by Vivien Vale
Darren halts his back-and-forth across the floor and looks at me with wide dyed curiosity. “Who the heck is John Brady?”
“I’ll get back to you on that.”
I jump out of the chair, sensing that something’s even more amiss than usual. I hit my shin on one of the misplaced end tables while weaving through living room, but I limp on.
Before exiting the room, I turn to face Darren.
“Actually, that’s Marcia Brady who gets hit with the football.”
“Marcia?”
“Marcia,” I pronounce carefully.
I give up the limping and hop on one foot through the kitchen.
Yep, something’s amiss.
Nearly every bottle from both my wine rack and my wine chiller is missing, except for two bottles in the chiller.
I take a quick look and see that a bottle of chardonnay and a bottle of white zinfandel are the only two left—all the red wine I’m keeping in the kitchen are missing.
The pain in my shin eases, and I get a waft of a strong odor.
It’s red wine, and it’s coming from the...bathroom?
I run to the bathroom door. The light is on, and I smell a pungent mixture of merlot, pinot noir, and cabernet.
“Hey, what’s going on in there?”
“Haven’t you ever heard of vino therapy?” Maggie chirps, sounding just as happy as a clam.
“What’s...what?”
“You know, a red wine bath.”
The sound of my face hitting my palm is probably loud enough to be heard all the way from Connecticut to Cape May.
I don’t even want to continue the discussion. I’m just ready for this to be over.
“Say, Maggie, you haven’t seen any messages, have you? Or missed calls? Maybe you borrowed my phone for something, and you saw something and forgot about it? I’d love to know.”
God, please let her say yes. I just need to know that Rose hasn’t given up on me.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Maggie projects in dramatic shout, like she’s auditioning for an off-Broadway production of A Streetcar Named Desire.
The combined smell of all the red wines is becoming too much. I step back from the bathroom door and almost knock into another randomly placed end table.
At least Maggie didn’t bring my phone along for her vino therapy—it’s sitting face-down on the end table.
It’s a sign, or at least that’s what I tell myself. I scoop up my phone, and for the first time in days, I walk into my own bedroom and lock the door.
I walk to the far side of the room so I can have some privacy as I call Rose...
But, fuck. I can’t call her yet. Not before I have solid news about the test results.
It’ll just have to wait.
And I’ll have to wait, too―with Maggie.
Unfortunately.
Rose
Two weeks.
Fourteen days, or thereabouts.
I’ll be honest: this entire time—an entire half a month—I never let go of the notion that I would be on this route again someday.
The route back to Daniel’s penthouse.
Someday. Someday soon.
I’ll continue my honesty, although this gets a little embarrassing: my definition of soon, in this case, has been sooner than two weeks.
I know. I’m asking a lot, right?
I look at today’s date on my phone, and I look at it in the context of the calendar hanging on my kitchen wall.
There’s no hiding from the LED light bulbs turned up to full brightness. It’s printed in stark black and white on the free calendar from the Thai delivery place.
Fourteen days exactly. Almost two dozen empty, eventless days. No word from Daniel, and no feelings of motivation strong enough to contact him myself.
Until now. Because it’s been two fucking weeks.
Fourteen days. Couldn’t he just call me?
It can’t be worse than the fears running through my head during that weepy taxi ride from his place.
Or it could be. The fact I’m yet to hear from Daniel is evidence it could be that bad―or worse.
I place my hand gently over my stomach while walking. I’m feeling butterflies again.
I wish I could say they’re butterflies of excitement, but these are more like butterflies of apprehension.
The fluttery feeling grows briefly, then fades when I stop at a crosswalk. I keep my hand where it is, as if my abdomen were its natural resting place. It gives me a feeling of security as Daniel’s home draws closer.
I don’t know why it gives me that feeling, but I’ll take what I can get.
It feels nice.
During these past two weeks of waiting to take the trip back up to Daniel’s penthouse, not once did I think I would enjoy the journey.
I’m still learning that it’s impossible to predict these things. It’s warm, it’s sunny, and there’s a light breeze and a jovial mood in the air...
This might be okay. I don’t know how, I couldn’t imagine the scenario, but I can’t predict anything.
It could’ve been a misunderstanding.
Yeah, a big misunderstanding, and he decided to just not call for two fucking weeks.
My right hand, resting so comfortably on my stomach, rejects the idea of burrowing through my purse to get my phone so I can check it yet again.
My right hand will hear none of that nonsense.
Even if my phone’s full of missed calls and messages, two weeks is enough of a chance.
And I can see Daniel’s building. I’m close enough to see that big picture window at the top floor.
The butterflies in my stomach are fluttering again. I get the feeling I shouldn’t be here.
I rub my fluttery stomach and regain control. There’s no stopping now.
I hold my head up high and tread into the lobby with purpose.
“Good evening.” A booming voice fills the lobby, greeting me with lots of natural reverb.
“Hello, I’m just going...”
“Up to the penthouse?” I don’t know if the large, suited man in front of me is the doorman or the concierge or what... “You can go on up.”
But he recognizes me.
I smile and nod, getting oddly flustered. Maybe I should be here after all.
“He won’t be home for about half an hour, though.”
The booming voice interrupts my fast walk to the elevator, but the concierge/doorman is all smiles as he hands me a key fob without saying another word.
I turn the key over and over in my hand on the way up to the penthouse.
Fuck it—if he wants to leave things like that and then not call for two weeks, he can handle the surprise of me waiting for him when he gets home.
I smirk while opening the door, picturing a startled Daniel finding me sitting on his leather lounge chair.
After that, there’s a good chance he’ll just tell me it’s over and that’ll be that, but...
I’m hit with bright lights while opening the door. It looks like every light in the penthouse is going at full throttle.
What is going on?
“May I help you?”
It’s her again. How could I have not guessed?
“Maggie.”
I remember her name at the same moment I say it out loud. That’s what I couldn’t remember last time. It’s Daniel’s ex-girlfriend―and the villain of his online fan base.
I’ve never seen a smile like the one that transforms Maggie’s face as she stares at me.
It’s technically a smile, but it looks cold, sinister, almost frightening. Thankfully, it doesn’t last long.
The kid is there, too. Maggie’s son, and...
I don’t know what’s going on. I can’t even gauge what’s happening. My brain is frozen, and I’m feeling paralyzed—just like the last time I was standing in this doorway.
The kid is glued to the TV, which is playing a daytime talk show. The audience is shouting, getting unruly, and the sound i
s loud.
It’s really loud; it must be turned up all the way. I don’t know how I didn’t notice it earlier.
“What are you doing here?” Maggie’s voice is almost drowned out by the television, but she keeps talking. “What are you doing in our house?”
I grab my stomach with both hands, no longer paralyzed but suddenly queasy. Maggie looks like she’s trying to suppress a grin, and I stop.
“Where’s Daniel?” I ask quietly.
I know he’s at work or on his way back.
Or is he?
I put my hand over my mouth.
Maggie’s evil grin is back, like she can’t stop it.
I try to gather my thoughts, at least to get through this moment, but the TV sounds like it’s getting louder.
I glance at the screen, but nobody’s changing the volume. The kid’s not even watching it anymore. He’s now looking at me.
The TV’s playing an ad for an action movie, and the sound becomes deafening.
“I think Daniel’s at the store, picking up stuff for Dar...Darren, mute the commercials, honey.”
Darren, that’s the kid’s name. Like a pro, he aims the remote and ends the horrible barrage of noise with a push of his thumb.
“Dear, I don’t know what you’re doing here, but I won’t push it.” Maggie’s condescending tone is tying my stomach in knots. “It really is over. You should know that, if you don’t yet.”
Even though I’m just standing on flat, solid ground, I stumble slightly and almost fall.
Regaining my balance, I see Maggie grinning with pure delight.
“Process it,” Maggie chirps cheerfully. “Let it sink in. Daniel has a family. There’s no more hope for you.”
Darren unmutes the television, and the sound of the shouting, shrieking crowd suffocates me. Tears are flooding my vision, but I can see Maggie still focused on me, smirking, her hands gripping the arm of the sofa with glee.
I clumsily run out the door and to the elevator. The sound of Maggie laughing at me competes with the sound of the TV coming from Daniel’s apartment.
Thank goodness the elevator opens as soon as I press the button, the empty car waiting to take me away from this hell.
I don’t know what’s carrying me on the walk home. I’m drained of all energy and all motivation for any fucking thing.
I just move down the sidewalk with a hard, blank stare, wiping away new tears every so often.
I stay on the route straight down to my building for a while, but after a few minutes, I take a brief detour.
I turn right and start walking west fast. I cross the West Side Highway and grab the key fob to Daniel’s apartment—I forgot to give it back.
And I’m not going back now.
I pitch the key into the Hudson with an overhand throw.
That feels surprisingly good.
And I’m still fucking crying.
There’s no denying what I’m going through.
“I’ve fallen for Daniel, hard,” I tell Jenna after getting back to my place.
All it took was a text message while walking home, and my cousin was waiting in the lobby by the time I got back.
Now she’s next to me on the living room sofa, her hand resting on my shoulder.
“You think so, huh?” Jenna smiles gently with knowing compassion. I emit a brief wheeze, which is as close to laughing as I could get at present.
“Only you could get a laugh from me right now.”
“Hey, I’m good for some things.”
“So you believe it?”
“I believe my eyes. I recognize that kind of pain all too well.”
“And you’ve gotten over it...”
“And so will you. You know that. We’ve all been through this shit.”
I shift away from Jenna on the sofa and face forward, looking at the wall.
“I’m going to need to some time, though.” I don’t know what I mean by that.
“Of course.” Jenna seems to know.
“I don’t think I can do it anymore.”
“Rose, they’ve had you long enough.”
“I guess that is what I’m talking about. Just, resetting...”
“Go. Find a sunny spot, take some time for yourself, figure it out.”
“Yeah,” I respond, kind of dumbly.
“And it’ll be time for you to bloom, Rose. I’ve been waiting years to use that one. But seriously, I’m picking up Jayden from his friend’s in like an hour, so...”
I don’t object to Jenna leaving. I’ve got things to do.
I walk Jenna out so I can pick up a pint of ice cream at the store downstairs.
It serves me well as I find a draft of my resignation letter, which I knew I’d be using someday, and print it out with tomorrow’s date.
I want to feel like a kid in a candy store trying to find a vacation rental somewhere tropical, beautiful, and far away from everything I know.
I’m not much for feeling excited tonight, though.
Looking through beach house rentals all over the world, I find a good deal in an unexpected location.
I sleep like a rock, and I hand in my resignation bright and early the next morning.
Everyone’s too shocked to say much, but that’s for the best.
After my last day of work, I pack in sort of a rush.
I have a teeming mass of impatient thoughts and feelings, but I want to wait until I get to the beach house to think about any of it.
I don’t have to wait long, though.
After a forty-minute ride on the N train, I get out at Coney Island. I walk with my two hefty pieces of luggage down to my beachside loft to check in.
The loft has a weird floor plan, but it’s lovely, and it’s set apart from everything.
It’s so set apart that all I end up doing the first day is setting a towel down on the sand and setting myself down to stare at the water.
The weather is perfect. I can barely see and hear the Coney Island crowds in the distance.
Sitting on the sand, I feel just calm enough to numb myself for a while, but I’m not figuring much out, either.
After two days, I give up and wander into the crowds at Coney Island. Apart from a few confused tourists, the only people who try to talk to me are guys.
There are a lot of guys, and most of them are shirtless. Yet it’s like I’m looking right through them.
That scares me. I really let myself go off the deep end with Daniel.
Halfway through the week, I retreat to my loft.
I exchange a couple texts with Jenna, but I don’t talk with anyone. I cook with the groceries the property owners left for me. I only venture outside to sit at my quiet spot on the beach.
My quiet spot doesn’t seem to help much. When the week is almost over, all I can think is It’s been three weeks, nearly a month, and Daniel still hasn’t even tried to talk to me, not even to explain himself.
My week is nearly up, and now I’m crying again.
Dammit.
A week’s not enough, I guess, but I have to get over this soon.
I’ve got no other choice.
Daniel
I’ve been here in London for already a week, and I’m anxious to get home again, although I begrudgingly understand that I’ll be walking in the door to Maggie, not Rose.
My mother raised me to respect women, and that’s exactly what I intend to do. I don’t want to hurt Maggie by any means.
I’ll keep my word. If Darren is my son, then I’ll pick up the slack and will promise to make up for lost time with him.
The problem is that the results are taking far longer than I expected. I don’t fucking get it. In this day and age, shouldn’t something like that be available, I don’t know, fucking instantly?
I finish up my packing in my hotel room, eager to get back to New York.
I had been across the pond to check on an issue with one of my hotels here, and now that everything is back under control, I’m ready to get back to where
I belong…with Rose.
I haven’t spoken to Rose since that day in my penthouse when Maggie showed up with Darren, demanding that I claim the son she’s certain is mine.
Even though I’m not with her right now, I know that Rose is just as eager to see the DNA testing results.
When I have everything ready to go, I turn in my hotel key and have a driver take me to Heathrow. My flight leaves in just two hours, and I plan on using the quality time on the trip back to think on everything that’s happened.
Rose deserves the whole truth, but frankly, so do I. I peel back the layers of my memory. I am fairly confident that Maggie was, in fact, on birth control at the time we broke up.
She wanted to focus on her career and never mentioned anything remotely resembling a pregnancy.
After boarding the plane, I order a gin and tonic and wear an eye mask. I get my neck pillow in place and heave a grand sigh as I lean back in my seat.
Hopefully, once I plant my feet back on American soil, I’ll be closer to a resolution where Rose and I can put this silly mix-up behind us.
When I step into my penthouse, Maggie and Darren are laughing together at the kitchen island. I cringe when I notice that Maggie is wearing one of the freshly dry-cleaned white button-down collared shirts I had washed just before I left for London.
She’s also wearing tiny pajama shorts underneath them. I toss the keys onto the counter by the door and shrug off my jacket while I carefully place my suitcase on the floor.
Maggie meets my gaze and gives me a wink as she ruffles her son’s hair. I recoil slightly.
I want to ask her what the hell she’s doing, but I hate to quarrel in front of the kid. He’s probably been through enough already as it is.
Cartoons are blaring from the sixty-inch flat screen above my fireplace in the living room, but they’re visible to the kid due to the open concept of my floor plan.
Darren is eating cereal and gives me a shy smile as I greet the two of them. I immediately notice that the counter tops, which I prefer to be kept clean at all times, are laden with dirty dishes.
My irritation is soaring through the fucking roof, and it hasn’t even been five fucking minutes since I got home.
“Uh, Maggie?” I scratch my head, trying to speak with as much politeness as I can.