The Man I Can't Have

by Williams, Shanora

  I shrug and sip again. She sips too.

  “Do you not like commitment?”

  “I wouldn’t say that I don’t like it. Just doesn’t fit me.”

  “So, if you found this perfect woman, and she seemed like a match made in heaven, you wouldn’t try to make it work?”

  “I would try, but nine times out of ten she’d be too good to be true. Nobody’s perfect, and people come and go.”

  “Well, of course nobody’s perfect, but you learn to love the person for who they are, imperfections and all.”

  “Is that how you love your husband?”

  She narrows her eyes at me and her whole mood changes. Fuck. I couldn’t help myself. Why did I have to go there?

  “Wow.” She grabs her drink and pulls her clutch from beneath her armpit. “You’re even more of a dick when you drink,” she snaps, hopping off the stool.

  She flags the bartender down, but he’s hardly paying attention again.

  “What are you doin’, Gabby?”

  “Leaving this pity party.” She has her debit card out and yells for the bartender.

  “Come on, I didn’t mean to offend you. I’m just giving you hell.”

  “Yeah, when don’t you give me hell?” She glares up at me.

  I don’t smile, even though I really want to. She’s cute when she’s upset. A damn firecracker.

  “I ordered that drink for you, so let me pay for it.”

  “Thanks, but I don’t need you to.” The bartender finally comes to where she’s standing. I have a feeling that if she weren’t so attractive, he’d have rolled his eyes before coming her way, but he did a double take and rushed right over.

  “I got a rum and coke,” she says, sliding her card across the counter. I place my hand on top of her card and fish my wallet out with my free hand.

  “Marcel, what are you doing?”

  I ignore her, slapping a twenty on the counter. The bartender doesn’t hesitate to take it. I pick Gabby’s card up and hand it back to her. “I’m sure you don’t want your husband seein’ the charges from a bar on your card, do you? I’ve got a feelin’ he doesn’t even know you’re here.”

  Her eyes are wide now. A deeper dip forms between her brows. “Actually, I’ve bought two drinks with his card, so it doesn’t matter, and if he asked, I’d tell him where I went. I swear you are the biggest fucking asshole I have ever met!”

  She snatches up her drink and tries to elbow herself away from me, but I catch her arm, fighting a smile.

  “Get the hell off of me,” she snaps.

  “I’m just teasin’ you, little thing! Calm down!”

  She’s standing in front of me now, her drink clutched in hand. “What’s so funny about sharing money with my husband?” she demands.

  “I never said anything about it bein’ funny. I just like how riled up you get when I say somethin’ about him to you.”

  “Yeah, because my marriage is such a joke.” She rolls her eyes, and the sarcasm is heavy in her tone.

  I hold my hands up innocently. “Never said that.”

  “You’re lucky I’m pissed at him, otherwise I’d throw my drink in your face.”

  “Would you now?” I fight a grin.

  She’s fighting one too. “Hell no. I wouldn’t waste a good drink on you. You’re insane.” She looks back at the booth where her friends are. “I should get back before Meredith starts wondering what’s taking me so long.” She starts to turn, but I catch her by the arm. She clashes into me, gasping.

  “What are you—”

  “Those women will do their best to convince you to do coke one way or another. Trust me. I know women like that. I’ve attended several events with women like them. They’ll make you out as the new girl and tell you that’s the way to fit in. Don’t be like them.”

  “I’m not,” she breathes.

  “Weed is better. Still illegal here, but better.”

  She narrows her eyes. “Wait…you have weed?”

  “Do you smoke it?”

  “I used to—a lot, actually. In college. Made the whole college experience more fun.”

  “I only smoke it on the weekends.” I look at the exit. “You’ve had a shit week. I have a joint in my truck. Wouldn’t mind sharin’ it with you.”

  She’s debating with herself. Her eyes shift back over to the booth. I look with her and see the ladies she came with taking shots now. They aren’t even thinking twice about her, and as if she realizes it too, she nods.

  “Okay. Fine. We share it, and then you can take me home. I’ll text Meredith and let her know.” She plucks the straw out of her drink and chugs it down before slamming the empty glass on the counter.

  “Give you one better. We smoke the joint on the way to your house. Get a ride and a buzz at the same time.”

  She grins, like this is nothing new to her, yet it still excites her. “Even better.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  Gabby

  I’m sure it isn’t the greatest idea to have Marcel drop me off. What he said to me in the kitchen is proof enough that he’s interested in me and that I should stay far away, and at the club, he was definitely flirting. I should have walked away when I said I was going to.

  I’m a married woman. I shouldn’t even be entertaining the idea of this man, yet when his eyes drop to my legs or my chest, I can’t ignore the heat that builds up inside me. I secretly love that it’s hard for him to look away.

  The thing I like about Marcel is that even though he may be interested, he knows his limits. He’s been close all night, but not as close as he got to me in my kitchen. Maybe he, too, realized that it was wrong—wrong for him to even admit that to me—and he’s making up for it by staying in the friend zone.

  Because that’s all he can be. A friend.

  Before we left the parking lot, Marcel already had the joint lit, like he’d been waiting to leave that club and smoke it all night long. When he passed it to me, I got that old feeling back—the one I used to get in college when I’d spark a joint with my roommate, Chelsea, before a study session.

  People make weed seem like a such bad thing, but it helped me in more ways than I can count. For one, when I first got to college, I was lonely and missed my family terribly. I missed them so much it hurt sometimes. When I started smoking weed, it eased the troubles. It calmed my mind, soothed my anxiety. It settled me in a way a Xanax never could.

  After I met Kyle and he found out I did it habitually, he wanted me to stop. He found it unattractive, and at the time, all I wanted to do was please him, make him happy since we’d first started dating. It was a struggle giving it up, I admit. Some days I miss it.

  If I had a joint to smoke at home before sculpting, my artwork would better. In fact, I know it would be better, because I wouldn’t doubt myself. Let’s just say when I’m high, I don’t think too much. I just let things happen…but now that I’m alone with Marcel in his truck, I’m starting to think getting high with him is a terrible decision.

  “You don’t look like the kind of man to buy pot,” I say as a song by Eminem streams out of the speakers. It’s playing on the radio, and Marcel is tapping his thumb to it on the steering wheel.

  “It’s an occasional buy. Hope this doesn’t interfere with business.”

  “Not at all.” I take one more hit and then hand it back to him. “Believe it or not, I smoked almost every day in college.”

  “Really? Let me guess, with your husband?”

  I spit out a laugh. “Hell no. You’d never see him touch a joint. It was with my roommate.”

  “Your husband has never smoked weed before?”

  I shake my head.

  “Not surprised when it’s comin’ from a tight-ass like him.”

  I shouldn’t laugh, but I do. “You really don’t like him, huh?”

  “No, I don’t. Straight up.”

  “I honestly can’t blame you.” Marcel is pulling into Venice Heights. He goes past several houses before stopping in front of mine
. “What he did to you was wrong. I still can’t wrap my head around it. All he had to do was tell me he didn’t really want it, and I would have canceled it. I mean, he said so before, but I thought he’d genuinely changed his mind. Wasn’t expecting him to go behind my back.”

  Marcel sighs, parking the truck and shutting the lights off. He slouches in the seat, peering through the windshield. “It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have told you. Might’ve saved you the argument.”

  “No, I’m glad you told me.” I sit up in my seat, looking at him. “And deep down, I’m glad you told him to fuck off.”

  He chuckles. I smile.

  “Oh, man.” I press the back of my head on the headrest. “I haven’t felt this good in ages. Who knew all I needed was a few drinks and a joint?”

  “Well, whenever you need a joint, just let me know. I’ll have one ready for you.” His eyes find mine. His smile is complacent, eyelids heavy. He’s definitely stoned. He lowers his gaze to my dress. “When I first saw you, I didn’t even know it was you. You clean up well.”

  “Are you saying I looked like shit before?”

  “Nah. I actually prefer the natural look of a woman over all the glitz and glam. If anything, it suits you much better.”

  I feel a blush creeping up and drop my head so he can’t see. Interestingly enough, Kyle loves it more when I get dolled up and fancy.

  We’re quiet a really long time. I start to tell him that I should get inside, but he speaks again.

  “I was serious about what I said the other day. You deserve better, Gabby.”

  I meet his eyes and his are dead serious now. They shimmer from the blue lights in his dashboard. “Even if I felt like I did, it’s too late, Marcel. He’s my husband. I can’t just back out like it’s a starter-level relationship.”

  “Yeah, but I can see how scripted you are with him. That first day I met him, when you introduced us? I knew you enough to know that side of you wasn’t you. And when he got home, you looked worried about it.”

  “Worried?” My heart pounds, but I continue acting nonchalant. “How?”

  “I saw you in your studio. It’s like you knew he was comin’ and that you were wishin’ he hadn’t arrived so soon.”

  “What?” My voice is hoarse. “That is—that is insane, Marcel. I was probably annoyed about something I needed to do before he got there.”

  He doesn’t say anything, just looks at me. He knows I’m lying.

  “What?” I ask, and I can’t pretend to be nonchalant anymore.

  “How long has this been going on?”

  “Has what been going on?”

  “You pretendin’ you’re happy with him.” It’s a statement.

  Cut and dry.

  No questions about it.

  A cold, hard fact.

  I don’t even know what to say. I feel my mouth working, but no words are forming. “I—” I clamp my mouth shut. What the fuck? Who is he to question my marriage? “I need to go.” I open the door and climb out. Marcel calls after me, but I refuse to look back. I rush down my driveway, damning the cobblestone for making it harder to walk in these stupid heels.

  “Wait—Gabby!” Marcel calls, but I keep going until I’m stomping up the stoop.

  “Damn it, where is my key!” I hiss as I dig through my clutch. I finally feel the cold metal and shove it into the lock, but before I can turn it and get inside, a hand is on my shoulder, gripping and whirling me around.

  “Gabby,” he says, breathlessly.

  “What, Marcel?” I snap. “What more could you possibly have to say about my marriage?”

  “I just…I don’t get it. I see women like you, and you’re so fuckin’ miserable, and I just want to know why. Why do women like you do this to yourselves?”

  “Women like me?”

  His throat bobs, but his eyes are intense. He really wants an answer.

  “Because women like me don’t have shit, Marcel! That’s why!”

  “What do you mean, you don’t have shit? You told me you had your parents—a brother. You went to college, so you obviously had somethin’.”

  “I went to college on a partial scholarship and even still, I had to get a job to pay for my own books and supplies, and for my rent, so I could stay in an apartment close to campus. Every day was hard. I was always tired, and I still came out with debt. I now have a break from it all and get to do what I love, and you mock everything about it. I don’t even know why I care about what you think!”

  “That’s not true.” His voice is deeper.

  “Yes it is! You mock everything I say! Every time I mention Kyle or he comes up in a conversation, you’re scoffing, or rolling your eyes, or telling me that I can do better. But you’re wrong, Marcel. I can’t do better, because he’s what I need right now.”

  “No.” Marcel’s head shakes. “That’s not what I was talkin’ about. You do know why you care so much about what I think.”

  Why?” I challenge, glaring up at him. “If you’re so smart, then tell me. Why do I care?”

  “Because you can relate to me much more than you can to him, and you know it. Because when he isn’t around, you look to me for comfort. You like havin’ me around, Gabby. You think I don’t see the way you look at me? I know that whenever I’m around, it’s a relief for you.”

  I shake my head and look away. My words are lodged in my throat.

  “He makes you feel lonely, even when he’s here. I don’t. And you know it.”

  He’s so close to me now. My skin is humming, knowing that he could easily reach down and touch me. Kiss me, even.

  My eyes travel over his mouth. I stare at how plump and full his lips are, then the stubble surrounding his mouth and his jawline and bottom half of his cheeks. I take in the way he smells, like the mint I saw him pop into his mouth when he put the joint out. I can’t stand him. I hate that he knows all of this about me. I hate that he’s so close—way too close.

  “I’m going inside,” I mutter and turn away. I twist the doorknob, but before I can enter, the heat of his body is on my backside.

  “You don’t have to pretend with me,” he rumbles with his lips on the shell of my ear. A shiver wracks through my body, my hand freezing on the doorknob. “I’m not your husband. I don’t want you to be anything else but who you really are.”

  “Don’t.” It's supposed to be a demand, but it comes out as more of a plea.

  "Why are you livin' a lie?"

  “Marcel.” My voice is weak and so is my resolve. I feel his breath run across my cheek, down my neck. I close my eyes, swaying on the heels that I now hate.

  “I could do so much to you right now, and he wouldn’t even know it.”

  My head shakes again. He’s pressed fully against me now, and I feel something hard digging into my backside.

  He’s hard? Oh, God. What is going on?

  “Turn and look at me.” It’s a soft command, spilling from his lips.

  “I can’t.”

  “Turn, Gabby.”

  A sigh escapes me. “If I turn, we both know something will happen that I’ll only end up regretting.”

  “Think so?”

  “I know so.”

  “So you do want me?” There's a trace of laughter in his voice now.

  “I never said that—”

  My argument is invalid. Marcel turns me around himself, then he lowers a hand, pulling the door shut. My back bumps against it, keeping me steady as he looks down into my eyes.

  He presses his palms flat on the door, just above my head, his chest almost touching mine. His head hangs low as he looks me over.

  “I'd never force anything with you, but you wouldn’t regret it if somethin’ were to happen between us,” he murmurs. “You can count on that.”

  “You can’t do anything…”

  “Oh, I can," he assures me, revealing a sure smile. "But for your sake, I won’t.” He looks me over again, sweeping his eyes up and down the length of me, like he’s trying to figure out where
he’d kiss me first if given the opportunity.

  Finally, he pushes away, and his chest is no longer on mine. His scent has faded.

  “I think you need a reality check, Miss Gabby. You don’t know what the hell you want.”

  I’m breathing erratically, watching him look off at anything but me. He looks at me again, and I can’t stop the words that leave my mouth.

  “What I have with my husband is my business,” I state. “And if you have a problem with it, then maybe you shouldn’t come around so much.”

  He blinks once.

  Twice.

  His parted lips seal together, and he leans back, studying every single feature of my face as if he’ll find a trace of a humor on it.

  What he doesn’t realize is that since I’m so good at pretending, I’m also good with my poker face.

  I don’t flinch.

  I don’t smile.

  I just stare at him.

  “Damn.” He sucks in a breath and takes a step back. “And here I was thinkin’ you were different.”

  I want to cry. I really do. But only because his words are so heartbreaking—only because I know my words were cruel, and they’ll change things.

  But we can’t be, and we can’t act on whatever impulses or desires we’re feeling. We simply can’t, and he knows this.

  Marcel walks down the stoop, and with each step he takes, I feel like someone is stepping on my heart, wearing the heels I’m standing in right now—the ones I hate.

  “Goodnight, Mrs. Moore,” he says when he’s reached the last step, and without a moment’s hesitation, he turns away and walks up the driveway.

  I watch him until he disappears between the shadows of the palm trees. I hear the engine of his truck come to life and can even hear him driving away. I go inside before the threatening tears can fall.

  I don’t allow myself to think as I trudge upstairs to my bedroom and strip out of the club clothes. I chuck the shoes in my closet, put on a nightgown, and climb into bed. I don’t even care that I’m about to crash with makeup on my face—a pet peeve of my mom’s. I let the buzz I’m still riding rock me to sleep…and then I dream.

  It’s me and Marcel at the club again, but it’s empty. The dance floor is vacant, and we’re laughing by the bar. I drag him to the dance floor and beg him to dance with me. He refuses at first, so I turn around and shove my ass onto his groin. “Will you dance with me like this?” I can hear myself ask it, and my voice is way too sultry and seductive. I don’t even recognize it. I don’t have the same dress on. I’m wearing a red one.