And then there are the other dreams. The ones that need no explanation but result in my waking with a familiar throbbing between my legs, confusion and lust and guilt all roiling in my stomach.
“Mia,” he says, his voice suddenly serious.
“Yeah?” Mine rises an octave with nerves; the fear that he could see exactly what I was thinking.
“That plant you’re attacking?”
I look down.
“Yeah.”
“That’s the Japanese eggplant.”
“Oh.”
I glance back up at him in time to see him cover a smile with his wrist. I shake my head, trying to clear it. Stupid dreams.
* * *
Later, we stand sore and sweating and covered in dirt, admiring our hard work. Every inch of my exposed skin is on fire, and I realize belatedly that I should have slathered on sunscreen or at least worn a hat, as Harrison always likes to remind me.
“What now?” I ask.
Oliver slaps at a mosquito, scratches the back of his neck. “Well, you’ll want to get some compost to replace the nutrients the soil has lost and then you could plant some fall vegetables in the empty areas if you want. July is perfect for starting kale, lettuce, spinach.”
“OK.” I nod, as he pauses to take a breath.
“And then, maybe pull weeds once a week? Water regularly? You know, the bare minimum garden upkeep.” He’s teasing me again.
“In my defense, the irrigation system broke right after we moved in.”
“Oh. You didn’t say—I could probably fix that.” He starts scanning the ground looking for the tubing.
“No, no,” I say. “You’ve done enough. Truly. I don’t know how I can repay you.”
“We’ll call it even,” he says. “Although, if you’re ever in Philly, let me know. You can take me to the Rodin. Let me get my Philly card back.”
I laugh. “Deal.”
“OK, then,” he says, when we’ve reached the driveway. “I guess I’ll see you.”
And even though I know it’s just something people say, I wonder if it’s true. Though I suppose I could run into him again sometime, we have no reason to see each other on purpose, and I try to ignore the twinge of disappointment tugging my belly.
“Thanks again.” He stands there for a moment, looks as if he’s going to say something else. But then he turns and I wonder if I was imagining it. The hesitation.
I watch as he gets in the Prius, executes a perfect three-point turn in the driveway and waves as he drives off back toward the road. I lift a hand, and then his car is swallowed up by the trees, and he’s gone—like a dream evaporating in the bright light of morning.
* * *
There are few things I find more obnoxious in life than those couples who gush in clichéd platitudes, reminiscing about the beginning of their relationships: When I met him, I knew he was the one, or It was like I’d known her forever.
Oh my gosh, how sweet, I always respond, smiling and nodding, while inside I’m thinking: Please stop. You sound like a freakin’ Nicholas Sparks novel.
When I first met Harrison, he was standing by one of Prisha Khanna’s life-size black-and-white canvas photographs: the one of two naked women loosely intertwined like an infinity scarf; a Celtic knot. He was impossibly handsome, in his black square glasses, his Skid Row T-shirt, holding a cotton-candy-pink martini in one hand and a navy sport coat in the other. When he smiled at me, part of me died a little, while part of me came completely alive.
But he felt brand-new—like a wrapped present, and I was a child on her birthday who couldn’t wait to find out what was inside.
Which is why no one could have been more surprised than me when it occurs to me as I stand frozen alone at the edge of my driveway that that feeling I couldn’t name earlier—when Oliver’s profile triggered the flood of dreams—wasn’t just a passing sense of familiarity. Or déjà vu.
It was that—even though I didn’t even know any basic facts about him until today—I felt like I’d known him forever.
And all at once, I feel ridiculous and foolish.
I give my head a firm shake, shoot one last glance at the garden, the square patch of mostly brown soil waiting for whatever comes next, and turn and walk into my house.
Chapter 8
Later that night, Harrison is lying beside me, his skin still humid from the shower, his head propped up on three pillows. He’s reading a worn copy of The Hobbit. Usually, his nose is stuck in one of his medical journals, which he keeps a stack of both beside the bed and on the back of the toilet, reading them cover to cover every month like most men devour ESPN or Esquire. But every now and then he picks up a real book—Stephen King, Michael Crichton or J. R. R. Tolkien, who was a favorite of his growing up. He rereads The Hobbit and Lord of the Rings every couple of years, and I’ve always found it endearing, the way I can picture him as a child, all legs and arms and big round eyes discovering the story for the first time. It’s always made me feel closer to him, somehow, knowing specific details of his life before me like that. But tonight he feels distant—unreachable, even though my hand is inches away from his. And I know it’s my guilt lying between us.
I know I didn’t do anything wrong, technically. And I know it’s perfectly normal to be attracted to other people, even when you’re married. I’m only human. But is it normal to keep thinking about them, long after they’re gone? I keep having flashbacks every time I try to put him out of my mind. Oliver, sweating in the garden. Oliver, his deep laugh ringing in the air. Oliver, nearly looking through me with those pools of ink he has for eyes. It’s not that I’ve wanted to—but it’s like that old adage when someone tells you not to think about an elephant and then that’s the only thing you can think of.
And of course I told Harrison—not about the sweat and the triceps and the intense eyes—but about Oliver. Running into him and then him coming to help in the garden.
“Really? Wow—people in small towns really are nice,” he said, and then stopped in his tracks at the sight of my lobster-red cheeks and nose. “Yikes, that looks painful.” When he noticed the large mixing bowl on the counter filled with about thirty jalapeños, he said: “Is this your way of telling me you want a ten-gallon vat of salsa for dinner?”
He didn’t mention my one-time confession of dreaming about Oliver, and I wondered if he even remembered. Maybe I should have said more—but to what end? Remember how I told you I dream about him? Yep, still happening.