The Whole Truth - Short Stories

The Rocking Horse

The Rocking Horse

by

Cassandra Dunn

The party, like most of my friends’ parties, wasn’t kid-friendly. I spent much of it chasing Dylan around, blocking him from ascending or descending stairs, pulling discarded napkins and half-full cups of alcoholic beverages from his grasp. After nearly an hour of this, Sam, gracious host and husband of my best friend, saw the trouble he was causing and stepped in. He got Dylan onto his shoulders and continued socializing, as if such an exuberantly loud hat was perfectly normal party-wear. Dylan was in heaven, and I got a precious few moments to collapse onto the pillow-laden sofa.

I took in the room from my low vantage point, the women dressed in slinky dresses and heels, while I sported Keds and the unforgiving skinny jeans that I was finally able to squeeze back into. It must’ve been nice to get dressed up. None of them had an eighteen-month old to keep up with.

One of Sam’s friends, a beautiful dark-haired, intense-gazed guy whose name I’d already forgotten, was watching me. He held up his drink, as if in toast, and I smiled. He pointed to his cup, toward the bar, toward me. I shook my head, but he kept pointing, refusing to take no for an answer. I mouthed “water,” and he bowed before heading to the kitchen.

“Brent,” he said, settling down next to me, reading my mind.

“Shoshanna.”

“I remember. Beautiful name.”

I took a long sip of the ice water. “Thanks. It’s been a long time since a man has waited on me.”

He laughed and shrugged. His profile was half illuminated in orange by the setting sun, and half in shadow. The effect was striking. He was handsome even without the appearance of glowing. I looked away, afraid I was staring. A leggy blonde, standing carefully on one stiletto, her other shoe tipped back onto the heel, eyed us from across the room.

“Your girlfriend?” I guessed. She didn’t look happy to see him fetching water for another woman.

“Yeah, I suppose.”

“You suppose?”

“She’s a girl and a friend.”

“Does she know that’s all she is? She looks ready to stab me with that heel.”

“She’s…” He turned away, careful not to look in her direction, until he had the full orange-rose hue of the sunset across his chiseled features. “Dramatic.”

“Ah, one of those,” I said, settling back. “I myself am not one of those.”

“I know. That’s why I’m sitting here.”

He looked me over, his brown eyes shining gold in the fading sunlight. I laughed, high and nervous, butterflies stirring in a way that I hadn’t experienced in years. Not since the early days with Jeremy, before the late nights, the endless cases, the constant distractions that were his daily job.

More and more since Dylan was born, it felt like Jeremy didn’t want to be around. When he was home for more than a few hours, he grew anxious, fidgety, snappish, like he couldn’t breathe around us. He found errands to run, or just withdrew into his home office, his laptop, his files, his phone. He no longer had time for my friends, the mindless chitchat of social gatherings, the mundane trappings of ordinary life. Jeremy had loftier goals. What they were exactly, I wasn’t sure. We didn’t talk much anymore.

“You have to stop looking at me like that,” I said, and Brent laughed, warm and inviting.

“Sorry,” he said, not sounding sorry in the least. He bounced a little on the sofa, testing out its firmness. “Nice ride you have here.”