Read Online Cadillac Couches by Sophie B. Watson - Free Book Online Page A

only had an hour to spend together, but we did the three-hour round trip regardless. The whole way back to town I would listen to his mixed tapes and indulge in flashbacks and desperately look forward to getting home to read his liner notes.
    On holiday in late August, we discovered new hideaways all over Alberta. My favourite was Black Nugget Lake. It was our own private lake, only as big as a backyard pool and probably as deep, but it was sweet, isolated, and warm enough. After smoking a little reefer, we spent the afternoon naked on two water mattresses gently floating on the miniature lake. Encircled by bulrushes, we dozed in the sunshine like frogs basking on lily pads. Both evenings we camped there we spent in front of the fire, getting high, eating chocolate, sipping whisky, talking music, looking at the stars, hoping for northern lights. I was converted to the church of Sullivan and his way of doing things.
    After I got home from Mexico I felt a subtle shift in him. I couldn’t describe it to Isobel at the time; it was underground. He was still doing sweet things like leaving tulips in my apartment when I wasn’t there, singing goofy love songs on my answering machine. But right from that first hug at our airport reunion—he’d come to give Isobel and me a ride—there was a new space between us even though our bodies were smashed up against each other. I tried to hug him harder, to wriggle closer, but we were as close as was possible. My stomach ached.
    On the drive home I asked him: “How was your holiday?”
    â€œIt was great, you know, I did a lot of writing, some reading, saw some old tree-planting friends from out of town, played hockey with my nephews. I missed you. I wrote about ten pages in a journal . . . But how about you guys? Que pasa en Mexico?”
    â€œGreat, you know, mariachis, margaritas. Oh and Isobel had a fling with a rancher from Montana, Cowboy Bob,” I said, nodding to Isobel, who was sandwiched in between us in the front of the truck. “You’re not normally a journal writer, Sullivan, are you?” I asked.
    â€œI needed to write some stuff down. You’re always talking about your journaling and how it helps you think. I really want to think about moving. I’ve got to focus on my film stuff this year. I might have to head out east at some point. There’s so much work in film being done out there . . .”
    He was trying to work in TV and film production and learn as much as he could so he could make his own shorts one day when he rounded up enough coin. When he wasn’t with me, he was working on film stuff; that and hockey. And it was hockey season all right. I stared at the blowing snow drifts on the black highway. The cold wind felt abusive after the lush moist warm Mexican air. It was the first I’d heard of him moving cities, and the way he never said we in his plans made me nervous. I wouldn’t bring this up though, because I spent a lot of effort cultivating being the girlfriend who never laid the big heavy—it wasn’t sexy.
    But once the first suspicion was triggered, I couldn’t stop fixating. I lost all power to divert my thoughts. Which old friends had come to visit? That girl who he shared a tent with platonically for six weeks that summer before we met? That old friend? The mysterious actress? In the past he had spoken fondly of her from time to time when his tree-planting stories came up, and I’d thought about Alicia but only seriously wondered on bad premenstrual days. But why had he suddenly taken up writing in a journal? It felt like he was taking out a press release that he had secrets.
    Two weeks or so after being home from Mexico, on a weeknight, we were making dinner and I finally let myself relax. He was clearly devoted to me. He had gotten my favourite rice, was making his chicken à la Annie dish (chicken breast with ginger and pineapple), and he’d rented a