THE VIRTUOUS CON

by Maren Foster

  “Shallow breaths,” she said calmly. “It will be over soon.”

  I was grateful that the procedure itself was quick. She couldn’t have been digging around in there for more than fifteen minutes. I felt an overwhelming sense of relief when the doctor announced that it was over.

  Slowly I started to feel better. The doctor came back in and told me that I’d done well and the procedure was a success. The nurse handed me a packet of papers with instructions on post-recovery.

  “You can get dressed now. Please call us if you have any questions or experience excessive bleeding,” she said.

  They all got up to leave. I touched the young woman’s hand.

  “Thank you,” I said, and tears began to well up in my eyes.

  She smiled. “Of course,” she said. “You’re welcome.”

  I swung my legs to the floor and stood up. My head felt like it weighed a thousand pounds, my heart thumped in my chest, and the room was suddenly covered in blurry white dots. I turned to sit back down and saw a few small crimson spots on the white paper where I’d been laying. It reminded me of the stained sheets on the bed in the frat house. My stomach tightened, my chest clenched, and the only trash can in the room was covered with a revolving top. I heaved what little there was in my stomach from the night before into the sink in the corner of the room. As my body wretched the cramps came back, and the pain was more intense than before. That was it, there was nothing left inside me to purge. I laid back down on the bed on top of the blood. Fuck! Will this ever really be over?

  I was woken up by the nurse touching my arm gently. “How are you feeling now?” she asked. “You did faint so I want you to stay put for a few more minutes.”

  “I might need some more pain killers,” I said.

  I laid on the table, staring up at the ceiling tiles, which were old and yellow, waiting for the pain killers to kick in. What a sad place for life to end.

  As I walked home I wondered at the resolve it would take to suck life out of women all day long. I was equal parts horrified and thankful for the person who could bring themselves to do it. Back at the house, I fell asleep in front of the t.v.

  A loud thud, followed by the clang of the metal mail slot woke me up. I had slept longer than I thought, but Vi and Ali wouldn’t be back for a while. I took a deep breath, relieved to be alone. Out of nowhere it hit me and I began to cry. Grief consumed me. My body shook and I buried my face in the couch and wailed. I wasn’t crying for the fetus that had been pulled from my body, or for the child who I would never know, I was grieving for everything he had put me through. I finally allowed myself to feel the full weight of the pity that had consumed me since that night. I grieved for the young woman who I was, who had lost so much. I grieved because that night had changed everything and I would never be the same. I could no longer go through life, innocently believing that I was safe when I was out. If this could happen to me, it could happen to anyone, anywhere. If I wasn’t safe that night, no woman is ever safe. The thought was terrifying. How will I ever feel safe again? How could I bring a child into such a fucked up world? What if I have a baby girl someday and this happens to her?

  The pain in my abdomen came back. I hobbled to the kitchen and took more Ibuprofen and grabbed a heating pad. Back on the couch I fell asleep with a blanket over me.

  “Oh Freddie, what’s wrong?” Vi said as she walked in and spotted me on the couch. “Are you sick again?”

  “Yeah, I wasn’t well this morning, but I’m feeling a little better now.”

  “Do you have the flu?”

  “Must be,” I lied. Vi can’t know what happened.

  “Is there anything I can get you?” she asked. “Ginger Ale?”

  “No. I think I’ll just take a warm bath, but thank you.”

  I pulled myself off the couch and retreated to the bathroom. I washed and rinsed and washed again as steam filled the room. In the shower, my mind wandered back to him: to images of him returning after work to a large suburban house, welcomed by a picture perfect wife and kids, sitting down to dinner. What if I convince him I’m someone I’m not? Can I make him believe that I love him? Can I survive being close to him again? Can I survive being intimate with him long enough to take everything he values? Will he recognize me or can I deceive him? Will the end justify the means? Will it be worth it?

  The Play

  Friday, September 9, 2016

  Hell’s Kitchen

  Nearly a full year had passed since our first date, and I had grown almost comfortable in Nate’s company. There were still moments when the memories of that night in the frat house came rushing back, triggered by a song or a whiff of the whiskey we’d been drinking, but by buying him expensive cologne and deodorants as presents I’d gotten him to give up the overpowering scents that triggered my reactions more than anything. Between the medication and systematic desensitization through exposure, I’d managed to be intimate with Nate in ways I’d never imagined possible. I wasn’t blind to who he was or what he’d done, and I never allowed myself to slip into love or infatuation despite our intimacy, but I had achieved tolerance. Tolerance that allowed me to put on a convincing performance. A performance that he seemed to enjoy, as long as I minded my own business and didn’t ask questions when he worked late or went out with the guys a few nights a month.

  Nate texted me around two thirty, “Dinner at Hugo’s. 7pm. I’ll pick you up.”

  How did he get a table at Hugo’s on a Friday at such short notice? Has he been planning this? For the first time in a while I felt excited, giddy even. Hugo’s had always been a bit of a joke between us. Consistently written up as one of the top five restaurants in New York for the last couple of years, I’d never been. It was expensive and almost impossible to get into, especially on weekends. It was where Nate took his most important business partners. He always said it was a bit too conventional to be getting so much attention. Instead, we often went to Deux Cochons, a little French bistro in Seaport that Nate claimed as a hidden gem, every bit as good and never crowded. I’d tease him in response that he must not think I was worth taking to Hugo’s. He said he’d take me there when the time was right. I’d been dropping subtle hints over the past month or two about wanting to be engaged. Is tonight the night?

  I called the blowout salon down the street to see if I could get in last minute. The woman on the phone said they were booked solid, but if I got there soon and waited she might be able to squeeze me in. I told my boss I didn’t feel well and went to the salon to take my place in line. After about an hour, a stylist motioned me back to an empty station.

  “We had a cancellation,” she said. “Must be your lucky day!”

  I claimed the empty chair, thrilled that things seemed to be lining up perfectly. As I watched the stylist work, I reassured myself that tonight had to be the night. I’ve made so many sacrifices to get to this point. We have to be married for this to work.

  A few blocks away I snuck in for a manicure. Picture perfect nails for a picture perfect engagement!

  Back at my apartment, I rummaged through my fancy make-up bag. Mostly full of the special giveaway items that came with the high-end make-up I had shelled out for since college. I’d returned the overpriced eye shadows and mascaras, since my savings hardly amounted to more than the price of a round-trip ticket on a budget airline, but kept the free samples for just the right occasion. I applied fake lashes and more eye liner than usual, just enough to look fabulous in case the evening included a photo op. Tonight has to be the night!

  A pewter, sequined midi skirt I’d gotten at a high end resale shop near my apartment went perfectly with a silk camisole and nude strappy sandals. I put on some diamond studs that I’d gotten at a flea market and grabbed a secondhand designer clutch to match.

  We pulled up to Hugo’s and Nate tossed his keys to the valet. As I walked around the back of the car I realized how underdressed he seemed for the occasion. Dark jeans, dress shirt, and dinner jacket, but no tie. He looked gre
at, but I immediately felt silly. Maybe he isn’t planning to propose. Nate opened the door and followed me into the restaurant.

  The maître d’ nodded and my excitement built as he led us past tables full of finely dressed couples. Eventually, he stopped and motioned toward two seats at the bar. I looked at Nate in disbelief. He’s definitely not proposing. How much longer can I keep this up? Will I ever get justice?

  My frustration must have been unmistakable.

  “Oh, come on. Don’t be such a princess. What kind of table did you think I could get with a day’s notice?” Nate said.

  One day’s notice isn’t how you plan an engagement.

  “We are eating here, or we’re leaving. Your choice,” he said.

  I hopped up on the bar stool, pulling at my skirt to avoid an inappropriate reveal, and glanced around the dining room. Admiring eyes watched, and I basked in the adoration.

  The bartender smiled as he placed a crystal tea light between us. It sparkled in the dim light and caught the face of Nate’s wristwatch. More artwork than machinery, featuring an open face that exposed the complex inner workings of the vintage timepiece.

  Nate ordered the most expensive bottle of champagne on the menu, perhaps trying to make amends. The waiter popped the bottle in front of us and made a show of adeptly containing the bubbles. I watched Nate carefully, anticipating each subtle twist of the body, each slight turn of the head, hoping that I was wrong, and any minute he would leap off his chair, get down on one knee, and deliver the kind of proposal worth sharing, but he stayed put. By the second glass of champagne, I had almost forgotten that I was upset that we were sitting at the bar. The bartender kept his distance and we were seated facing each other across the corner. It was almost cozy.

  Nate watched as I ate, compelling me to enjoy my share before picking at the food on my plate. After dinner Nate sipped a whiskey and poured the rest of the bottle of champagne into my glass. By the time we left, my head was spinning in that pleasant way, making the lights on the street look brighter and everything sparkle.

  As the valet brought Nate’s car around, the angel on my shoulder said it was a bad idea to get in. He’d had a few drinks.

  “I think I’ll take a cab.” I said.

  “No, come on,” he said.

  “Thank you for dinner.”

  “Come on. I’ll take you home.” He walked toward me. Standing in front of me, he bent forward and took my face in his hands tenderly. Oh God, not here, not like this, please!

  “Wyn,” he said patiently, “I need you to get in the car. I have a surprise. Please don’t ruin it.”

  Tonight is the night!

  I got into the car despite my reservations. I need him to do it tonight. Nate turned the key in the ignition and revved the engine a little before he popped into first. I put the seat back and closed my eyes.

  Nate squeezed my thigh and I realized that I’d started to doze off.

  “Wake up,” he whispered in my ear, the same way Vi had done at the end of long road trips, when it was time to go into the house and get ready for bed.

  “Where are we?” I mumbled.

  We were parked in front of a sparkling wall of glass and a doorman held the car door, waiting for me to alight.

  I followed Nate into a grand foyer and over to an elevator. He pushed “P” and waited.

  “Where are we going?”

  “I knew I should have blindfolded you. You’re too nosy.”

  “Sorry.”

  The elevator doors opened into a large, open living/dining space, punctuated by a large wall of windows with a view of the Empire State Building and Central Park in the distance.

  “Wow!”

  “I thought you’d like it.”

  “What is this?”

  “Our home.”

  “You bought a condo for us?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You bought us a home. I thought that was something couples did together.”

  “I thought this would be a nice surprise.”

  Wait, is he finally asking me to move in with him? What’s going on?

  “It is.” I forced a smile. “But you know I don’t want to live together until we’re engaged.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  Nate opened a door and led me out onto a large balcony with sweeping views of the city. A small, round, bistro table with a bottle of champagne and two long-stemmed glasses looked strangely out of place. All of a sudden, as if it were a movie set, music began playing over outdoor speakers. My favorite jazz song. The one I learned to play my senior year of high school as a solo for the annual concert.

  Nate took my hand and kneeled down in front of me.

  “Wyn Laurent,” he said, “you complement me, like no one else ever has. You make me happier than I’ve ever been before. I would like to build a life with you, here and wherever else life takes us.” He paused. “I love you. Will you be my wife?”

  Holy shit! That’s the first time he’s ever used the L-word! In the year I’d known Nate I’d learned how cautiously he approached every decision in his life. I knew that he analyzed every decision and viewed every interaction and commitment as a transaction. I’ve got him right where I want him! He’s totally committed.

  He waited expectantly and I watched him kneeling in front of me, savoring the fact that I was finally getting what I wanted. I am in control now. One step closer.

  “Yes,” I said, smiling.

  He stood up and yelled, “She said yes!”

  Raucous cheering erupted and lights flicked on. A group of our closest friends was on the other side of a large glass wall, each with a glass of champagne in hand.

  Nate swept me up in his arms and spun around. He kissed me and the cheers grew louder. There was a bright flash, and I instinctively turned toward it. A photographer appeared in front of us and I smiled for the camera.

  Nate put me down and grabbed the bottle of champagne off the table. He shook it a bit and pointed it away from us. The loud pop of the bottle echoed off the glass. He held the bottle in the air and let a shower of champagne mist cover us. We were quickly surrounded by friends, mostly our joint friends, which meant Nate’s friends and a couple of women I had met since moving to New York. I absorbed the congratulations and accompanying hugs and kisses humbly. As the crowd began to disperse, I looked up and saw Adam standing about ten feet behind everyone else, watching me, smiling, but I knew him well enough to know that his happiness was contrived. I ran toward him and he wrapped his arms around me. As Adam held me, I could feel people watching us.

  He whispered in my ear, “Congratulations, if this is what you really want.”

  My elation vanished. My heart sank. I can't change what’s already happened. I have no choice.

  “Thanks, it is,” I lied.

  “I’m worried about you,” he said, and let go.

  I wandered back to the group as nonchalantly as possible. Nate must have invited him. As far as Nate was concerned (and he’d never seemed to be too concerned), Adam was simply a really good childhood friend of mine. A welcome reminder of home in an unfamiliar city.

  The music transitioned to pop and we danced and drank. After a deluge of congratulations and best wishes, our guests slowly showed themselves out. When the condo was empty, Nate pulled me into the master suite, which had only a large bed with solid metal posts. What does he have in store for me now? My heart raced, but he undressed and got in bed without incident.

  I got in bed. He pulled me close and quickly fell asleep. I laid next to him, surprised he hadn’t wanted to consummate our engagement. I thought back to the very first time we met and how much had changed since then. I’m finally in control. This is going to work! I curled up and fell asleep too.

  I woke up alone in the large white bedroom, which was empty except for the king-sized bed. There were no shades or curtains to block the morning sun illuminating the cavernous space. It was so bright I wondered how I’d slept in at all.

  I took in the swee
ping view of Manhattan on my way to the kitchen, where I found Nate propped against the counter reading the morning paper. Coffee and pastries were getting cold. I leafed through the sections that he had pulled out, found Fashion, and leaned against the counter next to him, picking sparingly at a blueberry muffin.

  “How’d you sleep?” he asked without looking up.

  “Fine, you?”

  “Great.”

  We sat next to each other reading. After a while I broke the silence; “I thought we were going to live in Greenwich?”

  “And I thought I’d be nice to have a place downtown, since that’s where we both work.”

  “I really don’t want to live in the City long-term.”

  “I didn’t say we couldn’t have a place in the suburbs too. If that’s what you really want.”

  “It is,” I said. “I really like the area around Greenwich. I think we would be really happy there. It seems like a great place to raise a family.”

  “Yeah, someday.”

  Crap. I need him to agree to be in Connecticut now, not someday. I’m not sure any of this works or is worth it if we aren’t married and domiciled in Connecticut.

  A few days later, while Nate was out, I skimmed through the photos from our engagement party. Curled up on the couch with my laptop, I examined each of them carefully, and spent what felt like hours culling the seventy plus images down to the top ten and then finally to my three favorites. I created a Facebook post with the best photos that simply read, “I said ‘Yes!’” and hit upload. When I checked half an hour later, I had almost 500 likes.

  I called Vi.

  “Hey Freddie!”

  “Hey Vi.”

  “How are you? I’m so glad you called,” she said.