Embers of the Widow

The rain was a dirty thing. Not the clean, washing kind. This was the kind that carried the city's grime down the gutter in gray ribbons, the kind that made the streetlights bleed yellow on the wet asphalt. I watched it from my car, the engine ticking as it cooled, the heater finally dying. The house in front of me was dark. Not a single light. Not even the blue flicker of a television through the blinds.

I killed the headlights and just sat there.

Three months. Three months since the funeral. Three months since I’d watched them lower my best friend into the ground while his mother stood under a black umbrella, her face a mask of stone. I hadn't seen her since. I’d meant to call. I’d picked up the phone a dozen times. But what do you say? *Hey, sorry your son is dead, want to grab coffee?* Nothing fit. Nothing felt right.

But I drove past her house every day. Twice, sometimes. A habit I couldn't break. A compulsion. I’d slow down, look at the mailbox, the dried-up flower bed, the For Sale sign that had gone up last week. That’s what finally got me out of the car. The sign.

I grabbed the bottle of wine from the passenger seat. A Malbec. The expensive kind she used to drink when Marcus and I would come over for dinner. She’d laugh at our stupid stories, refill our glasses, and tell us we were idiots. The good kind of idiots, she’d say. The kind that made life worth living.

The rain hit my face, cold and sharp. I jogged up the walkway, the concrete slick under my boots. The porch light was out, the bulb busted. I knocked. Three hard raps that echoed in the quiet street.

Nothing.

I knocked again. Harder.

The curtain in the front window twitched. Just a flicker. A shadow moving behind the glass. Then the deadbolt clicked, and the door cracked open, held by a single chain.

Her eye was all I could see. One blue eye, rimmed in red, staring at me from the dark.

“Audrey?” My voice came out rough. I cleared my throat. “It’s me. It’s Cole.”

The door shut. The chain slid. Then it opened.

She was wearing a robe. Thin. Silk. The kind that falls open when you move. Her black hair was a mess, tangled and wild, falling past her shoulders. No makeup. Her face was pale, her lips chapped, and there were dark circles under her eyes that looked like bruises. She was still the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen.

“Cole.” Her voice was a rasp. Like she hadn’t used it in days. “What are you doing here?”

“I brought wine.” I held up the bottle like an offering. “I was in the neighborhood.”

She blinked at me. Slow. Like she was processing the words one at a time. Then she laughed. A short, hollow sound that didn’t reach her eyes.

“It’s two in the morning.”

“Is it?” I looked at my watch. “Shit. I’m sorry. I can go.”

She stepped back. Held the door open wider. “Don’t be an idiot. Get inside before you drown.”

I stepped past her into the dark house. The air was stale. Heavy. It smelled like dust and stale cigarettes and something sour I didn’t want to name. The living room was a disaster. Empty bottles on the coffee table. Chinese takeout containers stacked on the floor. Clothes thrown over the back of the couch. The place looked like a crime scene.

She shut the door and leaned against it. The robe gaped at her chest, and I looked away. Fast. Too fast.

“Sorry about the mess,” she said. No apology in her voice. “I wasn’t expecting company.”

“It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine. It’s a shithole. But it’s my shithole.” She pushed off the door and walked past me, her bare feet slapping on the hardwood. She grabbed a bottle off the coffee table. Empty. Dropped it. It rolled under the couch. “I don’t have any glasses. We’ll have to drink straight from the bottle.”

“Works for me.”

She took the Malbec from my hand. Her fingers brushed mine. Cold. She twisted the cork out with a soft pop, took a long pull, and handed it back. Wine stained her lips, dark as blood.

“You look like shit,” she said.

I laughed. Actually laughed. It felt good. “Thanks. You look like you just woke up from a three-day bender.”

“Two-day. I’m pacing myself.”

I took a drink. The wine was good. Heavy. It warmed my chest. “The For Sale sign.”

Her face flickered. Something behind the exhaustion. “Yeah. I’m selling.”

“Where are you going?”

“I don’t know. Somewhere. Anywhere.” She walked to the window, pushed the curtain aside. The rain streaked down the glass, distorting the streetlights. “I can’t stay here anymore. Everything in this house has his fingerprints on it. The kitchen counter. The bathroom sink. The goddamn light switches.” Her voice cracked. “I can’t touch a light switch without thinking about his hand on it.”

I didn’t know what to say. There was nothing to say. I took another drink. Passed the bottle back.

She took it. Didn’t drink. Just held it against her chest, her fingers wrapped around the neck.

“Do you still dream about him?” she asked.

“Yeah.”

“What do you dream?”

“Stupid stuff. We’re at the arcade. We’re stealing beers from his dad’s garage. We’re driving to the coast with the windows down and the music too loud.” I swallowed. “Normal stuff. The stuff I didn’t know I was supposed to pay attention to.”

She turned from the window. Her eyes were wet. “I dream about the phone call. Every night. The phone rings, and I know. Before I even pick it up, I know. But I can’t stop myself. I have to answer. I have to hear the words. Every single night.”

“Audrey.”

“Don’t.” She held up a hand. “Don’t say you’re sorry. Don’t say it gets easier. Don’t say any of the things people say.”

“I wasn’t going to.”

“What were you going to say?”

I didn’t know. I hadn’t planned any of this. I’d just shown up with a bottle of wine and a hole in my chest that matched hers. “I was going to say I miss him too. And I don’t know what to do with that.”

She stared at me. Long enough that I started to feel the weight of it. Then she crossed the room, stopped right in front of me. Close enough that I could smell her. Cigarettes. Sleep. The faint, sweet ghost of perfume.

“I don’t know what to do with it either,” she said.

She lifted the bottle. Drank. Handed it back. Her fingers lingered on mine this time. Not cold anymore. Warm.

“Stay,” she said. “Don’t drive home in this rain. You can have the couch.”

“I don’t want to impose.”

“You already imposed when you showed up at two in the morning with wine.” The ghost of a smile. The first real one I’d seen. “One more imposition won’t kill me.”

She turned and walked toward the hallway. The robe slipped off one shoulder, exposing the curve of her neck, the hollow of her collarbone. She didn’t fix it.

“There’s a blanket in the hall closet,” she said without looking back. “Bathroom’s at the end of the hall. Don’t use my toothbrush.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

She stopped at her bedroom door. Looked over her shoulder. The dim light from the kitchen caught her face, carving shadows into the hollows of her cheeks.

“Cole.”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you for coming.”

“Yeah.”

She disappeared into the dark. The door clicked shut.

I stood in her living room, holding the half-empty bottle, listening to the rain and the silence and the sound of my own heartbeat. The couch was a mess. Pillows everywhere. I didn’t care. I sat down, kicked off my boots, and lay back. The cushions smelled like her. Like cigarettes and that perfume.

I closed my eyes.

I didn’t sleep.

I lay there, staring at the ceiling, listening for sounds from her room. Crying. Talking in her sleep. Anything. But there was nothing. Just silence. The kind of silence that’s louder than noise.

I must have drifted off eventually, because the next thing I knew, light was hitting my face, gray and weak, and someone was standing over me.

I opened my eyes.

She was wearing jeans. Tight. A black tank top that showed the straps of her bra. Her hair was pulled back, wet from a shower. No makeup. She looked younger. Fragile. Like a girl playing dress-up in her mother’s grief.

“You snore,” she said.

“I don’t snore.”

“You snore. Lightly. Like a tiny bear.”

I sat up. My neck was stiff. The blanket I hadn’t used was still folded on the armchair. “What time is it?”

“Almost noon. You slept through the apocalypse.”

“The apocalypse?”

“The rain stopped.” She held out a mug. Coffee. Black. The way I liked it. “I made breakfast. It’s eggs. They’re probably cold by now.”

“You made me breakfast?”

“Don’t read into it. I was hungry, and I didn’t want to eat alone.”

I took the coffee. Our fingers touched again. This time I didn’t look away. Neither did she.

I followed her to the kitchen. She’d cleaned. Not completely, but enough. The bottles were gone. The takeout containers were in the trash. The counters were wiped down. A plate of eggs and toast sat on the table, two forks, two napkins.

“Sit,” she said.

I sat.

She sat across from me. Picked up her fork. Started eating like it was a chore. I did the same. The eggs were good. Slightly overdone, but good. The toast was buttered. We ate in silence, and it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was the first comfortable silence I’d had in three months.

“I’m leaving in two weeks,” she said. “Closing on the house is next Friday.”

I put my fork down. “Where are you going?”

“My sister lives in Portland. I’m going to stay with her for a while. Figure things out.”

“Portland’s nice.”

“It’s gray. But so am I, so we’ll match.”

I wanted to say something. Something that would make her stay. Something that would make her laugh. Something that would fix the broken thing inside her. But I didn’t have those words. Nobody did.

“I could help you pack,” I said.

She looked up. Her blue eyes met mine. Something passed between us. Something I couldn’t name.

“Why?” she asked. “Why do you care so much?”

“Because you’re not just Marcus’s mom. You’re Audrey. And I care about Audrey.”

She stared at me. Her fork hovered over her plate. Then she put it down. Pushed her chair back. Stood up.

“Come here,” she said.

I stood.

She walked around the table. Stopped in front of me. Close. So close I could feel the heat coming off her skin.

“I’m going to do something,” she said, “and I need you to not be a gentleman about it.”

Before I could answer, she kissed me.

Her mouth was soft. Her lips parted. Her hand came up, fingers curling into my shirt, pulling me closer. I kissed her back. I couldn’t not. My hands found her waist, her hips, the curve of her spine. She tasted like coffee and something else. Something dangerous.

She pulled back. Her eyes were dark. Her breath was fast.

“Don’t,” she said. “Don’t say anything. Don’t think. Just feel.”

She took my hand. Led me out of the kitchen. Down the hall. Past the bathroom. Past the closet. To her bedroom.

The door was open. The bed was unmade. Sheets tangled. Pillows on the floor. The curtains were drawn, casting the room in a soft, gray twilight.

She pushed me onto the bed.

I landed on my back. She climbed on top of me, straddling my hips, her hands flat on my chest. Her hair had come loose from the ponytail, falling around her face in dark waves.

“I’ve thought about this,” she said. “Every time you drove past my house. Every time I saw your car slow down. I thought about it.”

“You knew?”

“Of course I knew. I’m not blind, Cole. I’m not stupid.” She leaned down. Her lips brushed my ear. “I’m just lonely.”

Her teeth grazed my earlobe. A shiver ran down my spine, hot and electric. My hands found her thighs. The denim was tight, warm from her body.

“Is this wrong?” I asked.

“I don’t care.”

“Your son was my best friend.”

“I know.” She sat up. Looked down at me. Her eyes were wet again, but her voice was steady. “I know exactly who you are. I know exactly who he was. And I know this is twisted and broken and probably a terrible idea.” She pulled her tank top over her head. Tossed it aside. Her bra was black. Lace. Her skin was pale, her shoulders sharp. “But I don’t have the energy to be good anymore. I don’t have the energy to do the right thing. I just want to feel something that isn’t pain.”

She reached behind her back. Unclasped her bra. Let it fall.

I stopped thinking.

I sat up, my hands finding her waist, pulling her close. My mouth found her neck. Her collarbone. The soft swell of her breast. She gasped. Her fingers tangled in my hair, pulling me harder against her.

“Cole,” she breathed.

I laid her back on the bed. The sheets were tangled beneath her. Her hair fanned out on the pillow. She looked up at me, her lips parted, her eyes half-lidded, and I saw it. Not just grief. Not just loneliness. Something hungry. Something that had been waiting.

I kissed her stomach. Her hip. The waistband of her jeans.

“Don’t stop,” she said.

I didn’t.

I undid her jeans. Pulled them down her legs. Her skin was warm. Soft. She lifted her hips to help me. The last piece of fabric was black lace, thin, barely there. I hooked my fingers under the waistband. She watched me. Her breath caught.

I pulled them down.

She was beautiful. Not in the polished, magazine way. In the real way. In the way that made my chest ache. Her thighs were strong. Her stomach was soft. There was a scar on her hip, small and white, from some forgotten accident. I kissed it.

“Cole.” Her voice was a whisper. A plea.

I settled between her legs. She was already wet. I touched her, light, just the tips of my fingers, and she arched her back, a sound escaping her throat that was half gasp, half moan.

“Like that,” she said. “Just like that.”

I watched her face as I moved my fingers. Her eyes closed. Her mouth opened. Her hips rolled against my hand. She was lost in it, and I was lost in watching her.

“I want you inside me,” she said.

I pulled my hand away. She made a sound of protest. I silenced it with a kiss.

I stripped off my shirt. My jeans. My boxers. She watched me, her eyes traveling down my body. When I came back to her, she wrapped her legs around my waist, pulling me close.

“Slow,” she said. “Go slow.”

I pushed into her. Inch by inch. She was tight. Hot. Her fingers dug into my shoulders. Her breath came in short, sharp gasps.

“Okay?” I asked.

“Yes. Don’t stop.”

I moved. Slow at first. Deep. She matched my rhythm, her hips rising to meet mine. Her nails raked down my back. I buried my face in her neck, breathing her in. She smelled like soap and sweat and something floral I couldn’t name.

“Faster,” she said.

I gave her faster.

The bed creaked. The headboard knocked against the wall. Her moans got louder, less controlled. I felt her start to tighten around me, her body tensing, her breath catching.

“Come for me,” I said.

She did.

Her body arched. Her cry was raw, almost a sob. I kept moving, riding it out, feeling her pulse around me. Then she pulled me down, kissed me hard, and I let go. The release hit me like a wave, hot and deep, and I buried myself in her, my forehead against hers, both of us breathing hard.

We lay there. Tangled. Sweating. The gray light from the window made everything look soft, like a photograph.

She traced a pattern on my chest with her finger. Circles. Lazy.

“That was,” she started. Stopped.

“Yeah.”

“I don’t regret it.”

“Good.”

“But I don’t know what it means.”

I turned my head to look at her. Her eyes were on my chest, not meeting mine.

“It doesn’t have to mean anything,” I said.

“That’s a lie.”

“I know.”

She laughed. Soft. Sad. “You’re a terrible liar, Cole.”

“I know that too.”

She lifted her head. Looked at me. Her eyes were red, but she wasn’t crying. Not yet.

“I’m still leaving,” she said.

“I know.”

“I can’t stay here. Not because of this. Because of everything.”

“I know.”

“But I have two weeks.”

I didn’t say anything. I just pulled her closer. She rested her head on my chest. Her hair was damp against my skin. Her hand lay flat over my heart.

The rain started again. A soft patter against the window. The house creaked around us. The world went on, indifferent and cold. But in that bed, in that room, we were warm.

Two weeks.

I didn’t know what would happen after. I didn’t know if this was a beginning or an ending or something in between. But I knew one thing for certain.

I wasn’t going to waste a single minute of it.