"Everything but those swans" conclusion.

Paul called the next afternoon asking if I wanted to meet him the next morning.  He told me that he had some time off in the morning and that his wife was going out of town to visit her parents for the weekend.  I figured just seeing me wasn’t cheating, and I knew that I had been celibate now for two years.  I know control.  It’ll be fine. I’ll meet up with him this one time and that will be it.

I called Marie that night to see if she wouldn’t mind coming over in the morning to watch Emma while I was out, and she eventually agreed. After she got all Nancy Drew on me, that is.

We met at a restaurant called Cloverleaf in the next town over.  One of those towns not even mentioned on the map, let alone my GPS.  Because of this, we spent the entire 20 minute drive talking on the phone.  A nice prelude to what could have been the most awkward meal of my life, but also a gigantic mistake.  Not only was Paul gorgeous, but he also made me laugh, and with everything going on in my life with Emma and my job it felt wonderful just to laugh.

   After we finished eating I had perfect intentions of getting back into the Corolla, driving back to Shelbyville, and never talking to Paul again.  My intentions were good.  Let’s just get that in there.  By actions, however, were per se a little different.

I did get into the Corolla, but rather than driving back to my house, I drove to a grocery store parking lot.  I removed my keys from the ignition, checked my lipstick in the mirror, and jumped into Paul’s Ford instead.  I say jumped, but it was more of a grab onto the door handle and heave myself up a step and eventually into the gray upholstered seat kinda move.  Not so graceful, but at least it evoked a laugh out of Paul.

We turned into a slightly hidden driveway after we passed a large brick Hayes mailbox.  His house way down a long gravel driveway situated with a dense wooded area surrounding all of the house but the front.  It was a house just like out of that Rachel McAdams’ movie The Notebook.  The huge wraparound porch.  The beautiful hanging ferns and potted flowers.  Everything but those swans.

Well, this is home.

It’s really nice. Your wife must be quite the gardener.

Well, she used to be.  It’s me who has to keep up with all of it now.  She’s not really been herself lately.

What do you mean not her self?

She’s just up and down all of the time.  She’s manic depressive, bipolar.  I dunno.  Some made up psychiatric bullshit they diagnosed her with.  But I promise you this, it’s the medication that makes her crazier than she was before but she won’t stop taking it. Her life coach says it’s best she stays on them.

I didn’t really know what the hell a life coach is.  The mysteries rich people.  But to keep the conversation flowing, and to keep my mind off of Paul’s dick, I acted like I did and asked him more about his wife. From what I could gain from our conversation, he met his wife in high school and they got married the summer after their senior year.  It was the classic story of young beautiful wife lets herself go.  According to Paul, she got fat and then needed something or someone other than herself to blame it on so she got some hippy dippy life coach who was going to turn her life around. 

Then, rather than helping her lose the weight and getting her shit together they told her she had mental health issues, prescribed her to all sorts of psych meds, and poof.  No more Paul’s wife.  Just some robotic woman constantly bitching and complaining walking around his house.  Sounded like a rough deal.

After our fourth glass of Merlot, Paul grabbed my face by my chin and turned me towards him. 

You’re beautiful, Rachel.

And that was that.  I was two years celibate no more.

* * *

            After Paul and I had been seeing each other for about two months, things started getting more difficult.  His wife hardly ever left anymore, and she called all the fucking time.  I swear to God, that Bitch has some serious trust issues.  I don’t know how Paul puts up with it.  That, plus her crazy ups and downs.  I don’t understand why he doesn’t just divorce her already.  He tells me all the time how he has never loved anyone the way that he loves me.  We’re perfect together.  Fuck, maybe the psychotic bitch will OD on her Valium one day and just get it over with.

Eventually, Paul bought an old house in town that he told his wife he wanted to flip for profit.  His wife.  God, I don’t even know her name.  Anyway, this property became the perfect excuse as any time we wanted to see each other, he just had to be “overseeing” the progress on the house.  This didn’t change our biggest issue, however, as we still had to drive pretty far out of town to meet up so that no one saw Paul with another woman.

            When I was on my way to meet him at our Thursday night meeting spot (The Motorist Inn in Newbury) my cell started ringing to my favorite AC/DC ringtone.  It was Emma’s school.  Again. 

            This time it was the school counselor instead of the principal.  For fuck’s sake.  An elementary school needs a counselor?  What kind of issues is a six year old going to come up with?  Bed wetting at slumber parties?

            The next morning I pulled up to Shelbyville Primary prepared to be told Emma was suffering from some mental problem and she needed therapy.  Hell, maybe she’d suggest the same “life coach” Paul’s wife was seeing.  Life coach for a six year old. Wow.

            When I walked into the office a woman was waiting for me.  It was the counselor.  She looked about 38, in a grey pencil skirt and form fitting white blouse.  She was actually really pretty.  In that fresh, I haven’t had a day of stress in my life sort of way.  I guess I would say my type of pretty is the rough, been around the block, but I’m still kickin’ sort of way. 

            Hi Mrs. Jeffries, please sit over there.  Can I get you anything?

            No.  I really need to get back to work so can we just get to the point?

            Emma and I have had a few conversations since Mr. Schumacher called you in a few months ago and I’m very concerned about her.

            And…?

            Well, she tells me that you have been dating someone and that you are not really around anymore.  Rachel, she told me that sometimes you leave her alone in your house all night?  Is that true?

            Shit.  Lie.  Think of a lie.

            On very rare occasions, but honestly Emma is a very mature young girl.  I’m sure you’ve noticed.

            Mature, yes.  But Rachel, she’s still a six year old girl.  That is illegal.  You do realize this, right?

            Oh great.  I can hear it now.  Social Services knocking down my damn door. 

            I actually didn’t.  You can trust me that it will never happen again, though.  Really.

            I hope not.  Rachel, your daughter has told me that she will start talking again if you stop dating.  Now I realize as a young widowed mom this is a huge request.  You must continue living your life, too.  But maybe you should wait until she’s a little older.  For her to understand more about the world around her.  She needs you right now.

            After about twenty minutes I told the counselor that I had to get back to work, that I was going to change, that I was going to be a better mom.  Hey, anything to keep the government out of the whole ordeal, you know?  She really did open my eyes a little bit, though.  A little bit.

            I shook her hand and walked out of the office.  She shut the door after I left and immediately my cell phone started ringing to Lonestar. 

            Hey baby.  Sorry, I can’t talk right now.  I’m late for work and I had to come in to talk to Emma’s counselor and-

            Just as I was about to finish my sentence I looked at the gold embossed name plate on Emma’s counselor’s door.  MRS. VICTORIA L. HAYES. 

            I’m sorry Paul, I need to stay home with Em tonight.

            Alright,  well tomorrow morning then? I can meet you at the Cloverleaf.

            No paul, I can’t meet you anymore.  Your wife is lovely, by the way.  Nothing like you described actually.

            After that, I turned off my phone, threw my bag over my shoulder pulling my hair out from under the strap and walked out the school’s heavy front door and over the crunching gravel parking lot.  I leaned against my car, my back pressed against the hot red metal.

 -Author: Heather Renee Horton- All Rights Reserved

"Everything but those swans" continued...

The day following the carnival, Emma begged me to stay home from school.  I don’t exactly know what happened to her the day before at the games’ tent.  She refused to talk, and to be completely honest, I didn’t really care to listen. 

            I got a call at about 2:30 that afternoon, however, from Em’s principal Mr. Schumacher asking me to come in to pick up my daughter.  We need to talk.

The basic scenario was that the principal needed me to talk with Emma about speaking more at school and/or send her to some fucking overcharging bullshit therapist who doesn’t take Medicaid.  He went on and on about how she will not respond in class and doesn’t talk to any of the other kids as if it would all have been a shock to me. 

I guess I didn’t really know what the problem was, but I was shocked when he told me that they wanted to hold her back a grade if her social skills didn’t improve.  I didn’t even know they could do that.  I mean, she always scores impressively high on all of her standardized tests, and she’s always done her homework.  I don’t even have to oversee her work. Unlike my student days, she just gets it done without me having to ask.

Sitting in my dark red 99 Corolla I tried to talk to Emma about just talking every now and then to appease the “system.”

Sweetie, I know you’re shy, but maybe if you just answered a question every now and then, or maybe made a friend, the school would let you stay in the same class.

Emma just sat there, circling her thumb over and over again on her iPod dial. 

Emma, I am not some fucking teacher.  Look at me. 

Answer me.

Answer me now!

Finally, I slammed on my brakes and pulled over on the shoulder of State Road 67.  I grabbed Emma’s face by her chin, yanking her face towards mine.

What the hell is wrong with you? Why can’t you just be a normal little girl? You’re always causing problems for me. Don’t you get that? I don’t have time for these games.

A slow tear rolled down Emma’s soft freckled cheek and into the red mark left by my harsh fingers and she simply turned to her window.

Fuck you.

It was all she could say.  And it wasn’t in a whisper.

*            *            *

One week and three days after the festival incident, I ran into Paul

Hayes once again.  Why the hell is it that I have gone seven years without seeing this guy in the same small ass town that I have now seen him in three times in less than two weeks?   Who knows, Paul and I could have passed each other a number of times and I am only noticing now. 

Maybe human brains are only wired to remember those we have made some sort of contact with or connection and all other faces, no matter how many times you pass them on a daily basis, are filtered out and lost.  Maybe I filter out people who do not filter out myself; therefore causing those awkward moments when a person smiles at you as if you are an acquaintance and you have no fucking clue who they are. God, I hate that.

            Anyway, like I said, one week and three days after the festival incident, Paul Hayes showed up at the small travel agency I work for- Travel Time.  My favorite way to pronounce it is like “Hammer Time,” with hammer substituted with “Travel.” Stop. Travel Time. But this is only in my head, of course...excepting the few times I have rapped it to perk up Emma.  Hey, she might not catch the 90’s M.C. Hammer reference, but I’m pretty damn good with voices, so you get the picture. 

            So Paul walked into the office and asked to speak with someone about cruise options in the Caribbean when he saw me pass and looked at me pseudo-shockingly. 

Well, hey there, Rachel.  I didn’t know you worked here.

            That’s because you never asked where I worked. 

            Oh, well it’s good to see you anyway.  How is your little girl doing? I hope everything is okay, you left so quickly that I didn’t get to say-

            Emma is fine.  We’re fine.  I better let you get back to Marie to talk about this cruise you’re planning.

            You know there’s no cruise, Rachel.

            And at this point, I, Rachel Jeffries, would normally have seen red flags all over the situation yielding stalker, creeper, run. Stop. Travel Time.

Instead, I looked at Paul’s slightly crooked smirk, his rough calloused hands nervously flicking the end of the pen attached to a springy cord, and asked Paul if he wanted to get some coffee. 

Five small bells on a string jingled as we walked out of the front door of the office.  Marie, my boss and the owner of Travel Time, put them up there four years ago so that we would hear when customers came in.  A completely ludicrous idea when you think about the fact that we get about two customers, if that, in an entire day.  Furthermore, the business area consists of two rooms totaling about 600 square feet.  Oh, and one of those rooms is a bathroom.  But I guess if all three employees were in the bathroom at one time when a customer came in those bells would really come in handy.  Right.

We walked up to the window at The Wave Coffee Bar.  Paul ordered the Typhoon Vanilla Iced Latté.  I got a Regular Roast, one sugar, one cream.

Alright.  I’ve got one Typhoon Vanilla Iced Latte and a Wavin’ regular with one dash of sugar and one splash of ocean foam for the lady.  That’ll be $3.66.

A beach themed coffee shop in the Midwest.  Who’d have thought ?

I sat down at the one table in front of the small, refurbished drive-thru coffee shop and waited until Paul came over with the drinks.  He looked even better than he did at the fair.

So, how long have you worked at Travel Time?

Oh, about five years now.  I met Marie through my husband’s parents and she gave me the job as sort of a part-time gig for extra money, but after Rich passed away Marie hired me full-time.  It’s really not so bad.

Paul watched me talk and didn’t even touch his coffee.  Every now and then he would play with the buttons on the side of his cell phone, but other than that, it was all eyes on me. 

What about you?  Do you have a day job, or do you just spend your time figuring out where unsuspecting women work?  

I actually just have some real estate properties in the area, and other than that, I do some work around my own house that I’m currently remodeling. That’s about it.

Sounds like a life of luxury.

You have no idea.

He was right.  I had no idea.  Never in my life had I known anyone who didn’t have to keep a job to pay the bills, and I for damn sure have never caught a break.  I stayed home with Emma until she was almost two, but it was too hard on Rich and some months he couldn’t come up with enough money on his H-VAC salary.  I wonder if Paul has any clue how lucky he is.

Just when our conversation started, Paul’s cell was ringing to Journey.

I’m really sorry, Rachel, but I have to go.

Oh, it’s okay. Who was that?

It was my wife. She wants me to drop the checkbook by the Primary school.

Wife? What the fuck? Of course.  I finally meet a guy that I am even semi-interested in.  Of course he’s fucking married.  Ironic, isn’t it Alanis?

Can I have your number before I leave?  I’d like to meet up with you again sometime.

And I wrote down my name and my numbers on the back of a Wave Coffee Bar napkin and watched Paul walk back to his Ford, Marlboro dangling from his bottom life, in the same jeans he wearing at the Citgo when I first saw him.

* * *

-Author: Heather R. Horton- All Rights Reserved

"Everything but those swans"

Here is a little preview of the short story I am basing my first novel off of...

     I first met Paul standing in line at the Citgo on Fourth Street.  He was wearing the same old Bears jersey that makes an appearance every game day.  The thing I remember most, however, is the way he winked at me before turning to the gum-cracking cashier to ask for Marlboro Lights, thanks sweetie. He pushed open the thick sticker-covered door, shoving the box into his back pocket, perfectly fitting into the rectangular shape of many packs past.  Despite the wink, Paul didn’t look back.  He just climbed into his Ford F350, cranked down his window, and lit up a Marlboro, completely oblivious to my glances.  It was the first time in over two years I even noticed a man, and as much as that threw me off, he caught my interest. I was hooked.

            The following week at the Shelbyville Festival of Lights, Emma and I ran into Paul again.  Literally.  We were snaking our way through the crowded line for the ice cream stand when Emma tripped over a pineapple whip cup on the ground. Pulling me down along with her hand in hand, I forgot about the other one.  The hand that carelessly shoved our triple stacked fudge swirl waffle cone straight onto a blue cotton button-up shirt.  It was Paul.

            Oh, I’m so sorry, she just tripped over this, and-

            It’s okay.  There’s no need to apologize.  Can I get you another cone, little lady?

            No. Thank you for the offer, but we’re the ones who ran into you.  Sorry about your shirt. 

            I handed him a thin white napkin while simultaneously trying to subdue Emma who wouldn’t stop pulling on my arm.  She wanted me to bend down so that she could whisper into my ear.  This was the only way Emma has communicated with anyone but myself since Rich passed away.  She does the arm tug, or a poke, and when I lean down, she whispers into my ear what she wants me to relate to the other person.  Contrary to most kids, she wasn’t begging me to get her more ice cream; she just wanted to get away from Paul. 

Well, how about you two sit down on one of those benches and I’ll bring you over whatever you want. From the looks of things, you like chocolate?  

Paul teasingly looked at his shirt, followed by the wink.  If only Emma wasn’t standing right next to me I would have looked into those eyes and told him to take me to his Ford and fuck my brains out.  We’d walk over the crunching gravel parking lot and he would push my back against the hot red metal of the truck.   And then I would get fucking real because I’ve never said anything like that to a man my whole life.  But hey, even the nice girls can have naughty thoughts, right?

Emma, quit pulling on mommy’s arm. Emma kicked her foot at the gravel in a dejected pout only a cute blonde six year old can pull off. Okay, I guess so.  But you really shouldn’t.

It took all the strength I had to hold onto Emma’s rejecting hand as we walked over to the benches by the business tent.  Watching Paul standing in line I couldn’t help but notice how women looked at him when he walked by.  I mean, it was hard not to look at him.  He had short sandy brown hair, just the right length to grasp when you weren’t gripping his firm tanned shoulders, or touching his-

            Emma wouldn’t stop poking me in the arm.  She wanted to play one of the games in the tent where you lift up a rubber ducky and receive a dinky little prize correlative to the color of paint on the bottom.  Cheap ass carnival games.

 I guess, Em, but please stay right there and come right back.

 I was so caught up in watching Emma walking to the games tent when Paul came back with the ice cream.  He handed me one of the cones as he looked around for Emma.

She’s right over there playing a game, but she’ll be right back. Thanks again. I’m sorry, but I don’t think I caught your name.

            That’s because I haven’t told you yet.

God, he’s so fucking sexy.

My name is Paul Hayes, and the mysterious woman who was staring at me at the Citgo is?

            I’m Rachel. Rachel Jeffries. And my daughter’s name is Emma.

I could feel the blood rushing to my cheeks.  Well, I guess he did notice me after all. God, am I that obvious?

            I could hear Emma’s screams as she ran towards me with tear filled eyes.  She enclosed her arms around my waist, tugging on my cashmere cardigan to pick her up.  It had been years since I had carried her (minus a few trips from the car or couch to her bed here and there) but this time I couldn’t feel the extra weight at all.  I didn’t say goodbye, and I didn’t look back for a wink.

* * *

More to come soon! :)

-Author: Heather R. Horton- All Rights Reserved

Biography

A 2008 graduate of Indiana University Bloomington with a Bachelor of Arts in English Literature and Creative Writing, I have an artistic background in the arts including music and sketching, but have always had a specific passion for writing poetry and prose.  Following this passion, I decided to follow the career path of freelancing my writing and editing in hopes to build a strong client base whilst completing my first novel, based off of the short story "Everything but Those Swans."