The problem, (and for the record it was a problem), was that he knew where she worked, which soon enough turned into knowing where she lived. It had happened innocently enough. He found errands to do close to where she could be, around the time she might be there. If say, she was leaving work at 5 o'clock, he could be leaving the dry cleaner's down the block at five o'clock. It was just that easy.
Her SUV was easy to spot, pearly white and freshly washed against the gray of the now-dirty snow on the roadways, glinting in each street light she past. It was easy enough to pull in behind her, one more older-model pick-up on the streets of Anchorage. He got off the highway where she did, but didn't pull into her apartment complex. The point was not to watch her get out of her car, hoping she would look his way and praying she wouldn't. Watching to see which door was hers, which deadbolt her key unlocked each night. Which light turned on when she closed the door behind her, shutting the cold and the world and the sometimes cold world out behind her.
So he kept driving, and instead went home, and found the door that his key could open, and went inside and shut himself in and sat in the dark, feeling wrong about this small violation, and promising that it would not happen again. And it didn't happen again, not for another few months when he was in the area and it was 4:45 and some of his button-down shirts were in a plastic shopping bag on the floor of the passenger side of the cab of the truck, waiting to be laundered and pressed by professionals with no tolerance for wrinkles. And so he found the dry cleaner's, and stopped for coffee next door, and low and behold it was 5:05 and he was exiting one lot as she was exiting another, across the street, and he felt the same tug and the same yearning for what he'd had fleetingly but forgot to hold onto. He'd forgot to tell her that it wasn't about Ben or Audrey, who were still together and still In Love (or at least Audrey was). And if it had been about them, in the middle somewhere, before they were finished and she'd pushed him away from the smooth damp warmth of her thighs, pushed him aside and compartmentalized, it had been about two other people. About Esme. And Barry. And Esme and Barry and everything it shouldn't, but did, represent.
But this time, the second time he followed the pearly white SUV, it did not drive home. It, and she with it, pulled into the parking lot of a dive-bar with a sparse but loyal clientele. And Barry found his pick up pulling in behind it, and parking an aisle away. And it was dark and cold and poorly lit but he could see her dark curls in the interior light of the cabin of the SUV when her door opened, see her reach across the seat and grab for her purse, see one lean leg exit the vehicle, followed by the second. High heeled shoes gingerly avoiding slush puddles caused by the intermittent melting of snow and ice, the black wool pea-coat being pulled in tight against her body as she closed the door behind her with a 'thud', and all was dark again, and she was just a shadow to him.
And as much as he'd like to say that, for Ben's sake (and for Audrey's sake... for surely his choice here would affect Ben, would alter his behavior in some small but dramatic way which could only inevitably destroy a small bit of his sister's heart), for everyone's sake he would like to say he turned the ignition on the truck, and that it roared to life and that, after watching her disappear into the bar he drove away. For his own sake, maybe, he wanted to be able to say this. But instead he got out, and he followed her inside. And neither of them was surprised that she had a beer waiting for him at the bar.
Esme had seen him exiting the parking lot of the small shopping center, seen him make a rather brave left hand turn after she made her right onto the Glenn Highway. She had watched the black older model Chevy pick up, and it had to be at least 20 years old, moving along behind her. He was not keeping a lot of distance between their vehicles, he was not trying to camoflauge what may or may not have been a mere coincidence in circumstances at that time. She wasn't sure, didn't decide, really, that he was following her until she made the decision to pull into the parking lot at the bar. She'd intended to go straight home after work. She had made plans with her sister. They weren't big plans, it would not be a hassle if she were late, or had to cancel. It was a shared interest in a particularly crass reality TV show which drew their shared attention and facilitated them, spending time together. But it was a weekly show, and she recorded all episodes in the event that the plans which ever so slightly renewed her link to her sister were canceled, as they were at least once a month, usually on Elisa's end. A volunteer meeting, or a children's sleep over, or a make-up yoga class.
This will go better, she knows, if she speaks first. About what happened between them. The only way to move past his reasons for sleeping with her were to give them voice, and take away their mystery and thus their power.
He sat down next to her, and they sat next to each other for a long moment, neither of them saying anything or looking anywhere except straight ahead at a flickering Budweiser sign. Esme spoke first. "I'm not as horrible as you think, if that's what this is about again. I didn't go back to him again, so you can save it. I don't deserve it."
"I wish you wouldn't assume I'm going to accuse you of something, or berate you or call you names. It makes what I'm going to say harder, if you are bracing yourself against whatever it is before I've even said a word."
"You fucked me to get back at him. I fucked you to get back at him. That's the only other thing between us that calls for discussion, except there isn't any need. It is what it is."
"And that's all it is."
Fucking men. Go to the trouble of letting them off one hook and they close their mouths around another. Esme took a sip from her beer. They'd served it in the bottle. She'd ordered them Newcastles because nearly every man she's ever dated loved Newcastle, and she realized again that she disliked Newcastle much like she disliked nearly every man she'd ever dated. She could feel his eyes on her, but as usual she couldn't have wagered a decent bet on what he was thinking.
They were quiet for a minute, until Barry's curiosity got the better of him. "You haven't seen him at all? He hasn't called?" And she knew the tone, it was pity. It was 'Oh, you slept with Ben again, and he didn't call you...again'. As usual she didn't want the pity, and this time she didn't deserve it. This time she didn't want Ben calling her. Didn't bring her cell phone into bed with her, didn't close her eyes to better remember the feel of his hands on her.
It had been a few months since that morning with Barry, and his hair had grown enough that when he cut it the blond was gone. He was back to dark brown, his hair cropped just short enough that it only betrayed a hint of wave.
Esme took another sip of beer, tried not to wince at the taste, and turned her attention to Barry only to find he'd moved in closer and was watching her with interest. "What?" she said.
"Sometimes I think about that morning, and I think it wasn't right. I think maybe we should have waited, should've given us a chance, separate from him...but mostly when I think about being with you," Barry lowered his voice to a near-whisper, "I know it was right, and I want to do it again."
Esme found her eyes drawn to his, found him irristitible in this moment and, absurdly, in every other moment they'd ever had. Every moment when she had resisted, had dismissed him in the way she dismissed other visually pleasing things. A nice car, but known for maintenance issues. Cute boots, but low quality leather. A striking watch, but she has a perfectly good watch. His eyes, sad looking eyes, searched hers.
"Clever trick." She said, pushing away from the bar, grabbing first her beer and then his, and moving away from the bar and towards a booth in a darkened corner.
It took Barry a few minutes to catch up with her, but she refused to look until finally she thought maybe he wasn't coming and she glanced around for him. He was making his way toward the table, a new drink in his hands. He set the glass on the table in front of her, sat down and moved in until his back was against the wall, so that he was next to her instead of across from her.
He pointed at the drink. "Seven and seven. What trick?" She took a sip and pushed her beer toward him.
"With the eyes. The seductive yet vulnerable look. Sexy, but approachable. Wanting to be approached."
She sighed, and found herself tired all of a sudden. She hadn't eaten yet, would be tipsy when she showed up at her sister's house. There'd be a discussion. What are you doing with your life? Where can you go from here? Where could anyone go from where you are? It exhausted her just thinking about it.
It had only been a few months since she'd seen him but Barry must have lived in his leather jacket. So pristine not long ago, now worn and creased and infinitely more rugged looking.
