The Girl He Loves

by Carmen, Roya

  “I… she has…” he stammers, at a loss for words. “Yeah, that poem was intense, and I did notice that she seemed upset lately. I asked her about it, but she didn’t want to talk.”

  “Teenagers can be like that,” I say. “I don’t have girls but…”

  His gaze fixes mine. “You think she really could be cutting herself?”

  “It’s quite possible. A lot of girls do it. I researched it after I saw the photo. Apparently it’s a release from the negative emotions. It feels good.” I don’t confess that I was also a cutter when I was younger, which is the reason I’m familiar with it.

  He shakes his head. “That’s so fucked up.”

  His words catch me by surprise. I’ve never heard him curse before.

  “Well, you might want to talk to her about it,” I suggest. “Ask her to show you her arms.”

  “I will,” he says. “Thank you, Mischa. Thank you for caring and letting me know.”

  My heart swells and my pulses eases. He doesn’t think I’m a psycho stalker.

  I am, there’s no question about that. But he has no clue.

  28

  Brian and I and the boys are playing Sorry — we all get pretty competitive and ruthless when we play this game. This is nice, I think as I watch Tristan move his pawn back four spaces. He’s not happy — he was close to his safety zone, and now he’s vulnerable again. Trevor’s hand is buried in a bowl of popcorn. Brian is sipping from a can of Coke. It’s his turn.

  We used to play boardgames all the time when the boys were small; Sorry, Mastermind, Clue, Risk… kids Monopoly. These days, we barely spend anytime together. I resolve to make this a regular happening.

  “Sorry,” Brian says to Tristan as he takes out his pawn. Poor Tristan looks completely defeated. Brian is so ruthless when he plays this game, any game for that matter. He’s always been that way. Suddenly, I want to avenge Tristan.

  When my turn is up, I pick a Sorry card and have the option to take out either Brian or Trevor. Taking out Trevor will take me closer to my safety zone, but I can’t do that to my boy. And I still want to avenge Tristan. I shoot Brian an impish grin as I take out his pawn.

  He shakes his head. “I’m not surprised,” he says. “You never pick on the boys.”

  I laugh and wrap my arm around Tristan. “Of course I don’t… they’re my precious boys. Sorry, you’re the only one left to pick on.”

  He smirks. “You’re bad.”

  “You kind of like that side of me.”

  “I think you need to be spanked later,” he teases.

  My jaw drops to the floor.

  “Ewww,” Trevor scoffs. “Don’t say stuff like that in front of us, please, Dad.” He looks throughly disgusted, while Tristan seems confused and mildly traumatized.

  Brian used to always say stuff like that, and used to be able to get away with it.

  Not so much anymore.

  It’s cliché to say, but they really do grow up too fast.

  * * *

  I’m folding laundry yet again when I get his call. I’m surprised because Joel never calls me. The occasional text, but no phone conversations. I think we both know it would be inappropriate since we’re both happily married. There’s something very intimate about a telephone conversation. Unlike a meeting at a coffee shop or smoothie shop, a phone conversation involves just two people — there’s no one else around. And especially if conducted in one’s quiet space, like a bedroom, it can become quite private. It’s a big no-no as far as I’m concerned.

  As it stands, Trevor is playing Fortnite on the sofa next to me, and Tristan is on his device. It’s Saturday afternoon, and I’m wearing sweats. “What’s up?” I ask, trying to sound casual.

  “I need to see you, Mischa”

  My throat is in my heart for a second. “Uh… sure.”

  “Can you see me now?” he asks.

  “Uh…” I look like hell — no makeup, hair up in a ponytail, and sweats, but I’m dying from curiosity. “Yes.”

  “Our usual spot in thirty minutes?”

  “Sure, I’ll be there.”

  “Where are you going?” Tristan asks.

  I’m meticulously folding Brian’s purple boxers. “Coffee with a friend. Just for a bit.”

  As much as I want to rush out of there, I need to finish my load of laundry, and everything needs to be folded perfectly. I’m sure he’ll understand if I’m late.

  Joel looks completely disheveled when I spot him at our usual spot in the corner. He looks absolutely devastated. He’s holding a smoothie but I don’t think he’s drinking it. The place is packed with teens, and I don’t bother ordering anything. I run straight to Joel. “How are you?”

  “Been better.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “You were right,” he tells me.

  “I’m so sorry, Joel.” I really am. I wish I’d been wrong.

  He’s staring down at the table, devastated. “When I asked her about it, she starting crying and she showed me.”

  I can’t look up at him. Instead, I study the silver flecks in the granite of the table. I study my nails, and notice a chip in my pink polish.

  “I asked her what’s going on,” he continues. “I had no clue. How can a dad not know? I’ve been so caught up in my own life, in the salon, in my stupid hobbies, in…” his words trail off as he glances up at me.

  “It’s not your fault,” I tell him.

  “She’s stressed out about school,” he tells me. “She also has a learning disability… dyslexia.”

  “Oh… I’m sorry.” I already knew that of course.

  “It makes school a lot tougher for her.”

  “I can imagine.”

  He shakes his head. “But there’s something else,” he says. “I can’t quite put my finger on it. Something she’s not telling me.”

  I wonder what it could be. Could she be pregnant? Could she be on drugs? “Maybe a lover’s quarrel?” I suggest. “Has she broken up with a boy recently?”

  “She did, a year ago,” he tells me. “But I don’t think that’s it. She’s been over Jonathan for a while, I think.”

  I bite my lip, mulling it over. Despite all the creeping I’ve been doing, I haven’t seen any clues.

  “Keep talking to her,” I say. “That’s all you can do. She’ll eventually open up. You two sound close.”

  He smiles. “We are. Thank you, Mischa. What would I do without you?”

  I blush.

  “Really. I’m so glad we found each other,” he says. “You’re fun, sweet, and give great advice.”

  And to think, it was all because of Ava. “Me too.”

  If it weren’t for my obsession, I would have never become fixated on Renee and Joel, and would have never met either of them. “Did you have a chance to talk to your wife about it?”

  He buries his face in his hands. “I did.”

  “It didn’t go well?”

  He rubs at his face furiously. “We had a fight about it.”

  “Oh no,” I say and I’m appalled at myself. I’m appalled because this makes me sort of happy. I know it shouldn’t but it does. I like Ava, despite the fact that I’ve never met her. And I like Joel very much. But Renee, not so much. She strikes me as spoiled, and a little selfish if I’m honest. I generally try not to judge people on appearances, but it’s a nagging feeling.

  “She had no clue, and at first she didn’t want to believe me,” he says. “And then I kind of accused her of not giving a fuck, of being too caught up in her stupid store and spending too much time with Grant.”

  Fuck.

  “Grant is a guy she works with.”

  I know. A beautiful stylish silver fox.

  “He’s her business partner. They both own the shop.”

  Interesting.

  “Anyway, it was bad, Mischa. She was livid. She stormed off and called me an asshole.”

  “You’re not an asshole, Joel.”

  He laughs. “Joel rhymes with asshole,
what can I say.”

  I smile. “Well, it might rhyme, but you’re definitely not an asshole. You’re the sweetest guy I know.”

  * * *

  About to head to yoga class, I decide to take the stairs down. I’m wearing my favorite Lululemon yoga pants and tank top, paired with my new sneakers. I’ve got my cool new bag over my shoulder, pink with white polka-dots. With my short bob in a tiny ponytail, I’m looking rather girly.

  I’m in a great mood, and excited to see Joel. I’m eager to see how things are going with Ava. I hope they’re getting her help. I know how messed up I was, and if it weren’t for Brian and his mom, who knows what could have become of me.

  I step out of Orchard Heights with a spring in my step.

  My breath hitches when I see her.

  She’s as stunning as always. She’s wearing a one piece white romper, wide pant legs flared over black stilettos, long golden hair and a designer handbag. Gold bracelets dance around her arm as she lifts her hand to her large rimmed summer hat. She’s wearing aviator glasses but I can still tell she’s not happy.

  “Oh, hi there. Renee, is it?” I ask casually, but all the while, I worry I might pass out. My heart is beating so violently, I can barely think straight. What is she doing here? How does she know where I live? What does she want with me?

  “Hello, Mischa.”

  “Hello,” I reply, the word small. I can’t breathe.

  “How are you?” she asks. She’s a femme fatale. Larger than life. I feel like an insignificant ugly little mouse next to her.

  “Good…”

  “I know you’ve been seeing my husband, Mischa,” she says, not mincing words.

  “Uh…” God, I can’t do this. “Yeah, we work out together.”

  “What’s your deal, Mischa?” she asks, her words measured. “Why are you stalking us?”

  A sharp pain hits me in the chest. I’m at a complete loss. I’ve been caught.

  “First, you come to the store and give me a fake name. Next thing, you’re all buddy-buddy with my husband.”

  “I… I’m sorry.”

  She reaches for her glasses and pulls them off. I see the sorrow in her eyes. She’s not as angry as I thought she was. She’s just very sad. “I know who you are, Mischa. And I think you know who I am too.”

  We both know. We’re just not saying the words out loud. “You know my husband, Brian.”

  “I do.”

  “That party at Brian’s cousin’s…” my words trail off. I want to ask her if Brian is Ava’s father.

  “Talk to your husband,” she says. “I think it’s time.”

  “Yes, I think so too.”

  “And stay away from Joel and my daughter,” she scoffs. “And get yourself a life.” And with that, she turns from me and leaves. It takes a few seconds to process her words.

  What a bitch.

  She’d been kind until those last words, but her true colors eventually came to the surface. Joel deserves better.

  29

  I proceed with my plans just as if nothing had happened. I still head to Juliette’s studio and grin at the regulars. When Joel shoots me a wave, I wave back and feign a smile. I’m so angry, it’s crushing.

  Yes, I’ve been obsessively stalking her and her family, but she didn’t have to be such a bitch about it. I have a problem — I can’t help it. Now, I want to march all the way to her shop and tell her off.

  Even meditation doesn’t calm me down. Of course I could never do that. I don’t have the balls. Yet I still want revenge. I turn Joel down when he asks me to go for a smoothie, telling him I’m swamped with work.

  * * *

  As I go through the motions of making dinner for my family; Asian beef wraps and fried rice, I’m still seething. Her beautiful evil face clouds my brain. I fantasize about pulling that gorgeous hair of hers, pulling it out of her stupid head. Glasses clank and plates thump as I set them on the table.

  Thankfully, this is one of the boys’ favorite meals, and they eagerly eat it up. It always brings a smile to my face when they eat my dinner enthusiastically. Yet, I’m still sullen.

  “You seem stressed, sweetie,” Brian says between forkfuls of his fried rice.

  “I am,” I deadpan.

  I’m livid with the beautiful mother of your secret illegitimate daughter.

  I realize that I’m not only upset with Renee, but I’m also angry with Brian, for putting us all in this mess, for throwing me onto this obsessive path.

  “Whatever it is,” he says. “You can always talk to me about it. You know that, right?”

  I don’t say a word as I dig my fork in.

  It’s about two hours later when I completely lose it. It typically happens like this, an escalation of angry and compulsive thoughts which usually build to an explosive peak.

  I’m standing on a chair in my walk-in closet to grab my box of diaries. I want to flip through a few of them and read them because they always calm me down when I get tense or depressed. It’s evidence of how far I’ve come along. I used to be so much more messed up. The diaries remind me that the present day is only that: a day. The next day will be better, and the next, even more so. And before long, a week will pass by and my concerns and problems will be a thing of the past. Emotions are transient.

  As I reach for the box, I topple and fall off the chair. And to add insult to injury, the box of diaries falls on my head. It hurts and my closet is a complete mess. Rage floods through me, so fast, I don’t see it coming. I have no time to prepare for it, to stop it. In tears, I throw the diaries.

  “Bitch!”

  I stand and pull at the hangers, rip my favorite red dress off, and flick it.

  “Fucking bitch!”

  I throw everything I own on the carpeted floor, all the while, shouting, “Fucking bitch!”

  I reach for Brian’s shirts and one by one, I fling them in the air. “Asshole.”

  I grab his favorite dress pants and rip them off the hanger. “Fucking asshole.”

  I reach for my shoes, grab a pair of Steve Madden black stilettos and throw them behind me.

  “What the fuck?” Brian scoffs.

  I turn to see him standing there. Trevor is next to him, looking confused. Thankfully, Tristan is not there to witness my breakdown — he’s at a friend’s, working on a school project.

  “Trevor, please leave us alone and go to your room,” Brian says, his words measured. I see the teacher in him then, the authoritative figure.

  Trevor doesn’t hesitate.

  “What is going on?” Brian asks as soon as Trevor is gone. “What did I do?”

  I fall to my knees in the mess of clothes I’ve created. I’m sobbing like a widow at her late husband’s funeral. “I know.”

  He inches closer. “You know… what?” he asks, his words a whisper.

  I look up at him, at his beautiful green eyes. “I know about Ava.”

  He’s without words. How could he not be?

  “She’s beautiful, by the way,” I say. “Looks exactly like you.”

  He kneels on the floor, next to me. “How… how did you…”

  “I found the photo, the one you hid behind our wedding picture.”

  He stares down at the heap of clothes, not able to look me in the eye. He can’t even bring himself to say anything.

  “You know what’s always bothered me about the photo?” I say. “Why would you have kept it there, where I could so easily find it?”

  “I suppose part of me wanted you to discover it,” he confesses. “I knew you would eventually.”

  “I’m surprised it took me so long.”

  “I never had the guts to just come out and tell you. I was scared shitless that you’d leave me, Mischa. I was a fucking coward.”

  My gaze is unforgiving. “You were.”

  We both fall into a strained silence. My fingers dance over the fabrics of my clothing; silk, lace, cotton.

  “So, she really is yours,” I say. “I was about ninety-five pe
rcent sure.”

  “Yes, she is,” he says. “I’m almost positive.”

  An unexpected brush of anger sweeps over me as I imagine him and Renee in the act of procreation. “How could you… have?”

  He pulls his gaze from mine, and rubs at his beautiful face.

  “It was the night of Ryan’s party, right?” I ask.

  He nods. “I swear, Mischa. It was only the one time. I was drunk and hurting, and pissed off with you. You weren’t there for me—”

  “Don’t you dare turn this on me, Brian,” I snap. “You stick your dick in some long-legged blonde and it’s my fucking fault?!”

  “I’m sorry… I know it was me. It was all me. My mistake. I was a stupid messed up kid. I was a fucking pig.”

  “Yes, you were,” I tell him. “I want to know everything.”

  “Mischa… you don’t—”

  “Don’t fucking tell me what I want. I want to know every fucking detail.”

  He blows out an audible breath. He knows he’s not going anywhere soon.

  “What happened after I left the party?” I ask.

  “I was upset. I wanted to run after you, but there was this other angry part of me that said, ‘Fuck her.’”

  I understand where he’s coming from. I remember. I know I’d been selfish, too caught up in my own issues. He’s right — I wasn’t there for him.

  “Renee came up to me and said I should forget all about you. She was all over me. Her hands were in my hair, between my legs…”

  “Did you want her? Did she make you hard?”

  He shakes his head, not answering.

  “Did she?! Did she fucking make you hard?”

  He nods. “What do you think, Mischa? I was a stupid twenty year-old kid, and she was all over me. But I swear, it was just sex. It wasn’t like I was thinking, ‘She’s so cute. I love the way she smiles, and that dimple on her right cheek. I want to marry that girl.’ She was never you, Mischa.”

  I don’t know what to say, so I say absolutely nothing.

  “It was fucking, that’s all it was. I was half-drunk, just sober enough to get it up. I barely remembered what had happened the next day. I just remembered enough to know I’d done it. You don’t know how guilty I felt about it, how guilty I’ve been feeling ever since.”