No Hiding in Boise Page 7

  When it came time to write my top three men on my note card, I just wrote one—Cale. I had absolutely no interest in the other men I met. From recollection, there was an incredibly nervous guy with hairy arms who looked down at his lap the whole time, a guy with braces (“Braces!” Sahana would shriek on the car ride home), and a guy who admitted to having an on-again-off-again girlfriend who he wanted to make jealous. Jeff, Cale’s coworker, was nice enough, but he’d quite obviously had his eye on a brunette in her twenties. At the end of the dates, while the organizer of the event analyzed our cards, looking for matches, Sahana and I got our second glasses of wine and swapped stories.

  “That guy,” she said, her eyes flicking in the direction of the nerdy forty-something guy who’d told me he worked for the parks and recreation department. “He opened with, ‘Do you know where the name Owyhee comes from?’ Then he went on and on about how some Hawaiian fur trappers were part of an expedition and went exploring and never came back, so some British guys named the region after them, just spelling it phonetically because they didn’t know what Hawaii was.”

  She lets her head fall back and pretends to fall asleep.

  “Well, that’s kind of interesting. All he told me is that the zoo renovation project is almost done.”

  “I told him this was a dating event, not trivia night. He didn’t even smile. Zero sense of humor.”

  She took a long sip of wine.

  “This was a total bust,” she concluded.

  “I don’t know, I liked one of them,” I confessed.

  She looked horrified.

  “God, which one?”

  “Cale,” I said.

  I nodded in his direction. He was standing by one of the tables, looking at something on his phone.

  “Huh,” she said, looking back and forth between us, assessing.

  “Yeah, you two could make sense.”

  “You didn’t like him?”

  “I tuned out after he mentioned hiking,” she said, mock vomiting.

  The organizer gathered us all together and said there were six matches—a new record. Sahana and I eyed each other, disbelieving this statement. Our cards were given back to us. I was privately embarrassed at how my heart was pounding in anticipation. When I flipped over the card, the word “MATCH” was stamped next to Cale’s name. I looked up at him immediately, and he was already looking at me. We both looked down, shyly, then up again. He gave me a nod, and we walked toward each other.

  “So,” I said, “I’m one of your matches?”

  I figured he’d matched with all three of the women on his card; after all, he was the least offensive man in the room. I figured if there were six matches, three were with him.

  “You’re my only match,” he said.

  This became our line, the line we would say to each other in lieu of the overused “I love you.” Cale’s wedding vows ended with that line.

  “Well, then” was all I managed to say.

  “What about you? I’m guessing you have the awkward duty of greeting your other matches,” he said.

  “You’re my only one too,” I said.

  I felt my cheeks flushing, had to look away for a second.

  “That makes things much easier.”

  “Much,” I agreed.

  He leaned in, whispered in a conspiring tone that made me feel like we were already friends (or more than friends), “Who do you think the other matches are?”

  “I have no idea.”

  We looked around the room and, sure enough, there were five other insta-couples, chatting. Someone had paired with the Nissan GT-R guy—a shock. Sahana was stuck talking to the guy with braces who, like her, hadn’t matched with anyone.

  “I’m glad my coworker and I took separate cars,” he said, nodding toward Jeff, who was canoodling—an obnoxious word, but perfectly descriptive of the scene—with the twenty-something brunette.

  “Smart of you,” I said.

  “I had a feeling he was here for a hookup.”

  I finger-combed a strand of hair behind my ear. “And what are you here for?”

  “I just came for the comedy,” he said. “Meeting you is an unexpected plus.”

  “‘An unexpected plus,’” I echoed. “Might be the strangest compliment I’ve ever received on a first date.”

  “I wouldn’t count this as a first date,” he said. “I have to at least buy you a drink or something.”

  Sahana appeared beside us.

  “Did you just mention buying her a drink?” she said to Cale.

  He laughed good-naturedly. “I did.”

  “Can you do that now? And can I be a third wheel?”

  Cale looked at me, and I just shrugged.

  From there, Cale, Sahana, and I walked ten minutes to a Mexican restaurant because Sahana wanted margaritas. We shared a pitcher, though I think Sahana drank most of it. Cale was quiet, but not in a strange way. He just struck me as more of an observer. Sahana is always more than happy to do the majority of the talking in any social situation, and he seemed amused by her, and by the way I was amused by her. We covered basics: he hadn’t been married before, didn’t have kids, voted Democrat, liked dogs but didn’t have any pets. When we parted ways—with each other’s numbers entered into our phones—Sahana admitted that she didn’t see any red flags. And Sahana always sees red flags.

  “Maybe this one is a good one,” she said.

  “Or maybe you’re drunk,” I told her.

  “Maybe.”

  A COUPLE MONTHS into our relationship—which consisted largely of hiking in the foothills, drinking wine, and trying out new recipes—Cale and I were driving back from a day hike at Bogus Basin when he told me, “I don’t know if we should see each other anymore.”

  The statement was prefaced by nothing. We’d had a nice time on the hike, even took a selfie at a particularly pretty lookout.

  “What do you mean?” I asked him.

  I was already mentally texting Sahana in my head, telling her that we’d been wrong about Cale being one of the good ones.

  “It’s just gotten serious pretty fast and … I guess I’m just not sure, and it doesn’t feel fair to you if I’m not sure.”

  “Not sure of what, exactly?” I asked him.

  “Not sure about marriage and all that.”

  I feigned shock. Of course, I’d thought about marrying him—every woman in her thirties is thinking about marriage when she dates someone longer than a few weeks.

  “Who said anything about marriage?” I said, hoping my tone made him feel stupid for classifying me as a ring chaser.

  Looking back, maybe this was a mistake. Maybe I shouldn’t have been trying to convince him to stay with me. Maybe I should have let him go, if that’s what he’d wanted.

  “I guess I just assumed,” he said.

  “You should stop that,” I said, sassy.

  I suppose I gave him the impression I was a confident, cool girl who would never expect too much. This impression was false. I maintained it until Evie was born, and then I became a woman who expected a lot.

  “I’ve never met anyone quite like you,” he said, taking his eyes off the road and smiling at me for a quick second.

  It’s then I knew that we wouldn’t break up, and I wouldn’t mention this to Sahana. She would want to analyze it to death. She would label him an “avoidant personality,” the type of personality I always seem attracted to, though I just refer to it as “mysterious” or “complicated.” I don’t know what it is about that type; I like the challenge, I suppose. I like the feeling of winning when they bite at my bait, even if I’ve exhausted myself with my line in the water for days on end.

  WE DATED A year before Cale invited me to move in with him. Even at the age of thirty-three, I’d never lived with a man before. I prided myself on having my own place—a town house right next to the Greenbelt that I’d bought just six months before meeting Cale. I was nervous because, even though Cale hadn’t mentioned breaking up again, I still felt
like he wasn’t completely mine. He was reserved with his emotion. He’d waited eight months to say, “You’re my only match,” and he doled out “I love yous” sparingly, as if he had a lifetime limited supply.

  When I talked to him about my nervousness, I framed it as my being tentative about giving up my independence—again, an attempt to be that cool girl. I was independent, but it wasn’t because I was someone who didn’t need a mate; it was out of necessity. I wanted nothing more than closeness with another human. I wanted all the mush and gooeyness of romantic comedies. I wanted someone who would stay up with me for hours talking, someone truly interested in my every thought and feeling. I wanted a soul mate.

  “I mean, what if you want to break up and then I’ve sold my town house and I’m homeless?” I said, daring to give him a partial glimpse into my true concerns.

  He sighed the sigh that men give women when they are being irrational. “Ang, I wouldn’t ask you to move in with me if I thought I’d ever ask you to move out.”

  It was one of the sweetest things he’d ever said to me, and I could tell by his tone that he didn’t say it to be sweet; he said it because that’s what he felt in a very practical way.

  “Okay then,” I said.

  I moved in two weeks later.

  A few months after that, I got pregnant.

  THE SHEETS RUSTLE, and I turn to see Sahana stirring in bed. She pulls off her eye mask and squints, noticeably offended by the morning sun.

  “How long you been up?” she asks, her voice groggy. Sahana is not a morning person. She sees to it that her first client of the day is no earlier than ten o’clock.

  “I didn’t really sleep,” I say.

  She leans up, resting on her elbows. “I was hoping you’d get at least a couple hours.”

  “No such luck.”

  “You going to see him?” she says.

  I nod. “Aria is coming over, but can you stay here with Evie until she gets here?”

  “Of course,” Sahana says. “Just know that her breakfast is going to consist of one of those squeeze pouch thingies and graham crackers.”

  “I call that the Cale Special.”

  She laughs, then stops. “I’m allowed to laugh at that, right?”

  “If you aren’t, then all is truly lost.”

  “Okay, good,” she says.

  I get out of bed, go to the closet, pull out a pair of yoga pants and an oversize sweater—comfortable clothes since I figure I’ll be spending the day curled up in a chair at my husband’s bedside, waiting for him to wake up, or not wake up, or … something.

  “Call me, for any reason at all,” I say.

  “Same,” she says.

  I go upstairs. Our house (which began as Cale’s house, became our house, and may end up my house) has the entry-way, living room, and kitchen on the upper floor, the bedrooms downstairs. I busy myself cleaning the dishes in the sink. I fold and refold dish towels, stack them in their drawer with a precise orderliness that Cale would appreciate. He’s a fan of order, which is probably why having a baby has caused him so much angst. Babies are destroyers of order, the epitome of chaos.

  After wiping down the shelves of the refrigerator, I decide I’ve procrastinated enough. It is time to get in my car, drive to the hospital, and see my husband.

  TESSA

  I SEVERELY UNDERESTIMATED HOW difficult it would be for me to leave the house. Maybe Ryan is right to worry.

  Getting out of bed and walking through our apartment wasn’t a big deal, but the moment I stepped into the elevator, I felt like I couldn’t catch my breath. Then I started panicking about not being able to catch my breath. I imagined Ryan finding me dead in the elevator, literally scared to death. I managed to push the button to take me to the ground floor, and when the doors opened, I told my legs to walk, but they wouldn’t. So I crouched there in the elevator, hoping nobody would come by and ask if I was okay.

  After a few minutes, I felt more composed, so I got out of the elevator and went to the parking garage. That’s when I started to panic again. Even though it was light outside, the garage was still dark, and in my mind, I went right back there, to Ray’s, to that night. My heart pounded so hard I could feel the pulsing in my ears. My palms got sweaty. I had to crouch again. At that point, I almost gave up and decided to go back upstairs, forget my little mission to visit Cale Matthews at the hospital. But then I spotted my car, and I thought, I just have to get there. I am safe there. I crawled. I’m sure the garage has security cameras and I probably look like an insane person crawling on the ground, but I don’t care. It was the only way I could do it.

  I did feel better in my car—safe, contained. I locked my doors, looked in the back seat to make sure nobody was hiding. I felt like a little kid, checking the closet for the bogeyman before bed. I put the hospital address into my phone, and the robotic voice started giving me directions. There was something comforting about that voice—so even, steady, unemotional.

  The drive to the hospital was fine, but I got panicky again when I realized I’d have to park in another dark parking garage. I knew I’d panic in there, feel like I was trapped, with just one way out. I decided to park on a side street instead, a few blocks from the hospital, figuring the walk would be good for my nerves.

  So now I’m at the hospital. It’s busy, people coming and going. Someone bumps my elbow as I pass through the sliding doors, and I jump about three feet in the air. I’m on edge, on guard. I wonder if I’ll always be this way, if the shooting will make me into a person who can’t go on airplanes, a person traumatized by fireworks on the Fourth of July, a person who refuses to sit with her back to the door, like someone in the mafia.

  I make my way to the information desk in the lobby area and stand in line behind a couple other people, my head on a swivel, checking my surroundings. A voice comes over the loudspeaker, calling someone’s name, and it’s so loud I flinch.

  When I get to the desk, I tell the woman I’m here to see a patient. She gives me a tight smile.

  “Name?” she says.

  “Cale Matthews,” I say, clearing my throat.

  I notice someone passing by out of the corner of my eye. I notice this person coming closer.

  I turn, heart racing.

  It’s a woman.

  She is looking at me funny.

  “Did you say Cale Matthews?” she asks. I wonder if she’s a reporter, lurking at the hospital, looking for friends and family members of those injured at Ray’s. She looks too disheveled to be a reporter though. Her hair is in a messy bun, she isn’t wearing any makeup, and there are plump bags under her eyes.

  I’m just standing there, dumb, when she says again, “Cale Matthews?”

  “Um, yeah,” I say.

  She’s still looking at me funny, scanning me up and down.

  “Who are you?” she asks.

  The person in line behind me sighs loudly so I step away, mumbling a half-hearted “thank you” to the woman behind the desk.

  “I’m Tessa,” I say to the mystery woman once I’m a good couple feet away from the information desk.

  The woman looks impatient, annoyed.

  “How do you know my husband?” she says.

  So she’s Cale Matthews’s wife.

  I realize quickly how this must look to her—a young woman coming to the hospital, asking to visit her husband.

  “I don’t really know him,” I say.

  She doesn’t look convinced.

  “I was … I was at the bar the night of the shooting,” I say.

  “With him?”

  Her eyes are big, wild.

  “No, no,” I say. I reach out to touch her arm, a reflexive gesture, an attempt at assurance. She steps back, as if my touch is a bite.

  “I was the bartender there,” I clarify.

  Her face relaxes, just slightly.

  “I was working that night. I feel like he maybe, like, saved my life,” I tell her.

  “Oh,” she says.

  “Ye
ah, I know, it’s weird of me to visit. I just … I wanted to thank him, I guess.”

  “Well, he’s in a coma,” she says.

  I’m not sure what upsets me more—this news of his condition or the anger in her tone, as if I’m at fault.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, the tears coming embarrassingly fast, too fast to be stopped.

  She exhales loud enough for me to hear and says, “No, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have snapped like that. I’m just … It’s been stressful.”

  I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand. “I understand,” I say.

  “Do you want to sit down somewhere?” she asks.

  She looks irritated, like, God, now I made this girl cry and I have to console her.

  “No, no, I’m fine,” I say. “I shouldn’t have imposed. This is your family’s private situation and—”

  “Let’s just sit.”

  She walks with a brisk pace to the far end of the waiting area, where there is an empty love seat and chair. She sits on the love seat, placing her purse on the cushion next to her, as if to make it clear that I am not to sit there. I sit in the chair across from her which, thankfully, faces the center of the room so I can see everything going on. I fear I am now a person who must always know everything going on.