by Malcom, Anne
Before what?
Before Heath?
Before Craig?
Before Heath...again?
Before I became horribly aware of how empty I’d made my life so I didn’t have to face the depth of my suffering?
“Okay, well, just get one of those phone apps, it’s what the kids do these days.” She’d snatched my phone off the coffee table before I could stop her.
“Rosie!” I cried. “I’m not going to date a guy on an app.”
Her nails clicked against the screen. “Of course you are.”
And like most times, Rosie was right.
* * *
“So what do you do, Polly?”
Crap.
I’d known this question would come up.
It was like the conversational blueprint in first dates.
What do you do? Where are you from? How many siblings do you have? What’s your sign? What’s the depth of your childhood trauma?
I’d had a lot of different answers to this in the past. Barista. Waitress. Dog groomer. Personal assistant. Sous chef at a raw food café.
I’d gone through careers like I’d gone through boyfriends, trying on different versions of life that never really fit.
But now I didn’t have anything. Not when my very skin didn’t feel like it fit.
Heath and I hadn’t talked about things like that when we first met.
Well, I’d asked his sign because I was on an astrology kick at that point and it turned out that he was crazy compatible with me. He was a Cancer and I was a Capricorn. Opposites that fit.
But other than that, we didn’t talk with that conversation filler known as the date blueprint. It was like the stuffing they put in purses when on display at the store. It made them look useful full so you could get the whole effect before you bought, but it was really useless once you brought it home and put all of your own stuff inside.
I wasn’t meant to be thinking about Heath here.
Not meant to be comparing.
I hadn’t done that after our first time.
I excelled at not thinking of him, in fact.
Where had all that skill gone?
Probably down the drain with whatever had been left of my childhood naivety.
“What do I do?” I repeated, fiddling with the straw in my margarita.
He’d made a comment about me not getting ‘white girl wasted’ when I’d ordered it. I think it was meant to be a joke.
I’d laughed.
It wasn’t funny.
He nodded, his overly styled hair not moving at all as he did so.
“Well, currently, I’m volunteering at the St. Mary’s Children’s Hospital. And I also do work with a couple of homeless shelters,” I said.
He inspected me, narrowing his suspiciously groomed eyebrows. Which shouldn’t have been a surprise. This was L.A. Everyone groomed their brows.
Even men.
Especially men.
This was a city of images, of perfection, of success and failure. Of beauty on the outside of ugliness.
“But you don’t have a job?” he clarified.
“Not one that pays actual money,” I muttered.
He nodded. In L.A. it wasn’t uncommon to not have a job and still not starve or go homeless. Not in the world of Instagram models, of rich boyfriends and richer fathers.
He opened his mouth, most likely to say something about himself. It was his favorite topic.
This was my second margarita and it was only now he was asking me what I did.
But the person storming up to our table kind of stopped that.
I was thankful until I saw who it was.
“You’re on a date?” Craig hissed at me.
Crap.
It was the first time I’d seen him since I’d left.
I should’ve had to have court appearances and all sorts of things that required interactions. But I had Rosie. And Rosie had her connections. Hence this being the first time in over a year I’d seen my ex-husband.
He hadn’t changed much.
He was slightly thinner than he had been, which was actually preferable than his unnatural muscles that I’d only found out after the marriage were thanks to testosterone injections more than lifting at the gym.
His suit was pressed, not as expensive as he usually wore, white shirt open collared underneath.
Clean shaven.
Eyes wild.
Full of hate.
How I’d never seen this was beyond me.
It was tempting to shrink back. To burst into tears. To run away.
But I straightened my spine. “Hello Craig, how are you? I’m well, thanks for asking.”
He leaned forward. “How am I?” he repeated, spittle flying from his mouth, breath reeking of alcohol. “Well, considering my cunt of an ex-wife took me to the cleaners and almost everything I had, I’ve been better.”
His fist slammed down on the table when he finished speaking, rattling the glasses. I reached out to steady my margarita glass. I had a feeling I’d be needing that very soon.
Ben was gaping at the situation and didn’t seem too eager to jump in and save the day. Or even the date.
But I wasn’t the damsel anymore.
Or at least I was trying very hard not to be.
“I think you need to go back to your table,” I said, my voice firm. “This isn’t exactly appropriate. Perhaps we can talk tomorrow. Over the phone. When you’re sober.”
He snatched my wrist, the one holding my drink, cold liquid sloshed onto the table and my fingers. “No, I’m happy to talk right fuckin’ now.” His eyes went to Ben. “You know what’s good for you, I’d give me your seat and get the fuck away from my wife.”
“Ex-wife,” I corrected. The grip on my wrist tightened.
I wasn’t a damsel, but I would’ve appreciated some kind of input from the man across from me. But he stood so quickly his chair screeched against the floor. “I’m sorry,” he said to me. “I’m an extra on a soap and I can’t risk anything happening to my face.”
And then he ran.
Literally ran out of the bar.
Only in L.A.
Craig smirked at me in triumph.
“Let go of my hand,” I gritted through my teeth.
He looked down, and then he squeezed harder. It was a cruel motion, to show me just how in control he considered himself. How weak and breakable he considered me.
But then he let go.
I snapped my hand back wiping the sticky liquid with my napkin.
I took a breath.
He rounded the table and took Ben’s seat calmly as if the past handful of minutes hadn’t happened.
“Excuse me, is everything okay?”
My head snapped up to see a waiter frowning at Craig then softening his gaze at me.
“Ma’am, is he giving you trouble?”
Ah, chivalry was not dead.
It just came from the guy who was paid to serve me drinks instead of the guy that didn’t even buy them for me.
Craig raised his brow at me in challenge. He was daring me to be saved. To need saving. To admit that I couldn’t handle him on my own. Which was probably true. I didn’t handle his abuse on my own. The first thing I did was run to Rosie. And then she dealt with it.
“No,” I said firmly, forcing a polite smile. “Thank you for your concern, but I’m fine. I’ll be even better if I could get a fresh drink, we seem to have had an...accident with mine.” I held up the now empty glass.
The waiter paused, looking between us, and then took my glass. “Okay, I’ll be right back with another drink. And I’ll be here, in case there are any more...accidents.”
He gave me a pointed look and Craig a harsh glare before he walked away.
“Ah, I would’ve expected you to cry wolf again,” Craig said.
I focused my gaze on him. “It’s not crying wolf when you punch me in the face,” I said. “It’s called standing up to abusive pricks.”
Something mov
ed in his face. Something ugly, full of rage. And then it morphed. “Baby, I said I was sorry. I tried to explain. But I didn’t get the chance. I’ve been going crazy without you.”
I blinked at the change in his temperament. The way his eyes cleared, the way he sat back in his chair.
“I love you, Polly,” he continued. “I’ve been thinking about you constantly, about what he had.” He leaned forward. “And we had something, didn’t we?”
“Yes,” I said. Because I didn’t have it in me to lie to him or more importantly, myself. I wished I could’ve said no, for the sake of my self-respect. Because admitting I had something with a man who thought violence was acceptable was embarrassing, to say the least.
But my heart wasn’t controlled by such things.
So there was something with him. However small. I’d magnified it out of desperation. First, because I was desperate for something that didn’t hurt as much as me and Heath. And then because I had no other choice.
I had a choice now.
“We had something, Craig,” I continued. “But that was all shattered with you showing your true colors. And thank god that happened when it did. Before I could put down roots with you. Before it was too late. And it’s too late for us, now. If we really ever had a chance.” I observed him. “You might have a chance. If you get therapy. Explore the reasons why you feel the need to be violent toward women. Everyone has the power to change their direction in life. Even you.”
Silence followed my words.
Maybe they took a second to penetrate Craig’s alcohol-laden brain.
It was an instant change, the cliché flip of a switch version of a temper tantrum. Granted he’d come over here in one, but I’d thought he’d settled. Maybe sobered up. Wisened up.
And I still held something for him.
Because there was a part of him—no matter how small or false it may have been—that held me when I cried at sad movies, that got me the exact chocolate I loved when I had PMS, who went to restaurants he hated because he knew I loved them. He did all those things, whether or not he had an ulterior motive—to make me fall in love with him enough to make it so there was no way out.
He just underestimated me.
And the women around me.
All of whom hated him, obviously. Lucy and she didn’t even know the full story.
They hated him because they loved me.
And they expected me to hate him too.
I’d discussed this with Rosie when she’d urged me on this disastrous date.
“I’m sending him love, and happiness, and I hope that he finds a way to have a beautiful life, despite the fact he has an ugly soul,” I said, sipping my wine.
Rosie snorted. “Okay, you have fun with that peace and light bullshit, I’m sending him infertility in the form of a bullet to the dick, which I’ll deliver personally.”
The worst thing was, she was serious.
And though he purposefully and viscously caused me emotional and physical pain, I didn’t want the same for him. I didn’t work that way. I wasn’t wired that way.
Which is what I told Rosie. What I didn’t tell her was because my heart didn’t work that way either. That my wretched and traitorous heart didn’t know how to forget all of those little things that made me fall in love with him in the first place. It sure knew how to forget the bad.
It was always the way.
So that’s why I’d softened slightly at the table. Not enough to want to ever see him again, let alone entertain any kind of cordial relationship. But enough to bask in the revisionist history that the heart created to explain why love didn’t go away.
Then of course, the present tore through that.
Or more accurately, Craig tore through that.
And the table.
We were sitting there, in almost contentment—as much contentment as two ex-spouses—could be, and then he stood, flipped the table.
Like completely.
Glass flew everywhere.
And I stayed completely still.
It wasn’t what one would expect. For me to calmly sit there while my ex-husband literally upended a table in the middle of a bar, with bulging eyes and a fury turning his handsome features ugly.
“You fucking self-righteous bitch!” he roared.
The man I’d promised to love forever, who I’d planned on spending my life with—however naive that was—and the man I’d been so sure who’d loved me, was now throwing tables around restaurants and screaming at me.
And I sat ramrod straight, my expression flat, blank, outwardly unamused.
Even on the inside I wasn’t exactly freaking out. Which was weird, as he was now crossing the distance he’d cleared with his little outburst, with violence in his eyes.
People around had noticed. And were staring. But this was L.A., you could be literally bleeding on the street—as my sister had been two years ago—and the majority of people would watch like it was some live sitcom, they were that desensitized to violence.
Surely someone would come to my aid when Craig started hitting me. A quick glance to the side had me seeing my white knight waiter rushing around the bar with panicked eyes.
He wouldn’t get here in time.
Not to save the damsel.
So I reached down into my purse, luckily my hand circling the object that I’d forgotten was in here since I hadn’t used the purse in question for over a year, lifting it out and switching it on, holding it to Craig’s body just as he reached me. He was still yelling, but when the taser hit his body, he stopped.
His mouth still moved and horrible garble stuttered out of it as his body stayed upright, jerking violently in a way that made me sick.
This was necessary. I knew this. But I didn’t like it. Causing another human being harm. No matter he meant me harm.
But I couldn’t always be the damsel. I couldn’t keep expecting other people to dole out the violence.
He collapsed.
I dropped the taser beside him as if it were scalding my palm.
People still watched.
The woman across from me was filming on her phone.
As was the man in front of me.
Another woman at the bar sipped a martini, eyes on her book, barely fluttering her eyelashes at the scene.
The waiter arrived.
“I’m afraid I seem to have ruined another margarita,” I said dreamily. “Maybe I’ll just get the check.”
He regarded the carnage. “How about a tequila shot and it’s on the house?”
Only in L.A.
Chapter Nine
It was after the promised tequila shot from the waiter that didn’t save me that I made my way home.
No one called the police.
Because, well, this was L.A. The police had better things to do. And if the police went to every fight a couple had in the middle of a trendy bar, they’d never do anything like catch murderers and drug dealers.
I was thankful for that.
Because the cops coming would mean Rosie finding out at the very least. If I was lucky. If I was not, it would mean Keltan finding out which would mean Heath would find out. Not that he would care, I guessed.
He’d made it painfully freaking clear that he was making true on the promise he’d made me the day he left.
“You walk away from me now, that’s it, we’re done. Period. I don’t know you, you don’t know me.”
I should’ve been more worried about Lucy finding out through Keltan. She might be pregnant, but she was scary. Especially if she found out what Craig had really done, instead of thinking my flight of fancy had expired, hence the reason for the quickie divorce.
It was her small and powerful strength that I was guessing was behind the banging of my front door, and I opened, bracing for Lucy fury.
I froze at what I got.
“You’re opening the fucking door?” he hissed, pushing past me almost violently to storm into my living room.
I stared at the empty space he
’d occupied for a moment, unable to fathom that he was here. And that another man I had been in love with was yelling at me for the second time in less than two hours.
I turned, my temper flaring in a way that was totally and utterly unfamiliar. “That’s what I tend to do when someone is in danger of shattering the fricking wood,” I hissed, folding my arms across my chest, partly because that’s women did when they were pissed off, but also because it was a good way to hide how much my hands had been shaking before that.
Heath had been pacing the small living room, his boots hitting the floor with such force, I worried for Mrs. Alderson, my downstairs neighbor. But she was out of trouble when Heath stopped pacing to stare at me.
No, to glower at me.
“Why the fuck are you even still living in this piece of shit apartment with a door that has nothing but a deadbolt?” he hissed. “You’ve got money. A lot of it. From your divorce,” he spat the word and coming from his mouth, it sharpened the word to a point so it speared through my skin. “You need to be in a better building, better neighborhood. Make it happen.”
I blinked at him through the pain, trying to catch up. “Make it happen?” I repeated.
He nodded once, the motion violent and jerky.
“So let me get this straight, you came to my apartment, stormed in, yelled at me, to order me to move to a different neighborhood?” I surmised.
He didn’t speak, maybe because I didn’t give him time to, because I found that anger that had been absent when my ex had upturned a table in the middle of a restaurant and then presumably was planning on attacking me.
I was finding it because I was finding fear in front of Heath when it had been absent in front of Craig. Because Heath scared me more than Craig ever could. And he hurt me more than Craig ever could. The difference was he wasn’t meaning to.
Or at least I didn’t think he was.
He’d been a good man before.
A good man who’d wanted me.
But I’d brutally turned him down.
Did I break his heart?
I wasn’t sure.
But I knew that a good man with a broken heart was almost impossible to distinguish from a bad one with a blackened one.
So he scared me.
And somehow with everything between us, my fear morphed in anger.