Jason: The Philistine Heart (Book 1)

by Jean Evergreen

  I shake my head. “I’m not ready to be a mother to your son, any more than I’m willing to deal with your unstable ex-girlfriend. That’s not something I want to be part of.”

  Jason slumps his shoulders forward and closes his eyes. “Then that’s it? You don’t want to try?”

  Looking at him, distraught, so openly at my mercy, I'm conflicted. I know I’m right. But the thought of being away from him, the very idea of such heartbreak frightens me. Everything I feel for him, could that really be a lie? But, as I know all too well, sometimes when you’re in love, you see what you want to see, and can ultimately convince yourself of anything.

  “I need some time to think about this,” I say without looking at him. “Maybe you should sleep at your place tonight,” I add in a tone that is far colder than I feel.

  “I understand,” Jason says, the hope in his voice breaks my heart. He believes that once I think everything over, I might change my mind. He really doesn’t know me very well.

  I watch as Jason puts on his jacket and shoes and grabs his keys. “I love you, Bridget,” he says, before walking out the door.

  24

  Shattered

  When I was fourteen, I asked my mom why she married my dad. Why would she vow to spend her life with such a cruel and angry person? She told me that when she met him in college, he was different. He was ambitious and exciting, filled with interesting ideas and hope for what life had to offer. He was the perfect gentleman, and he was her first love.

  I asked my mom what changed, and she told me: life happened. They graduated from college, and she got pregnant with my sister. At the time, my mom had a job at a law firm—and my dad didn’t. He stayed home with my sister while she worked. Then my second sister came along. Soon enough, my dad spent his days sleeping in and watching TV, and his nights away at bars. I always remembered the packs of Alka-Seltzer sitting on his nightstand next to the bed. It was only when I was in my late teens that I understood why — it helped ease his hangover.

  He usually didn’t emerge from his bedroom until late afternoon. That’s when he called us all downstairs to clean the house, or worse, his room. I always found it odd that he was so obsessed with cleaning when his bedroom looked like it was hit by a tornado: there were weeks worth of suits, shoes, and socks strewn all over the floor and his bed was always a mess. Perhaps the only hospitable thing he ever did for us was to make dinner. Since he viewed his daughters as his personal maid service, he never failed to leave all his cooking ingredients on the counters, dirty dishes in the sink, and splatters on the cabinets and stove. All of which we were expected to clean. My father was always the biggest hypocrite.

  These are the childhood memories that arrest my thoughts as the minutes slowly tick away. As my mind drifts, I wipe the wall, round and round with a sponge. I realized that I never cleaned the walls when I moved in — the place seemed so clean, I didn’t bother. But I forgot that you can’t always see the dirt, even when all the lights are turned on. I’m using a mixture of ammonia, vinegar, and baking soda. It’s a solution my father made us use. I remember, as a child, gagging at its strong chemical smell. I always wondered why we couldn’t use something with a more pleasant scent, something that didn’t make my eyes sting and require me to breathe out of my mouth.

  The thing about my dad is he didn’t just like things to look clean; he wanted to smell the chemicals, that’s how he knew it was properly sanitized. He didn’t trust that something gentle could be strong enough to do the job. That was his philosophy on everything. He was never gentle in how he approached anything, not with me anyway. But he wasn’t wrong about ammonia. When it comes to cleaning a textured surface, the gentler stuff never goes very deep. It doesn’t permeate the dirt that amasses in its shallow crevices. Gentle things never seem to do that.

  Minutes turn into hours as I make my way from the living room to the kitchen, to the bedroom. I only stop when exhaustion finally overtakes me. Cleaning a wall is painstaking work, which is the precise reason I chose this activity. When I was a child, I hated having to spend so much of my free time scrubbing, washing and sweeping. The one solace it afforded me was that when I cleaned, I could focus on how much I didn’t want to do it, rather than how much I feared what would happen if my father was angered that day.

  Since Jason left, I haven’t thought about him. I needed him gone, to put him out of my mind — so I wouldn’t feel so … conflicted. At this moment, I don’t feel conflicted. I don’t feel much of anything. It’s as though there’s a hole where my heart once was, and there’s nothing there beating to let me know I’m alive. This empty void of nothingness that fills me should be a welcome distraction, but it’s oddly unsettling. It’s painful to have no feelings; but how can nothing be painful?

  I strip off my clothes and leave them on the bathroom floor. I can’t seem to make myself care enough to put them in the hamper. It just doesn’t matter. When I get in the shower, I turn the temperature dial to hot. The water is practically scalding when it hits my skin, but I need it that hot. I need to feel something so that I know I’m here — so I can rid myself of this agonizingly, painful, nothingness that has spread through every limb of my body.

  As the scalding water rains down on me in a violent assault of torturous heat, I suddenly feel my heart again. It beats wildly and with a quickness that has me taking shallow, rapid breaths. And what seemed complicated only moments ago, suddenly becomes crystal clear — Jason is a liar. He lied to me about who he was. He lied to me about his past. And he’s lying to me when he says he loves me.

  In New York, I’ll depend on him entirely. What happens when his utopian dream of reuniting with his son shatters with the reality of Amber’s dependencies? When he’s overtaken with guilt and decides she needs him more than his non-suicidal girlfriend? Or when the weight and responsibility of it all become too much of a burden; when life happens and changes him, as it is bound to? Will he turn to Amber, or me? Or will he go back to the old familiar comforts of the bottle?

  I abruptly turn the water dial to off and throw open the shower door. I can practically hear the pounding of my heart, every beat causing my head to throb. I grab a towel and vigorously wipe myself dry. How could I let such a dirty man touch me? He’s tainted, every part of him vile and depraved. He never stopped manipulating. He’s trying to control me, with false promises of happiness and false declarations of love. How dare he lay his hands on me, night after night, knowing where they have been. It disgusts me. Dozens of women. Dozens of women! He’s a drunk, stupid, pathetic drug addict who can’t control himself. But he expects me to. He leaves everything filthy for me to clean up. He treats me like it's my mess when he is the one who is dirty. It makes me sick! It makes me sick! You make me sick!

  “YOU MAKE ME SICK!”

  I suddenly realize that I'm shouting, but there’s no one here. Wrapped in my towel I drop to the floor, holding my knees to my chest and whisper “I hate you,” as I rock back and forth.

  When I wake, I’m curled up on top of my comforter, wearing a robe. It must be after nine o’clock because it’s dark outside. My bedside lamp provides the only illumination in the room. Pulling myself into a sitting position, I try to search my memory, I don’t recall how I got on my bed. The last thing I remember is sitting on the bathroom floor. My head was hurting, throbbing. And I was angry. I was so angry. As I run my fingers through my hair, I can feel that it’s still damp from the shower. I remember the shower very well. It’s everything afterward that’s a blur.

  “You blacked out.”

  It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the dim lighting before I notice Jason. He’s sitting forward in a chair, his hands together and his elbows on his knees, watching me intently.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask, my voice still soft from sleep.

  “I was worried. I hadn’t heard from you in hours. I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “You didn’t seem fine when I found yo
u passed out on the bathroom floor.”

  When I don’t answer, Jason stands up to sit next to me on the bed. Having him so close to me, when all my defenses are down, it’s difficult to look at those lovely green eyes, filled with worry, and not feel a pull at my heart. How can he be right here, with me needing him so much, and not touch me? How can I not be in his arms, with his lips on mine? How is it possible?

  He reaches out and caresses my cheek.

  “Jason, don’t,” I say, barely convincing myself.

  “Why not?” he asks, his voice filled with a wistful sadness.

  “Because we can’t do this anymore.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense,” he says, moving close enough so I can smell his cologne.

  “You’re a different person than I thought you were,” I reply, using every ounce of willpower I have to maintain my composure and keep my barriers strong. I know they’ll cave to his touch. He knows it too.

  “I’m not,” Jason whispers, sliding his hand under my robe.

  “Jason, please don’t,” I say helplessly, not wanting him to stop.

  But his hands are well attuned to all the nuances of my body language. Whatever my words, my body refutes their meaning. I might whisper a soft remonstrance of his actions, but it’s drowned out by the deafening cry of my unfettered longing. And it’s to the cry which he responds. His kisses fall on my lips. Soft, delicious, kisses, that could fill me for days, they are so rich. And, at his leisure, they make their way down my neck and on my breasts, lingering just long enough for his pleasure. Then he’s inside me, our bodies intertwined, finding their home in each other as they undulate as one. All the while, a stream of silent tears fall down my cheeks. When it’s all done, we lay naked together as he holds me in his arms — neither of us saying a word.

  “My father was an alcoholic,” I say, breaking our silence. “When I was a child, he was very cruel to my mother, my sisters and me. I don’t know if I ever told you, I have two sisters. My oldest sister, he was the most cruel to her. He abused her horribly. He was never as bad to me. But I saw a lot of things. And it’s stayed with me all these years.”

  “I’m sorry,” Jason whispers, pulling me closer to him and kissing my forehead.

  “It’s okay. I just wanted you to know.”

  “I understand,” Jason says. And I realize, he does understand. “I love you, Bridget,” he whispers to me, just as he did the first night we made love.

  “I know,” I reply. And in that instant, my fortress of ice shatters, and the heart that I’ve tried desperately to protect for so many years is finally broken.

  25

  The Phallicy

  As I leave the wedding venue, my inbox is flooded with text messages from Susan. One, seemingly more dire than the next:

  I couldn’t go through with it.

  It was all a lie.

  We were never right for each other.

  From the day I met Susan, almost a year ago, her wedding managed to creep into virtually every single one of our conversations. Over the past year, I’ve become intimately acquainted with her opinions on center pieces, flower arrangement, cake tastings, wedding dresses and the daily aggravations from her future mother-in-law. She built up her wedding to be the event of the season—that would have everyone talking for months. To Susan’s credit, her wedding will stay in the minds of all its attendees for a long time to come. Only, not for the reasons she would hope. Instead of fondly recalling the lavish venue decorated with hundreds of perfect white roses, they will refer to the exorbitantly priced wedding that never happened on account of a runaway bride.

  I honestly couldn’t tell who was more disappointed the wedding was called off, Greg’s mother or Susan’s bridesmaids. On my way to the parking lot, I passed a group of bridesmaids consoling one another as one sobbed: “I don’t understand how this could have happened. They were so perfect together.” Greg didn’t have much to say, he was white as a sheet, remaining mostly silent as he followed his mother around in a confused daze. His mother, on the other hand, was prepared to shift blame on anyone who wasn’t her son. Before leaving, I witnessed Greg’s mom berating the wedding planner, threatening that she wouldn’t have hired her if she knew she’d be sleeping on the job. I’m starting to understand why Susan doesn’t like her. As for me, I was mainly disappointed that I’m out $650 for a custom bridesmaid dress, without a wedding to show for it.

  With Susan out of the picture, I had nothing to prevent me from leaving. So I headed home to my apartment, looking forward to peeling myself out of this dress and spending what’s left of the evening curled up in a ball on my couch, doing the same thing I’d done every night since Jason left — watch Buffy until my brain feels like mush. As I walk in my apartment, I am shocked to see the very last person I expected.

  “Susan!” I exclaim.

  “Hi Bridge,” Susan says, her tone astonishingly gleeful. She’s quite a sight sitting on my couch with the skirt of her $15,000 couture wedding dress bunched around her, propping up a bowl of popcorn on her lap.

  “What are you doing here? Wait a minute, how did you even get in here?”

  “I took an extra key off your keychain when you left your purse in my dressing room,” Susan replies offhandedly.

  I furrow my brow at Susan. What’s with the act? Her text messages made it seem like she’s caught in a cyclone of emotional turbulence. But here she is, watching TV, laughing and wiping salt and butter from the popcorn all over her couture wedding dress.

  “I used to love this show when I was a kid. One More Time With Feeling was always my favorite episode. Anya is hilarious,” Susan says, referring to the episode of Buffy that I left on pause this morning, before I left for her wedding. It’s a good thing I didn’t stop on the episode where Xander leaves Anya at the alter when a demon shows him a bleak future of their marriage. That might have hit too close to home.

  “Yep, Buffy can be pretty hilarious,” I reply.

  “Want some?” Susan asks, offering the popcorn bowl to me as I sit next to her.

  “No thanks, I’ve never liked popcorn. It was Jason’s guilty pleasure,” I reply. Susan nods sympathetically. “Susan?” I ask cautiously

  “Mm-hmm?” she responds, distracted by the TV.

  “What are you doing here?” I feel it’s such an obvious question. She doesn’t bother to look at me as she starts laughing when Buffy and Spike fall into a grave, prompting Spike to start singing Let me Rest in Peace.

  “Susan,” I snatch the remote from beside her hand and turn the TV off.

  “Hey, I was watching that!”

  “I’m holding the remote hostage until you answer my questions,” I say, placing it on a side table behind me.

  “Fine,” Susan says with an over exaggerated sigh. “What do you want to know?”

  “Well, for starters, would you care to enlighten me why you’re at my apartment, watching Buffy and eating popcorn, instead of getting married?” I ask, using my isn’t this the most obvious question ever tone.

  “Oh that,” Susan says sarcastically, rolling her eyes. “I decided I didn’t want to get married today and I knew no one would think to look for me at your apartment. Can I have the remote back now?”

  “I’m afraid I’ll need a bit more of an explanation than that.” I notice the mildly irritated look on Susan’s face. “Listen, I’m not here to judge you. I will accept anything you tell me. We’re friends remember?”

  “Yes, we are friends. Best friends,” Susan says, taking my hand as tears well in her eyes. I wait patiently as Susan regains her equanimity.

  “Everything I texted you is true. We were never right for each other. I mean, on paper, we seemed like the perfect couple. But there were problems, and I don’t just mean with Greg’s mother. Don’t get me wrong, I can’t stand her; but she was just a convenient scapegoat. I should have known when I met him. All the signs were there that he was looking for a trophy wife. He wanted someone to dangle in front of his mom to distract h
er while he, he …” Susan starts to sob. I grab a tissue from the side table and hand it to her.

  “Thank you,” she says blotting her eyes and cheeks. “Remember I told you how Greg and I like to keep things fresh in the bedroom?” Susan asks candidly.

  “In vivid detail,” I affirm. In truth, I have more knowledge about Susan and Greg’s sex life than I ever cared to know. I have a better understanding of her likes and gripes in the bedroom than I do my own.

  “There was this one thing he liked in particular. When he asked me to do it, I didn’t think it was a big deal because I’ve read that men are more sensitive in that area.”

  “What was it?” I ask, surprised that Susan is capable of being subtle in describing any sexual position.

  “You have to promise you won’t get mad,” Susan pleads.

  “Why would I get mad?”

  “You’re right. You won’t get mad. Just promise you won’t gloat.”

  “Sure, I promise,” I reply, perplexed at what Susan might be getting at.

  “Ok, the thing is, Greg is really into anal sex,” Susan blurts out. “Like really into it. And I don’t just mean giving it. At first, I was totally open to it. You know, I’ll try almost anything once. But eventually, it was the only way he’d do it. So I thought, this is weird. This can’t be normal. I mean there’s kinky and then there’s … gay. And the last thing I want to do is spend my life married to a gay man. I mean, I have hosted several benefits for the LGBTQ community. But when I said I supported gay marriage, I didn’t mean that I wanted to be in one.”

  “So Greg’s gay?” I ask, my eyes wide in shock.

  “That’s what I started to suspect. So I did what any self-respecting woman would do in a similar scenario — I hired a private investigator. That’s not crazy is it?”

  “Not at all, that’s exactly what I would do,” I say reassuringly, wondering if, given time, I would have thought to do the same to Jason, with all of his odd behavior.