CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
SWEET HOME MONTANA
The only thing that was more awkward than the silent ten hour flight back to Montana was the drive home from the airport. I didn’t know silence could be that loud and I certainly never thought I’d see the day where both Patrick and Paul—talkers to a flaw—could keep their mouths sealed shut for the better part of a day.
But alas, miracles do happen.
I knew Paul and I would have to talk eventually—to bridge the topic of him assaulting me with his lips—but I was going to let some time pass in hopes I would cool down and it would give him time to think about the lunacy of his actions.
Patrick and I . . . well, this was our relationship M.O.—beating each other down with silence until one of us broke and then we’d get along for all of two seconds before serving up our next dose of silent treatment.
“Hang out here for awhile,” Patrick ordered, popping the silence bubble, as we pulled into Joseph and Cora’s driveway. “Don’t leave, stay put. I’m going to get cowboy situated back at the main house and then I’ll be back. You think you can handle that?” he asked, elbow propped over the steering wheel of Charles’ refurbished ’72 F-150. I took a full-length look at him, only able to stifle my laughter because I’d had twelve hours of practice.
Adorned in nothing but a soot-streaked pair of boxers back in Munich, we’d been forced to stop at the first open store we came across on our way to the airport. It was a ma-and-pop gas station that doubled as a souvenir store. A hokey, over-the-top, souvenir store.
Since the Germans adhered to the same no-shirt, no shoes, no service policy as we Americans did, I’d been tasked with finding him an outfit since he was sure he’d end up looking like a frat boy if Paul picked him out something to wear. They didn’t carry Patrick’s preferred designer-label digs and, taking my payback however I could get it, I picked out a stunning pair of suede shorts that were short for a teenage girl, a t-shirt depicting an ample female bust in a tiny bikini top striped with the colors of the German flag, and a pair of clogs—two sizes too small—to finish off the masterpiece.
Perhaps my outfit selection was the main reason for his silent treatment, but it was so worth it to watch every head turn and hear the rumble of laughter as we walked through the airport.
“Stay here,” I repeated, offering a lazy salute as I hopped out of the cab. “I think I can manage that.”
It didn’t look like he really believed me, but he pounded the gas, slamming the passenger door shut on me, as he left behind a cloud of acceleration-induced dirt and gravel.
Paul didn’t even look back. He was more dejected than I thought he would be. The time had done wonders on my anger, but had only heightened the awkwardness between us. Judging from his demeanor, we’d have to have that talk sooner rather than later.
It will be alright, I could do this, I encouraged myself. Like ripping off a bandaid . . . Paul, I don’t feel that way for you, and oh yeah, by the way, I never will. Ouch! Yowza! But the sharp pain would disappear as quickly as it’d appeared. I could do that; tough conversations had become my specialty.
I watched the dust-trail settle before turning to go inside, letting the Montana air make its way back into my system. I was home, if in only the sense of where I felt I belonged, but I also knew, by everyone else’s standards, I didn’t belong here anymore. Another woman would call this home, it wasn’t mine to claim anymore.
I climbed the wooden steps, plucking the key from its hiding spot—underneath the doormat. You would have thought Immortals were more original than that.
The house smelled the same, lavender with a hint of sage, and looked the same—right down to the offensive chair in the living room. I’d left this place, alone and feeling powerless against myself, and I was returning as an Immortal who was well on her way to mastering her gift. The alone part hadn’t changed any and never would. I’d left to protect him and he’d been in nothing but danger trying to protect me and now I was back, in control, and he was gone—in every sense of the word.
The portrait hanging on the stairwell—my favorite—stopped me as it had every time before. It was taken at Pacific City about fifty years back. In it were four brothers, arms slung over bare shoulders, damp haired, and heads tossed back from the laughs coming from their mouths. Only one pair of eyes was opened and staring straight into the camera, straight at me. They were William’s and he’d told me an instant before Cora snapped the picture, he’d been overcome with a vision.
A vision of me. It seemed too much the thing of make believe, but he assured me, when that camera flashed, cementing this moment in time, I was the only thing that flashed in front of him.
I’d stood in front of this photo while he’d been gone, staring into his eyes, knowing he was out there in the great beyond. I liked to pretend he was thinking about me and if I looked at it long enough, I could almost hear the thoughts in his mind: where are you, I’m waiting for you, come find me. The emotion in his eyes was that strong.
The thing about photos, though, was that they didn’t change like minds do. I might have been all he wanted at that moment fifty years ago, but his face would never form around that expression of fondness again in my presence.
I couldn’t stare at it any longer. I took the stairs three at a time, ducking into the bathroom at the end of the hall, hoping I could forget the tears winding down my face and the person who’d created them if I turned the shower on full blast.
I was better, at least hygienically, after the scalding hot shower. The sun had been gone awhile when I decided to leave my sentinel from Joseph’s favorite chair, trying to conjure back the last time I’d been in it. Patrick wasn’t hurrying to get back to me and I’m sure it wasn’t unintentional. I wandered around the back of the house, trying to convince myself it wasn’t on purpose, that I wasn’t going to return to the home that had been nothing but a frame and a dream last time I’d been there. Just a look, a quick look, I told myself. I was interested in seeing if any more had been completed, that was it, nothing more.
However, had someone hooked me up to a lie detector, the needles would have been scratching away like mad.
Having made my decision, I was in a hurry to get there, before the reasonable piece of me turned my nosey little self around. I tore through the meandering fields, passing a herd of running deer like they were standing still. I roared to a stop the instant I broke through the tree-line into the oval-shaped open field.
The house was finished. All it needed was the glow of light streaming from the windows to pronounce it a home. I had a Miracle on 34th Street moment. It was like someone had known exactly the house I wanted—as if they’d extracted the plans from my head—and crafted it detail to detail to exact specification.
It was the blue shutters hugging every window that did it. I knew I should turn around, I knew there’d be nothing but heartache waiting for me inside if I didn’t run away and forget I’d ever seen it.
William had never said it outright, but I knew this was intended to be our home one day. The home we’d create, the one I’d sit on the porch waiting for him to return from a mission, the one we’d spend more time in the bedroom than any couple probably should, and the one we’d spend an eternity of moments enjoying.
I gave myself an internal pinch. What might have been was just that; I’d lost the boy who’d painted the shutters my favorite shade of blue. These shutters would be repainted with a new shade, until everyone forgot about the original hue they’d worn.
I tried to turn away, but couldn’t. I tried to close my eyes and was about as successful. It was like a siren’s call was coming from inside the walls, beckoning to me in a way that made escape unattainable. Giving myself over to it, I closed the distance between the future that had been mine in another life and before I could conjure up another fight to drown out the siren’s call, my hand was twisting open the front door. No fight, no matter how impressive it was, could pull me back now. I stepped through the door, entering the place of no return.
I didn’t let my eyes wander around the first floor, I already knew what I’d find, I just focused on putting one foot in front of the other as I climbed the stairs. The house smelled faintly of him, as if he’d been away from it for awhile, but the closer I got to the closed door at the end of the hall, the stronger his scent became. My pace quickened, not caring what I’d find in a room drowning with his scent which was sealed up with a closed door. I only cared, at present, about being closer to him in whatever way I could.
Not stopping to listen out for voices or knocking to announce my arrival, I shoved the door open and took a couple of hesitant steps inside. I took a quick survey of the room, and dropped to my knees, my hands gripping over my mouth.
He wasn’t here in the flesh and blood, but he was here in every other way . . . and so was I. It didn’t seem possible we’d shared enough moments together to have filled the hundreds of frames hanging from each of the four walls. If I could have spent the rest of my eternity in this room, I would have been a happy woman. There were funny faces in a lot, smiling in most, and over-the-moon love in all.
The one that had likely been his favorite, so naturally it was mine, was the one hanging above the bed. Someone had to have taken it without us knowing—probably Cora—but our backs were to the camera, his arm ringing around my waist, mine hitched into the back pocket of his jeans, and the way the sunset was centered between us gave it that fairy-tale quality of a couple marching towards their happily-ever-after.
Patrick had been right, William had been gone a lot since I’d left. Had the Council not sent him on so many missions, the dozens of pictures adorning the walls would have been nothing but ashes in a slash pile. I doubted if the other girl had been in this place yet, for I didn’t know a woman alive who would’ve left this room intact if she came in and found it brimming with intimate moments between her man and his ex.
“Bryn,” a soft voice called out from the doorway, “what are you doing here?”
My head fell forward, not feeling the need to hide my emotions from Cora. “Does the pain ever go away?” I asked, choking on the sobs I was keeping held down.
“That depends on what kind it is,” she said slowly, taking a few steps forward. “In my experience, there are two kinds of pain out there. The first kind is like an open wound, bloody, oozy, raw, but it patches up overtime, sometimes without so much as a scar.” She dropped down on the end of William’s bed, tucking her knees under her chin. “And there’s the other kind that burrows into the deepest parts of us we didn’t even know were there—making everything ache and throb—until it’s morphed us so much, we’re no longer the person we once were. If it makes you unrecognizable to yourself and those around you, that’s when you know you’ve got the kind that doesn’t go away.” A smile of apology tugged her mouth up.
Of the hundreds of conversations we’d shared over coffee and a kitchen table, I’d never heard Cora get so philosophical. If she were six three and male, I could have been listening to William.