Searching Hearts by Sabrina Lacey

 
2
    Rebecca Wells
     
    Cottage 1. Same night. Same second. Ten Year
Anniversary flowers upside down in the garbage. Empty, toppled-over
bottle of Rodney Strong Cabernet. On floor: Me. Thirty-seven years
old. Not on floor: My Husband.
    ______________________
     
    I thought it would be forever. Jack was
perfect for what I wanted. He wasn’t terribly handsome but he was
driven with Successful Future stamped onto his four-finger
forehead. He came from a good family. The sex was fine, passable,
but I wasn’t looking for sex. I was looking for money and for a
good father to my eventually-born, genius kids. I looked to his
fair-to-mediumly happy parents’ continued partnership as a
blueprint for what I could expect. I wanted stability. And I got
it.
    What I didn’t bargain for was the dead
inside blah feeling that threatened to suck me into oblivion. The
same one that made me scream what I screamed this morning, back in
Arizona. He’d stared at me like the stupid kid in class when the
teacher tells him it’s not a multiple choice test. “You don’t like
my car?”
    This is what I screamed: You don’t look at
me anymore. What color are my eyes. When was the last time we had
sex. I’m tired of pretending I’m not a carnivore. Your Prius dries
my panties right up.
    I do have to admit that it was a well-chosen
turn of phrase in a heightened state, but that’s all he
heard?
    “Open godammit!! Are you fucking kidding
me?!!” My head lifts to the sound coming from outside, not from my
memory of this morning.
    Standing in front of the door to the cottage
next to mine is a tall, way too young for me, brooding ball of
manhood jamming his reluctant key into a lock that must have been
born under the sign Taurus. There’s a fallen suitcase on the porch
like my bottle of sucked-up wine. His anger matches mine, though I
doubt he knows my husband Jack. The jokes inside my head make me
laugh outside my mouth. A mistake. Eyes of blue thunder slash to
their right and land on me, nearly tearing my sweatpants right off.
My heart stops after my breath. There’s no way I could have
prepared for the feeling in my legs when this young kid stares at
me like he wishes I’d die two times and then once more.
    I duck my head inside and close the door. I
need the skin to remain on my body.
     
     

3
    Brendan
     
    Cottage 2. Lock: jammed. Anger: unmanaged.
Demons: assimilated.
    ______________________
     
    I’m trying to get some R&R and this lock
has her legs closed tight Unfuckingbelievable. This place is so
cute, it’s annoying, and now the key doesn’t work so I’m trapped
outside and will have to go back and ask for help. That’s not going
to happen.
    A door to my right opens. My neck nearly
cracks with the speed of turning to see who’s staring at me.
    Peering back is a wildcat, mid-thirties.
    She sneers at me and vanishes.
    Well well well. Looks like God just gave me
a present.
    I’ve never been the bad boy, which I’m done
paying for. Enough Mr. Nice Schmuck. Sara’s last words to me were,
“You’re just so nice, Brendan. I don’t want to hurt you.” Fuck that
upside down and sideways. So what if I bought her flowers all the
time we were together. Never cheated on her. Let her know she was
loved. Stayed faithful to her after she left our apartment to study
at NYU, mid-college. Wrote her letters which I actually
snail-mailed. Bought her a ring that her eyes never got the chance
to suck on and brag about and throw around like a gloating kitten
lying in catnip.
    At least I’ve got that.
    At least she never knew how much I really
loved her.
    Doorknob finally gives way to my mood and I
almost fall inside the cottage. Damn. It’s like the quaint fairies
threw up in here. Mom – what do you think I am? A chick? Well, I
have to admit, that’s how I’ve been acting my whole life – like a
fucking pansy.
    Tides have turned. There’s a new Brendan in
town. Watch out lady in Cottage 1.

4
    Rebecca
     
    Cottage 1. Covers: on me.