Читать книгу Transit Girl - Jamie Shupak - Страница 14

CHAPTER SIX

“She’s not my girlfriend. Why do you keep saying that?”

Here we go again. I don’t know why I’m expecting anything different from a guy who was caught smoking pot on the street, then thrown in jail for fighting with the arresting officer. But when something like this happens, you suddenly have no sense of reality at all. You have lost a piece of your past. The infidelity itself is small potatoes compared to the low-level brain damage that results when a whole chunk of your life turns out to have been completely different from what you thought it was. Though the infidelity isn’t the sex; the infidelity is him confiding in somebody else besides me. Her. Somebody else knows him better. Somebody else is walking and talking with him in the middle of the night. She knows more of the truth than I do, and it’s ripping my insides apart.

I survey the man—my fiancé—standing in front of me. Straggly, unkempt curls wrangled by a greasy elastic, tumble to his shoulders. The soles are starting to tear on his black high-top sneakers. Shoelaces: untied. They’re always undone, just like his hoodie. The Red Hot Chili Peppers T-shirt underneath is torn at the collar and his jeans are ripped, though not naturally so; no, he buys them that way. I shake my head. I want to tell him he’s the perfect picture of “This is your brain on drugs.” I want to tell him that everything about him seems to be hanging by a thread and how I am too, but I don’t. Instead, I look away from him to the wall in front of us. Light from the television fills the dimly lit room and flickers on us like a fire but gives us no warmth. The space between us standing here speaks more about our relationship than we have to each other lately. I look above the TV so I can jog my memory of that other man, the one I fell in love with.

There’s a picture of us outside UCLA’s football stadium, where we had our first kiss. It was the first week of school, and we met at a party in the basement of a fraternity house, our new friends from the dorm in tow. We clicked like two magnets, and hours later as I was leaving, I promised to meet him at the stadium the next day for his lacrosse team tryouts. I watched from the stands as he walked on the field with that quarterback-of-the-football-team confidence and told the coach he should be the one to take face-offs that season. Three days later I sat in those same stands and cheered him on as he, sure enough, took and won the first face-off of what would become UCLA’s first undefeated season ever. JR had that way with people. He could convince them to do whatever he wanted. Like later that same night when, after hours of postgame beer pong, he took me back to the stadium and demonstrated how we were going to climb over the gate. I didn’t want to get caught, but his Midwestern charm was strong enough to hoist me over the metal links. Those lacrosse shoulders didn’t hurt either.

Next thing I knew we were lying in the damp grass, making out on the fifty-yard line. Staying true to his grand gesture ways, seven years later he planned an elaborate marriage proposal in Paris. When we got back I put the best photos in a framed montage. There’s the one of me sitting on his shoulders under the Eiffel Tower. My hands are above my head like an Egyptian dancer, and his arms are wrapped tightly around my calves, making sure I don’t fall as I try, giggling uncontrollably, to construct our two bodies into our very own Eiffel Tower. We wandered through the streets that night, drunk on French wine and our fondness for each other.

My eyes move one to the right, to a photo where I’m sitting on his lap and his arms are extended out and around me, holding the camera, taking a selfie of us moments after he asked me to marry him. I’m holding my hands in the air, palms towards me, ring towards the camera, and the only uncertainty in this shot is which is brighter—my smile, or the reflection of my new, shiny diamond? He meant what he said that day. He did. He had to have. Right?

He definitely meant all the moves he made that night back in our hotel room too. We could barely wait to get inside the door before ripping each other’s clothes off. He threw me down on the floor and we rolled together—kissing, grabbing, giggling—all the way to the coffee table in the middle of the suite. He sat on its edge and lifted me up to him, basking in the shine of that rock on my finger, and told me he never wanted to be inside another woman again. So he stayed like that for hours—from the edge of the coffee table, to the edge of the red armchair next to the bed, to the edge of the tub. He did this thing when I was on top that I savored, that I craved: he put one hand on the small of my back, the other hand where my belly meets my hips, and moved me back and forth with exactly how much force—and at what speed—he needed in order to finish.

I wonder if he does the same thing to Courtney now. I wonder if she’s better than me in bed.

My eye catches the clock on the cable box as I leave the JR I had in Paris and look back at the one I have now, out on bail, in our bedroom. 4:52 PM. Over three hours have passed, and the only thing we’re getting closer to is my breaking point. The anger I had for him when he first got home has now turned to anger at myself. The man I loved for so long is not the man I thought he was. I must have been so blind, wanting this to be a relationship that it was never going to be. Whenever we hung out with friends of his from Chicago who were married, I’d always point out how cute they were together and he’d always tell me that we were never going to be like them. I always thought he meant because we didn’t meet and fall in love in high school. How foolish of me. I always held out hope that he would somehow change, or that we would somehow change. What an idiot I am.

I keep asking myself what I’m fighting for—a thirty-two-year-old guy who’s sleeping with his twenty-two-year-old assistant? A guy who’s dumb enough to get thrown in jail for puffing joints on the street? A man who insists on buying pretorn jeans? I’m not fighting for any of those guys. I know that. But I can’t get myself to leave this apartment, just pack a bag and leave, because I’m fighting for the couple in those pictures. I’m fighting for the life we built together over the last ten years. I’m fighting for the truth. And I’m not going to leave him—not our home or our dog or our world—until I hear the words come out of his mouth.

“Fine. She’s not your girlfriend,” I say in my I’m-negotiating-with-a-small-child voice. I’m willing to concede that point to get an answer to a much more burning question. As the words brew deep inside me I’m thinking, Please—just admit it. Please just be honest with me and be the man you always promised you would be when you got down on one knee in Paris. Now’s your chance. Here it goes, the million-dollar question. “Do you love her?”

He rolls his eyes like I should know the answer, like it’s a stupid question.

“Guils, come on, baby. I love you.”

He says it with the same emotion he’d use to ask a gas station attendant to fill his tank up with premium. And then he checks his phone for the tenth time in ten minutes. It hasn’t beeped or vibrated or let out any indication that someone’s trying to get ahold of him, but he stares at it for a full minute. Nope, nothing important going on here. I see him push a few buttons, but I can’t make out which ones. As if it would matter anyway.

“Listen I have to finish up a few emails before the crew leaves for the shoot. Why don’t you get out of your work clothes and when I’m done we’ll walk Zelda to the park.”

I nod and hop off the end of the bed. I’m angry, confused, and beaten down, but I need to see if he even has a twinge of feeling left for me. The only way to tell is for him to watch me undress. So I hop over to my left, framing myself in the door. I bend over and slowly strip off my Spanx first. Then goes the red Diane von Furstenberg dress that hugs every curve of my frame. All that’s left now is my black lace bra—one that’s always caused him to stop and perk up in the past. I put both hands behind my back and take an extra second pretending to fumble with the clasp. When you’re with someone this long, you know exactly what part of your body they like best. You know exactly how to move that part of your body to turn them on. You know every button to push and exactly how to push it. And right now I am laying on the horn like I’m about to slam into the car in front of me on the New Jersey Turnpike.

I’m standing there butt-naked in front of him. There’s barely a pinch of fat on me, from my triceps to my thighs, and even my stomach muscles look more defined than usual—not surprising considering I haven’t consumed much of anything in the last forty-eight hours. But I look good. I look sexy—from the outside, at least. I glance over to see his reaction, and he’s looking at me the same way you stare emotionless at a traffic light, waiting for it to change from red to green. No, it’s worse, because he’s actually on the phone, holding up his hand in the space between us.

“Five more minutes, babe,” he mouths.

Babe. He calls me babe, she calls him baby. It’s like Three’s fucking Company around here. Defeated, I toss on jeans and an old T-shirt and head for Zelda on the couch.

“You love me no matter what,” I say as I bury my head in her fur. We snuggle into the same position we were in this morning when all this shit started, and as if on cue, my phone starts buzzing from the kitchen counter.

I get up to see who it is. One new text message from Gemma. I click OK.

G, YOU OKAY? WHAT’S HAPPENING? I HOPE YOU’RE PACKING AND COMING BACK HERE SOOOON.

“Who’s that?” I can’t believe he has the nerve to ask, as if I’m the one who’s texting people I shouldn’t.

“It’s Gemma. You ready to go for a walk yet?”

As I start replying to her, my phone vibrates again. One new text message from Angel. I click OK.

SMILEY RILEY’S GOT A BIG SCOOP ON LINDSAY LOHAN TONIGHT—DON’T MISS IT!

Ugh. I really need to fill Angel in on everything so he knows I’m in no mood for our usual snarky recap of Sloane’s reports, like how I need sunglasses to watch, lest her shiny teeth blind me through the screen.

“Almost …” JR’s voice trails off. And then a Sam Cooke song—our song—comes wafting in from the bedroom. It’s uncanny how words like no I won’t be afraid/as long as you stand, stand by me that always meant one thing can take on such a different meaning, as if in a split second.

I turn the corner and there he is, hand out like a professional dancer. I stare at it for a moment, unsure if I can bear to touch him. He nods his head, nudging me to take his hand. I’ve seen this look on his face before—vulnerability peppered with guilt and desperation.

The last time I saw it was months ago, after we had that conversation about sleeping arrangements in the production house in Dallas. Before he told me I was crazy for caring that their rooms were next to each other, he’d said, “Are you really gonna argue about this with me right now? You’re here visiting for a few days, let’s not ruin it.” Not another word was spoken about it. Aloud, at least. Inside though, I was screaming. And here we go again; the refrain of our song emanates from the computer speakers as that of our relationship gets ready for playback. He leads us into each fire, and it’s always up to me to get us out of the blaze.

Cautiously, I take his hand. We fumble to intertwine our fingers so instead he pulls me in close and begins softly whisper-singing the chorus in my ear.

“So darlin, darlin … stand by me. Oh, stand by me. Oh stand, stand by me.”

As he sings about the sky, should it tumble and fall, or the mountains, should they crumble to the sea, my body melts into his. I’m weak, and shivering again, so he holds me even closer. If he were to write a book about winning me back, it would be a bestseller, and the last chapter would give this ten-word-sentence advice: If all else fails, insert her name into song lyrics. Works like a charm, every time. And so he croons, the way he knows I covet the most, “and Guiliana, darling, stand by me, stand by me.”

I look down and there’s Zelda, nipping at our kneecaps. I wish this was all just a bad dream. Can’t this just work? We love each other. Our family is so cute. I stoop down and pet the top of her head, which she takes as a sign that I want to play, and she darts off to find her toy. She’s getting anxious to go on the walk we promised her hours ago. JR motions down to Zelda, who’s back with her slobbered-up rope, begging for me to tug-of-war with her.

“Let me finish this one email, then we can head to the park,” he says, breaking our hold.

Zelda, seeing her opportunity, trots forward, rope in mouth. We bought it for her forever ago and despite the pile of toys in her basket under the TV, this is always her favorite. She’d dig to the ends of the earth for one more chance to put it in my hands and try to rip it away from me. I am struggling for energy, but seeing how happy it makes her, I toss it back and forth: to the kitchen, to the bedroom, on the bed, in the bathroom, and finally—whoopsie—under the couch.

“Game over, Zelda.” Not so fast. She’s at the edge of the couch sniffing, scratching, and barking for me to retrieve it for her.

“Calm down, girl.” She’s more frantic than usual, so I crouch down on my knees and look into the dusty land under the couch. I should really clean under here; it’s nasty. I swipe my arm from left to right. Nothing. I shuffle my body and peek again.

“Okay, girl. I think I see it waaaaay in the back.” I get up to give the couch a nudge to the right, then plop back down to my knees. I grab for the rope and feel something else right next to it, an old sock or something. “This is your lucky day, Zelda, two toys for the price of …” Oh my god. In my left hand I’m holding Zelda’s dust-covered rope. In my right, an even dustier black lace thong. Zelda doesn’t dive for the rope. Instead, she licks my face as she does anytime she senses fear in me and wants to make sure I’m okay.

I’m not.

“Geeeeeeeeeet off of me!” I scream.

JR comes flying around the corner from the bedroom just as I’m unraveling the black lace underwear between my index fingers and thumbs from each hand.

“They must be your …”

“No! Don’t you dare feed me that bullshit right now. Are they Courtney’s? Tell me. TELL ME NOW. WHEN WAS SHE HERE?” I pause. I wait. I think. “Hold on a second—are they someone else’s? How many girls are you fucking?” He says nothing, so I keep going.

“Speak!” I can see his wheels turning. He knows the jig is up. “Tell me, JR. When was she here, in my home, fucking my fiancé?”

“G.”

“Don’t you dare ‘G’ me right now! These are a fucking medium. I know every pair of underwear I have, and surely none of them are under the couch or a fucking size medium. You’ve been looking at my ass for ten years and you know I have never worn a size medium anything.” So much for never bringing up her ample junk in the trunk.

“G, stop. Listen …”

The look. The tone. The balls.

“No, you listen. I’ve waited all day for you to explain what the hell went on last night. To tell me that you love her. To tell me you’ve been cheating on me. To tell me anything. I’m done waiting for your goddamn answers. I’m done listening to your bullshit stories. It’s time for you to listen to me.”

Suddenly a lion was roaring from within my chest, drowning all his nonsense out. A voice bellowed in me like nothing I had ever heard before. It was so loud that I actually clamped my hand over my mouth for a second to ensure a growl didn’t come out. This thong—this fucking medium black lace thong—is what I didn’t even know I was waiting for. I had been weaponless in this battle, and now, I was armed and confident.

“It’s over, JR. We’re over. I hope you and Courtney live a long, beautiful life together. I am done. Last night was the last time I ever sleep in this home.”

“G, please.”

I don’t respond. There’s nothing more to say. I just stand there, and let the intense, vibrating silence fill the room. Hear me roar, you dick.

As we’re standing there staring at each other, I realize there is a point in most fights when a yawning chasm opens up, and you realize what you thought was a mere crack is actually a deep crevice. That’s where we are now: standing on our opposing edges, looking down. Except this time that crevice had become the Grand Canyon, and I had no idea what had caused the earth to open so widely between us. I start thinking about this morning, when the only thing more unthinkable than staying with JR was leaving him. Now the only thing more unthinkable than leaving is staying. I grab my phone and my bag and walk right out the door. The door slams behind me, cutting Zelda off, midbark.

I’m shaking as I get out onto Hudson Street. I unlock my phone and go to favorites, clawing at Gemma’s name on the list. “Ge-Ge-Gem …?” I sputter into the phone. “Meet me at T-t-t-tortilla Flats. Mama needs a drink.”