I sleep on the floor in the main room, curled up in the sheets and comforter set that I bought at Walmart. I could have made the drive back to the store, but I was so tired I could barely stand anymore.  It was pretty terrible, and when I wake up the next morning I’m almost certain I’m dead and in hell.  No, not hell, just Maryland.

The sun is streaming in through the windows and blinding me in the most cheerful, horrible way.  I take a minute to stretch out, arching my back and hearing almost every bone and joint in my body scream in horror.  I am too old to be sleeping on wood floors with a cheap comforter as my only cushion. 

The first thing on my mind is coffee, but I don’t have a coffee pot.  The second thing on my mind is coffee, but alas, I still don’t have a coffee pot.  The crazy thing about coffee is, once you need it to survive, you die in the morning when it’s not there.  My phone is plugged in to charge across the room, and I army crawl over to it.  I don’t have enough energy to actually stand up or use any large muscle groups.

I have a few text messages.  The first one is from Susan, the part time pastry chef here in Maryland.  She is texting to let me know that she’s covering everything that morning at Tiny Baker, and that she can pick up some hours while I am looking for a suitable replacement for Krissy.  I text her back, thanking her profusely and promising her my first born child.  The next text message is from my cousin, Laura.  She’s shocked to hear I’m in Maryland and says she desperately wants to get together to catch up.

Absolutely! Let’s have dinner soon. I send her the message and sit up, looking around the bare room.  It’s a good size, but it’s so empty.  I wonder if I should waste the time to get a sofa and a television, a few lamps and maybe paint the walls something that doesn’t scream “juvenile detention center” quite so much.  I wonder if it’s worth my time and money.  Perhaps.  After looking over the state of the bakery last night, I have this terrible nagging feeling that I will be in Maryland for at least a few weeks.

I spend the majority of the morning cleaning. I wipe and disinfect and scrub, figuring once everything is clean I can decide what to do with the place.  Whether I want to furnish it, or just get a bean bag chair and a blow up bed and call it frat boy central.  While I’m cleaning, my mind wanders.  I think about my Mom, and my family and everyone still in Maryland.  I think about Tom and Tiny Baker.  I think about how sweaty and disgusting I feel. 

It takes me until nearly four in the afternoon but I finish cleaning, and am covered in a light film of dust, cleaning product and sweat.  I haven’t eaten all day, and I’m running on negative amounts of sleep. I can’t take a shower at the cottage, since I don’t have any towels or soap, so I decide to make the short hike up the hill to the big house, aka The Smokey Oyster. I figure if I don’t take a break, get some food and get cleaned up soon, I may turn into one of those primordial creatures, rising from the ooze.  I leave the comfortable air conditioned cottage, and step out into the murky summer air.  I take a change of clothes with me and begin the short trek to my mother’s B&B.

The fields around the cottage are overgrown, and the weeds come up to about mid thigh.  I can just feel the bugs and pollen collecting on my bare legs, and I am dying even more for a cool shower.  I feel the sweat slowly trickling down my back and my dark hair sticks to my forehead.  Disgusting.  I remember running through these fields as a kid, moving back and forth between the big house and the cottage. 

The big house hasn’t always been a B&B.  Mom turned it into one after Dad died, as a way to keep up with the property, pay the bills and keep her busy.  She’s been successful too.  There isn’t much to do in Havre de Grace but for some reason people keep coming.  It doesn’t matter that they are usually octogenarians.  They really enjoy the cats, and the fields, and the soupy summer air, I guess.

I make it to the house in record time, even though I can barely move my legs.  I’m tired, and sleep deprived, and still haven’t had any coffee that day.  It’s getting desperate over here.  I walk up onto the big, wrap around front porch and I knock on the door.  It feels weird, knocking, but it doesn’t really feel like my house anymore.  It’s not my home.  It only takes a moment before Mom is opening the door.  She looks me over, a bit shocked.

“Charlotte, what in the world…” She takes a step back, but doesn’t exactly invite me in.

“I was cleaning.  Can I use your shower? There’s nothing in the cottage.” I put my hands on my hips, and make a huffing noise.  My mother opens her door a fraction of an inch wider.

“I told you the cottage was empty.  Where did you sleep last night?” She asks, still not letting me inside.  I want to just collapse onto her front porch and become one with the ancient wood planks.  I feel that exhausted.

“I slept on the floor.” I don’t offer any other explanation.  We have a bit of a stare off, but I feel mostly dead inside at the moment, so I win.  She sighs and opens the door all the way.

“Honey, you can’t come in with those shoes on.” She motions to my beat up Converse.  They’re old, and falling apart, but they aren’t exactly dirty.

“Mom.” I protest, but I’m already yanking them off my feet.  I feel like my feet are dirtier than my shoes and I take a tiny bit of joy in that.  She makes a face, but lets me inside.  Stepping into the foyer, I am transported back in time.  I am immediately twelve years old, and coming home after running around outside for hours.  It smells the same, it looks the same.  I’m both astonished and a little disappointed.  Couldn’t she get a new rug? Or some nicer fake flowers for the front entryway?

“You can use the main bath at the top the stairs.  Clean towels are in the closet to the right of the bathroom.” She nods to the stairs and I once again notice how fragile she seems.  A bit lost, confused. 

“Thanks Mom.  I’ll be out of your hair in a minute.” I say, leaping toward the stairs.

“It’s no problem, Charlotte.”  She waves her hands in the air.  “Come to the kitchen when you’re done and I’ll make you a sandwich.” She says as she walks away.  I take the stairs two at a time, itching to get out of my dusty clothes and to wash the dirt off.

I’m peeling off my clothes before I even close the bathroom door, not really giving a damn if anyone sees.  I turn on the shower, full blast and get in once it’s just past bearably cool.  Hot showers in the summer are not refreshing.  I keep the water luke warm, and then take a deep breath before pushing my head and face under the spray.  So good.  A really excellent shower is a hard thing to find.  You have to be the right combination of dirty, and sweaty, and completely disgusting before you can truly appreciate being clean.

It reminds me of a shower I took two years ago, when I was in Cabo San Lucas with Tom.  We’d been outside the entire day, at the beach, playing volleyball, running up and down the shore like two drunk toddlers.  Though we weren’t drunk, and Tom is like thirty something, with me close behind. I was salty and sandy and sweaty by the time the day was over, but it was a good kind of dirty—a great day kind of dirty.  I’d gone back to my room that night and had taken the longest, most lovely cool shower.

That had been an interesting trip for me.  Tom and I had flown there together, meeting Keegan who was already there for work.  She’d been taping some shows for a yoga series she was working on, so she had been busy nearly the entire long weekend.  Even though they barely saw each other, it was honestly the first time I sort of understood why her and Tom were together.  At that point, they’d been dating off and on for about three years.  Sometimes they were hot, sometimes they were cold but it had been going on for quite some time.  It was exhausting to try and keep up with their status, so I gave up after a few months.  Tom’s career had started to really take off and Keegan had calmed down a bit, but they had started getting more serious and a bit less casual.

After our long day outside, Tom and I had met after getting cleaned up, and we’d gotten drinks on the beach.  The sun was setting, and we were sitting at this very comfy, casual beach bar.  It’s still one of my favorite places in Cabo.  Tom had ordered beers and we sat there talking and watching the sun disappear over the perfect ocean. 

“Thanks for making me come this weekend.  I’ve had a blast.” I said, taking a sip of beer.  We had spent our time during the day lying in the sun and swimming.  At night we’d gone dancing once, and had watched a movie on the beach.  Tom liked staying active, and I liked making fun of whatever he liked, so it usually meant tagging along to whatever he wanted to do. 

Tom nodded, reaching up and running a hand through his sun kissed honey brown hair.  His nose and cheeks were a little red from too much sun, and I somehow instinctually knew his shoulders and chest were bronze under the light blue tshirt he wore.

“I’m glad you came.  I needed company while Keegan worked.” He smiled, flashing his brilliant white teeth.  Whoever said British people had bad teeth had obviously never met him.

“Why come at all? If she was going to be so busy?” I tilted my head.  The question had been on my mind all weekend.  They were always following each other around, and then still not seeing each other.  He shrugged and pursed his lips, then gave me a quick smile.

“She asked me to come.  So I did.  I asked her to come see me on set a few weeks ago, and she did.” He said it simply, as if it were a given.

“Okay…” I said, not quite getting it.

“I know you’re not a huge fan of Keegan.” Tom said, just laying it all out there.  I opened my eyes wide and shook my head.

“I never said that.”

“You don’t have to get her.  You just have to know that I do.” He said it without rudeness, or anger. That’s how he was.  He could make a statement that some might find offensive, but if he didn’t mean it that way, then it just wasn’t.  He just said it simply, as if he were telling me to trust him.  He knew what he was doing.  I took a drink of beer, felt the cold, hoppy liquid fill my mouth.

“What exactly…is there to get?” I said.  Despite trusting his instinct, I’ve never been one to bite my tongue.  Tom narrowed his eyes at me, knowing he wasn’t going to get off easy with this one.  I couldn’t help it, I had to ask the question that had been eating at me since they’d met.  Since he’d announced to me that he’d met the woman he was going to marry after one date.

“She’s there for me when I need her.  She’s got a good heart.  She knows what she wants.”

“She’s beautiful.” I slipped it in, adding it quickly.  Tom rolled his eyes at me.

“She is, but that’s not why I love her.” He said.  I nodded and felt my chest tighten at his declaration.

“I trust that you are not just relying solely on the tinier of your two heads.” I shrugged and Tom sucked his cheeks in, looking wounded.

“You cut me deep, Charlie.” He whistled low and slow, and then shook his head. “Sometimes you need something that’s uncomplicated.  Keegan may not want to talk about politics or poetry, or literature in general...  She may not always get all the jokes, but the thing is that she tries and doesn’t apologize when she knows it’s just not who she is.  There’s no façade.  She is true to herself.  She’s transparent.” He ran a finger through some condensation on the bar, and watched as the water droplets formed together.  I watched his hands, strong and graceful, his nails cut short. 

“I don’t know if it’s a compliment to Keegan that she is uncomplicated and transparent.” I looked at him, waited for him to look at me.  It took him a minute but he finally did, his blue eyes a stormy gray color.

“It is if that’s what I’m looking for at the moment.  We’re not talking marriage, Charles.” He said.  Back then, he hadn’t been talking marriage.  But that had changed about year later.  We’d had another talk then, but he’d said about the same thing.  She was uncomplicated.  She was transparent.  She loved him, she was there for him.  She was beautiful.  What more could he want? I suppose it fit in with whatever Tom thought love was supposed to be.  They accepted each other, flaws and all.

“Don’t talk about marriage.” I groaned, crossing my legs.  Tom raised an eyebrow.

“Ah, little Charlie doesn’t want to get married?” He asked with a laugh.  I frowned, picking at the label on my beer bottle. 

“I don’t believe in it.” I said, shifting in my chair.  Tom leaned forward, interested.

“Why?”

“I just don’t think it’s necessary.” I shrugged.  Tom was quiet for a minute, his eyes on me.

“This is what I’m talking about, Charlie.  Transparency.  You are hidden behind so many goddamn layers.  I have to dig through the sarcastic layer, and the cheeky layer, the bullshit layer and then I can maybe…maybe get to the real Charlie.  It’s fucking exhausting.” He talked with his hands, gesturing wilding in the air around me.  I felt a flare of anger bubble inside of my chest.

“What’s wrong with layers, Tom? So I’m not flipping transparent and shallow.  I’m not a damn kiddie pool.  Maybe it’s worth digging through the layers.”  I was mad, and I didn't know why.  His jaw was clenched, and I could tell he was mad too.  This wasn’t how I had imagined the conversation going.  Tom put his hand against his mouth and touched his lips.  I looked at him, daring him to ask me more, but he didn’t.  He nodded slowly and then ordered two shots from the bartender.

He set the brown liquid down in front of me.

“You are worth digging through the layers, Charlie.  I apologize.  I didn’t mean it that way.” He said, his voice quiet and sincere.  I nodded and felt my face get hot.  “Drink up.  Good wine is a good familiar creature, if it be well used.” He tapped his shot glass against mine.  We took the shot and I grimaced.

“Iago. Othello.” I stated easily, knowing the play he had just quoted. He looked up, didn’t say anything, but just looked at me.  I felt the alcohol slide down my throat, warming up as it went down.  I coughed softly, and Tom let out a low breathy noise, and chased the shot with his beer.

“You’re definitely not a kiddie pool…more like an ocean.  Or perhaps the Mariana Trench.” He grinned. We then continued getting drunk, and all talk of Keegan and marriage and things being transparent were pushed to the side.