R. Griffin: Seamless

This book is dedicated to my Cooper. I know this is super cheesy, so just go with it. I adopted a crazy looking Wire-Haired Fox Terrier when I moved to DC for law school in 1999. My mom talked me into getting him because I was thinking “no.” He looked homely in the shelter, his hair was matted and he didn’t want us near him. Fortunately, I listened to my mom—it was a rare occasion. He died in May this year and I was so sad it was ridiculous. I tried to read Dog Heaven to my four year old in order to explain what happened and had a total breakdown. (I know this may shock some of you who believe I’m soulless).

He was my rock when I didn’t know anyone. He was my confidant, my shoulder to cry on and my bedfellow. He was an asshole too, some say just like me. His personality was one of the best (see previous sentence) and he gave me some of my favorite memories. He ran with me too, but when he got tired he would just lay down, wherever we were, and force me to carry him home. When he was mad he would pee in my shoe or on my pillow (no joke) or bring me dead animals in the middle of the night. As you can tell, I could write for days about my love for Cooper. I know if you’ve ever had a dog you know the kind of love I mean, the kind that will be with you long after they’re gone. The kind of love that makes you smile when you’re greeted at the door every day by a wagging tail and a tongue hanging out. My life is a little dimmer without him in it.

Perfection is elusive and may truly be an illusion, but it’s still something everyone strives for. Stella had witnessed perfect moments that were split-seconds of perfection: taking an outside pitch to right field exactly where she wanted it to go, the wind blowing her hair at the beach while the waves crashed around Cooper, and the way George fell asleep with his hand on her tattoo. The perfection that people strive for—the perfect job, perfect family, perfect house—it doesn’t exist. It’s created in labs, in artist studios, with Photoshop, but it doesn’t happen in real life. Ever .

Whenever things seem like they’re good and a peace starts washing over Stella, that’s when worry creeps over her and settles in her gut, right next to the pain that she struggled so hard to keep shoved down. Thoughts rolled through her mind as to what the bad would be this time: (1) George was finally leaving her; (2) she’d fall into a hole somewhere and finally die; or (3) her emotions would swallow her whole and she would have a total mental breakdown.

Stella’s life was full of downs and mediocrity. She was ready for a high or two, but she didn’t know if she deserved the glee at the top of a rollercoaster; she didn’t think she could lift her hands and just enjoy the ride.

This dare-she-call-it-happiness was an exhilarating, scream-inducing, terror-filled feeling that she hadn’t really felt since Jamie proposed. Yes, she loved George, but she was always so certain he was going to bolt so she couldn’t lift her hands and scream even when he’d asked her to move in with him. Stella desperately wanted the carefree bliss she’d seen other people enjoy—the ordinary act of holding George’s hand and walking around, confident that they were simply walking around. What she wouldn’t give to lead a boring, somewhat normal life.

That ship sailed years ago .

Time stood still as she ran toward the loves of her life, her arms flailing.

“RUN!”

Patrick, Millie and George looked at her with alarm and started moving quickly toward the house. Adrenaline was coursing through her veins and as she barreled down the four stairs, only touching two, and met them in the driveway.

“Inside, get inside!” she huffed, more from the stress than exertion. Stella pushed at their backs, making them move faster up the stairs toward the front door.

Cooper danced through their legs, tail moving rhythmically back and forth, excited by the uproar.

“What?” George implored as she pushed them in the front door.

Patrick examined Stella’s expression, his own not showing any emotion. Millie’s eyes were wide, searching Stella’s. Stella shut the front door and leaned her back against it as if she alone could hold off any danger to her family. This is it! I’m done with this shit. The cord binding her to reason snapped unceremoniously.

“FUCK! THIS! SHIT!”

The look on George, Millie and Patrick’s faces probably would’ve sent her into hysterics if the circumstances weren’t so dire. Stella pointed toward the note on the box of clementines.

“A note,” she said shortly, unable to find more words.

George bent down to look at the paper taped on the box of fruit. “I thought I’d bring these to you since I know you like them so much. Enjoyed your testimony. We’ll talk soon. J.” He stood up straight and looked directly at Stella. “This wasn’t here when I left.”

“The clementines?” she asked, her breathing labored from anxiety.

“No,” George began pacing, “those were delivered right before I left, but the note wasn’t on there.”

“I thought the car had a bomb in it or something.” When she’d seen the note, her mind led her directly to believe that Jamie had bombed the car. Wow! How fucked up am I?

Patrick’s ears perked up at the word “bomb” and he pulled out his phone from his olive cargo pants and began talking to someone. His blue eyes pierced her, keeping an eye on her while he spoke authoritatively. “That’s a possibility,” he acknowledged slowly, nodding. He told the person the address and put his phone back in his pocket. He grabbed Millie’s hand and squeezed it.

George stopped pacing and wrapped his arms around Stella’s waist from behind her, resting his chin in the crook of her neck.

Stella couldn’t read his face and wondered what he was thinking. “George.” Stella sunk into him. He kissed her temple.

“You need to call the FBI, right now,” George said softly into her ear.

She nodded. She’d tried to do it her way and she’d failed miserably. Just a few minutes ago she’d allowed herself to feel safe and happy. Now her fucked up life reared its ugly head and bitch slapped her for even thinking happiness was a possibility. Stella knew she was stupid for not telling the FBI about Jamie to start with and this just solidified that fact. Her emotions were almost numb to the possibility that there was a bomb to kill her in her car, but her heart clenched at the likelihood that Millie, Patrick or George would be hurt because of her. She would end this; she just needed to figure out how. Stella sighed as she eyed Patrick, resigned to the fact she would need his help.

“What the fuck is going on?” Millie burst out, shaking Stella from her thoughts.

Stella was always a little surprised when Millie cussed because she looked so prim and proper. Today, her caramel, shoulder-length hair was pulled up in a high ponytail and she had on short pink shorts with a white tank top, making her look like an innocent college kid. Her attitude often made her seem a lot younger than the rest of their jaded selves and they each almost flinched when Millie erupted.

“Am I the only one that doesn’t know something? Why is someone threatening your life? Why did someone bring your car, which was stolen over six fucking months ago, all the way from Atlanta? Why the fuck are you guys not more freaked out? Why did you say Jamie?” Millie’s hands flew around wildly to show her frustration, her face flushed, then she crossed her arms over her chest and pouted.