Lena stared up at the ceiling. She held her breath for a moment before letting it whisper out like a dark secret. Everything was getting to her today. The loss, the grief. The vodka and pills weren’t helping. Would never help enough.
She searched for the cap to the bottle, but couldn’t find it. Lena pulled open the door. The bedroom was empty. Jared’s clothes were on the floor, exactly where they’d dropped when he took them off. Lena picked up his shirt. She smelled exhaust from the road, sweat and grease from riding all day. His pants still had his wallet in the back pocket. She took it out and put it on the bedside table. His front pockets were full. A handful of change. A small tin of Burt’s beeswax to keep his lips from getting windburned. A couple of twenties, his driver’s license, and three credit cards, all held together by a green rubber band. A small black velvet pouch that he kept his wedding ring in.
Lena dug her finger inside the pouch and pulled out the gold ring. Jared had stopped wearing it to work after one of his buddies had wiped out on his bike. The man’s wedding ring had caught on his knuckle and ripped the skin off like a sock. After that, Lena had made Jared promise not to wear his ring while he was riding. The black pouch was a compromise. She’d told him to leave the ring at home, but her husband was romantic—much more so than any woman Lena had ever met—and he didn’t like the idea of being without it.
She assumed now that he carried it around out of habit.
Lena returned the ring to the pouch and opened Jared’s wallet. She’d given it to him their first year together, and he still carried it despite the fact that he’d never used a wallet before. It was really nothing more than a portable photo album. Lena thumbed past the many candid shots Jared had taken over the last five years: Lena in front of their house on the day they moved in, Lena on his bike, Jared and Lena at Disney World, a Braves game, the SEC play-offs, the national championship in Arizona.
She stopped on the photo from their wedding, which had taken place in a judge’s chambers inside the Atlanta courthouse. Lena’s uncle Hank stood on one side of her, Jared on the other. Beside Jared were his mother, stepfather, sister, grandmother, grandfather, two cousins, and an elementary school teacher who’d always kept in touch.
Everyone was dressed up but Lena, who was in a navy pantsuit she normally wore to work. Her hair was down, the brown curls hanging past her shoulders. She’d had her makeup done at the Lenox Macy’s counter by a transexual who’d gone on and on about her skin tone. At least one woman had appreciated Lena that day. The sour look on Jared’s mother’s face explained why the groom hadn’t insisted on a more formal affair. Somewhere right now in Alabama, Darnell Long was praying that her son would come to his senses and divorce the bitch he’d married.
Sometimes Lena wondered if she held on to Jared solely to spite the woman.
She flipped to the next picture, and her knees felt shaky.
Lena sat down on the bed.
She had seen the photo many times, just not in Jared’s wallet. It was from the shoebox Lena kept in the closet. The picture was of her twin sister, Sibyl. Lena was struck by a painful ache of jealousy, and then she felt herself start to laugh. Jared obviously thought the picture was of Lena. He’d never met Sibyl. She’d been dead ten years when Jared came into Lena’s life.
She put her hand to her mouth as the laugh turned into a sob. When Lena had found out she was pregnant, the first person she’d thought of was Sibyl. There was a brief spark of happiness as Lena had picked up the phone to call her sister.
And then the loss had sucker punched her in the chest.
Lena carefully wiped underneath her eyes as she stared at the photo. She could see why Jared had chosen it. Sibyl was sitting on a blanket in the park. Her mouth was open, head tilted back. She was laughing with full abandon—the kind of happiness Lena seldom showed. Their Mexican American grandmother’s genes were on full display. Sibyl’s skin was bronze from the sun. Her curly brown hair was down, the way Lena wore her hair today. Though Sibyl didn’t have the highlights Lena had, and she certainly didn’t have the few strands of gray.
What would Sibyl look like now? It was a question Lena had asked a lot over the years. She assumed it was something all twins wondered when one passed away. Sibyl had never had Lena’s hard lines and sharp edges. There was always a softness to Sibyl’s face, an openness that invited people in instead of pushing them away. Only a fool would mistake one twin for the other.
“Lee?”
She looked up at Jared as if it was perfectly normal for her to be sitting in her underwear crying over his wallet. He was standing in the doorway again, feet just shy of entering.
She asked, “Who was that call from? On your cell phone?”
“The number was blocked.” He looped his thumbs through his tool belt as he leaned against the doorjamb. “You all right?”
“I’m … uh …” Her voice caught. “Tired.”
Lena looked at Sibyl one last time before she closed the wallet. She felt tears streaming down her face. Her jaw tightened as she tried to force her emotions back down. No matter what she did, they kept bubbling up again, tightening her throat, squeezing like a band around her chest.
“Lee?” He still didn’t come into the room.
Lena shook her head, willing him to go. She couldn’t look at him, couldn’t let Jared see her like this. She knew that breaking down was exactly what he’d been waiting for. Expecting.
Wanting.
But then something snapped inside of her. Another sob came out—deep, mournful. Lena couldn’t fight it anymore, couldn’t keep pushing him away. She didn’t make Jared come to her. She crossed the room quickly, wrapping her arms around his shoulders, pressing her face to his chest.
“Lena—”
She kissed him. Her hands went to his face, touched his neck. Jared resisted at first, but he was a twenty-six-year-old man who’d spent the last week sleeping on the couch. It didn’t take much for Lena to get a response. His calloused hands rubbed along her bare back. He pulled her closer, kissed her harder.
And then his whole body jerked away.
Blood sprayed into her mouth.
Lena heard the gunshot seconds later.
After Jared had been hit. After he collapsed against her.
He was too heavy. Lena stumbled, falling back onto the floor, Jared sprawled on top of her, pinning her down. She couldn’t move. She tried to push him up, but another shot rang out. His body spasmed, lifting a few inches, then falling against her again.
Lena heard a high-pitched keening. It was coming from her own mouth. She scrambled out from under Jared, then grabbed him by his shirt to pull him out of the line of fire. She managed to move him a few feet before his tool belt got twisted up in the rug.
“No-no-no,” Lena stuttered before she clamped her hands over her mouth to stop the noise. She pressed her back to the wall, fighting a wave of hysteria. The vodka and pills caught up with her. Vomit roiled into the back of her throat. She wanted to scream. Needed to scream.
But she couldn’t.
Jared wasn’t moving. The noise from the gun still rang in her ears. Shotgun blast. The pellets had scattered, penetrating his back, his head. Bright red circles of blood spread into the dried yellow paint on his T-shirt. A screwdriver from his tool belt was jammed into his side. More blood was pooling underneath his body. She put her hand on his leg, felt the lean muscle of his calf.