by Laura Carter
brooks
Days six and seven are a blur of sex, bickering, makeup sex, chicken, steak, kale, and laughter. We find it amusing to play up to the reporters but when we aren’t giving them much of a new story, they seem to get bored.
We never mention Izzy’s leaving in a week. We steer clear of the topic of family and difficult questions. Instead we talk music, sports, movies, and mundane things, like which brands of running shoes we prefer. Izzy educates me on how to make a perfect cup of English tea and I tell her about JFK and the Kennedy family.
We are in a bubble that we decide to make unbreakable by not letting in any deep thoughts or outside influences. It is one of the best times of my life and I can say that without needing years to reflect.
* * * *
The bubble just popped. I’m just getting out of the shower at my place before going to see Izzy for dinner. At the sound of my phone ringing, I wrap a towel around my waist and find my cell.
“Hey, Cady.”
“Hi, Mr. Adams, it’s not Cady. It’s her friend Meghan.”
My mind immediately goes into red alert. “Where’s Cady?”
“I’m with her but she’s really drunk.” I can hear now the alcohol in Meghan’s words too.
“Where are you?”
“We’re at her boyfriend’s house. There’s a party and she’s been drinking a lot.”
I move to the bedroom and start to pull on clothes, still talking to Meghan as I grab my car keys and she relays the address. “Are you with her?”
“Yes. We’re in the bathroom. She’s sick. She can’t really walk and she only wants you.”
“Okay, Meghan. You two stay in the bathroom. I’m on my way.”
In my panic, I almost forget about Izzy.
I double back and knock loudly on her door. What the fuck am I supposed to tell her?
“Izzy, come on, I need to speak to you.”
When she pulls open the door, I’m struck by the smell of vanilla from the candles burning around the living room. I wasn’t prepared for candles. I really wasn’t expecting to see Izzy in stiletto heels and a short silk robe. I definitely couldn’t have anticipated her running her fingers down the silk and parting the robe to reveal a black lace bodice, stockings, and a garter belt.
Fuck. “Izzy, I’m sorry, I have to be somewhere.”
“Somewhere as in not here?” She closes the robe around herself.
“Yes. I’m so sorry. Christ, I’m so fucking sorry but I have to go.”
“I... What? Is everything okay?”
“Yes. No. I can’t explain right now. Fuck, you look so hot.” Growling, I drag my hands over my face. “I’m sorry, Izzy, really fucking sorry.”
In my truck, I burst from the underground garage and concentrate on nothing except looking for police and getting to Cady as fast as I can. I ignore the part of my mind that knows I’ve just brought a shitstorm down on Izzy and me.
The address Meghan gave me leads me to a tired-looking block of apartments, seven or eight stories high. I can hear and see the party on the first floor as soon as I step out of the truck. Multicolored lights flash behind curtains, and dance music bellows. There are students outside the main entrance, smoking and drinking from brown paper bags. There’s a distinct stench of cigarettes and the sweet smell of marijuana in the air.
A few girls whistle as I pass by them and dip into the building. Two guys exit, staggering. The corridor, full of people making out and otherwise acting like dicks, leads me to the party.
Inside, music pounds in my ears. Teenage girls are wearing too few clothes and the air has a musty, stale-sweat smell. I peel the hands of a young girl off my chest and ignore the glares I receive from drunk young men, who really shouldn’t fuck with me right now, as I search for the bathroom.
A line of girls gives me a pretty good idea where I’m going. “Is this the bathroom?” I yell above the music.
“Yeah, but someone has been in there forever.”
I knock on the door. “Cady?” I rap harder. “Cady! Open the door, it’s me.”
When there’s still no answer, I kick the door. Once is enough to tear the feeble lock from the wall.
“Fucking hell, Cady.” She’s alone in the bathroom, propped between the shower cubicle and the toilet, black streaks running down her face, her eyes barely able to open. Her phone is next to her on the floor but there’s no sign of Meghan.
“Dad?”
I hunker down in front of her and take hold of her cheeks. “Look at me. Cady, look at me. Is this just alcohol?”
She nods weakly.
“Promise?”
“Yes,” she murmurs.
I open her eyelids with my thumbs. I’ve seen people on drugs, and her white irises and normal-sized pupils let me know she’s telling the truth. I stuff her phone into my back pocket. “All right, baby, let’s go. Arms around my neck. Good girl.”
I hoist her up in my arms. She clings tighter to me and rests her head on my shoulder as I carry her out of the party to the safety of my truck. I buckle her into the passenger seat and rummage in the back for a bag of sorts. I find an old gym towel that will have to do.
Bringing the towel to the front with me, I start the engine. Before I even pull away, she retches. I manage to get the towel under her and catch most of the vomit.
“It’s just a little sick, baby. You’re fine.”
“I’m sorry, Dad,” she cries. As fucking irate with her as I am, my heart aches at the sound of her tears.
“We’ve all been here, kiddo. Let’s get you home.”
I toss the towel in a Dumpster and drive us home, trying not to weave or turn too much. We make it back to the basement garage without any more vomiting.
I don’t waste my energy asking if she can stand; instead, I unbuckle her and pick her up. A guy I recognize from the building is making his way out of the garage. He helps me by closing and locking the truck. He opens the garage door and helps me to the elevator.
Cady seems to come to inside. “I have vomit on me,” she says, crying again.
I don’t tell her I’m fully aware of the stench of it. As I carry her along the hall toward my apartment, she starts to unbutton the shirt she’s wearing.
“Cady, you can’t take your clothes off here. We’re almost there.”
“I want them off. Take them off me.”
I struggle to hold her and open the door. Inside, I carry her to her bedroom and lay her down on the bed. As I start to untie her boots, she begins heaving again. “I’m going to be sick, Dad.”
I catch the first round in her wastebasket, then carry her to the bathroom and sit her next to the toilet, where I finish taking off her boots. She throws her guts up again, almost 90 percent hitting the target. I hold her hair back and rub her shoulders as round four comes.
She seems more with it when she sits back against the white tiled wall. I slip down to the floor, one knee bent, my back against the bathtub, and hand her a box of tissues.
“Thanks. I’m sorry, Dad.”
“Don’t tell me you’re sorry, kiddo. Tell your head in the morning.”
“It’s going to hurt, isn’t it?”
“Like a bitch.”
She starts crying again.
“Do you want to tell me what all this is about?”
“I got dumped. Spectacularly. In front of the entire room full of people. And that was after I caught him with his hand up some other girl’s skirt.”
“Do you really want to be with a guy who can do that when he’s with a knockout like you?”
She part smiles. I’ll take it. “You’re my dad—you have to say things like that. And no, I don’t want to be with him but it can still hurt, right?”
“Yeah, it can still hurt, baby. Were you supposed to be going home tonight?”
Sh
e shakes her head. “I was going to stay with Meghan.”
“Then I won’t call your mom until tomorrow, but I’ll text her and tell her you decided to stay here instead.”
“Thanks.”
“As for that Meghan character, she left you on a bathroom floor in a very vulnerable state. You might want to rethink your close friendships.”
She blows her nose like an old man.
“How are you feeling? Like you want to be sick again?”
“Not just yet.”
“Come on, then, let’s get you to bed.” I stand and put paste on her toothbrush, then hold it out to her.
“Do I really have to brush my teeth?”
“Not if you would rather they fell out from all the acid you vomited over them.”
“Point taken.”
I help her stand and hold her steady as she gives her mouth a halfhearted clean. Then I walk her to bed.
“Do I need to help you get into pajamas?”
She gives me a drunken, tired laugh. “You should see the horror on your face right now.”
“Get into bed; I’ll bring you some water.”
When I return to her room, she’s already tucked under the covers. “Here, drink up. You’ll thank me tomorrow.”
“I don’t think I’ll do much of anything tomorrow.”
“Nope, I have to agree with you on that one.” She drinks a few mouthfuls of water, and then I set the glass down on her bedside table. “’Night, baby.”
“’Night, Dad.”
I settle into the pink chair in the corner of her room and watch her go straight out like a light. My mind goes to Izzy just two doors down. She’s probably in bed now. Alone. Tomorrow, whether the timing is right or not, I’ll have to let her in on my past, and my very present daughter.
At some point, I must have fallen asleep because I wake sweating under the sunlight, realizing I forgot to draw the curtains last night. Cady is snoring, her mouth wide open like she’s catching flies. I check her bedside clock. “Shit.”
It’s after nine. Izzy is probably already at the gym. Regardless, I have to make double time to get to my first PT session at nine thirty. Deciding I’ll have Angie make up a breakfast shake, I have a quick shower and pull on my gym clothes. When I go to check on Cady, her bed is empty. “I’m in here.”
I follow her hoarse voice to the living room. Her hands tremble as she brings a cup of coffee to her lips. “Feeling good, kiddo?”
“I feel like a man made of concrete sat on my head, then dragged razor blades along the lining of my stomach.”
“Graphic. Nice. Listen, Cady, I’ve been a teenager but last night, you were underage drinking, in a place you shouldn’t have been, and you put yourself in real danger. Anyone could have put something in your drink or taken advantage of you.”
She looks down at the mug in her lap. “I know.”
“My view is you’ve probably thrown up enough to learn your lesson but I’m willing to bet your mom won’t take the same approach.”
Her head darts up. “You’re not going to tell her, are you?”
Moving to her, I ruffle her hair and kiss her temple. “I don’t need to because you’re going to do that as soon as you’ve finished that coffee.”
I throw my sports bag over my shoulder and open the front door to leave. “Also, wash your hair, it smells of vomit.”
Scowling, she follows me to the door. “Thanks, Dad, for last night. I’m sorry I dragged you out to get me.”
“I’m not happy about the situation but I’m glad you called me. Stay here as long as you like today. There’s food in the fridge and money in the pot.”
“I love you.”
“Love you too, baby. Behave yourself!”
Chapter 22
izzy
Day 9.
“There’s food in the fridge and money in the pot…. Love you too, baby.”
So, the woman I took a picture of in his arms last night stayed over and he’s in love with her.
Devious. Sly. Lying bloody bastard.
I quietly close my apartment door as Brooks heads down the corridor. I back up, as if the door might reveal a lethal weapon and come after me. I stop when I back into the kitchen counter. Other than anger, I don’t know what I feel, but my eyes cloud with unfallen tears, and the pain that strikes my stomach is so fierce it makes me fold forward.
I slide my back down and come to sit on the cold tiled floor, wondering how I didn’t see this coming. Of course he has someone else. We never go to his apartment. He doesn’t talk about himself beyond the kind of movies and music he likes. He gave me a full lesson in the difference between American football and rugby but when I ask about his tattoos, he clams up.
He’s thirty-five and looks impossibly good. I mean, come on, Izzy. I feel ridiculous. Like, once again, I’m on the outside of a circle, only it’s not skinny girls and ladies who lunch in the middle, it’s a guy I have possibly fallen in love with.
How can I be in love with him? I don’t even know him.
How could I have been so bloody naïve to think that a few days of sex and laughter are the basis of anything real?
My head is awash with tears and fury. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know because I’ve never felt about anyone the way I feel about Brooks. He makes me question who I really am and what I want. No one has ever made me question that; they’ve only directed me to be something different. Brooks likes me the way— No, he doesn’t like me for who I am. He doesn’t give a shit about my happiness. He wanted a fuck.
Well, screw him. Screw this whole damn experience. He can fuck off if he thinks I’m just going to swan into the gym today and act like he didn’t leave me in stockings and suspenders in a candlelit living room while he fucked the person he’s really in a relationship with two doors down.
Tears roll down my cheeks and I have no idea what I’m crying over. My own embarrassment, or that I lost something I never really had.
Angry, I swipe away the wetness from my cheeks. As I stand, my mobile rings. My sister’s name illuminates the screen. A familiar voice.
“Anna.”
“How’s it going over there, author extraordinaire?”
The sound of someone who loves me brings back my tears. “It’s okay. I’m ready to come home.”
“Are you crying?”
I take a deep breath and pinch the bridge of my nose. “No, I was cutting an onion.”
“Isn’t it morning in NYC? Izzy, you never cry. What’s wrong?”
“Oh, you know, fell for the guy I’m supposed to be in competition with. Slept with him and found out he has a…someone.”
“Bastard. He’s married?”
“I don’t know about married but there’s someone else, for sure.”
“Dirty bloody wanker. But he’s not worth tears, surely? You’ve only been there a few days. I mean, you helped him cheat on someone. It’s not the end of the world. Maybe Mummy is right about his type.”
“Excuse me?”
“You know, tattoos, no brain. He’s hardly husband material, is he?”
“You’re unbelievable, Anna. The last thing I would expect from you is I told you so. I’m going.”
“Wait, Iz, I’m sorry. I’m just trying to make you feel better, that’s all. You had a fling with a bad boy; don’t let it get you down.”
“Too late.”
“What are you going to do about it?”
“There’s not much I can do about it. Get through the next few days and never see him again.” That thought stabs like a blunt knife in my chest.
“Well, it may be the vindictive journalist in me, but don’t you have a well-read blog? If it were me, I wouldn’t let him get off so easily.”
“I couldn’t blog about it. It’s my life too.”
“I’m not Yo
da, Izzy—take or leave my suggestion. Bet it would make you feel better, though. Otherwise, go get yourself a tub of Ben & Jerry’s and a bottle of wine and stew Bridget Jones–style. Anyway, I have to go to a meeting. I was just checking in. Mummy asked me to call because she’s too proud to call herself when she doesn’t agree with your, how does she put it…?”
“Life choices,” we say in unison.
“Thanks, Anna.”
“For telling you I told you so?”
“Erm, more the other stuff. It’s just nice to hear from you. I’ll see you soon.”
“Be safe, sweetie.”
“You too.”
* * * *
After speaking with Anna, I wash my face and go out for a run. I had intended to clear my head but for the two hours I’m running, I just keep thinking, Brooks will be standing in the studio waiting for me to dance now. And, Brooks will be sitting in the bistro asking Angie to make him a breakfast shake. Or, I wonder if he fucks the other woman as good as he does me.
Did it ever mean as much to him as it did to me? Didn’t he feel like the earth stopped spinning when we were together? Like we were no longer part of a mundane routine but we were starting something different, new, and exciting; something remarkable?
I don’t know how to answer my own questions or put an end to my chaotic thoughts. So I find myself here, in Walgreens, taking Anna’s advice.
“That’ll be nineteen thirty-five,” the cashier tells me as she bags up my bottle of New Zealand sauvignon blanc and a tub of Ben & Jerry’s.
I pay her and walk back to my borrowed apartment. By the time I’ve showered, it’s noon, a perfectly acceptable time of day to fill my body full of toxins and watch P.S. I Love You on my Mac.
While I’ve always preferred the book—it had me a blubbering mess from page 40—and I am one of those people more than a little angry that the movie was set in New York rather than Ireland, I’m dripping tears into my melting pot of ice cream within the first ten minutes. Subsequently drowning said tears with large gulps of sauvignon blanc, which are traveling straight to my head. Perfect!
When Brooks calls for the fourth time, I don’t send him straight to voice mail, I turn off my phone altogether. You choose another woman, I choose Ben, Jerry, and Gerard Butler all at once.