23
BRYN
It feels like I’m climbing Everest. It takes mammoth effort to breathe, my limbs deprived of much-needed oxygen. Though Mitchell and I ended our banner two weeks together on live stream with views reaching the targeted two million after our trip to the Home Warehouse, and our friendship, though still in limbo, is liberating and fun and easy, this morning, I can’t get out of bed.
How does one day shift from the summer heat to the frigid cold? How does the tide go from a gentle roar to an undertow that can bring down the best of swimmers?
It just does, sometimes without warning. And despite surrounding myself with lists and tasks, with Mitchell’s breezy and relaxed vibe, my body fails me anyway, so attuned to this calendar day.
It knows today is July 10.
My view is of a dark curtained room. I bought blackout curtains to help with sleep, since sunlight proliferates on this side of the house. And yet it’s still too bright. I can still see me. I can still see her. My memory of that day is so damn clear, in HD and surround sound.
The phone buzzes next to my head and vibrates on the dresser that finally arrived yesterday, so I no longer have a camp chair next to my bed. It’s a testament to the passing days and Paraiso’s steady progress. Every delivery has been on time. Our contractors have made every deadline, miraculously. Food Right Now’s first paycheck posted before the weekend, and when I read the total of the business’s account balance, I cried.
I have money. I have everything I’ve ever wanted for this start-up.
But still.
Money doesn’t solve everything. Sure, it fulfills physical needs. It buys clout. It eases the mind. But the soul? It doesn’t do shit for it.
The knock on the door is swift and panic induced. “Bryn?”
Mitchell. God, not now. I sling my arm across my face.
“Bryn, I know you’re in there because I’ve been sitting downstairs waiting for you for the better part of an hour and I heard the toilet flush at least once.”
I still don’t answer. Maybe if I stay silent long enough, he’ll go away. Eighteen hours is all I need to get me through to 12:01 a.m. tomorrow and everything will back to normal, and the Bryn everyone expects will be perfectly fine.
Because isn’t that what type-A eldest daughters are for? They’re there to rely on, for crucial and helpful advice, to turn to for assistance. First daughters are the strong ones, ready to replace a parent in any situation. Maternal and mature for their age, all with an alarming confidence as attributed by birth order theories.
Most days I subscribe to these theories. I’m happy to take on the role.
Today is not one of those days.
So I flop over to my belly, tuck my arms under my pillow, and envision balloons. A million of them, each attached to a string, all held by me.
“One,” I whisper. In my thoughts, I let go of one string, and the balloon attached to it rises to the sky.
“Two.” A blue balloon this time. My mind’s eye follows its trajectory as it arcs upward. “Three.”
This was the way I was taught to fall sleep. Let go of those balloons is what my mother used to say. All my worry encased in supple latex, keeping it contained until it’s up in the stratosphere where it can’t hurt me.
And yet I’m still in pain. I count up to twenty-three, and my heart still feels like it’s breaking.
“Mary Bryn Aquino.”
Mitchell again. His voice makes my subconscious self let go of my balloons all at once, and my eyes fly open at the thought of surrendering. I sit up in bed, heart pounding.
Because I don’t want these feelings to quit either. I wish the significance of this day never existed, but the idea of forgetting is even more devastating. “Go away, Mitchell.”
“I’m not going anywhere. Bryn, I talked to Victoria.”
I shake my head, incredulous. “Where is Victoria anyway?”
“She’s in Tahoe.”
“Tahoe again?” Whenever my brain comes back to life I’ll need to ask her what the hell her plans are. She’s been off to God knows where these days.
“You’re changing the subject.”
“I wasn’t even talking to you.”
Exasperation filters through the door. “Your sister told me about your mom, that today’s the anniversary of her death.”
“Did she tell you it was me who found her?”
After a beat, Mitchell says regretfully, “Yes.”
“I will never forget her face—it was so peaceful. She simply lay down for a nap and never woke up.” Anger blindsides me, giving me just enough energy to pull off the covers. Of course Victoria told him. My sister can take grief and turn it into hope that feeds into itself. She also thinks that since Mitchell’s my man, he has a right to my story, when the absolute awful truth is no one has a right to it but me. No one can understand how it feels to find your mother gone after a short nap on the couch. Without warning, without a clue.
I drag myself out of bed, shuffle across the room, and put my hand on the doorknob, but run out of strength. My body pushes me to the floor, and I sit cross-legged, back against the door. “So what did you expect to do, Mr. Fix-it? Tell me what your expert thoughts are in this exact situation. You know everything, right?”
It’s a dare, and we both know it. Mitchell can’t fix this situation even if I give him all of the puzzle pieces. Which means everything he says will be the wrong answer. I’m donning my boxing gloves, ready to unload on him, because he’s the best fighter I’ve found in a long, long time. My breath picks up, hollow and expecting.
I hear the echo of his body against the door, sliding down with the same melancholy muffle.
He’s taken a seat. I imagine him on a split screen, my back against his, in this same lonely position. He’s probably wondering what the hell he got himself into.
His voice is resigned. “I don’t know everything. But I have a pretty good idea how you’re feeling right now. It seems the easiest thing to do, to hole yourself up in your room. I get you need time to process today, that you want to be alone, but I’m not leaving you. Won’t go anywhere, even if you yell at me.”
“It’s going to be a long day for you, Mitchell.”
“Eh, got nothing going on that’s more important than this.”
I let my face fall into my hands, frustration making its way through my fingers. He’s wrong and he’s lying. He’s got a whole vineyard to clean up. He’s got a business plan to tend to. “God, Mitchell, just go. Why do you care so much?”
A laugh reverberates through the door. “Are you kidding me right now? Sure I care. C’mon, you and me, we’re a couple, fake or not. We’re on the same team, which makes you my battle buddy. Think I won’t have these bad days, too? Because when I do, I expect you to park your ass outside my door, Aquino. We don’t leave each other behind.”
Realization descends like a heavy cloud. There’s an entire community waiting for me to show up this morning. “Fuck. The crew. They’ll be here in a couple of hours.”
“I’ll tell them there’s no show today. Or I’ll do it all by myself if I have to. I’ll tell them you’re sick and contagious. Don’t worry.”
A snicker weasels its way out of me, defiant. Worrying is my Olympic sport. My entire livelihood is on the line. This showing up every day is now even more critical than before.
He says it before I can answer. “I know you’ll worry anyway. Look, I promise I won’t make any decisions about the house. Although that salmon color on the walls would look wonderful against all of the white in the kitchen, don’t you think?”
I’m brought back to our disagreement a few days ago at the Home Warehouse about paint colors. I invariably chose a light gray that’s soothing and bright, whereas Mitchell insisted on a hideous orange terra-cotta color. “I swear . . .”
He answers my trailed sentence with a deathly silence.
“Mitchell.”
“Okay, okay.” He laughs. “No salmon on the walls. No eating in the living room. What else? Geez.”
“You’ll really give me this day?” The seriousness returns, along with the headache that’s about to ensue with our conversation’s turn. My head lolls back to the door, and I face the dark ceiling.
“Yes. But I won’t let you have it alone.”
“I don’t want to talk about her. Not ready to yet.”
“Okay.”
We sit in silence for a few moments, and the question that’s been nagging at me surfaces. Mitchell insists on being in my life. He’s inserted himself into every part of the day. Shouldn’t I know more about him?
“What happened to you when you were deployed?”
“Bryn.” He says my name curtly.
“Everyone says you’re a hero.” I exhale. Turning the tables lifts the pressure off my chest. “And those pictures and pills in your kitchen drawer . . .”
“Don’t worry about those pills.”
“I’m not worried. I’m not judging you. But here you are asking me to trust you, to be your battle buddy, and yet, do you trust me? As your friend . . .”
“Friend,” he repeats.
“Well, aren’t we?” I double-check the definition in my brain, and a haze of doubt finds its way through the crack in my tone. Because we aren’t just friends, nor are we officially lovers. He’s attuned to my daily habits. He understands my quirks. He’s seen me half-naked and knows a kiss from him turns me into jelly. And the fact that he’s here now as a confidant smudges the lines, the terms, the job descriptions and roles.
Mitchell is more—he’s everything right now.
He laughs. “I guess I did help you stumble to the bathroom.”
I smile, remembering our first night together. “So you’ll tell me?”
After a pause, he answers, “Yes. On one condition . . . open this door.”