by Nolon King
Lynette stood there with her mouth open as I stormed out to the foyer, grabbed my purse, and slammed the door on the way out.
Then I shoved the infuriatingly delicious strawberry bruschetta — drizzled with balsamic glaze and perfectly caramelized like Lynette had said — and promised myself that was my last Girls Night ever.
OLIVIA
I’d been leaning against my Mercedes for a while, wondering when Natalie was going to get home so I could get on with my night.
I hated little suburbs like this, with their tacky McMansions and manicured lawns. I liked nice things, of course, but places like Cherry Hill were sleepy at best and robotic at worst. It reminded me of a Hollywood backlot, with little inside the empty facades of all these phony lives. Families telling themselves stories of who they were, bending and twisting the truth to make themselves look better. I knew, because my time was often paid for by husbands from families like these.
Natalie’s silver Volvo slowed as she approached the house.
I smiled and looked at my watch. I wasn’t running too late, but I’d still waited a lot longer than expected. Not that I could blame her. It wasn’t like I had told Natalie I was coming.
The Volvo stopped and the lights died, then Natalie scrambled out of her SUV in a panic. I don’t mind admitting that her alarm delighted me.
She cast a wild glance over her shoulder, both sides of the street then back at me. “You can’t just show up here.”
“I think I totally can. And Jesus, where were you? What does a stay-at-home mom have going down on a Monday night?”
“You know Frank Wilder, the entertainment lawyer? I’m friends with his wife.”
I had to throttle my laugh. Frank Wilder? Holy shit, if she had any idea.
“What do you want, Olivia?”
She was breathing heavy, deeply upset. Just like she should be.
“I like the neighborhood. It’s dark, so I can’t see all the details, but I’ve seen so many that are exactly the same, it’s easy to imagine.”
She motioned toward her house. “Inside. Now!”
“I thought you’d never ask,” I said, following Natalie toward the door.
“Wait in the entry while I kill the alarm.”
“Definitely. We need to keep your family and all of your things safe.”
She opened the door and walked inside, ignoring me.
It was kind of sad, really. So far as I could tell, Natalie was a pale reflection of who she used to be. The contrast between our lives was startling. I had designed mine around fun and freedom.
I’d been doing well for a decade, and I was hitting my stride. Jobs were getting more luxurious, and more lucrative. I had an upcoming trip to Spain that would begin in Barcelona, stop in Seville, and end in Ibiza — a dream come true that somebody else would be paying for.
But that’s how you could describe most of my life.
“You’re really lucky that Ryan and the kids aren’t home,” Natalie said.
“I’m lucky, or you’re lucky? Because I would love to see them. It’s been a while … about twelve years, right Natalie? Plus another nine months?”
“Are you going to tell me what you want? Or did you just come over to make me feel guilty?” She seemed to register what I was wearing, then eyed me up and down and said, “Jesus, did you just come from a job?”
“I’m on my way to one,” I said as I walked toward the mantle, making a beeline for the neat row of family photos.
The one of them all together at Christmas.
The one of them all together on vacation.
The one of them all together at the beach.
Maybe she would want to add some of her newest photos to the collection.
It couldn’t stop the stabbing jealousy I felt. This is the life I was supposed to have.
The life I could have had with Ryan.
“Why are you stopping here on your way to a job?”
“Because it’s your job, Natalie. The one you flaked on. Victor’s been trying to contact you all day. You’re making me look bad, like you promised you wouldn’t. I went out on a limb for—”
“Nobody ever said I had to take a job. It’s still my decision.”
“Are you kidding? Do you not remember signing a contract? You have to take at least ten clients, or buy your way out.”
“This isn’t fair, Olivia. You know I was drunk during all of that. I can’t sleep with ten men. Besides, the business is illegal, so he can’t enforce the contract.”
“It just says parties.”
“What?”
“The contract. It says parties. That’s what you signed up for. It’s like a modeling contract. And yes, you can fight it, but Victor will drag it out. That will cost you time and money. But worse, I can’t imagine how hard it would be to keep a secret like that, fighting a lawsuit in private.”
It was work, trying not to smile.
I offered her an audition because every new girl who worked out earned me a bonus, then kept on paying. There was no way to lose. If Natalie landed the gig, then I made a lot of money and would keep on making it, with my former friend cranking the karmic wheel. If it didn’t work out, I wasn’t losing anything, while Natalie would get some well-earned comeuppance, and I’d have a front row seat.
“You were totally shitfaced when you made the promise, so I guess I can understand your amnesia, but a contract is a contract. And besides …” I stepped closer to Natalie and made my voice more domineering. However bad she was feeling right now, it wasn’t enough to make up for stealing Ryan. “Don’t you think you owe me this? After what you did to me? You should be thanking me, begging for ways to repay me, to make karma right. Because even though you betrayed me, I was still a good friend and let you know that your husband was cheating.”
“You did that to punish me.”
“No, not at all.” Okay, yes. “But that doesn’t mean that I didn’t believe you wanted help, or when you thanked me for the ‘awesome opportunity.’ It’s up to—”
“So now you’re my pimp?”
“Call it what you want, Natalie. But the two things I value more than anything else are my time and my reputation. You’ve now stolen one and soiled the other. I went out of my way for you with Victor. But instead of showing your gratitude, you ignored his texts all day, not giving a shit as to how that might affect my relationship with him, or the fact that I have to work tonight when I had other plans.”
“Fine, Olivia. What do you want? How do I make you feel better about my not wanting to fuck someone for money tonight?”
“Don’t you get it? This isn’t about me. This is about Victor. You need to buy him out of your contract, or he will ensure that you or your family pays in some—”
“How much is the contract?”
“Twenty thousand dollars.”
“How can it be that much?”
“Simple math, Nat. Ten clients times two grand each.”
“That’s the gross receipts — why should I have to pay a hundred percent of that to get out of the contract?”
“Because that’s what you agreed to,” I reminded her, trying not to smile. “We talked about all of this, in between your sixth and seventh drinks.”
“Fuck you, Olivia.”
The poor thing looked like she was going to cry. “Someone else is going to do that for you in about an hour and a half, so can we wrap this up?”
“You know I don’t have twenty thousand dollars right now. That’s the whole reason I was willing to talk to Victor.”
I looked at Natalie’s horrified expression, bleached of both color and faith. A sharp contrast with last year’s Christmas photo, displaying her blushing cheeks and ignorant eyes.
I held the moment, let it inflate with her fear.
Her fingers are trembling. I wonder if she’s more angry or scared, then realize that I don’t really care. I did what I came here to do, and now it’s time to get on with the rest of my night, and then the rest of my life after
that.
I stared until she blinked.
Then I said, “Victor hates it when people waste his time.” I let my expression turn hard. “And so do I. I’ll take care of this for you, but if you ever screw me over again …” I waited three beats before finishing. “I will ruin you.”
Just as I hoped, Natalie looked terrified.
I turned back to the family pictures. Then, looking at them rather than Natalie, I said, “You might want to reconsider, if not now, then soon. It definitely looks like you could use a little fun, and it’s never too late to redesign your life.”
Natalie clenched her jaw, stood straighter, and crossed her arms. “I’m married. Ryan and I will fix this, whatever it is.”
I raised my eyebrows. “You think so?”
“Leave, Olivia. Now.”
“You’re not even going to say thank you?”
A tear slid down her cheek.
And fuck, that shouldn’t make me feel bad, but it did.
I walked to the door, but turned back toward Natalie as I opened it. “When he texts you the next time, do the right thing and respond. For your sake. And for your children’s.”
Natalie turned away from me.
She shouldn’t have done that.
“And Natalie?” I called out.
She turned back around.
“I took the first picture of Ryan a year ago. He’s been doing this for a long time. Your love story is over for good, whether you want to admit it to yourself or not.”
Natalie might have said something after that, but I didn’t care.
I closed the door and I was gone.
NATALIE
There’s no way in hell I’m sleeping with ten men.
The thought kept looping inside my mind, getting louder every time I closed my eyes.
My home was filled with luxuries I couldn’t afford, and the only one I wanted was sleep.
It was almost two in the morning, and all three attempts at silencing my parade of thoughts long enough to let some shut-eye find me had failed. So I got up to sit at the kitchen table with a mug of tea.
I loved our kitchen table. Long, with blond wood and shapely legs.
Like Olivia.
My family had eaten so many meals at that table together, but the context of my life had changed, and now I couldn’t help but see everything differently, through a filter of betrayal and treachery. How many forkfuls of lies had been shoved down my throat without my even knowing it? And how many of those lies had I swallowed?
How is this my life?
Why was Olivia doing this to me? How could she still be mad after twelve years?
At least Ryan hadn’t been home. I had no idea how I would’ve explained her sudden appearance.
I also had no idea how I would’ve stopped him from screwing her behind my back. Because the way my life was going right now, that’s exactly what he would’ve tried to do.
More than anything, it hurt to admit that I didn’t know my husband.
I didn’t recognize him, because he was no longer the man that I married.
So if that changed everything, then who would I have to become to get my life back?
Who could I even be, with things the way they were? I had a measly $143.91 in savings, and that was a galaxy away from a fuck-off fund.
I couldn’t afford to leave Ryan or pay off Victor.
I couldn’t even afford to exist.
My stupid anthropology degree wasn’t going to get me anywhere, except maybe as a salesgirl at Anthropology. They might think that was cute, if I put it on the application.
That was the third time I’d had that thought in the last hour or so, and like the other two times it made me want to cry.
Then I thought all of our debt. That made me feel desperate for breath.
So. Much. Debt.
Sure, Ryan gave me enough to pay the minimum on my credit card bills each month, maybe a hundred dollars over. After doing that for years, the damage was now catastrophic. They were all maxed, and the truth was that I couldn’t stop pickling in guilt and shame and the absolute humiliation that I had no one to blame but myself.
For my selfishness.
For my plastic wants.
For letting shopping become my narcotic.
Because now I had overdosed.
And I didn’t know how to fix it.
Most of the stuff in our house I couldn’t actually give a shit about, even though it had all felt great while the boxes and bags were still in my hands. True wealth was supposed to lie not in great possessions, but in very few wants. I was the opposite. I’d bought plenty of uncommon objects and artifacts to display our success throughout my married life, and yet that had only served my longing for more.
For so many years, and for too many things, I kept telling myself that I was doing right, giving my family exactly what they needed. But did Alec and Lena need the best schools, music and language lessons?
Of course, if we wanted them to have every opportunity.
Did they always need new clothes, and pretty much whatever they wanted?
And did I need my constant rotation of new clothes or spa days? How were they opening doors for our children?
The numbers made me hate myself.
But I forced myself to do the math.
I grabbed a blank notebook — I can’t resist grabbing one whenever I’m at the bookstore — and tried to create a budget, assuming my total lack of work experience would land me a minimum wage job. Because — and this thought more than any other right then was making it really hard not to cry — I wasn’t even qualified to be a barista. Though thinking about my total spent at Hill of Beans each day, and adding it up over the last twelve years, I’d paid for at least one employee’s annual salary myself.
If I moved the kids into a shitty one-bedroom apartment, sharing a room with Lena so Alec could have his own …
If I put the kids in public school and cancelled their tutors …
If I traded the car in for a bus pass and if Alec watched Lena so I could pick up extra shifts …
I gave up. There was no way I could keep my life on track as a barely employable single mom, even with a full-time job.
And that was assuming Ryan took complete responsibility for all the debt he’d taken out in my name. If he decided to stop paying, I’d spend the rest of my life with wages attached, unable to support my kids after the banks took their share. Or I’d have to declare bankruptcy.
My vision tunneled and tightness clamped down on my chest, making it hard to breathe. Panic or heart attack? And would it be so bad if it was the latter?
Except that I couldn’t leave Alec and Lena to be raised by the kind of man who’d do this.
I grabbed Ryan’s laptop and logged into his bank account again, hoping to see that fifteen thousand dollar deposit.
It wasn’t there.
For the first time, I realized he might have a separate, secret account.
Panic squeezed my chest harder. I felt like my heart was going to pop.
Why would he need a separate account unless he wanted to be sure he could leave me without fear of retribution?
Ryan was a liar and a cheater, not of the garden I made a mistake variety. He was doing this professionally. It wasn’t a question of if he would leave me saddled with debt, it was a question of when.
I wanted to kill him.
I had no one to turn to for help. My parents died in a car crash when I was in my early twenties. My grandparents on both sides were also gone. Ryan’s parents would be glad to see me out of his life — I’d always been the slut who’d trapped their son into marriage by poking a hole in the condom. They’d loved Olivia, of course. Another of life’s awesome ironies.
I had no friends outside of the circle of moms at school. Lynette and the gang would turn on me just like they’d turned on Theresa. Sticking together, that’s what they’d call it. But it would just be more mean girl bullshit.
You could make all of this go awa
y by working for Victor.
Ten nights, ten sexual encounters, twenty thousand dollars. And I’d be free to do whatever I wanted the rest of the month.
I’d be letting ten strangers use me.
Or would I be using them?
How did it even work?
Olivia and her friends had called me a whore, but if I did this, that’s what I’d literally be.
In our women’s studies class, the professor had talked about how our capitalistic patriarchy commoditizes women’s bodies, then punishes women for taking control of the transaction. She’d told us about sacred harlots, the temple prostitutes who’d served as avatars of ancient goddesses like Inanna and Aphrodite. About the courtesans throughout history who’d wielded political influence during eras where women were literally the property of their fathers and husbands (in other words, almost all of them) — from Aspasia, lover of Pericles, to Veronica Franco, courtesan to the French king Henry III. About how women’s sexuality shaped history behind the scenes, and how women bargained with their bodies, for money, education, and power.
We’d even had a former prostitute as a guest speaker. She told us a horror story about running away her abusive parents and living on the street before getting rescued from near-starvation by a pimp who’d been both her savior and new abuser. Half the class had been in tears by the time she’d finished, but in the discussion group later, as we’d prepared to write our papers, there’d been a sort of tacit agreement that we’d never stoop so low, no matter how bad things got.
What a bunch of judgmental bitches we were.
My paper concluded that although technically prostitution is a victimless crime, it contributed to the degradation of women and encouraged men to objectify women sexually, and therefore it should be legalized but frowned upon.
If I decided to honor the contract I’d made with Victor, I was going to find out if my middle-class college self knew what the fuck she was talking about.
I sincerely hoped so.
Chapter Four
Tuesday Morning …
I pulled into Constellation the next morning, looking out of my car window and deciding which of the two annoyances I wanted to ignore more. I could see Lynette, waiting for me to get out of my car. But I wasn’t about to indulge her. I’d slept less than ninety minutes total last night, and after that shit she pulled with Theresa, I still wanted to deck her.