Truths That Saints Believe (The Klutch Duet 2)

It was somewhat of a ritual now. After saying hello to my resident fairy. After making sure that there were no flowers I’d forgotten to water, no packages that I’d ordered at two in the morning after a bottle of wine.

Then I’d step inside, inhale the smells of this new place that was becoming home to me, opening those doors, inhaling the air that was all too familiar. That reminded me of a man who was a stranger yet knew me better than anyone.

Then, I’d make something for dinner, depending on my mood, my energy levels or whether I’d remembered to go to the store that day. Janet, the woman who rented the cottage for me, would sometimes ‘pop by’ with a basket of muffins, a lasagna, homemade granola, cherries, her favorite wine. Pretty much anything and everything. She had wild, bright red curls, creased tanned skin and had a penchant for the color purple. Her voice was thick, husky and evidence of a smoking habit she’d kicked five years ago. Her husband died six years ago, and she swore she would never marry again, but she’d surely have a lot of boyfriends. I knew all of this because she told me. On my second night here, she’d arrived with two bottles of red, dinner and an evening’s worth of stories about her life.

She had no children, and I thought that a waste since there were plenty of women who would’ve benefitted from having a mother like her. Warm, confident, unapologetic about who she was. It was ugly and cruel of me to wish she had been my own mother. To wish my biological mother out of my life and out of existence for my own selfish reasons, so that I didn’t have a darkness inside of me. So I didn’t fear my own mind. Wasn’t terrified of my own memories.

But wishing wouldn’t do me any good. And if my mother hadn’t been my mother, I probably wouldn’t have been fucked up enough to find myself in Jay’s office that night, or in his bed all the nights after.

And despite how much pain those nights had caused me, despite how much he’d ruined me, I didn’t want anything or anyone to be the reason I didn’t have the memory of him. The ghost of him.

I allowed myself to enjoy having dinner with Janet one night a week. A Sunday afternoon with her in the garden. Opening up the fridge to an eggplant dish she’d cooked for me along with more wine because she was starting to know me too well.

The air was colder now. Summer was creeping away, giving way to fall, even up here up at the top of the North Island where the weather was warmer than the rest of the country. My arms prickled from the chill. Not just because of the bite to the air but from the impending wrap of the show. It had been months. An uncommonly warm summer which meant I’d never felt a chill, leaving my skin as tan as it had ever been despite how religious I was with my SPF. There was a hole in the ozone layer here, apparently. Made the sun harsher. Causing me to burn that much quicker.

I’d already been burned, so the fire of a different kind felt nice. It was turning me in to something else. Or at least someone who looked different. My skin was no longer peaches and cream but a milky caramel. My hair was longer, bleached by that harsh sun, barely any strawberry left in my blonde. I’d put on weight where I’d needed it. If it was up to me, I would’ve forgone food except for when it was absolutely necessary and existed off coffee and wine. But there was Janet. And there was Brent on lunch breaks, bringing me a plate piled high with his crooked smile and easy conversation. I’d eat the whole plate without even realizing it, just so I could listen to him talk while making sure my mouth was full so I never had to offer any information about myself.

The food was fresher here. Purer. I could taste it. But I couldn’t enjoy it. I couldn’t enjoy much, really. Even the company of a good man, a strong, comforting woman, some of the most beautiful landscape in the world, the kindness of the people of this country.

Oh, yes, I was the definition of a cliché. Living and working in paradise, eating excellent food, being asked out by ruggedly handsome men yet not enjoying a single bit of it.

I looked good, though. With my permanent tan, with my long hair, with my new curves. But I was all sharp angles on the inside. Even breathing cut me open all over again. The pain hadn’t dulled. Not one single bit.