by Jessa James
“Don’t give me that look,” she accuses me. “Every single girl in my class did dressage.”
I just eat my pupusa and keep my thoughts to myself.
“Hey, do you remember the Halloween that you and Asher took me and my friends trick or treating?” Emma asks, pushing her mostly finished plate away.
“Of course I remember,” I say. “You were a fancy lady, if I recall.”
Her dimples flash. “I was the historical figure of Elizabeth Cady Stanton, one of the first leaders of the women’s rights movement.”
I shake my head, balling up a napkin and tossing it on my plate. “You’ll have to go easy on me. Remember, I dropped out of school. I’m fucking dumb, and I always will be.”
I expect her to roll her eyes, but she doesn’t. Instead, she grows solemn for a minute.
“You are not dumb. Seriously, you’re so smart. I wasn’t kidding earlier when I said you would be successful no matter what you did.”
I roll my eyes, my face heating. “Don’t say that.”
“What? Why not?”
“Because I know that you’re doing it to be nice, but it’s still a bunch of bullshit.”
She seems taken aback by that. “No, it’s not. I’m being completely honest. You might have dropped out, but I’ve seen your bookshelf at your house. Shakespeare, Herman Melville, David Foster Wallace… that is not what a stupid person reads, okay?”
I just wave her away. I know what’s true and what’s false, and the line she keeps repeating about my intelligence is just not true. “Alright. Whatever. Let’s talk about something else.”
Emma sighs. “Okay. What do you want to talk about, then?”
“Uhhh…” I wrack my brain for something else to talk about. I finally come up with something, but when I say it aloud, it sounds super lame. “How are your parents?”
There’s a palpable tension in the air. Not so much between me and Emma, but between her and her parents. I notice that she straightens her spine a little and clears her throat.
“They’re fine. They are… they’re trying to encourage me to date people that they approve of.” She looks down, fidgeting with the hem of her sundress.
“Oh.” I’m not sure how to respond to that. “Any luck so far?”
I watch her expressive face grow quietly sad. It’s painful to watch. Painful to be part of a conversation where she talks about dating people who aren’t me.
I know that I should be the only one she thinks of. She knows it too.
But to preserve our fragile truce, neither of us says it.
She keeps her eyes on the hem of her dress. “Not really. There are a few guys that my mother thinks will be a good match, whatever that means.”
“That’s… good.” I honestly can’t think of anything else to say.
“What about you?” she asks, looking up at me.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean like… you know. Who are you dating?”
Something like hope shimmers in those emerald green eyes of hers.
“No one.” I shift in my seat, beyond uncomfortable with this line of questioning. What I want to say, what I should say, is there will never be anyone else for me but you.
But I don’t. She bites her bottom lip.
“I see.”
I really doubt that she does, but I’m eager to let it go.
“Are you ready to go find somewhere to study?” I ask, getting to my feet. I start to gather the paper plates on the table.
“Sure,” she says. I glance at her, and I can see that something is weighing on her. But I don’t want to talk about any of it anymore.
So I throw the paper plates out and thank the food cart dude. Then I lead Emma back out onto the street.
13
Emma
I’m on the street in front of the pizza place that Jameson took me to, chewing on a nail. I don’t want to be here. I especially don’t like the fact that I am dressed up — wearing a skimpy black body con dress, no less.
But my mother nagged me about going out with Rich enough times that I finally threw my hands up and agreed. I know that it is a bad idea, but I do it anyway.
Anything to please the family, right?
I’m not certain about any of that now, as I am standing here sweating my ass off while I wait for Rich to show. He’s almost fifteen minutes late, and I am seriously about to call an Uber.
If he can’t be bothered to be on time for our first date, it doesn’t bode well for the future.
“Emma?”
I turn to find Jameson and Forest walking up. I can feel Jameson’s eyes all over me in such a conspicuous outfit… of course, with him it feels sort of naughty.
“Hi?” I say, brushing back a lock of hair. “I didn’t expect to see you two today.”
“David invited us,” Forest says. “You look nice, by the way.”
I flush. “Oh, thanks. I’m, um… I’m on a date.”
Jameson’s expression turns dark as a thundercloud. “Here?”
I bite my lip, glancing over my shoulder. It takes a deep breath before I can answer. I try to smile, turning on the charm.
“Yeah. I mean, he’s late, but whenever he gets here.”
Jameson just glowers at me, which makes me feel like total trash. I couldn’t have known that he would be here today, though.
“We should go inside,” Forest says, pulling Jameson by the arm. “It was nice seeing you, Emma.”
Jameson lets Forest lead him on toward the front door of the restaurant, but he glances back to me. He doesn’t say anything, but his eyes speak volumes.
How could you do this? and This isn’t what I wanted are chief among them. It chills me to the bone. I know that I had no choice but to move on from him, but it still feels like shit.
So I glance down, breaking the connection. I can’t do anything else.
I pull out my phone, trying to decide between calling an Uber and going home or just changing the restaurant. I can’t go inside, obviously. But Rich is almost twenty minutes late at this point… is there any way I can just call it?
Uncertain, I suck in another deep breath.
“Emma!”
I glance up to see Rich, dressed in sweaty workout clothes. I give him a puzzled look. I definitely said that we were going to dinner at a nice place.
“You look fancy,” he says. He closes in, apparently going for a hug.
“This dress is Valentino,” I grit out, backing away from his embrace. “And I told you that we were going somewhere nice for dinner!”
“You said it was pizza,” he says, defensive.
“No, I definitely said a fancy Italian restaurant. I explicitly told you to wear something nice.” I’m miffed that he is even bothering to argue with me.
Rich looks down at his sweaty, rumpled clothes and shrugs. “I’m sure they’ll take us.”
The wind shifts, and I get a whiff of him. I wrinkle my nose; he doesn’t just smell sweaty, he reeks, like he hasn’t ever showered. How did I not notice that at my parents’ party?
“Yeah, we can’t go in there,” I say, motioning to the restaurant behind me. “It’s well into dinner time. We missed our reservation, and besides, they definitely have a dress code for dinner.”
“Psssh,” he says, waving a hand. “I just have to grease a palm or two. Trust me, it’s nothing I haven’t done a hundred times.”
He doesn’t even realize how entitled he sounds. It really steams me. “Rich—”
“Uh uh,” he says, grasping my arm and whipping me around. I’m so shocked by it, my mouth falls open. “Methinks she doth protest too much, right? Come on, you wanted to go here, so we’ll go here.”
His grip on my arm is like iron. I stumble forward to the door of the restaurant, unable to put the words together to tell him off.
We get inside the bustling little place, and I see that it is jam packed. A young man comes up to the host stand.
“Hi. Do you have a reservation?” he asks.
“We do. Right, babe?” Rich says, looking to me.
I try not to make an ugly face. “We had one at seven thirty under Alderisi.”
The host gives us a disapproving look, and begins typing my name into an iPad he has at the host stand. I get another whiff of Rich’s body odor, and I almost vomit.
The host surveys Rich. “I’m sorry, but while I do have your reservation still, I don’t believe that you meet our dress code.”
Rich lets go of my arm and reaches in his pocket, producing several bills. He peels off two, slapping them down on the host stand.
“There!” he declares. “Just to let you know that I’m serious about dropping some dough in this place.” He laughs. “See what I did there? Dropping some dough? Because this is a pizza place?”
Though I would like him not to take Rich’s money, the host discreetly pockets the bills. “If you want to come right this way, I’ll show you to your table.”
Rolling my eyes, I follow the host through the restaurant… Right to the table behind Jameson and Forest. Jameson sees me, glowers, and then spots Rich. His expression turns puzzled as he looks back and forth between Rich and me. Like he’s trying to piece us together, but keeps coming up lacking.
The host seats us, and Rich takes the seat facing away from Jameson and Forest. He plunks down without a second thought, and I’m left to sit with Jameson in plain view. I feel my cheeks heating as I sit.
Could this date get much worse? If it can, I don’t want to know.
Rich picks up the drinks menu. “You like cocktails?”
I put my purse on my chair, lining my gaze up so that Rich is blocking Jameson. I pick up the food menu. “I don’t know. Sort of?”
Rich grabs the first server that walks by. “Hey! We’ll have a couple of tequila sunrises, right here.”
My brows knit. “I don’t drink tequila.”
“You’ll love it,” he says, picking up the food menu. “Oooh, they have a ribeye. That’s what I’m going to get. You should maybe get a salad or something.”
My mouth opens, but once again he has robbed me of words. Everything he’s saying and doing is classic bad date behavior. It’s almost like he is testing me, trying to see what I’ll tolerate.
“I don’t think so,” I say, narrowing my eyes at Rich. “I think I’m going to get the funghi pizza.”
He doesn’t so much as put his menu down. He just talks to me over it, which is beyond rude. “All right. Just don’t complain to me when you’ve gained weight, okay? I know how you women are.”
His words are so outrageous, I can’t even take him seriously.
I lean over just a bit, beyond Rich, and find Jameson still watching. He sees me looking, and raises his eyebrows.
I lean back, embarrassed that I was caught out so clearly.
The waiter brings our drinks and takes our orders. I taste the drink he put before me, but I’m immediately overwhelmed with the taste of tequila.
“Blech,” I say, pushing the drink away.
Rich just shrugs and downs his drink right away, then reaches for mine. “Don’t mind if I do.”
Rich proceeds to get drunk very quickly. He also grows more aggressive and more sexual with every drink.
“So what I’m saying is, basically, that if a woman doesn’t suck my dick, why even keep her around?” Rich says, draining his sixth drink. “You get it, right?”
At this point, I’m so repulsed by him, it’s not even funny. To have this privileged guy who smells like the worst of the gym socks telling me how he expects to get head regularly from the girls he sees? I don’t even know how he functions in day to day life. Money only goes so far to protect you.
I push my chair back, standing up. “I think we can just cut the date off here. I think it’s clear that we don’t belong together.”
“What? No, come on,” he says, drunkenly getting to his feet. “The food hasn’t even come yet. Lemme find a waiter.”
He turns to look for someone, but I just give Rich a tight smile. “I don’t think that we need the food to be able to tell that we’re not suited. I’m going to go.”
I step out from the table, scooting my chair in. I intend to leave with a little dignity, and block Rich’s phone number in my phone as soon as my Uber gets here.
“Don’t,” Rich says, his voice a growl.
I turn and hurry between the rows of tables, rushing out the door of the restaurant.
“You had better stop!” Rich yells, his footfalls indicating that he’s right on my heels.
He catches me just outside the front door, grabbing my arms and hauling me up against the rough stucco of the building. He’s sweating. When he speaks, his words are flecked with foam.
“Where the fuck do you think you’re going?”
He slams me against the building hard enough to make my head crack against the stucco. I gasp, seeing stars.
“Nobody leaves me, especially not a damaged little rich girl like you. Your father had to beg me to even take you out, you slut.” He slams me against the wall again.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see the door open. Jameson steps out, takes one look at what’s going on, and completely loses his shit.
“Get the fuck off her!” Jameson howls, tackling Rich from the side. “Motherfucker—”
“Fuck you!” Rich says, falling over. He pulls Jameson down and tries to punch him. He only manages to land one blow, but it’s a pretty good one, damaging Jameson’s nose.
Jameson starts to bleed really heavily. That seems to make Jameson really mad.
“I’ll fucking end you,” Jameson promises, something triggered in him.
He starts whaling on Rich, his fists hitting the guy’s face with a series of muffled thuds. The two men are locked together, grunting and cursing. Rich struggles to fight back a little.
“Jameson, no!” I cry out, helpless. People begin to file out of the restaurant, and Forest tries to get between them. He fails, though.
Across the street, a police cruiser turns the corner, sees the people crowded around the fight, and turns on its lights. Forest comes over to me, grabbing me and pushing himself between me and the crowd. In a few seconds, the cops are jumping out of the car, pulling Jameson off of Rich.
“Wait, officer, it wasn’t his fault!” I yell when one of the cops hauls Jameson up off the ground and slams him against the patrol car. The other officer is doing the same thing to Rich.
I am suddenly aware that I am crying, and I feel deeply ashamed.
“Ma’am, please get back,” the officer says to me. “All of you need to get back, right now.”
Forest pulls me away, watching the cop’s every movement like a hawk. “It’s okay,” he murmurs to me, but I can tell that he doesn’t mean it.
“Please, no—” I try again to intervene, but the cops are already cuffing and searching both of the men. Forest wraps his arms around me and carries me back a few feet.
Jameson makes eye contact with me, and I dissolve into a mess of tears in Forest’s arms. As Jameson is put into the back of the patrol car, I turn in Forest’s arms, crying into his neck.
14
Jameson
I’m lying down on a cot in the jail cell the cops stuck me in, staring at the ceiling. It’s stiflingly hot in this cell, and the walls are just plain cinder blocks. I’ve been here for six hours, long enough for the cops to have booked me into the system. My fingertips are still black with the now-dry ink.
I haven’t been in here long enough to be wearing anything other than my blood stained shirt and jeans, though. I reflexively touch my face, thinking of the source of most of the blood.
My nose is swollen, sensitive to my touch. I try to ignore that. It’s not hard, because I keep replaying in my mind what happened.
I open the door of the restaurant. I look to my right, and there is pretty little Emma, being slammed up against the building by that douchebag.
Then I lose control.
I rewind it in my
head a little, coming back again and again to look at one particular thing. The terrified look in Emma’s eyes, the way he had his hands on her arms, his fingers digging into her flesh…
No one touches Emma like that, ever. I would be upset over any woman getting hurt in front of me, but that stupid idiot touched her. A girl that a part of me still thought of as mine.
It’s no surprise that I saw red.
There was no doubt in my mind, then or now, that I did the right thing. As soon as the cops rolled up, I shut my mouth, refusing to say anything. I have heard stories about people that talk without a lawyer present, and they’re not pretty. So I asked for a lawyer as soon as I was arrested, and the police haven’t pushed me on that yet.
I’ll be damned if I’m going to wind up in court for defending a woman from an abuser. So I’ve been biding my time, trying not to get too worked up over the fact that I am trapped in this brick room with absolutely no view outside.
I adjust the flimsy pillow that’s under my head. With no phone and nothing else to distract me, I find myself focusing on Emma. Replaying the whole night, again and again, almost like meditating.
Seeing her enter the restaurant with that ridiculous man child. Feeling my chest tighten every time she leaned over and glanced at me around Forest’s head. Watching as she fled the restaurant.
Flinging the front door open to find her pinned against the wall, helpless and afraid.
If I could go back in time and do it all again, I would do it the same damn way. Even though it landed me here, I would rather be in here and know that my girl is safe.
My girl. My mouth twists at that. All I can say right now is fuck Asher for making that stupid rule, and fuck me too for following it.
“Jameson Hart!” a guard shouts outside my cell. I sit up, tensing. The door unlocks, and the guard swings it open, looking in. “You’re free to go. Come on.”
Not one to question being given my freedom, I spring up. I follow the guard down a labyrinth of hallways, stopping at a window to collect my shoes, my phone, and my wallet.