The End of Us

Trigger Warning: Makes reference to violence.

The sun was just beginning to lighten the sky when I slid into my car. I tossed my backpack into the backseat and rolled the windows all the way down, relishing the damp, earthy scent of the grass, the cool morning breeze on my skin. It reminded me of going camping as a kid, of waking to sounds of birdsong and quietly unzipping the tent, my bare feet on the cool ground. Occasionally there would be an animal, a chipmunk perched on a log nearby, a bird catching the proverbial worm, and if I were really lucky, a deer, gazing down at me through wide, sleepy eyes.

There were no animals this morning, but there were birds chirping, and the glow of the rising sun. And as I pulled out onto the highway, the long road stretching out endlessly in both directions, I felt the wind lift my hair from my neck, whipping it around my face like leaves in the autumn sky. It felt like waking up after a long, heavy sleep. It felt like freedom.

**********************************

When I first saw Jacob he was ordering a coffee (large Americano) from the new cafe on the corner. The opening of something new was always a big deal in our small town, something to discuss while waiting in line at the 711, along with how the high school football team was doing, and the amount of snow forecasted, and whether or not the lake would freeze over. When I was a teenager and working behind the register at that 711, it was always the same conversation. How was school? How was my mom doing? Did I think the Tigers were going to win the championship this year? (Ironically, I was a cheerleader all through high school but hated football and everyone on the team.) I would smile and make change and reply, “Fine, fine and yes, of course, go Tigers!”

Cedar Ridge was one of those towns where everyone knew everyone else by name, so obviously this tall, dark haired man ordering coffee was not from here. I watched while he took a sip and nodded appreciatively.

“Its good! You never know with places like this.” It seemed that he was talking to the room, or perhaps simply to anyone who was close enough to answer. But when his eyes landed on me, he grinned.

“No offense”, he said. “I am sure you come here all the time. But I’m from New York so..” He left the rest of the sentence hanging, as if he had already explained everything that was necessary. 

“Actually this place is new,” I replied. “But yeah, the coffee is pretty good. And I went to NYU so…”

I stared at him for a second, waiting to see how he would react to being teased by a stranger. I was pleased when he burst out laughing.

“Touche.” He then stuck out his hand. “I’m Jake. And before you ask, yes I just moved here.”

“Why?!” I scrunched up my lips. Living in a small town does that to you, makes it normal to ask very personal questions of your neighbors at the coffee shop. But Jake didn’t seem offended.

“The small town charm?” He smiled again and I noticed how it made his light brown eyes twinkle and a tiny dimple appear on his left cheek. “Any tips?”

I thought for a second. What would a former New Yorker want to know about Cedar Ridge?  

“Drive slower than molasses,” I said finally. “Also people will say good morning or good afternoon or whatever and you have to actually talk to them even if you are wearing AirPods and clearly don’t want to be bothered.” This was a personal pet peeve of mine. “Oh, and act like you are excited about the football team. All the time. Go Tigers!”

Jake nodded, taking in all of this information. “What if it isn’t football season?” he asked.

I rolled my eyes. “In Cedar Ridge it is always football season.”

I saw him at that cafe four more times that week. By the weekend I found myself ordering coffee and croissants that I did not need just to smile and say hi. On Friday he walked me home, lingering outside my front door to chat and sip his Americano in the morning sunshine. I watched him talk, watched the light dance in and out of his eyes, and imagined kissing him.

By the time I met his wife it was too late.

**********************************

I am a center lane driver, unless I am really in a hurry. I grew up believing strongly in the rule that the left lane was for passing only, despite what other people thought, and the right lane was for grandmothers and student drivers. 

It was early and the road was pretty empty, but I drove only slightly above the speed limit. If you led the pack, you got the ticket. Or a least that was what my dad had always said. 

My father had a typical small town distrust of outsiders, as well as police officers, state troopers, politicians. He kept a small collection of firearms in his home (locked in a safe of course, he was a responsible gun owner) “just in case”. He owner a generator for when a late winter blizzard knocked the power out. For my 17th birthday, he took me on a hunting trip with two of his buddies and taught me how to fire a shotgun. When I asked him why he thought a 17 year old girl would need to know how to shoot, he had looked at me like I was stupid. “Because you are a woman Meggie. And the world is full of creepers.”

He was the only one who called me Meggie. To my friends I was Meg, to my teachers at school, Margaret.

Jake had called me Mags, like I was an old lady who worked in a diner.

I wasn’t exactly sure where I was going yet. I had known I was going to leave; my bag had been packed for two weeks, but figuring out where to go was tricker. 

In movies the woman always leaves secretly, in the dead of night, usually after the man falls asleep from one too many beers. She sneaks out quietly so he doesn’t wake up, turns the headlights off, slowly backs out of the driveway with her breath held. If he hears her, she thinks he might yell, throw things, grip her wrist tightly enough to leave bruises. 

But I don’t like driving at night. And in my case, there was no one in the house to wake anyway, no one to see me leave except the birds.

**********************************

The first time Jake and I kissed we were in his car, a dark blue Prius that I had made fun of. “You are a small town guy now,” I had teased. “Time to buy a pickup.” The second time was down by the water, our toes buried in the mucky lake bottom. 

The third time we were in his bedroom. The bed was still made, the bright flowered comforter pulled all the way up to the pillows. I fell back onto it just like every scene from every romance movie ever made, and just then I noticed the framed photo on the nightstand.

“Who is that?” I ran my fingers through his dark hair, enjoying the tickling on my skin.

“Um, that’s Jess.”

I paused, waiting for further instructions.

“Well Jess is..”

I shook my head, a tiny smile passing across my lips. I was 27 years old. This wasn’t my first rodeo.

“I get it Jake. Jess is your wife. You’re married.”

He nodded. He was quiet, ashamed. A lock of his hair fell over his eyes and I reached out and brushed it away. Then I kissed him again, pulling him onto the bed towards me.

“Yeah, well Jess is not my problem,” I said. 

Jake’s wife traveled a lot for work so it had been easy to find ways to be together. Still, there were times when our situation was not ideal. Once, I called his cellphone and she answered instead. “Jake’s in the shower, can I take a message?” I pretended to be a salesperson, said I would call back later. I lay awake for hours that night, her soft, melodic voice on repeat in my mind. “Jake’s in the shower. Jake’s in the shower.” I pictured him coming out of the bathroom, his damp body wrapped in a towel, steam escaping through the open door like morning fog over the lake. I pictured him crossing the bedroom to get dressed, her grabbing his wrist to stop him, laughter.

That was a rough night.

Another time, Jess canceled her trip at the last minute, having come down with a sudden flu. I imagined him bringing her chicken soup and Tylenol while she napped underneath the fuzzy blankets. I cried myself to sleep that night, alone, in my own bed instead of his, his warm sturdy arms wrapped around her instead of me.

Occasionally, I would get in my car and drive past their house, pausing long enough to peer through the front window, between the two blue curtains. I saw them on the couch watching TV, him standing in the kitchen by the stove. A few times when I arrived, the curtains were pulled all the way closed, and on those night I would sit there for longer, my eyes red hot, shooting imaginary lasers into Jake’s living room. I pictured them together on those nights, their bodies pushed into the couch cushions, skin on skin, lips on lips. When I drove away my hands gripped the steering wheel so hard that my fingers hurt for hours.

Sometimes Jake saw me there, and he would beg me to stop. “Please Mags”, he would say. “It is only a matter of time before she sees you.”

I would nod quietly, biting my lip against the words that wanted to burst out. That I wanted her to see me. That maybe if she saw me she would go away for good, drive out of Cedar Ridge like a racecar about to cross the finish line, leaving Jake distraught and desperate, with me to pick up the pieces.

He broke up with me on a Monday. It was raining outside and my wet socks were hanging over one of the dining room chairs. “She wants to start a family”, he said, as if that was a reasonable excuse for breaking my heart. “I can’t be that guy.”

I nodded as if that all made perfect sense.

“Im sorry Mags”, he said. “But it was fun while it lasted right?”

That grin, the one that lit up his eyes. 

I agreed. It had indeed been fun while it lasted.

That night I drove away slowly, as if I were learning the skills for the first time. Gas. Break. Look both ways at the railroad tracks.

Two weeks later, I placed a loaded shotgun in the trunk of my car.

**********************************

I took the interstate, drove at slightly above the speed limit for almost 3 hours. I stopped at a rest area for a cup of coffee (large Americano, no sugar) and a cheese danish. The coffee tasted like water. 

I drove for two more hours before taking a random exit onto a small country highway. Tall trees framed the road on both sides, their branches reaching towards the sun, I knew places like this. There would be a bridge soon, a muddy lake. 

I sipped my bad coffee and remembered the smell of Jake’s hair.

I came upon an old wooden bridge about a mile later, the boards dark and weather beaten. Below it was a stream and off in the distance a deep, brown lake. The sun was high in the sky now, its reflection twinkling off the water like fireworks. I pulled off the road and left the car between two trees. Then I opened the trunk.

**********************************

I continued to drive by Jake’s house, knowing there was nothing he could do to stop me. When his wife was gone, I would sometimes just sit there in my car for over an hour, staring at the window with its dark blue curtains. At first he would text me, please stop, please just leave us alone. Eventually he blocked me and deleted my number. 

It was the “us” that got me. Leave us alone. How dare he be an “us”?! We were an US, he and I!

Jess went on a trip every few weeks or so. Usually they were for long weekends, Thursday through Sunday. 

It was a Friday, around 5am, right before the sun rose over the mountains, when I finally entered the house again. 

**********************************

I don’t really know what town I was near. Perhaps it was a small country one, just like Cedar Ridge. Maybe people met up at the local cafe, talked about the weather, the local football team. (Go Tigers!) Maybe one morning, a rumor spread around the town, the state troopers had discovered a body in the lake. No one knew who it was, only that he was a middle aged man, tall, with dark brown hair.

People would chatter excitedly about it while sipping their coffee; nothing like this ever happened in their small town. But eventually they would go back to complaining about the quarterback, how he should have gotten that last touchdown, how the coach was old and washed up.

I wouldn’t know. I was already long gone, speeding down the interstate to another town, another life, the wind rushing through my hair.