A Thousand Starry Nights

by Addison Moore

  “A boat. I bought a fucking boat. Okay? I thought it would be a fun thing to do. Haul ass to Catalina once in a while. You want to slam my face in a pile of shit for that, too?” He gets up and heads to the fridge for his morning cold one. “We got this. Don’t worry. I’ll take you out on the water next weekend. Don’t lose your tits over it.” He flicks my nipple on the way back to the bedroom, longneck bottle in hand.

  Three fifty. Three hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Henry didn’t buy himself a dingy—that’s what I got in this deal, a dingy named Henry. He bought himself a yacht. And no matter how he tries to spin it, neither Catalina Island nor myself were at the forefront of his mind when he blew that wad. As much as Henry enjoys a good chemical high, he also gets off on spending my money.

  After the money grab of an altercation, the boat-altering argument in which Henry wins a yacht, I spend less time on my appearance than usual before snatching up my purse and darting out the door.

  It’s one of those over-cheery mornings when you wish that just once the weather would match your lousy mood. My truck is parked on the street because Henry has the Porsche in our one car garage. It’s small as a coffin. Henry’s oversized tank wouldn’t have fit in there anyway. It’s funny how I reference the only car I drive as Henry’s. When we came into this union, I had a Ford Escort that Henry promptly traded in for a glossy white pickup that he needed for construction. Henry came in with a sports car a bit less flashy than the one he has now. But, being an understanding and practical wife, and not wanting to pay insurance on three cars, I’ve been driving Henry’s supposed work truck ever since.

  I glance into the lending library and note a few children’s books missing. The thought of feeding young minds with literature puts a smile on my face. Once in a while I’ll receive a few donations. I always vet them just in case. Once I found a Playboy magazine, bloated and disgustingly well-appreciated. I’m sure it was one of the teenagers that Henry told to fuck off when they asked if they could see the inside of the Porsche. I told him it was harsh, that there would most likely be retribution, but Henry waved it off. I was right, though. Less than twenty-four hours went by before that glossy porn mag found its way mashed inside my lending box. I’m just glad I caught it before any of the neighborhood children got an eyeful. Henry kept the magazine—said it was a vintage copy worth at least thirty bucks. I have no clue where it ended up—probably underneath his pillow.

  We rent here at the Hollywood Luxury Villas to the tune of eighty-five hundred a month. It’s a crime spree if you ask me, and the landlord is the thief. I told Henry we could rent three apartments for what they’re fleecing us at, and all of those would be water properties where I could watch the sun melt into the Pacific like a ballerina taking one final bow. Carter and I used to do that a lot, watch the sun disintegrate into a tangerine puddle. God, I miss that. But Henry has an unnatural attachment to the West Hollywood address. He grew up in the valley and somehow believes he’s made it in life, all because of his zip code. With Henry it’s all about name-brands, flashy SUV’s, expensive Italian cars, and, apparently, yachts have been added to the roster of must have luxury goods. My mother made it a point to shelter me from the frivolousness that often came with exaggerated wealth. I think that’s where the disconnect lies between Henry and me. But, in the end, we’re both broken people. He believes money can buy you happiness, and I believe happiness lies with the one you gift the power to make you feel that way. I gifted that power to Carter, and he left me on the beach with a castle made of sand melting between my toes.

  “Aspen?” A girl’s voice calls from behind, and I cringe. And Lord knows there are so many damn reasons to cringe.

  I spin slightly to confirm my less-than-appetizing theory. Jennifer. Jenny from the block—my own unfortunate version of Chatty Cathy. Holy hell, can this woman wield words with the best of them. Not one part of my life is off limits to her nonstop prattle of an ambush Q and A. The only reason I don’t tell her to fuck off is because she’s a war widow—Afghanistan to be exact. They never had kids, but, then, I can relate on that end. Her husband, the one true love of her life, died while fighting for my freedom, therefore I regularly, and, God help me, frequently entertain her batshit self.

  “Off to work?” She nods at the bags in my hands, that dizzying smile always plastered to her face. She seems friendly but in a way it all feels forced, like an act, or a dare someone else has put her up to. “Hitting the gym after? I have a friend who hits the treadmill every single day. Hasn’t missed a day in the last four years—not even a holiday!”

  “You don’t say?” And I really wish she wouldn’t. I continue edging my way to the car, unlocking the trunk, and stuffing my extraneous junk in the back. I’m half tempted to shove her in as well just to speed along her curiosity. Look Jen! You can come along for the ride and experience my whole day as a spectator! Maybe then she won’t ask so many damn questions. Who knows? Maybe Carter will fall in love with her. He has a habit of falling for my friends. In all fairness, Cher was his friend before we ever met.

  “Look at your hair. It’s so pretty. I’ve always wanted long, dark hair.” She gives her mousy bob a quick spank. Jennifer is shorter than me by a foot and petite to the point of frailty. She’s childlike in both feature and frame. I bet her poor husband was terrified at the thought of leaving his child bride alone in this big cruel world. But as much as I like to pity her, I can’t seem to stand to be near her. “What shampoo do you use? I bet your husband loves to run his fingers through that mane.” She waggles her eyebrows, and that grimace I’m wearing freezes to my face.

  That’s another one of her obsessions, my marriage bed. It’s strange and yet sad in a way. Here she’s lost something I take for granted. It must be hard being on the outside again looking in. I bet she misses sex like a starving person misses a good hot meal. For a moment I envision a gentle, caring man, kind with the face of an angel, someone like Carter, and my heart breaks for her ten times more. Carter would have made a spectacular husband.

  I step into the street, and her hand snatches me back just as a truck honks its way past me.

  “Shit!” I seethe, jumping back onto the sidewalk and holding myself for a moment.

  My heart wallops in my throat as I give the large steel behemoth the side-eye as it bustles to a stop at the red light down the street.

  “Oh my, God.” I pant uncontrollably. That truck! Those enormous tires! My existence was almost smeared over the street like an oversized possum. “Shit!”

  “I saved your life.” Her fingers fall from my blouse with an uncelebrated release. Her cold, chalkboard gray eyes bear into mine. “I could have killed you. You could have spent your last breath on Earth, and I chose to save you.” She gives a dull huff of a laugh without a single emotion creasing her face.

  Jennifer and I stand there absorbing these truths each in our own way. The crow’s-feet around her eyes pucker as she winces to life under the sun. Her freckles spread the size of dimes, like a contagion from her forehead past the ridge of her T-shirt. Jennifer is plain in the face, and about as interesting as white bread, but this morning she’s become something just this side of my savior.

  “I have to go.” I sweep a glance up and down the street before dipping into my car. “Thank you!” I shout just before I shut the door.

  Sure she saved my life, but it was those final words she chose that sent a chill up my spine far greater than the thought of that glorified bus flattening me with its tractor-sized tires.

  I could have killed you. You could have spent your last breath on Earth, and I chose to save you.

  She gives a cheery wave as I speed down the street.

  I watch in my rear view mirror as her hand melts back to her side, that dead gaze returns to her eyes.

  So strange.

  * * *

  Stevie is the first to greet me as I step off the elevator. She’s wearing her signature white oversized T-shirt and jeans albeit both in maternity wear. Her belly,
though not anywhere near the beach ball phase, is cutely pooched out and tempting me to pet it. I’ll have to remember the temptation to reach out and touch someone when it’s my turn to hoist a kangaroo pouch around twenty-four seven. A quick breath catches in my throat because I’ve taken medicinal measures to make sure Henry and I never reach the kangaroo pouch level of our relationship. Nothing drastic or permanent, just the pill. Ironically, I do want to be a parent someday, just not with Henry. Now there’s the mother of all ironies.

  Tears burn below the surface like a flash fire, and I’m quick to blink them away.

  “I just spoke with your office bitch, and she says you haven’t had a single meeting regarding the Jen 2 app.”

  Office bitch. I openly cringe at the moniker. My secretary’s name is Pepper, as in the condiment, but Stevie refuses to say it.

  “Yes, well. That’s what today is for, and can you please stop calling her my office bitch? She has a name. It’s Pepper. Say it with me three times fast: Pepper, Pepper, Pepper.”

  “You called?” Pepper glances up from over her cool silver-wired specs, bored with the semi-fallout I seem to be having with my sibling. Pepper is well aware that Stevie partially blames her for the troubles she had with Evelyn last year. Pepper was Evelyn’s office bitch, too.

  “Schedule a meeting with Carter at eleven regarding the new app.” I offer an even-keeled smile to my sister. “Anything else your majesty would like?”

  “Yes.” She blinks her clear eyes at me. Stevie is the picture of health. You would think getting knocked up is a panacea for all things the way Stevie flaunts her glowing skin, her glossy hair. I’m so happy for my baby sister, I could cry. “We’re having an early dinner tonight at the Trattoria.” She blinks at me one time too many. “You know the drill. Enjoy your meeting, Aspen. I want to hear every dirty detail.”

  She takes off down the hall as I ditch into what I affectionately call the cave. I have a great view and luckily so because I make it a practice to leave these four walls as little as possible.

  The door opens just as I’m kicking off my heels. A part of me expects to find Carter, after all I did just extend an invite, but it’s not Carter, it’s Pepper.

  “What’s up?” I pull out my laptop and log into the company files. I like this secretive world that Henry isn’t privy to—where he’s not free to burst into the room in an alcohol-riddled tirade and spew expletives at me as if that were my sole reason for existing. Any time apart from Henry feels like a much needed vacation.

  “What’s up with you?” She drops a stack of mail onto the desk before taking a seat across from me.

  In the month and a half I’ve been here, Pepper and I have become friends much to Stevie’s discontent. In hindsight, Stevie feels as if she should’ve shoved Pepper out the door right along with Evelyn—Ford’s old fiancé, wife, whatever. She was a loon. Nevertheless, Pepper was spared the unemployment ax, and I’ve since come to deduce that she’s A) sane, and B) completely innocent of any misgivings she may have been pulled into by the felon who warmed this seat prior to my entrance. Pepper is a grad student who works on minimum wages in a position she’s overqualified for. I can’t seem to wrap my head around the logic, but, then, I’m not here to save the world, I’m here to add an artistic flair to the print and cyber matter that has this company’s good name attached to it. The one drawback of being a part of this new company is that although I’m drawing a sizable salary, the sum total of Henry’s new debt far exceeds what I actually make in a year. I’m betting those assholes will want their money a hell of a lot sooner than the twenty-four month timetable we’re looking at, that is barring a dime to be deducted for taxes, food, water, clothes, and shelter. In that case, they’ll have to wait the span of three years. The last time we tangoed with the titans, we had a six-week window to repay the bastards. And, believe me, I’m lumping Henry into that bastard scenario.

  “Why are men such assholes?” I sigh, scrolling through my morning emails. It’s funny how trying to scroll through them at home might have just saved my life or Henry’s. For a fevered moment I envision the authorities carting Henry off in a body bag. A wild pinch of shame bites through me at the thought. I’m not proud to admit I’ve had a fantasy or two that the idiots from Sonic Glass would find Henry and rather neatly and seamlessly blot his name out of the book of life. Not eternally, of course, just this life.

  A sinking feeling falls over me at the realization that I’m technically a monster, or a secret felon waiting to happen, or, worse yet, a sociopath for having all these homicidal thoughts toward my husband. My husband.

  Pepper barks out a laugh. “Geez, you sound like my sister.”

  I give a dull blink completely unaware of what I might have said out loud.

  “She’s had it with the assholes of this world,” she continues. Oh, right. Assholes. I take a deep breath. “Hey, you should totally come with me to her book club. They meet once a week. It’s at her place—and it’s not far from here. If you want I can pick you up.” Her eyebrows rise with the offer. Pepper is a pretty beachy blonde, with knowing eyes and a sharp tongue and mind. Again, much to Stevie’s chagrin, I like her.

  “No—that’s okay. I really don’t read all that much.” That’s not entirely true. I may be having a mad torrid love affair of my own with my Kindle. Of course, it’s filled with nothing but Philippa Gregory novels. God, I love that woman. That look on Henry’s face when I jokingly accused him of cheating blinks through my mind again. “Um, maybe.” I don’t see why not. When was the last time I went out that didn’t involve a bitch-fest with my sisters? I give a wry smile. Is it wrong that I lump Lincoln in with my sisters without ever giving him his penile due?

  “Nobody reads,” she assures. “Trust me, that’s not the point. Have you ever heard of the He Man Woman Haters club?”

  “The He who?” My brow peaks involuntarily. “Oh, that’s a Little Rascals thing, right?” I used to watch the reruns in black and white for the hell of it as a kid. Then the movies when they came out with my sisters—my sisters in this case meaning Stevie and Claire. Claire. I expel the sad thought of her out with a sigh. “What about it?”

  “It’s sort of like that but in reverse. It’s like a She Woman Man Haters Club. A bitch and stitch without any of the knitting, all under the pretense of a very good book.” She gives a solid wink.

  “Nice. I suppose they throw the books in for kicks.”

  “Always,” she chimes as she heads on out.

  “Well, what is it? What’s the name of the book?” I haven’t been to a single meeting in my life that I wasn’t prepared for.

  “Don’t know. It’ll be a surprise!”

  The door closes, sealing me in this ultra-luxurious cell as silent as a tomb. How did I end up in a corporate job when all I want in the world is to pour color over canvas?

  * * *

  Before I can rake a brush through my hair or reapply my lip gloss, Carter strides in with his cool sense of arrogance. His face, that body, just the sight of him stings me with a pang of deep-seated remorse. I wonder how things would be different if I had only—I stop myself short. I’ve played the “had only” game enough to know it was a losing proposition. Carter nods with his chest expanding in girth as if looking for a fight. The blue of his eyes spray out like beacons in this breathless gray expanse. Reflexively I stand to my feet as he sweeps in close, his hand clasping my fingers for no good reason. A wild electric jolt hops from his flesh to mine, and a breath locks off in my throat. There’s a pained, desperate ache in his eyes that I’ve never seen before, and it sends a searing heat across my solar plexus.

  Good God. His warm flesh stays pressed hard against mine, and it feels magical, inspiring, as if the universe just gave birth in the palm of our conjoined hands. I’ve always suspected that Carter and I had the power to birth something spectacular, something majestic that outweighed the constraints of physics and bore a strict resemblance to the face of God. Carter and I could have conquered th
is planet. We were a miracle together until we were not.

  “Why are you touching me?” The words escape me breathless, as if on some level I was both begging him to let go and at the same time begging him to hold on forever.

  His eyes knife into mine as if he were making a very concerted effort to saw his way back into my life. Carter with his machete gaze, hacking through the titanium jungle of my well-guarded heart. He doesn’t have to. That’s one location I haven’t figured out how to evict him from.

  “I see you here.” His eyes burn into mine. Carter sees me. A part of me softens at his curious words. Henry never sees me, and we live together, sleep in the same bed. “It hurts me to see you.” He winces painfully as if absorbing the sins of the world. “I’d like to start over. I want to have what we had back—the friendship.” He’s quick to tag it with a lie.

  I pull my hand back and take a seat, and he does the same. Carter and I were never that good as friends as we were something just a little more. We were on the edge of being everything to each other until other people and circumstances wedged themselves between us—namely Cher and then, of course, his sweet baby girl, Abby.

  I crimp a smile. Abby was ironically named after my mother. I mentioned to Cher once that if I ever had a baby girl I’d name her Abigail after my angel of a mom. I’ll never forget the look on Cher’s face the day she rubbed her pregnancy in my face. The last words she said to me were, I hope it’s a girl. I’ve always liked the name Abigail.

  It wasn’t enough that she was taking Carter from me. Cher wanted to have it all. I once toyed with the idea of having a baby with Henry, of it being a girl and me naming her Abigail as an FU to Cher and her power grab. But then Henry would be someone’s father, and I’m not sure I can do that to another human being.