Walking on Broken Glass - Christa Allan [66]
It was the last laugh we had about the car. After Alyssa's funeral and a pitcher of martinis, I’d hurled the keys at Carl. Sober, I was a lousy pitcher. Drunk, I was dangerous. The keys had missed Carl, but not the armoire next to him. The mirror in the door shuddered, shattered, and crashed, littering the floor like puzzle pieces made of shiny glass.
Carl had screamed at me. His mouth moved up and down, up and down. He’d pointed at me, at the floor, at me again. Some words sloshed through the martini tunnel. Words like: do you know what that's worth blahblahblah crazy.
“Uh-oh,” I’d replied and stumbled past him.
He’d grabbed my arm. His thumb and forefinger met at my bone. “Stop. Get away from here before you hurt yourself. You’re barefooted. You can’t walk on broken glass.”
I yanked myself away and almost fell from the deliberateness. “Watch me.”
The next morning, while I scrubbed dried blood off the floor, he traded in the SUV for a convertible.
29
Carl closed his door and pushed the button to start the car. “Want the top down?”
I weighed the hair damage risk against the pleasure of the wind in my face and a star-drenched sky for a roof. “How about up on the way to the party and down on the way home?”
“This is your night. Whatever you want.” He leaned toward me, slid his hand under my hair, and massaged my neck. “I’ve missed you. Kiss me.”
My hands moved toward him, cradled his face. My lips tingled against his. Soft. Trusting.
His hand moved from my neck to my shoulder. His lips parted mine. I tasted salt, a hint of desperation. His other hand cupped my breast.
I flinched. Pushed his hand away. I opened my eyes. Pushed myself into the seat.
“What's wrong?”
“I thought you wanted to kiss.”
“I did. Wasn’t that what we were doing?” His voice grew edgy. “I didn’t know we had rules.”
“Well, I mean, were we going to make out in front of the hospital?”
He smiled. Not a happy smile. A condescending smile saved for a four-year-old who would ask if she could drive to the moon. “Make—(he paused)—out? We’re not in high school, Leah.” He shifted into drive and headed toward the hospital exit. “I’m your husband. You’ve been gone for weeks. I’m not supposed to touch you? Never mind. Don’t answer that. I don’t want to fight with you. Especially tonight.”
“I missed you too. I overreacted, I guess. I’m sorry.”
Lie. Lie. Lie. Does AA offer confession? Accept the things I cannot change … wisdom to know the difference. When does the serenity happen?
“Being out feels strange after being in … and there's so much more going on … like I didn’t expect to be going anywhere. Then you surprised me with this dress, going to your parents’ anniversary party …”
“You’ll be fine. We don’t have to stay all night.” He stroked my hair. “Besides, we only have this one night together before you have to go back.”
I shivered. Carl grinned. “This is a big step for me, going to this party,” I said. “I’m not sure if I’ll know what to do with myself. What do sober people do at parties?”
“Guess you’ll find out. You’re not doing this alone. You’ve got me to run interference for you. I’ll make sure you don’t go anywhere near the bar tonight. I meant what I told you at the hospital. I want you to depend on me to help.”
When Carl turned onto Oak Park Avenue, it was like turning into a festival of lights and noise. Harleys dodged around the snarls created by cars either too impatient or too oblivious to conform to lanes and traffic signals. Flashing business signs, the familiar bright arches, chicken buckets of chain restaurants, and the