by Iris Trovao
She retrieved the errant tumbler and raised it to her lips, licking the last remnants of her fallen drink. She reached out of the tub and set the empty glass down on the fuzzy green bath mat.
John hated that bath mat. She’d wanted an emerald green and cream motif in their bathroom. He’d wanted black and gold.
She’d won.
The memory of that victory tasted like ashes on her tongue. Speaking of ashes, she thought bitterly, digging for her cigarette pack amongst all of the empty chip bags strewn around the bottom of the tub.
The pack was half-squished, and she wrinkled her nose as she flipped open the top, pulling out a smoke and rolling it between her thumb and forefinger to make it round again.
Her phone buzzed and she stuck the filter between her lips, rummaging for the lighter as she propped the phone on her thigh.
Dr. Tweedledick: The mirror had its own plans. When the sad queen looked into it, the mirror linked her to a kindred spirit.
“Subtle, doc,” Jolie murmured around the cigarette, finally finding a lighter and flicking it to light the end. She tossed the lighter back into the pile of debris, bags crinkling as she shifted.
She exhaled, flicking the ashes onto the offensive bath mat, and picked up her phone. She sent back, A sad king? lol
The three little dots of his reply appeared, then disappeared. Appeared, then disappeared.
“Don’t deny it, your life is fucked up too, friend,” she mumbled, reaching down to the floor for the bottle of whiskey. “Why did I even bother with a glass?” She took a swig from the bottle, nearly poking her nose with the cherry of the cigarette.
Dr. Tweedledick: Yeah, it was a sad king. They were sad for different reasons, but it made them feel better not to be alone anymore.
Jolie leaned her head back against the cold tiles. Does it make you feel better? she sent back. She wanted to tell him it made her feel better. She wanted to tell him that she didn’t know what to do with herself, so she was sitting at home in an empty bathtub full of garbage and a gut full of whiskey and potato chips, smoking like a chimney and hanging on his every word.
But she couldn’t tell him that. “If the sad queen told the sad king what she was really doing, he’d smash his mirror,” she declared to the bathroom, flicking her cigarette ashes over the mat again.
Dr. Tweedledick: Does it make me an a-hole to say yes?
Jolie spit a laugh during a swig of whiskey, sputtering everywhere. Wiping her phone with her sleeve, she held her cigarette between her lips to reply, You can say asshole, you goody two-shoes. Then she added, And no, doesn’t make you one. Misery loves company and shit.
Dr. Tweedledick: Doesn’t that make us both assholes, then?
“Touche, doc,” she murmured around the cigarette, and sent back, Yeah, probably. Two assholes in a pod.
Dr. Tweedledick: That is a horrendous mental image.
She cackled, and what was left of her smoke slipped from her lips, landing on her stomach. “Fuck fuck fuck!” She swiped at it, but immediately regretted the reflex as the burning cigarette rolled down underneath her in the tub. “Fuck!”
She scrambled to her feet, and the scent of melting plastic ravaged her nostrils as the cherry liquefied a candy wrapper. She dropped her phone and dug in the debris, chasing the tendrils of smoke, shrieking as her finger met melted plastic.
“Fucking cunt fuck idiot!” She finally grabbed the filter of the offending cigarette, and reached out to turn on the cold water tap. She doused the smoke and shoved a bunch of the acrid-smelling garbage towards the stream, hoping to quell the disaster.
Her head spun from the quick movements, and she retched, partly from the smell and partly from the booze, before a peculiar sensation slithered up her kneecaps.
The water, she thought, and panic gripped her as she rifled through what felt like endless wrappers.
“No, no, no, nononononono—” Jolie’s fist closed around her phone, and she pulled it out of the icy water, eyes brimming with tears. “No no no,” she moaned, wiping furiously at the screen.
Dr. Tweedledick: What do you
She didn’t see the rest of the message, because her screen went black.
“No!” she screamed, tapping furiously at it, and scrambled to get to her feet. Her now-sopping socks slid beneath the lake of food wrappers, and the world flipped.
Her cheek exploded in white-hot pain and she blinked rapidly, tears spilling everywhere in her panic and confusion. It took her a moment to realize she’d fallen, her attention focused on her blank phone lying on the bathmat.
“Fuck!” She snatched it up and crawled out of the tub this time, scrabbling across the tiles to get to her feet without slipping.
Tearing around the corner for the kitchen, she wrapped her phone in her shirt, squeezing as if she could wring the moisture from the device.
“Rice-rice, rice,” she whispered like a mantra as she rummaged through the cupboards with one hand, the other clutching the fabric-wrapped phone like a lifeline.
Boxes and cans and plastic containers rained from the shelves, smacking into the tiles. A cry of agony tore its way out of her throat as something heavy landed on her foot, toes now cold as ice, but she kicked it away, heart rate tripling as she continued to rip through the cupboard.
How do I even have this much fucking food we never cooked for fuck’s sake! She finally found a box of minute rice in the back, the words swimming through the glassy tears impairing her vision, and she pushed up onto her tiptoes, fingers grazing the cardboard.
Jolie screamed as she stretched, the noise echoing off of the walls, bouncing until it seemed to deafen her, straining her arm until she was sure the joint would pop from its socket. Her heart leapt into her throat when she finally got a hold of the box.
She tore open the top with shaking fingers and plunged the phone inside, burying it deep. She clutched the cardboard, sinking to her knees, sodden denim crunching plastic-wrapped crackers against the tiles beneath her.
A ragged sob racked her chest, and her uneven nails squeaked against the waxy box as she clawed at it. She’d never been one to pray, but the only thoughts consuming her mind were Please, please don’t let me lose him.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Carson took a deep breath as he entered the lobby of the swankiest gym in the city. He'd seen the subscription charges coming out of their accounts and had always assumed it was for Gina, but upon further investigation had discovered it was a men’s only establishment.
Which meant only one thing.
What am I even doing? he thought as he looked around the polished waiting area. It didn’t look like a gym. It looked like the lobby of a hotel, all ornate wood and gold accents.
“May I help you, sir?” a woman asked from behind a standing desk in the corner.
Carson startled and resisted the urge to scrub his hands down his face, approaching the desk as if it were a pit of poisonous snakes. “Yes, ah,” he stammered, then took a deep breath. “I pay for a friend’s membership here, and I was hoping I could get one for myself. He won’t stop talking about how wonderful it is.”
“Oh, that’s lovely!” she said brightly. “What’s the account holder’s name?”
“Wessex,” he replied, and rubbed his sweaty palms against the bottom of his jacket, hoping she wouldn’t notice the motion from what was visible above the desk.
Thankfully, she focused on her computer screen, smiling brightly. “Ah, yes, Thad! You couldn’t have timed it better, he just arrived a few minutes ago. He can show you around.”
Carson was sure she’d be able to hear his heart hammering in his chest. He’d thought before that this whole situation felt too real… But the moment the name had fallen from the receptionist’s lips, reality seemed to crush his lungs like a vise.
"Okay, here is a temporary pass,” she said, sliding a black plastic card across the desk. “You’re welcome to head on in and get acquainted with the place. When you’re ready, come on back here and I’ll
get the rest of your information for your profile. I’m Valerie, and there are touchscreens everywhere back there if you need to reach me for anything at all.”
The information swirled in one ear and out the other, and Carson simply nodded, blinking a few times in hopes that he looked calmer than he felt.
“Thank you, Valerie,” he replied hoarsely, offering her a smile before walking past her to a set of thick oak doors.
He grasped one of the handles, palms still slick, and swallowed hard, pulling the door open.
The inside looked a little less like a hotel than the lobby, but not by much. Carson studied the map displayed in front of him and decided to move towards the locker rooms. He hadn’t thought this far ahead when he’d driven here on a whim—he didn’t know what Thad looked like, or what he was even hoping to achieve here.
Also, he regretted telling the receptionist they were friends. He’d figured it would be an easy way to get in, but with this guy not knowing who he was, he wasn’t exactly undercover if the receptionist talked about him.
What would I say to him, anyway? Carson shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket, clutching his cell phone in a death grip. He hadn’t heard from Jane since the night before, not after he’d sent her What do you suppose two assholes can do to redeem themselves? He’d thought about texting her when he woke up, but since he’d asked a question she hadn’t answered, he wasn’t sure.
Holding the phone somehow calmed his racing heart a little, though, as if he were drawing strength from her. He wondered what she would say if he told her what he was doing.
It hit him with a pang that stalking his wife’s lover was something Jane would condone. He was sure of it. She seemed the tenacious sort to do something like this.
He realized he was smiling and stopped in his tracks. What is it about this girl?
This thought was immediately followed by, What would she do?
His driving thought in the snap decision to do this had been that he just wanted to see the guy. Something inside of him just needed to. But would that do any good? If anything, it would just make him feel worse, seeing this man that his wife was in love with, the man whose child he would be fathering.
She would talk to him. She would tell him who she was, and probably yell at him with colourful language.
Carson found himself smiling again, and took a deep breath. He let it out slowly, closing his eyes, and gave his phone one more squeeze before pulling his hands from his pockets and walking into the locker room.
There was nobody there.
Carson’s chest constricted and he immediately forgot all of the bravery he’d mustered in entering the room. He didn’t know where to find Thad, he didn’t know what the man looked like, and finding an empty locker room kicked in his flight response.
I can still get out of here, he thought frantically, and darted right back out the door.
Right back out the door, and into a wall of flesh.
“Sorry,” he blurted, backing up, his cheeks flaring with embarrassment.
The man he’d run into raised his hands. “Hey man, I—” his voice cracked, and Carson looked at his face.
His first instinct was to assure this younger man that he was alright, that their run-in hadn’t hurt him. The man was huge, in every sense of the word. His biceps were easily the circumference of Carson’s neck, and he looked not a day over twenty-five. Surely such a man would think an older guy slamming into him might have injured himself.
But before he could open his mouth, he saw the recognition in the man’s eyes, and a cold settled over him. If, in this place Carson had never been, looking for a man he didn’t know, somebody recognized him, then it could only mean one thing.
“You’re…” the man choked out. “Ah, you’re…”
The doctor realized his hands were in his pockets again, and he clutched the phone, sweat making it slippery in his grasp. “Gina’s husband,” he said, finding his voice much firmer than he’d anticipated. He raised his chin, taking advantage of his sudden burst of courage. “You must be Thad.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
“Let me go over this one more fucking time,” Jolie seethed into the phone. “No, don’t tell me to calm down! I’ve been back and forth between you people for three hours and nobody has been able to help me with my very simple request, so you can just deal with my fucking language!”
She paced back and forth across the living room, clutching the box of rice to her chest, cordless receiver in hand. Using a phone line she’d once cursed because nobody needed a landline anymore.
That is, until they drowned their cell phones in the bathtub.
“No, my last cloud backup is too old!” she snapped. “That’s why I called you! I just need to know what the last number was that I was texting with! I know detailed billing is an option but I can’t wait until my fucking phone bill comes in the mail to see it!” She growled as the woman continued speaking rapidly on the other end. “I can’t log in to the account because my husband does all our finances and he's in a fucking coma! I don’t think coma patients can give out account fucking passwords!”
Before Jolie could protest, the hold music blared, and she screamed into the receiver. She collapsed onto the couch, cranking up the volume and tossing the phone on the coffee table with a clatter.
She fished around in the box for her cell again, rice grains skittering across the floor and slipping between couch cushions.
It was no use. Her phone was nothing more than an expensive brick. She’d taken the case off, meticulously dried every nook and cranny, kept it in the rice, and continued to pull it out and check it.
Nothing. She rubbed her eyes, raw from her hang over and the gallons of tears she’d shed.
“Good morning, ma’am, my name is Paul and I understand you’re trying to find a phone number on your bill?” a soft male voice echoed through the cordless.
Jolie snatched it from the table, cradling her cell to her chest as she took in a deep, ragged breath. “Yes, please, can you help me?” She sniffled, leaning her face to the side to wipe her nose against her already damp t-shirt.
“I think I can do that,” Paul replied, his voice gentle as a lamb. “There are a few incoming texts on your account this morning but if I understand correctly your phone stopped working last night?”
“Yeah,” she said hoarsely. “Whatever was my last outgoing one.”
“Okay, ma’am, do you have a pen handy?”
“Shit, one sec.” Jolie scrambled off of the couch, knocking the rice everywhere. She tore open the drawers in the table by the front door, rummaging for something to write with. She finally found a tiny pencil and an old golfing card of John’s, pulling them out with a shaky hand.
His handwriting. How old is this? She swallowed, sandpaper throat screaming in pain. Visions of her husband, broken and braindead, flashed through her mind and she shoved them away with the full force of her will.
“I’m ready,” she croaked.
Paul slowly relayed the phone number, and Jolie scrawled it down, her shoulders relaxing with each scrape of the lead against card stock.
“Can you read it back to me, ma’am?” he asked.
She read the numbers, and at his affirmative, a fresh wave of tears ran down her face. “Thank you,” she whispered.
“My pleasure, ma’am. Is there anything else I can help you with?” he asked. “Would you like me to set up an order for a new phone?”
She closed her eyes, wiping furiously at her cheeks. “No, no I can’t wait for one to ship. I’m gonna go get one now.”
“Okay, you have a great day now.”
Jolie wanted to laugh, but she didn’t have the energy. She ended the call and sank to her knees, sliding the card from the table on the way down. She stared at the numbers, fuzzy from the tears obscuring her vision, and clutched the cordless in her other hand.
She wanted to call him. Tell him that she wasn’t ignoring him, that she’d drowned her phone and almost lo
st him. Somewhere deep inside of her there was a rational voice that had continually tried to tell her that had she just gone and replaced her phone he likely would have texted and she wouldn’t have truly lost him.
But, drunk and fucked-up as she was, not having that number had felt like someone had carved her insides out, leaving nothing but a gaping hole of loneliness and grief. She’d been used to those feelings, loneliness from her empty marriage, grief at causing John’s accident and the decision she had to make now… But this damn doctor was her last shred of hope for goodness in her life.
“How sad is that?” she rasped. And even sadder that I don’t deserve it.
She set down the cordless. She couldn’t call him. As desperate as she was to be connected to him again…she couldn’t just up and call him like an insane freak, babbling about how she’d been crying all night because she’d bricked her phone.
She sniffled again, running her wrist under her nose and wiping it on her pants. She looked down at her clothes, and she struggled to remember how long she’d been wearing them.
Jolie staggered to her feet, gently setting the card on the front table. I need to get cleaned up, she thought, or they’re gonna call security as soon as I set foot in the mall.
Despite a shower—after digging all of the garbage out of the tub—a fresh set of clothes, and ten-inch-thick foundation, Jolie knew she still looked like a spaz while getting her new phone set up. The clerk had been nice, but that careful kind of nice, like how someone would treat a dog they weren’t sure would bite them.
She didn’t care, though. She clutched the golf card in her pocket the entire time the clerk inputted all of her information and got everything set up, stifling the urge to just reach over and grab the phone.
When she finally left the store, holding her new device in a shiny indestructible waterproof case, she already had multiple messages.