Linda Robertson - Vicious Circle

“Why is it gone?” she asked.

“I think it has something to do with maturity, responsibility.”

“That would explain Olivia and Betsy.” She could have made a joke of it, but instead she made it sound depressing.

“Probably.”

“Why us?”

“We accept what we have to do and do it.” I thought again of being the Lustrata.

“You’d think that maturity and responsibility would leave a mark.”

Involuntarily, I touched my chest where Menessos had left his mark, his stain. It was mine because I was responsible for Theo. “It does,” I said. “It’s an interior stain, spilled over you by failure and pain.”

Nancy had picked up on the inadvertent rhyme of my spoken words. “Maybe you should start putting poetry in that column of yours. Or branch out.”

I finished my apple cider and put the cup on the table. This suffocating encounter had gone on long enough. “Nancy.”

“Don’t, Seph. I know what you’re going to say and I beg you, don’t say it.”

“But—”

Nancy leaned forward and put her fingers on my forearm and implored me, “Even if we never talk again, we’re friends in our hearts if we don’t say that kind of good-bye. If we say that kind of good-bye, if we shut the door on this friendship, we can’t open that door again.” Her fingers were hot from holding the coffee cup.

“Shutting it might be best.”

She sat back, her hot hand drifting from my arm. “Have I been a bad friend?”

I stared at her, choking on the truth. “No. I have.”

“No you haven’t—”

“I’ve kept secrets from you. Secrets that would change everything.”

She gauged me, and I could feel her pulling away from me. It was as if her aura retreated and took its stifling oppression with it. I could breathe more easily. “What do you mean?” she asked.

“Just trust me when I say that if you knew me, really knew me, you wouldn’t want to be my friend. You’d run screaming in the other direction and…” I’d gotten loud and emphatic enough to widen her eyes, so I toned it down to continue. “I’m so tired of trying to keep up the pretenses to make you happy.”

“Pretenses? Whatever do you mean?”

I didn’t answer.

“Oh my Lord…you’re not a wære, are you?”

I stood and picked up the box. “Thanks for returning these.” I didn’t have to straighten out her thoughts.

“Seph, no. No! You’re the only friend I have!”

“My nana says that to have a friend, you need to be a friend. So I suggest you try being a friend to those like-minded souls traveling the same road you’re on, because my path isn’t anywhere near yours. They can support you. No matter what I do, I can’t. I wish you the best, Nancy. I really do. Enjoy the life you’ve chosen for yourself, but enjoy it without me in it.”

My hour wasn’t up yet, so I parked at Meijer and went in. I spotted Johnny just starting down the cookie aisle. In response to the stares, he said a polite hello to the older ladies he passed and gave a friendly guy-nod to the men. He rolled his cart up beside a mother with two little ones strapped into an extra-long cart with a special seat built for containing them. The mother didn’t notice Johnny, as she was intently studying the labels on Keebler cookies. Her older son watched Johnny put four bags of Oreos into the cart and said, “Is your momma gonna be mad that you drew all over yourself?”

The mother turned around, stunned silent when she saw Johnny. “Naw,” Johnny said to the little boy. “I didn’t do it. One night when I was little, I didn’t put my markers away like my momma told me to. The bogeyman drew on me, and it’s never washed off. So you better listen to your momma.”

Cradling two packages of cookies in the crook of one arm, the mother shoved hard against the cart handles and hurried her little brood safely away around the corner of the aisle. I heard the younger boy say, “Wow! Look, Joshua! We get two kinds of cookies this time!”

I’d been easing up on Johnny’s position, and I was ready to stop and tap my foot and ask if he always scared young mothers, but he sniffed the air and turned suddenly to see me. “Red!”

“I wish I had a camera.”

“Why?”

“Seeing you pushing a cart full of Oreos”—I peered into the cart—“steaks, and…”—I raised a dubious brow at him—“every spice known to man.”

“No point in eating if you don’t make it taste good. Just wait till we hit the produce aisle. Some herbs are fine dried and bottled like this, but for some, fresh is the only way.”

“Well, if anyone knows all about fresh, it’s got to be you.”

After I followed him through the produce section and we went through the checkout, Johnny pushed the bag-laden cart across the bumpy parking lot and started putting the bags into the trunk of the Avalon. I watched him sort the bags to keep the cold stuff together and put the fresh vegetables, bread, and doughnuts in a squash-proof area with boxes of cereal acting like a fence to secure them. It scared me. Not because it was terribly obsessive/compulsive, but because it was an act of terrible domestication. And it was what I’d have done.

Goddess, how my life had changed. My home’s magical defenses were gone and my personal fences were eroding under the relentless influence of Johnny. Nothing was ever going to be the same again.

I was still standing there staring at him when he shut the trunk. I hadn’t helped him at all. “Red?”

“What?”

“Something wrong?”

“No.”

“Okay. You can get in the car. I’ll put the cart away.”

“Right.”

Johnny turned to the cart. I grabbed him and I kissed him there in the parking lot, under the glow of the lot lights. My fingers ran through his hair. He recovered from his surprise and slipped his hands to my waist, grip tightening. Parts of me tightened too. He held me close and his fingers strayed around to brush the skin over my spine and push just under the waistband of my jeans. I slipped him some tongue.

“Wow,” he breathed as our lips parted. “Apple cider.”

We headed home.

Forcing my shoulders to loosen, a task made more difficult because I was driving, I was just finding a measure of success when Johnny said, “How’d it go with your friend?”

Those resistant muscles clenched back into their taut position. “It’s over.”

“Sounds like a couple thing. You two didn’t ever—”

“Stop it.”

“Well, some girlfriends do—”

“I said stop.” Damn it. How was I ever going to relax?

“Okay, okay. Just trying to lighten the mood.” Johnny turned on the radio and maneuvered the dial to the left for the classical station. He adjusted his seat to recline and went to sleep.

“Johnny, wake up. We’re…here.” I was not about to say, “We’re home.”

He stretched and said, “Okay.”

After hitting the trunk-opening button, I got out. The living room lights were off, which I thought was odd because I figured Nana and Beverley would be watching TV, but the upstairs and kitchen lights were on. Nana was probably still translating the copy of the book. I started to gather up the bags. The next thing I knew, Johnny was beside me taking the bags from my hands.

“I can get it,” I said, and closed my fingers around the plastic handles.

“I can help.” Ever so gently, he again tried to take the bags. His expression was playful as he watched my face while he touched my hands.

“Get your own bags,” I said, teasing, but soft and unsure. I’d snapped at him over the girlfriend remark, and he shouldn’t be acting like nothing had happened. Men let snippy words roll off of them more easily than women did.