…
Natalie’s mother had always been…elusive to her, even in childhood, even when she was physically present. She shifted violently back and forth between overt affection and simmering rage—at her boyfriend of the month, at Natalie’s grandparents, at Natalie herself. As a result, Natalie had grown up learning how to satisfy her own needs, independent of her mother, while quickly ascertaining what and what not to say and do so as to keep a semblance of peace within the household. Still, the turmoil felt constant.
It wasn’t until her mother met John that things seemed to calm, if ever so slightly. They were married rather quickly, Natalie standing in an itchy dress in a musty city hall, and John, for all intents and purposes, was now to take care of her. And he did. It was John that splurged on brand-name peanut butter and marshmallow fluff so as to teach Natalie the joys of a fluffernutter sandwich. It was John who took her to fish with him on Saturday mornings at the park, Natalie reading absentmindedly while John proudly displayed his catches, the tiniest fishes Natalie had ever seen. John fed her, clothed her, made sure she was clean. Gave her lunch money. Let her buy a book, for the very first time, at the Scholastic book fair.
When Natalie’s mom didn’t come home, there was a sick sense of relief in Natalie to accompany her ache. While she was consumed with the uncertainty, with the concept of abandonment, there was also a hidden joy in the concept that perhaps, finally, she would know peace.
But it wouldn’t be with John.
This made sense to Natalie, even then. He held no obligation toward her, and even if he did, what did that really mean? When John helped her make the transition to her grandparents, a few boxes and a small suitcase of her belongings taking up no space in the large room they’d given her, he promised that he’d call, but Natalie knew better than to vest any hope in that notion. She hugged him goodbye, stifling her burning tears until that night, when she sobbed into her pillow.
…
Natalie felt an acute sense of guilt. Her mother didn’t have her phone number, she reasoned. She didn’t know where Natalie lived, now. She didn’t know anything about her—and this was, of course, by her own hand. Natalie had moved to New York, moved back, gotten married. Still, she was inaccessible to her mother, completely. Had her mother suffered—which, she likely did, considering what Natalie had been told—she did so alone.
Natalie wanted to feel something about this. She wanted to feel vindicated, a lifetime of neglect having hardened her to the idea that her mother suffered the same in the end, that she’d reaped what she’d sowed throughout the course of her life. Instead, she was only softened to the concept, each new assumption that came to mind about the woman’s last days filling her with a weighty grief. As she planned her mother’s service, a plot next to Natalie’s grandparents awaiting the shoebox-sized container of ashes, she felt only sadness for her mother, not herself. What had her life looked like? How had it gotten so bad?
She sat at the kitchen table, organizing the cremation from afar, then the shipment of the remains, then the burial. On the phone with a florist from whom she’d requested a modest arrangement for her grandparents to simply have for posterity’s sake, she sat with her chin in her hand, eyes fixed on the rotary landline that had hung in the same spot for sixty years. A fit of sick anger overtook her as she realized:
It wasn’t that her mother couldn’t. It’d never been that.
Rafael let his head sink back into the pillow that was propping him up, eyes closing for a moment as he took in a deep breath. When he had met Natalie, that was the first moment in Rafe’s life when he had been sober and remotely hopeful. Mei had let him back into her life, invited him to start the rink together. While he was certain it was a thorn in the side of James at the time, he’d taken the chance to create a new life for himself, a truly fresh start. When he had met Natalie, love was the furthest from Rafe’s mind in terms of his priorities, but it had happened. They’d gotten closer than he’d ever been with any of his exes, and he’d adored Natalie. She was thought-provoking, intelligent, fun-loving. She’d made him better, had made him feel like he wanted to be better. And while there had always been a certain uneasiness when it came to Mei’s presence in his life, Rafe hadn’t seen the same issues that Natalie had, couldn’t get inside her head to see the way that it all made her feel.
“I spent most of my life thinking I loved something. I let it own my life, consume me. And I could carry on about how it was what my parents wanted, but I wanted it. I fucking wanted it. I wanted the gold. I wanted the prestige. I wanted to be the best athlete in the world, better than anyone else. And with Mei and Svetlana, I had a family. We worked as a unit, we were so fucking in sync. Mei and I, when we were on the ice, we weren’t two people. We were one. It was like we could read each other’s fucking minds.” Rafe forced himself to sit up, to look at Natalie as he raddled on. “And I thought that that was what I wanted. And it was something I was told I couldn’t have. So I fucking raged. I left a path of destruction everywhere I went, because for once there was something I couldn’t have, even if I was the best, even if I was better than anyone else. And over the years, it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter who I hurt or what I lost because at some point, she’d give in. And then I’d have what I wanted.” Rafe could look at Natalie and say this now, because it wouldn’t change the status of their relationship, but it might finally put to rest Natalie’s curiosities. “And I guess — I didn’t realize it wasn’t what I really wanted, until I lost what I did want.” Rafe cleared his throat, looking down at his hands. “I know that there were too many things, too many things that I broke, so it wouldn’t have mattered. At some point we would have ended up here, because of what I did. And because of what I didn’t do, too.” There had always been three people in their marriage, because Rafe had left the door open, and Mei had taken up residence. “I just want you to know that I know. Okay? I know. And I love you, Nat. And I’m sorry I didn’t love you in a way that made you feel safe. And I’m going for me, because if I do love you, and I mean it, then I have to. Because part of loving you means that I have to let you go when you want to be let go off. And I hate that. Because I’d fucking love to be selfish. But I know it wouldn’t feel good, anymore. I know that.”
-
How long she had pined for him. Yearned for the same love she had shown. Yearned for him to recognize her, fully, finally. From the first time they spoke, Natalie lived with the knowledge that Rafael would be the most significant thing in her life. The greatest love she would have. The only thing she’d try to keep, really. And from the first time she saw Rafael in a room with Mei Watson, she knew, intrinsically, that Mei was the most significant thing in Rafael’s life. The greatest love he would have. The only thing he’d try to keep.
Though she couldn’t say he hadn’t wanted to try for her, too. Eventually. When it was too late.
Natalie closed her eyes, allowing the burning tears to finally fall, cascading down the apples of her cheeks. She wiped them away, into her skin, buzzing with a sick sort of release as it flooded her. Finally. Finally, he knew. Finally, he saw her. She exhaled shakily, chasing it with a hard swallow. She had only let Rafael truly see her cry on two occasions. Once, while drunk, weeping about her mother’s love; the other, the day she’d finally severed the fraying tie that bound them together. She had not been able to know peace since then. She wondered if this was what it felt like.
“It was never going to be enough, Rafe,” she confessed, her voice barely above a whisper, tears still swimming in her eyes. “It was never going to be enough. No matter what you did. You could have asked me to run away with you. You could have never spoken about her again. We could have--” Had kids. Had a life. Died together. Her lips turned up a bit ruefully, the freedom to finally say the words she’d held to be true for so long finally. mercifully granted to her. “I’d never be enough. And I’d never stop wanting.”
Rafael’s jaw clenched, remaining silent for a moment too long until he finally turned his head, meeting Natalie’s gaze once more. “Yeah, well. Whatever.” He couldn’t muster the energy to tell her how wrong she was, because it wouldn’t change anything. He wasn’t going to sit there, all weak and pathetic looking, and tell Natalie just how much he missed her, because she didn’t need to hear it. She was moving on, figuring out her life. And he could hang around and wait to see if things would change, but they wouldn’t. And he’d just be the prickless loser left with nothing at the end of it all.
“You can do whatever you want, Nat.” Rafe replied, swallowing harshly. “It’s like —” He billowed out a heavy breath from his nose, ignoring the radiating ache coming from his naval. “No, I don’t want anyone else here. But I’m like, not allowed to want you here either, okay?” He glanced down at his hands, fidgeting with the pulse ox connected to his finger. “What do you want me to say, here? I’m not—” No. This wouldn’t be the moment he broke, showed some semblance of emotion. Being rigid, keeping it all in, Rafe felt as though it was the one thing he could give Natalie, to make the break easier.
“I’m not okay, or anything. Like in general. I can’t stand being here anymore. I didn’t — I didn’t come to Eureka for you, but I stayed because of you, and now there’s nothing here for me. So I just— I just want to fuck off, and make your life more comfortable, if you don’t have to think about me, or run into me, or whatever, and I can just, be the same asshole somewhere else. Alright?”
-
This side of Rafael was not an unfamiliar one. Natalie had not had the patience for it, ever, but she accepted that the pair of them had always been equally matched: good sparring partners. When they did fight--less than a handful of times in their entire relationship--it was generally subdued, but impactful; verbal barbs delivered with painful accuracy. It was also, Natalie knew, generally her fault--her insecurity rearing its ugly head, her inflexibility proving a foil to Rafael’s more grandiose plans. She had always felt beholden to the idea that she had to be the one to fix it, then. Now, she found she still held that desire, that imperative. Ridiculous.
Still, she remained as stoic as she could, wetting her lips and letting her teeth sink into the lower one as she contemplated what she wanted to say. She felt as if she was walking through a minefield. Her voice was soft, measured, when she finally opened her mouth to speak. “If you want to leave, Rafe, you should leave. If that’s what you want to do, then that’s the right thing for you to do, and I’m not going to stop you.” She didn’t let her gaze falter, her eyes trained on his. “But if you want to leave, it’s because you want to leave. It’s not because of me. Don’t make it because of me. I’m able to exist in the same world as you amicably. I’m able to do this.” Whether she was convincing him or herself, she was unclear. She was more forceful, now, as she continued, “But I’m--I’m asking you, please--make a decision for you. Make a decision for you, and pull the trigger. For once.”
Rafe attempted to adjust in bed, to sit up a bit straighter, maybe to no longer feel so small and weak under Natalie’s gaze. But after a wince of pain he gave up on that particular endeavor and relegated himself to his present position. “Well, you know me.” He added, a shrug of his shoulders awarding another wince of pain. Clearly, he wasn’t very good at being injured.
“Why would you be sorry?” Rafe asked honestly. He couldn’t picture who else he’d rather be there. If he thought this was the way he’d get to see Natalie again, however selfishly, he wondered what other illness he could instigate in the future. It was good to see her, to visualize her, the months without Natalie had left Rafe feeling unmoored. He hadn’t really spoken to Mei, they worked opposite shifts and he had no interest as of late. It would take him a while to mourn this, longer still to let it go. He knew Natalie had likely made her assumptions of what his life looked like, maybe she thought that he was fine, because he never gave up much when it came to his emotions.
“You were my wife.” He replied, a bit of hurt in his tone. “Of course you were.” He added after a beat, dropping his gaze from Natalie’s and trying to find something else in the room to focus his gaze on for a few moments. “Well, thanks for coming. But clearly I’m fine. So we don’t have to, uh, do whatever this is.” He gesticulated idly at the space between them. “I’ll get the forms fixed for the future.” There was a ringing in his ears, the buzz of emotions being restrained forcefully. He couldn’t look over, couldn’t risk meeting Natalie’s gaze again so quickly lest he wither under it. “I’m going back to Aspen, so you won’t have to worry about it anymore, anyway.”
-
The sad truth of the matter was that, while Natalie was Rafe’s wife, she couldn’t remember a time in that role where she’d felt she truly belonged. She’d never changed her own emergency contact, for example, leaving it as her elderly grandfather, assuming that, if anything were to happen to her, Rafael would find out in due time. She’d never wanted to inconvenience him, to burden him in any way. To do so would make her harder to love, she knew. And she couldn’t afford that.
Natalie eyed Rafael carefully, her gaze boring down slightly. Her brow furrowed gently for just a second before she let her face relax again. “I assumed...I’d be the last person you’d want to see, I suppose,” she admitted.
As the tone shifted, Natalie watched as Rafael worked to avoid her, and she felt both vindicated and mournful, both emotions viciously warring within her. She had caused this discontent, of course. She had asked for all of this. She had finally pressed the fracture enough that it split. “If you’d like me to go, I’ll go,” she reasoned, tone woefully even, a careful, measured attempt. “I’ll call your parents. I didn’t bother, because I didn’t figured you’d want them,” she admitted. “But I can call them. Or...whomever else.”
He’d woken up not feeling right — it was reminiscent of a sort of sweatiness, fever and pain he’d not felt since his first feelings of withdrawal when he’d gotten sober. Only, there was no drug or alcohol to account for such a sudden onset of illness. But Rafe was stubborn, too stubborn to admit that something was wrong. Only, it hadn’t taken long after arriving at the rink that his several attempts at swallowing ibuprofen to mask the main had failed, and the bullet-sized sweat pooling at his forehead was alarming to those who worked for him. An ambulance was called, an O-R booked, and Rafe was out.
Rafe hadn’t ever been under the knife before — aside from yearly physicals, he’d never so much as sprained an ankle in his entire athletic career. No, he was as healthy as a horse (minus the years of drug and alcohol abuse). Somehow, he’d survived almost completely intact.
The last person he’d expected to find at his bedside was his ex-wife, but then a medical proxy and emergency contact were his last priority, something that simply hadn’t occurred to him. He’d been too busy trying to think of anything else, refusing to dwell on Natalie, on the emptiness that her absence left on his daily life. “What—” His voice was raspy, that haze of anesthetics still clinging to his bones. “I’m not dead, right?” He sprung a weak smile then, looking at her with a quiet appreciation. “You don’t have to be here. It’s just an appendix. I hear you can live without them just fine.”
-
“Theoretically, I suppose,” Natalie confirmed halfheartedly, sitting up a bit straighter. She’d heard him give her the all-clear to leave, and she wasn’t a big enough person to pretend that the invitation wasn’t an all-too-welcome sound. Her desire to make sure Rafael was actually alright, however, outweighed her longing to bolt. “But yours had to go and rupture, which, from what I’ve been told, is quite dramatic of you.”
She couldn’t bear a smile to accompany her joke, because the idea of actually speaking to Rafael made her dizzy with emotion, a flurry of angst swirling through her. He was exactly the same, of course, because it’d only been months. Still, she felt, more often than not, that she was an entirely different person, a foreign entity. She wondered if Rafael felt the same. She wondered if he missed her. She wondered what his life looked like, now. If he and Mei had finally gotten what they’d wanted. If he’d finally gotten what he wanted, after all that time.
This was neither the time nor place to hold on to such ridiculous notions, though.
She cleared her throat. “I’m sorry it’s me,” she admitted. She was sure, regardless of anything, that her face was the last he’d want to see upon waking up from emergency surgery. “You never changed your contact. To be honest, I didn’t know you’d ever made me yours in the first place,” she confessed.
Natalie could not remember the last time she felt so physically uncomfortable. She ached with the urge to flee, working diligently to keep her body completely still. But obligation pinned her to Rafael’s side, taking up residence at his hospital bed, waiting for him to open his eyes, to confirm he’d be alright. A familiar motif.
They hadn’t corresponded since she’d picked up the last of the things she’d wanted from the apartment. It was an amicable exchange of goods, Rafe insistent she could have whatever she wanted, at the rink when she’d finally stopped by to retrieve just her clothes and a few sentimental objects. On the way back to her grandparents’, she’d pulled over to vomit. The entire day felt like a fever dream, so removed from reality she had no concept internally of when it’d actually happened. Years ago. Yesterday. To see him now hurt her stomach again. She tried not to look at him.
She scanned her phone mindlessly, replying to emails from students looking for extensions on final papers, when she heard a rustling. Darting her eyes upward, she watched as he came to, slowly and unsure, clearly alarmed by what his eyes were immediately taking in. A pang of sympathy resounded in her heart. “Rafe,” she murmured softly, coaxing him to look her way. When he did, their eyes locking, she felt so vulnerable, so exposed, she almost couldn’t speak. Her throat felt thick as she assured him, “It’s alright. You’re okay.”
“That’s okay.” Jason assured her. “I know—I have been doing a lot of contractor type work of late, I get the confusion.” He shook his head; really, it had just been surreal to be cast in the role his father had played, it had been a reminder at which he could’ve grown sad, or, simply laughed at the strangeness of the world and small coincidences. “But, yeah. Rock. I front a band called Richter. I don’t know if you went to the festivities for Eureka Pride, at all? We did a show there.” And had done many more shows, and had even had songs placed on a TV ad and a movie soundtrack, but that had all been years ago, and if she wasn’t really a music fan, well, he could understand her not knowing the band. “But if you’re not a music person, I wouldn’t expect you to know us.”
-
Natalie’s eyes widened, shock--and a fair mix of disbelief--surging through her. She hadn’t been to Pride, but she knew of Richter, at least tangentially. Local band makes it big? All of Eureka carries them as a household name. She smiled a bit sheepishly. “I’ve heard of you, yeah,” she reassured him, nodding. “I assumed you were...a bit more indie,” she confessed. “I didn’t know I was lamenting my inability to make a decision to a certified rockstar.” That part might have been a bit of embellishment, a sly tease, but still, this man was inarguably successful, and she’d had no idea. She suddenly felt very foolish. Quickly trying to change the subject and distract herself from dwelling, she inquired casually, “So you’re...setting down roots back home?”
It was the first time since she was in school that Naomi felt she had an actual group of friends, and she reveled in it. How lucky, she thought, that her daughters got along so well with Frankie, that she and Isla Jean could simply bring their two families together to spend time instead of trying to navigate babysitting and scheduling and so on. And in Natalie, Naomi found someone she could be more than just a mother with, like her old self was returning slowly but surely. She smiled into her own wine glass as her two friends began to tease. “I’m not so sure you want to live vicariously through me,” she replied, bringing up her legs to cross underneath her. “Unless you would like to have the conversation about why we are not getting a dog for the fifteenth time this week.” After ending things with Isaac, Naomi had been trying to embrace the discomfort of being completely solo, with limited success. “What I am interested in is Isla Jean and Kevin. Feel free to spare no detail,” she encouraged, tipping her glass toward the younger woman.
@isla-jean
Isla Jean regarded Natalie with a healthy amount of disbelief, only because she hoped for the sake of her friend that some attempt, however unfruitful, might have been made in attempt to get over her ex-husband. She didn’t have many details beyond the fact that Natalie was newly divorced, and Isla Jean didn’t pry. It was a hell of a thing to walk away when your heart was still so full. If Isla Jean had been even remotely as brave, she might have done the same thing. When Naomi spoke, Isla Jean let out an exasperated gasp, completely in disbelief. “You know what, I don’t believe that. I know what that dishy little rabbi looks like, now. And holy shit, Noems. He’s certainly nice to look at. Are you sure you can’t just, you know —“ She gesticulated idly. “Kevin comes over if Frankie’s at your place for the night, or if she’s already in bed. I’m sure you could get creative if you wanted to.” She added with a wink and a grin. “Oh, come on. What details? He’s — we’re —“ Isla Jean struggled to find the right words. “I refuse to call him my ‘boyfriend’, and he’s only allowed to call me his girlfriend if I’m not around to hear it. I’m a widow, I can’t stand that juvenile crap anymore. It just doesn’t do it all justice.” Once again, she waved dismissively. “He’s as sweet as can be. Sweet on me, sweet about Frankie and everything. And, you know…” Isla Jean shrugged her shoulders, faint blush in her cheeks. “Kevin’s… Good.”
@nataliedawson
Natalie watched the parlay between Isla Jeana and Naomi carefully, her eyes drifting back and forth between the two women, bemused by Isla Jean’s suggestion, and Naomi's reticence. It was interesting how dissimilar the pair of women were in almost every feasible discernible way, but even more interesting how what they’d experienced respectively bound them together deeper than most people could ever understand. Natalie considered herself lucky to stand witness to that kind of friendship.
“Imagine how vicious Dahlia’d get when she found out something was happening in secret,” she reasoned pragmatically, casting a sideways glance toward Isla Jean, as if to instill her with the same fear she felt for Naomi at the prospect. “Besides, we can’t assume with a hundred percent certainty that the secrecy experiment is going to work,” she offered softly, though she was sure that Isla Jean was acutely aware of how precarious everything was balanced with Frankie and Kevin. Who was...good. Natalie watched Isla Jean for just a moment longer. “...and that’s good for you?” She implored casually, chasing the inquiry with a sip of her wine.
“I like to think so,” he said with another shrug; always the shrugger, “Although, only for people I know real well. Which is few and far between. So maybe in general, not so much.” The last words were said with a small breathless chuckle, accompanied by a scratching of the back of his neck, second guessing himself a second nature.
To be fair, the next words she spoke didn’t make sense, at least not to him, but he nodded along, taking a moment before answering, rather than giving her an empty platitude of ‘I get that’. Because he didn’t. Having never really understood living space as an extent of one’s self. Or perhaps, he had never been able to. The few years he remembered with his mother had been ones bereft of most material things and finding individuality in the items you surrounded yourself was not something they could afford. Then the beginning of his time with his aunt and uncle, had been a mix of spending all his energy on anger and hurt, as well as fearing any attempt to make the place feel like home in case he had to leave again…And even when that place had become home, he just never got around to it. He blamed it on practicality and a love of living simply, but perhaps there was more to it.
“Sounds like maybe you’re trying to rush it,” What it was, he wasn’t sure, but it sounded suspiciously like a fresh start, a new beginning. “You’re building a home for yourself, and that doesn’t happen over night. Who knows, maybe you won’t find your instant-love lamp for another year or two, and you’ll find it at a flea market three towns over. Maybe just get something that serves you for now, and wait for the right…Lamp, or whatever to find you.” Woof, who knew lamps could be so heavy.
-
“Lamp or whatever.”
The man’s deliberate words bore into Natalie uncomfortably close to the bone, and she felt, at once, ashamed, laid bare to a stranger in the middle of the mercantile. She’d never been particularly adept at sharing any part of herself, and now it seemed she’d revealed too much, too freely. She swallowed, bristling. “That’s a fair point,” she surmised, understanding his implicit double meaning, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. “I suppose if it doesn’t matter all that much in the interim, I can just...go to Target, get something half the price,” she offered, casually.
Still, for as little as she enjoyed hearing them, perhaps there was some credence to his words: best not to rush into it--the nesting, the future, any of it--until she had a better idea of what her life looked like, of what she wanted. Maybe things could function solely as utilitarian for right now while she navigated what exactly she wanted. Maybe there wasn’t anything inherently wrong with that.
She straightened slightly. “Well--” she began, clearing her throat. “I shouldn’t keep you anymore." Bowing her head slightly in polite recognition, she offered, “Thank you. For your advice. I..I hope everything works out for you with those.” She motioned toward his basket. Then, almost too quickly, she turned away, desperate to break free from the interaction entirely, feeling uncomfortably seen.
Jason merely nodded; no point in getting to just how well he knew the neighborhood and all its various charms. He’d grown up there, after all; he was intimately familiar with just how great it was, and though it was strange to see new neighbors around, he had to admit they weren’t all bad. She certainly wasn’t; not even a little bit. His eyes widened, at her guess of his occupation; it had been a long time since anything contractor-related had gone onto his CV. Then again, it had been a long time since he’d needed a CV. Laughter soon followed the surprise, and he shook his head. “My dad would’ve gotten a kick outta that,” he told her once he’d managed to stop laughing. “He was the contractor in the family. No, I’m a musician, actually.”
-
Eyes widening at the man’s abrupt laughter, Natalie smiled, faintly, unsure of what might have prompted it. Even as he explained his occupation, she still felt as though she was in the dark. “Oh!” She replied, surprised, and slightly embarrassed. “That’s--could not have been further off the mark, there,” she admitted, self-effacingly. “What kind of music? Anything I might know?” She had the decency to ask mostly of out propriety; she doubted very heartily she would recognize any of this man’s work. Still, if he was making a career out of music, as he’d inferred, there was always a possibility. She tacked on an admission: “I don’t really listen to the radio but for NPR, though, so that might make things a bit harder.”
One of the perks of having a large yard was the ability to set up tents and let Frankie and Naomi’s girls camp out under the stars while still in close proximity. But more than that, it enabled Isla Jean, Naomi, and the addition of Natalie, Isla Jean was happy to have a night with Frankie happily preoccupied and with her friends and Isla Jean able to simply relax. She hadn’t glanced at her phone since the girls had come over, but was certain Kevin was surviving an evening without her all the same. Finishing her task of grabbing another bottle of rosé from the fridge, Isla Jean made her way back for the living room where the other two women were situated, snapping off the twist-cap to tend to everyone’s glasses.
“I don’t hear any more giggling, so I’d say those gremlins are passed out right about now.” She stated with a smile as the wine sloshed into Natalie’s glass, and then Naomi’s. “Which also means it’s the safest it’s ever been to start grilling one another.”
-
Natalie had always been a bit of a loner, so to be in the company of other woman, especially now, was a welcome reprieve from the norm. Most of the time, she sat back and watched Isla Jean and Naomi carry on, interested more in the happenings of their lives than her own, fascinated to see how they managed to balance everything. She was not interested in deviating from that norm tonight, and, as she brought her wine glass back toward her, careful not to spill any of Isla Jean’s generous pour, she shook her head. “Grilling one another, huh?” She smirked, bemused by the way Isla Jean’s face lit up at the prospect of gossip, then took a sip of her wine while she plucked a cheese square from the charcuterie board she’d brought. She’d never been particularly adept at girl talk, but she was feeling a bit less restrained with the help of their bottle(s) of wine, and it helped to oil the machination of her mind in a way that made everything seem a bit easier. She rested back into the couch. “Please, regale me with your romantic exploits. I’m going to live vicariously through the two of you.”
“Sometimes I also have to wonder if it was purposeful or if they had been working on it so long they didn’t realize and no one wanted to tell them, you know?” Levi mused, before adding on “Either way, they need better friends.” he couldn’t help the small snort he let loose at the thought.
But as he took in her words, he couldn’t help but feel them ring true for himself as well. Although, in his case it hadn’t just been ‘lately’, and if he really thought about it, he’d probably discover it was ever since had come back to help with the ranch. Or…Maybe even before that. Everything is his life had been about practicality, what he wore, what he did with his free time, what he ate. And for those brief two years off the ranch, before he had gotten into the type of trouble that puts you in a grave, he thought he had been experiencing freedom, figuring out who he was and what he liked. But there he was again, melting into the crowd, listening to what they listened to, doing what they did. And then he was back on the ranch, and while this time had felt different, LJ still had difficult differentiating between where the ranch and his responsibilities ended and he began.
“I get that,” he nodded, a small sentiment considering all the large thoughts running amok in his head. “I mean, I can tell you what other people would like,” he motioned to the items in his basket, “I know my Aunt will like these, and my Uncle would like those,” he motioned once more but to the hardware he had decided to leave on the shelf. “But couldn’t tell you which one I would choose for myself.” He said with a shrug, unsure if he was commiserating or trying to comfort. Or if either were working.
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Natalie watched the man as he spoke, her eyes innately narrowing, a misguided suspicion. She was wary, lately; she’d been proven right--even if by her own hand--and now she didn’t know what or whom could be trusted with her sincere interest. Still, he spoke so plainly and unremarkably that she was drawn to believe him, his words resonating with her. The only time in her life she’d felt like she knew who she was was when she was Rafael’s wife; now, the image was much blurrier. “You’re probably a very good gift-giver,” she remarked, a small smile on her lips.
Sighing, then, she shifted her weight from one foot to another, casting her gaze back toward the ware. “Maybe it’s not meant to happen today. I feel like--I just moved into this new place, you know, and it’s the first time in a long time that I’ve had a space that’s just mine, and...I’ve just been trying to fill it with stuff that I immediately like. Does that make sense? Just--things I instantly connect with.” She looked back over to him. “I just feel like I don’t have it in me to settle for stuff I only half-enjoy.”
“You mean that wasn’t the only channel the TV was tuned to growing up in your house?” It was a purely joking question, but watching home improvement shows had been such a quintessential part of Jason’s childhood that he couldn’t entirely believe there were people out there who’d never seen such a show, let alone find them pure comfort now. “Oh, uh—I just finished with the sunroom, I’m trying to figure out where I can add a second bathroom and just doing odds and ends in the meantime—I haven’t been making too much noise, have I?” Though he was an early riser, he tried not to break into the power tools before 9am, later on the weekends if he could help it. “Thank you, though. I’m, no, not exactly. I was thinking about it, but I’m gonna hang on to it for a while, yet.”
-
“Well, whatever you decide to do, I mean, it’s--it’s a great neighborhood,” Natalie offered lamely. Humboldt Hills had always seemed to stand for something she could never attain, and the irony was not lost on her that, now that she was living in the idyllic family neighborhood, she found herself completely alone. Perhaps that was just the stasis she was always meant to hold. “What’s your line of work, then, exactly?” She implored, mostly out of politeness; she’d not been the most sociable person at any point, but since returning from Greece and being forced to reacclimate to a new life, it was like she’d reentered society in a feral state; she was more or less completely useless when it came to conversation. ”I assume something...contractor-related?”
Bash canted his head to the side as Natalie explained her interest when it came to her reading habits — his interest further peaked. “— Me too.” He agreed handily, nodding along with the shared sentiment. He was a wallower, liked to exist in brief moments of poetic pain, trying to force it to feel greater than his own, but always failing. When her line of questioning inevitably turned to his own writing, Bash cleared his throat, knowing he’d opened himself up to it, and therefore couldn’t seem too awkward or put out over it. “Um. Fiction, coming of age, romance. Pathetic, dithering stuff.” He wasn’t going to admit to a stranger that the great source of his writing had been his ex-fiancee, that when she had left his life the well had dried up, that his creativity had faded as his heart had hardened. Time healed wounds, that much was true, but the scar Nura had left behind ached with phantom pains. “I first started writing straight out of uni, that’s when I got my first book published, anyway. I’m with Random House. Have been since the first novel.” Bash spoke with a mild disinterest, hoping he still seemed even remotely humble, that he wasn’t attempting to boast whatsoever.
-
Natalie grinned, bemused by the man’s interest in downplaying his own writing; such was the nature of most creators, she supposed--she’d given up any delusions of grandeur with regards to her writing ability long ago. “No need to be modest,” she teased lightly. “Publishing is no small feat in and of itself, but selling a manuscript to Random House?” She gave him a quick bow of her head, as if to regard him as a formidable force. “I’m impressed.” Her smile was a bit more sincere, now. Still, not wanting to dawdle on something that clearly caused him some level of discomfort, she continued idly, “For what it’s worth, I think there’s a certain...romance that comes with coming-of-age stuff, I guess for lack of a better word. There’s a nostalgia to it. Even poorly written, sometimes it’s...almost a form of indulgence.” Natalie was sure it was her own wistfulness toward the concept that tinged her sentiment, the romanticism of coming alive; she’d only experienced this once, truly, and she wasn’t keen to linger on that detail. “Are you working on anything now? Or just...” she motioned toward his stack of literature. “...getting inspiration?”
Call it leftover from growing up next door to his best friends, but it was second nature for Jason to look out for his neighbors. Even the years he’d lived in LA, and the band’s modest success, hadn’t been enough to quash that particular impulse. So he hadn’t given a second thought to the help he’d offered her, and it hadn’t occurred to him, even now, that it might be a source of embarrassment. Still, he could pick up a cue, and so he refrained from any outright teasing, however kindly meant, or gently delivered, it might’ve been. Besides, while he recognized her face well enough, he couldn’t, for the life of him, put her name to go with it. “There are worse traits,” Jason observed with a low chuckle. “Not changing your mind, but making snap judgements, for one.” He could respect having to take your time about things, especially if you were likely to settle into whatever opinion you formed. “That doesn’t sound like an impossible bill … but it’s probably not something you’re gonna find in a weekend, either. I can’t remember — do you have anything there now?” Shaking his head as she turned the question his way, Jason admitted, “Ah, no, not yet. I will be, once I get the next stage of renovations off the ground, but right now, I’m just trying to get ideas. There are only so many hours one can watch HGTV before things start blurring together.”
-
Natalie pursed her lips, weighing the validity of the man’s words--it was, admittedly, unlikely she’d find the dream piece in one weekend of searching. Particularly when she hadn’t yet ventured forth to any other stores or the internet, having sold herself on some romantic concept of finding exactly what she needed when she needed it right here in town. “I can’t say I’ve ever had the pleasure,” Natalie admitted in reference to the TV channel, though she’d been to enough waiting rooms to be at least somewhat familiar with it. “What exactly is it you’re redoing over there? It seemed like you were gutting the place,” Natalie observed casually, though she knew curiosity bit at the edges of her query: she couldn’t help but wonder what the reason for all the noise was, after all. “It’s a great house. Are you flipping it, or something?”
Jason could see the moment recognition flared in her expression, and he raised his brows playfully. “I don’t know, I don’t think it has to be, necessarily,” he argued gently, his head tilting to the side in consideration. “If we’re talking purely aesthetically, it’s a gut thing. You like it, or you don’t. And yeah, there’s price and size or whatever, but seems like you’ve got that part down already.” He’d noticed their immediate area was all fairly uniformly sized fixtures, with correspondingly similar prices. “Besides,” he added with a somewhat teasing grin, “You _can change your mind. Replace it in five years or five months, even. It’s not permanent. Nothing is.” It was only after he’d spoken that he really heard what he’d said, and Jason cleared his throat softly, the awkward soft cough doing little to dislodge the unexpected lump to his throat. He was glad when she turned the question around his way, even if it took a moment for him to pull together an answer. “Uh, well, I like a few of these, actually. This one,” and he gestured to a relatively simple fixture which still managed to give the impression of a wave, “—is pretty cool. And these,” he indicated a pair of similar, though not identical features, this time, “—would do well in a bathroom, either side of a mirror. Maybe even bedroom, above night tables. Scale might be a little off, though.”
-
Natalie offered a small, wry smile at the man, choosing not to give him any further satisfaction with regards to her recognition. Their last exchange had undoubtedly left Natalie looking something of an incompetent and pathetic fool, moving in to her home all alone, carrying more things than she had any right to. While Jason--Justin?--had been perfectly polite and obliging, her embarrassment hadn’t yet waned, apparently. She shook her head slightly, almost imperceptibly, refocusing on the task at hand. “I don’t often change my mind about things,” she reasoned with him, though she doubted he’d have been surprised to hear that. “Apparently, I don’t make up my mind about things, either. “It’s for the space above my dining room table, so I’m trying to find something significant, and interesting, but not...absurd.” Natalie didn’t realize how specific her autistics were until she was in a situation wherein she was relying solely on them.” Defeated, she turned back to him. “What are you in the market for? Anything interesting?”
Bash watched Natalie made her selection, keeping his impression of her taste to himself, lest he seem even remotely condescending. He did, at the very least, appreciate that she had selected something that he held in a high regard. “— Oh, no.” He shook his head, looking down at the burgeoning collection in his hands. “That’s sort of the curse of being a writer, though. Your only interest when reading are the pieces of work you can never hope to reach the level of.” Realizing his statement might come across as condescending, Bash immediately added: “I like to think that I’m a writer, anyway. In practice… Not so much, lately.” A sheepish smile found his expression as he looked to Natalie. “It doesn’t look like you’re much of one, either. A beach read, kind of gal.”
-
Natalie nodded, her lips pulled down in an evaluative frown--she was impressed by the sentiment, but she wasn’t going to go so far as to admit that. Curiosity bloomed in her, but she stifled it for the time being, content to remain casual. She smirked at his observation of her own pile. “Oh, no, I--I like them to hurt my feelings,” she confessed. Perhaps it came with age--or her propensity to view literature through a critical lens, or her utter lack of investment in anything in the immediate months following her divorce--but Natalie had come to feel that if she wasn’t moved by a work, it wasn’t worth her time. She’d recently taken up the practice of abandoning books that didn’t captivate her within the first quarter. She’d purged a large amount of her collection to make room on her newest bookshelves, keeping only what was beloved and donating the rest. If she thought too long about it, she would get too close to acknowledging just how many things had changed, and it’s hard to care about the reason for a storm when you’re just trying to survive it. Her eyes flickered back to the shelf for a moment as she wet her lips, and she scanned the spines, deciding her interest was just heavy enough to inquire, “What is it you write? Genre-wise, I mean.”
