My lips curve into a smile. My big sister morphs into Valley girl language when she’s excited. I love that about her, because the rest of the time she’s a grammar nazi. It’s both a welcome break and a reminder that she’s human.
“Thanks, Abby. It’ll just be for a couple days. Long enough to take a meeting with the seller and see the land.” Though now that I think about it, I don’t know when we’re flying back. I haven’t looked at the itinerary Sheila sent, and my dad never said. A couple days is probably a safe bet.
“No worries,” Abby assures me. “But I am going to miss watching The Bachelorette with you tonight. Who will eat popcorn with me and laugh at the catfights?”
“Armando?”
She snorts. Abby’s husband would never watch that show with her, and we both know it.
I pull into the driveway of Abby’s house and cut the engine. “I just got to your house. Please—”
“You just got home,” Abby corrects. “It’s your home, too.”
“Right,” I say, because I’m not interested in having that discussion again. Despite the fact that I live with Abby and her family, it is not my home. Home isn’t something I have at the moment, but I am grateful I have a place to live. “Give Taylor and Emerson kisses and hugs from me.”
“Will do,” Abby says cheerfully. “Enjoy Arizona,” she adds, then hangs up.
I climb from my car and glance up at the monstrous house. It’s Abby’s dream home, and this is Abby’s dream life. Stay-at-home mom, husband who adores her, successful-ish healthy cooking blog. She’d never say it, but I’m the smudgy fingerprint on her recently Windex’d mirror of life. Little sister who lives with her, who can never seem to really get her shit together? I’m a square peg that doesn’t fit in her round holes. Which, now that I’m thinking about it, sounds pornographic.
Abby decorated the house herself, but it looks like a professional designer came in and had their way with the place. The vibe is casual but elegant, filled with deceptively expensive furniture and artwork that is just quirky enough to escape being labeled pretentious.
When I get to my room, I pull my suitcase from the top of my closet and toss it on my bed, where it falls open. Peeling off the black slacks I’m wearing, I fold them and place them inside for tomorrow’s meeting. I throw in pajamas, a blouse, underwear, and an extra set of clothes for an in case situation. Once I’ve gathered my toiletries, I pull on a pair of jeans and trade my work blouse in for something better for travel. I pull on my boots because I can’t stand wearing jeans with anything but heels or boots, and I’m currently out of heels. Speaking of…
I leave the room and walk up one flight of stairs, past six doors, and into my sister’s room. Her closet is massive, and even though I’m in there for black heels, I grab a really cute sundress too. She won’t miss it. She has a hundred others.
I deposit the heels and dress into my suitcase and zip it up. I turn around, casting one last glance around the room, and spot two pieces of mail on my dresser. I grab them and stuff them in my purse without a second glance. I know what they are. Late notices don’t vary in size or shape. I would know, because I’m painfully familiar with them. I dream of a day when every month isn’t a juggling act, when I can buy a friend lunch and not experience the sheer terror of thinking the server is going to tell me my credit card was declined.
It’s what I get for being involved with a married man. Does not knowing Barrett was married make me any less culpable?
Speaking of… I peek at the date on my phone, to be sure. I always call on the twenty-seventh. I pull up the number in my contacts and hit the button.
“Colorado Springs Women’s Shelter. Debra speaking.”
“Debra, hi. It’s Dakota Wright.”
“Hey, hon. I’ve been on the lookout for your call today.”
“You know me too well.”
“What’ll it be, Dakota? Same as usual?”
“Yes, please. Same card.”
Debra’s quiet for a little bit, then announces, “All good, dear. It went through. I know I say it to you every month, but I mean it. We appreciate your donation and how far it goes toward helping these women.”
“Happy to do it,” I tell her. We say goodbye and I hang up. We’ll have the same conversation one month from today.
I’ve heard helping people makes everyone feel good, both the giver and the receiver. And that first month I donated, it did. I felt lighter when I placed the call. I’d been racked with guilt when I found out my boyfriend was another woman’s husband. The fact that I’d ended the relationship immediately didn’t lessen the heavy burden, and then the guilt doubled when she found out about me, and tried to end her life. Standing on my welcome mat with a box of his things in his arms, Barrett admitted he’d found her lying beside a bottle of pills. He cried as he spoke. I volleyed between suffocating guilt and blinding rage.
I wanted to atone somehow for the role I played in what happened, no matter how blind I was. Sometimes though, mostly late at night when I’m kept awake by the sounds of my sister and Armando’s lovemaking in the bedroom above me, I mull over my relationship with Barrett. No lipstick on the collar, perfume on his skin, or tan line on his ring finger, but there must have been something I missed. He couldn't have been that skilled of a liar. A part of me wonders if I didn't let myself see it, didn't want to lose the comfort Barrett brought to me. I’d met him shortly after my mom died. He’d inserted light into a very dark time for me, and perhaps I was too afraid to look any deeper. We only see what we want to. Until I actually saw him with his wife. Game over. And all the guilt I felt about my mom doubled down, smothering me. I needed a way to release it, like the valve of a pressure cooker. And then it came to me. A women’s shelter. Barrett wasn’t abusive, but the emotional toll of his double-life left me bruised. It drove his wife to near death. Who better to receive my donation than women who’d been hurt at the hands of their beloved?
Donating to the shelter removed a chunk of my guilt… for a while. Six months later, it serves only to sadden me. Just another penance I pay for bad choices made in the past. The second penance is removed automatically from my bank account each month, and it’s been happening for a lot longer than the women’s shelter. Such is life. It never goes the way you think it will.
I look around my room one more time to make certain I haven’t forgotten anything, then haul my suitcase off the bed and leave. I stop in the kitchen on the way through the house and grab one of the ridiculously delicious oat bars my sister makes. She uses superfoods (Goji berries! Cinnamon and turmeric!) and they’re addictive. Abby has a natural talent in the kitchen.
With an oat bar wedged between my teeth, I leave the house and lock it behind me. I slide my suitcase into the back of my car, toss my purse onto the passenger seat, and call my dad’s favorite deli to place an order for take-out. When I waltz back into conference room B at five minutes to one, my dad is sitting in the same spot. It’s quite possible he hasn’t gotten up other than to refill his coffee.
“Lunch,” I announce, setting his paper-wrapped sandwich in front of him.
“Good call on the boots,” Dad comments, pointing at my feet and then unwrapping his Italian sandwich with extra meat. “Beau needs to see we’re not city folk.”