Three Questions

by Meagan Adele Lopez

  Meagan Adele Lopez grew up in Towson, Maryland. The day she turned 18, she left for Los Angeles. She started acting at the age of 8, but has always had a passion for writing, and decided to put this passion to use while living in England. While there, she started a popular expat blog called The Lady Who Lunches, and began this novel. She regularly dreams of flying, and her future. Three Questions is her debut novel.

  She currently lives in Chicago with her British boyfriend.

  For more information on Meagan Adele Lopez’s blog and writing, go to www.ladywholunches.net/blog, or follow her on Twitter @TheLadyLunches.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Three Questions

  Copyright © Meagan Adele Lopez 2011

  Published by The Lady Who Lunches

  The right of Meagan Adele Lopez to be identified as author of this Work has been asserted by her in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in retrieval system, copied in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise transmitted without written permission from the publisher. You must not circulate this book in any format.

  Cover Design by Kathleen Bergen of Red Art House

  ISBN: 1466406550

  9781466406551

  To Jock and Courtney,

  This story is dedicated to you two. You know why.

  I love you both so much.

  “He that cannot ask cannot live.”

  ~An old proverb

  Contents

  MONDAY, MARCH 24TH, 2008 THE DAY AFTER

  ABOUT ONE YEAR EARLIER MARCH 2007

  NINE MONTHS LATER DECEMBER 2007

  A DIRTY LITTLE SECRET FOR MYSELF

  CLEANSING

  REFLECTION

  THE PHONE CALL

  NO BOYS ALLOWED

  AGENTS

  CHELSEA’S ARRIVAL

  FATHERS, EX-STEPFATHERS AND EX-BOYFRIENDS, OR SIMPLY: MEN.

  THE DAY BEFORE VEGAS

  VACATION TIME IS HERE

  BACK ON THE FREEWAY

  TO GO OUT OR TO STAY IN

  THE RULES OF RINGING

  THE PALMS

  THE CASINO

  GOODBYES

  THE MORNING OF MARCH 24TH

  THE FIRST WEEK

  THE MIDWAY POINT

  LIFT OFF WEDNESDAY, JULY 16TH, 2008

  BALTIMORE

  EPILOGUE

  Special Acknowledgements

  MONDAY, MARCH 24TH, 2008

  THE DAY AFTER

  My head hurts. It pounds, in fact. I’m sweating from my back, my armpits and my feet. I can’t fully pry my tongue off the roof of my mouth. The white curtains do little to detract from the sunlight streaming in.

  I just dreamt that I was swimming in a big, fresh water lake – dehydration’s kicking in. This damn desert. I swirl around looking for a clock. My body aches, but from a longing I have never felt before. Why was I so adamant to leave him?

  I kick the silk sheets off. Chelsea moans in the spot next to mine; her engagement and wedding rings gleam on the floor below her. I stumble out of bed, and listen for any noise from downstairs. We are alone. My uncle must have left for work already. My eyes are refusing to fully open, still caked in the mascara and thick black eyeliner from the night before - the only makeup I brought out.

  I spot my large, navy-blue, ridged purse, its contents half-dumped out. I flop myself beside it. Rummaging through the fliers, receipts, gum wrappers and change, I find my phone. A little envelope icon is flashing. My head forgets it’s hammering and concentrates on the thumping in my chest. I flip the phone open.

  “You are lovely. Will you marry me…in five years?” the text message reads. I can’t help but laugh, remembering our silly promise…it was silly, wasn’t it? It’s my heart that now forgets to pound and skips several beats. I just hope I will see him again, let alone marry him. I clutch the phone to my chest, and look to see if Chelsea is awake. No chance. I curl myself up into a tight ball, and reread the text.

  Thursday, 27 March, 2008

  How have you been, oh pretty one?

  Arrived back home to the UK yesterday - my mum’s house in Portsmouth specifically, and so have picked up your voicemail message from Vegas. Typical. I couldn’t access my voicemail box from the US.

  I wonder if you got the text messages I sent after we left each other? A bit afraid to ask, I must admit…because if you did get my text messages, then I am quite an ass, and you clearly want nothing more to do with me. I didn’t receive anything back. If you didn’t get my text messages, then the phone company can literally kiss my ass, because that is not a very funny glitch in the system.

  Did you stay around that day? It would have been great to say hi before we left; I really wanted to see you again.

  Have slept most of the time I’ve been home so far. Off again next Tuesday, and as you know, Africa awaits, so not much time to sort all my stuff out beforehand. You must start planning for your trip to Chicago….

  You get back OK? You sounded knackered in your voicemail to me. Surely you didn’t make it to work?

  Has your friend recovered? Bless her. Miles was glad he met her too, and he enjoyed himself regardless of her situation. He saw the ring early doors.

  We had a lie in that day until 2ish, and then took a chopper ride to the Grand Canyon with a champagne dinner. You would have loved it. Wasn’t quite as romantic being with six other lads as it would have been with you, obviously, but it was still incredible. On our way back into town on the helicopter, we got a night view of the city. The lights are a vision overhead.

  What’s been happening since you got back? Oh, and how was your Uncle Daly with your late return home?

  Got some very pouty pictures of you, which I’ll mail you. I look like a retard, and you the belle of the ball.

  Right. I’m going to ask three questions each email from now on to learn more about the lovely lady. Nice and easy to start:

  1. Favourite colour (mine’s red)

  2. Favourite number (3)

  3. Favourite meal (Sunday Roast)

  Hope the end of March is treating you well! You’re pretty. Don’t be a stranger.

  G x

  ABOUT ONE YEAR EARLIER

  MARCH 2007

  “Just answer the question. Does she or does she not know that you were in my bed Friday night?” My finger hovered over the mouse button while waiting for his answer.

  “Look, let me come over. I just want to –“

  “It’s a one word answer. Yes or no.” I glared at her page on my computer screen, and gripped the phone tightly against my ear. I measured my breathing to appear calm, but that’s all I was doing – appearing calm. I had never felt so betrayed, so hurt by someone I cared about so deeply.

  “Adele, don’t be upset. What you saw doesn’t mean anything. It’s just stup- ”

  “It doesn’t mean anything, Ethan?” I over-emphasized his name, his dreadful name. I vow there and then to never speak of it again. “If it didn’t mean anything, then why would you bother changing it? Why would you bother letting the entire world see that you are now in a relationship with another woman, if it doesn’t mean anything?”

  “You can’t believe that it would happen that quickly. I mean….”

  “Exactly. I can’t believe it would. I can’t believe you would use me like that. I can’t believe you’re such a – a…. Look, anyway, you’ve changed your status. So obviously i
t does mean something.”

  “You’re being irrational about this stupid profile page.”

  “Oh, don’t you dare.” I could hear my voice rising higher. “I am not being irrational.” I didn’t want this conversation to head in this direction. I had made my mind up before he called me back. I wasn’t going to let him persuade me. “This is simple.” I took a sip of my lukewarm green tea. I couldn’t let my self-control slip. “It’s not stupid. You obviously care very much for her, don’t you?”

  “I do actually have feelings for her, yeah,” he said. I flinched and spilt some green tea on my desk.

  I expected this answer, as much as I didn’t want to hear it. I quickly mopped up the tea with my t-shirt and set down the mug. “Good, now that we have that out of the way, does she know that you slept over Friday night?” Pause. I don’t want to do this. Don’t make me do this. “I just want an answer - yes or no? Does she know you were in my bed?” I pushed the mug away even further. I didn’t trust myself.

  Finally, after a breath and a hesitation, he said, “No, of course not.”

  I hung up the phone and clicked ‘Send’. “Thank you,” I spoke out loud to myself. “That’s all I needed to know.” I sat back in my chair, breathed in and felt my heart racing in my chest. So this is what it feels like to be shunned, scorned and to retaliate.

  I re-read the email I had just sent. Honest, sincere and to the point. All I did was tell her the truth – woman to woman – she can’t fault me for that. Nor can he. The worst thing she can say about me is that I was honest.

  Never had I actually known what it meant when blood boiled, until that moment. I could have made a delectable, salty bowl of soup or even some nice stock from my boiling blood.

  I moved on to the girl’s page, the girl who was “in a relationship” with my ex-boyfriend, or “en couple” as it said on my page, set to French.

  NINE MONTHS LATER

  DECEMBER 2007

  I didn’t have a lot of time. I had wasted the last ten minutes redoing my makeup because ten minutes earlier I fully intended to sleep with him again. That stupid mirror always gets in the way - makes you stare at yourself right in the eye. I realized I couldn’t even look myself in the eye – so how could I look him in the eye?

  I closed my blinds, turned off my lights, and double locked the front door. I threw myself onto the small hill of freshly piled, rumpled clothes that were scattered across my bed. I buried my head under my cheap pillow, trying to listen for any sounds – more specifically, footsteps.

  The radio was blaring. That would not do. I rolled sideways off the bed onto the floor, stealth-like, then proceeded to clumsily trip over my old, stuffed tiger that I had sworn had been thrown away five years before but kept resurfacing. I crawled on all fours across the scraggly, shag IKEA carpet, careful not to get entangled in the stray strands of my long, chocolate-dyed hair that littered my room. (I had dyed my mane immediately after we’d broken up. He called it my quarter-life crisis color; I called it freedom.) Finally, I reached the radio and unplugged it.

  Mental note to buy double A batteries for the next time. An emergency situation like this requires a remote control.

  Actually, an emergency situation like this should never happen again. No batteries. Ever.

  I crept like a ninja back to the safety of my bed/clothes. He knocked as I made it to the tiger.

  My window was still open – blinds shut, but window open. Could he hear me breathing? Best to hold breath for as long as possible. Best to hold pose on tiger until convinced that he was convinced I was not here. Best to stop thinking so loudly.

  It was midnight on a Tuesday. I had work the next day. These stale, nostalgic evenings were taking over my life. The mourning process was supposed to be long over by now, nine months to be exact. I was hiding from myself. I knew it. He was just an excuse.

  After I had sent the email to his – dare I say – girlfriend, I didn’t hear from him for a month. And then, somehow, casually and quietly, we’d continued to sleep together as if nothing had happened or had interfered with our liaisons.

  I hated feeling used and mistreated. I hated feeling weak and gullible. I couldn’t help myself. I’d told him how I felt. He’d acknowledged that it probably wasn’t a wise thing for us to continue, but then he paused, and said with a smirk and coy innocence in his eyes, “It just feels too good to stop completely.”

  I had nothing to say from there. I was stuck once again. He still turned me on in a way that I couldn’t resist. And each time, after he’d left and I was lying naked, consumed by my thoughts, I would tell myself I didn’t see what I had thought I had seen in his eyes. And, the cycle would continue.

  But this night, I was finally done with this charade. I no longer wanted him in my life. Or did I?

  Here he was at my front door knocking. I was still on the tiger, waiting, wondering what to do next. It would be so easy to just let it happen one more time, to feel the ecstasy of having a man I knew so well inside me, to re-enact those cherished moments where the past became the present and everything meshed into one, to forget the bitterness that I had come to know as my heart. Because who knows…we could still get back together…

  Tears were welling in my eyes. I felt a surge of schizophrenic hysteria coming on. I didn’t love him anymore, and hadn’t for a very long time, but when I believe in something and someone, I couldn’t just let it go. We just weren’t the same people we were when we met. But, there were so few people I had let in, saying goodbye to him felt like I was saying goodbye to a piece of my heart.

  For my sanity, I knew that I had to pry myself from this mess. For my self-respect, I couldn’t let him use me like this anymore.

  I composed myself. I wiped the wet off my lashes, turning my hands black with streaks of mascara. I got up. And, to guarantee all signs of vulnerability were gone, I looked at my reflection in the mirror.

  There was another knock, more impatient this time. I looked down at the goose bumps forming on my forearms.

  He’s not good enough for me. He’s not good for me. He’s not for me.

  My head turned to the bed, and I saw the empty wine glasses still sitting on my nightstand since the last night he was over. Next to them were the crumpled tissues I had used the following morning.

  Back to the wine glasses. Maybe I should have just one more time with him…

  If my brain thought that thought, my feet were resolute and steadfast in their decision; I wasn’t moving from that spot. And if my feet wouldn’t budge, my knees buckled in derisiveness and turned to goo. Without my permission, my body fell down to the carpet once more. I took in one breath, two breaths…three, but instead of calming me down, an intense wave of anger and frustration overwhelmed me. My jaw tensed, my back stiffened, and the vein in my forehead pulsated, becoming flushed with blood.

  This was no longer my time to be sad.

  I’d already told him how I felt on numerous occasions over the last couple of months. I’d already spelt it out for him - I needed him to stop calling me so that I could move on with my life. He had blatantly disrespected me over and over again, but I was letting him.

  If I were to get up and open that door, nothing would have changed. I would still be answering his call, allowing him into my home, and giving him the opportunity to change my mind and manipulate me into bed again. By not opening the door, I was keeping it closed on his face forever, and taking the power out of his hands. I was in control.

  Finally, I had had enough of myself, and of him.

  Being quiet and invisible suddenly became my lowest priority. Why was I hiding out in my own apartment that I paid rent to live in? There was no need to be scared.

  After a small word with my feet and my knees, I stormed into the kitchen. Unexpectedly famished, I turned on the light and opened the cupboard. Beans…no. Soup? Too boring. Bottle of wine? Definitely not a good idea. Popcorn? Yes! Popcorn.

  I giggled to myself, my pulse pounding faster. I tore open the
plastic wrapping, punched the knob to open the microwave, hit the popcorn button, threw the bag in, and slammed the door shut as hard and apathetically as I could.

  A faint, annoyed “Adele?” came from outside the door. He was still there waiting. I tapped the music back on to the Black Eyed Peas bellowing “Shut it up just shut up shut up…”

  Oh, how I love synchronicity.

  I danced around the apartment like a greyhound locked up before his big race, knocking about and bouncing off each wall. There were protestations coming from outside the door, but whatever it was he was saying, I will never know.

  My cell phone rang; I buried it under my clothes. I flung my arms up and I felt the energy from the music leaping into and out of me. The songs began to blend together as one joyful rally, and how long I was dancing, smelling the popcorn waiting to be eaten, I didn’t know or care.

  My Cuban ancestors would have been proud of my private dance-athon. I gave an extra shake for them. I don’t know how many songs played before he got fed up and left. All I knew was that when he left, my eyes dried up and I was alone without an aching dread in my stomach, and that was a good start.

  There was not a single kernel of popcorn left over, popped or unpopped, and I tried to force myself to write something in my journal, but even that was too much to handle. Instead, I concerned myself with the filth surrounding me.

  I grabbed the dirty wine glasses from our last escapade. As I placed them in the sink, they slipped out of my hands and shattered, cutting my pinky finger. It didn’t hurt; it just stung. I looked at the blood trickling out and casually sat down at my kitchen table. I examined my finger and tried to see if there was any glass left in the cut. It wasn’t deep. There didn’t seem to be any residue of shards at first. But once I examined a bit further, there was a tiny sliver. I couldn’t get it on my own, and had to let it come out naturally. Figures.

  I used a plastic broom tucked in one of the many cupboards in my kitchen to sweep the area. The musty broom seemed to add more dirt to the mess than it cleaned. Nevertheless, I continued until all of the glass and dirt had been cleared.