Switch and Bait

by Ricki Schultz

I swallow some of the tightness away and finally manage: “I saw him.”

  He allows a beat. The clock over the mantel tick tick ticks to give us time. Then: “With his wife?”

  He cuts me a glance, and the word has taken the wind right out of me.

  I open my mouth to say—something—anything—but I can’t.

  “He’s married, Blanche.”

  “Wh—” In a failing attempt to keep this grip from choking me entirely, I rub at my neck, my throat.

  “His wife works in my office. Stephanie. I thought there was something familiar looking about that guy when I saw him at that reading. I knew I recognized his stupid face from somewhere.”

  “And that’s why you were so horrible?”

  He puts his fingers to his sternum. “Me?”

  “Fair enough,” I say.

  “The next day I was in Stephanie’s office, and I saw their latest family photo. White shirts and khaki pants on the beach!” He does a little mocking voice on that last part, but I can’t enjoy our shared disdain for those kinds of pictures because I’m floored by the rest of what he’s saying.

  “I—I swear. I didn’t know.” The room is starting to spin. I place a hand on the coffee table to stabilize my equilibrium. Try coughing away whatever’s closing up my throat, thoughts whizzing through my brain.

  It’s one thing to be told something. See a random girl. But then to hear the word wife.

  And that’s bad enough too, the word in that context, in and of itself.

  But when they become people—when they are given names—

  I think back to the woman sitting with Cliff at the restaurant. Stephanie. She’s a person. She’s a fool, just the same as me. She’s—

  “Stephanie’s a redhead?”

  Henry scrunches his face. “What? No. She’s a brunette. Short hair. What are you talking about?” He looks at me like I’m a crazy person.

  Which, he’s probably not wrong.

  And at once, I just lose it right there. All the emotion I’ve bottled for the last decade comes pouring out of my face. My breath—I can’t catch it—can’t—

  I attempt to stand, but my legs seem to have forgotten their one job. I fan at my blazing cheeks, try to force some kind of air into my nose, my lungs.

  Not only am I a stupid stupid girl and I am admitting it to Henry of all damn people, but I’m a stupid stupid girl who’s about to pass out because of Feelings. Because of some idiot adulterer who’s throwing his dick all over town and making unsuspecting women—and suspecting ones like me—fall under his spell.

  I’m a walking cliché, even though I’ve spent most of my adult life actively trying to be the exact opposite.

  All these thoughts take hold for what feels like hours. They disorient me. Cause my body parts to stop working, I guess because my brain is working so much overtime.

  When I’ve degenerated into wheezes, Henry rushes to the kitchen and reappears with a brown paper bag.

  “Here.” He shoves it at me and gently guides me back to a seated position. His palm, gentle, takes up almost the entirety of my back, and he holds it there. Steadies me. Directs me when to breathe in and out. My vision starts to clear, and after a few minutes when it feels like my lungs are about to scratch their way out of my chest, I finally catch my breath.

  Everything has stabilized enough for me to notice a headache that now pounds at my temples. I squeeze my eyes shut and just keep breathing in the cool, fresh air. I can deal with my embarrassment later.

  The two of us sit here a long time, his giant man thigh touching mine, and I don’t know what else to say to this dude.

  What else there is to say.

  I appreciate that he just lets me be. He doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t scold. He just waits patiently for me to finish my tantrum or whatever the hell it is, and he must sense I don’t know what to say next because he lets me off the hook and he takes the lead.

  “So I, uh, guess you didn’t know then, huh?” He cuts me a stare.

  Even though I sense it was probably intended as a joke, the mere implication of his words causes an instant spike to my pulse.

  “Excuse me?” I yank back.

  “Easy.” His palms up in surrender. His expression sincere. “I didn’t think so.”

  “My God, that’s what you think of me?” My voice cracks, and I hate myself for it. Although I’ve already almost just died, I want to appear strong. Not like some blubbering buffoon. Some girl who can’t hold her shit together just because of some guy.

  I shake my head and turn my attention back to my hands.

  “No, I—”

  He faces me. No more words pass between us, but the energy that radiates says enough. I’m desperate for the moment to linger—just a second longer—when he reaches his big fingers up into my hair, slowly at first. Tangles them into the curls, gentle but firm.

  They seem to convey this is not a fluke. Not an accident. As he twists my face toward his, it’s deliberate. His intent is clear.

  Yet his eyes are soft.

  With them, he’s seeking permission. He’s asking me if this is okay.

  They’re blue. Searching. As his thumb brushes across my cheek.

  We dive at the same time—close the space between us. The air is suctioned away from me again, but this time, he’s stolen it, and there’s no pain. What he replaces it with gives me life. Gives me the desire for him to use me up. Swallow me whole. Bleed me dry. Take it all.

  As his lips explore mine, Henry is a delicious collection of contrasts.

  First tender, then rough. Pressing. Pulling. I tug him closer—closer, as he sucks at my bottom lip. Hands tickling as they scrape against my skin. Burn against delicate flesh under my blouse.

  I gasp as his breath chills my neck.

  Sets the rest of me on fire.

  I’m liquid at once, every bit of me, from my toes right to my brain. No time to think or overthink. No thoughts but this.

  We chuckle I think at the impulsivity of it all. At what it’s doing to us.

  I find him hot and hard against me as his own hand slithers between my legs, cruelly slow.

  I can’t take it.

  I want to torture him too. And when I reach beneath his waistband, a hungry growl rumbles low in my ear.

  And then he laughs. It’s innocent. Teasing.

  Like he’s not inches from just the right spot. Like maybe he’s going to stop here and call it a night.

  But it’s too late. My body longs for it. Needs it. Needs him.

  To stop with this torment on the outside of my dress pants. To slip beneath the soaked fabric. To feel what he’s done to me.

  To know it’s not the first time. Not even the second.

  To put me out of this misery.

  The longer he waits, the more I need it. I can be cruel to him too. I gently tighten my grip around him—elicit a sharp intake of breath—of longing—and—

  Suddenly, a crash from the other room.

  A muffled cry.

  We both jump, heartbeats thudding as we just listen.

  And then:

  “Uncle Henry?”

  It’s Ella’s sweet little voice squeaking from down the hall.

  “You all right, sweetheart?” he calls. He’s already up and dealing with his predicament. He turns his back to me, and he looks to be readjusting—doing some finagling with his waistband until everything’s back to G-rated.

  “I fell out of my bed,” she responds in the most heartbreaking of tones.

  “I’ll be right there,” he says. He flips back to me and juts out his lower lip. “I got this.” And then he disappears down the hall.

  My legs are a little wobbly as I make my way to the bathroom, but this time I’m not complaining. Just trying to wrap my head around the last few minutes, because Where the hell did that come from?

  I splash some cold water on my face. I’m a mess of red cheeks and smudged mascara. I strain to hear the soft murmur of their muffled voices through the door.
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  Stare at my reflection in the mirror.

  What the hell am I doing?

  But the girl looking back at me can’t wipe that stupid grin off half her face, and I decide, Screw it. You can’t plan for anything. Just go with it.

  Rule Number 12? Damn, I’m a rule-making machine this week!

  I locate one of Isla’s fancy washcloths—hope she’s not mad!—and change the water to just a tick below scalding. Submerge my hands in it. It’s excruciating and rejuvenating at the same time and then I press it to my smudgy face. Scrub the makeup from under my eyes, let the hot towel do its thing, and I feel a lot better as I dab it dry.

  I guess we’re doing this.

  And I think I’m pretty happy about it actually.

  When I saunter back out to the living room, Henry’s seated on the couch, posture very straight. He’s looking down at the phone in his hand, the glow illuminating his strong features.

  “Everything okay?” I ask.

  But when he looks up, the fire that was in his eyes only moments ago has taken on a different kind of heat.

  “You tell me.” His tone is sharp. It cuts through the muted light, through the space between us, and hits me right between the eyes.

  “What do you—”

  “What is this?” He brandishes the phone. My phone.

  All I can do is open my mouth like an idiot.

  “You got a text from Ansley,” he says pointedly. “You know you really should set it so it doesn’t show the message when the phone’s locked.”

  “Yeah?” I squint at him. Take a small step backward. “She’s been—”

  “I knew something was off.” He stands a little too quickly—wildly—and shakes his head every which way. “You mean to tell me that whole fricking time it was you? What the—I just—” He runs his hands over his cropped hair. His hands that, moments ago, were all over me.

  His hands that suddenly, more than anything else in this world, I want on me again.

  “What is this?” He shoves the device at me and I take it, off guard. Almost drop it.

  I look down, and there’s one magnum opus of a text message from Ansley.

  I’m sorry I haven’t gotten back to you. I just feel a little mortified. And silly.

  After all that—all the conversation topic suggestions and background info on Henry you gave me, I still couldn’t make the cut. It’s not me he’s falling for. It’s you. Your words, your jokes, your banter. I tried to connect with him, but it just wasn’t happening. In the end, I’m still me.

  And I’m not upset with you or anything. You did exactly what I hired you for. It’s just not meant to be for him and me. But thank you for trying, and I do think meeting a nice guy like him helped me break through some of my complex. I just think I’m going to hang it up for a while.

  I swallow.

  Breathe.

  And then scrounge up the courage to meet Henry’s gaze.

  It’s glassy. Red.

  Still, he pushes. “So?”

  My mouth falls open but, once again, words have eluded me.

  “What the hell is she talking about, Blanche? Hired you? What the fuck kind of business do you run?”

  “I—”

  “I thought I liked her. But it wasn’t even her? It was you? Why the fuck would you do something like that to me?”

  I know full well he’s got every right to be Royally Pissed, but my instincts kick in anyway. Like a dog backed into a corner, I find my resolve to snarl back.

  “To what? Set you up on a date with a sweet, gorgeous girl? Look, you weren’t honest with her either. You don’t smoke?” I let out a cackle. “You and I both know that’s bullshit. What else were you lying to her about?”

  It’s a low blow. And it isn’t anywhere near the same. But it’s all I come up with.

  The laugh he utters in return is low and frightening. He starts to say something, but then he presses his mouth shut and shakes his head all around. If he’s not careful, I half think it might fly off his shoulders.

  “You know what?” The great care he’s taking to keep his voice just above a whisper for the sake of the girls makes his words that much more chilling, that much crueler. “Don’t give me that shit. You have no idea what you’re talking about and this is absolutely fucking humiliating. Just—I don’t need you meddling in my life, all right? I don’t need your charity and I sure as hell don’t need your lies.”

  We stand there, both huffing and puffing, the collective energy in the room tense and sharp and tinged with ice.

  I have nothing more to say—how can I explain this away? He’s right. I did deceive him. And I understand why he doesn’t see the good in it, the intended benevolence.

  And I consider for a moment that…maybe there wasn’t any.

  I did, after all, use my Ansley time with him for my own personal gain, whether or not I always realized I was doing it.

  Was I not just about to jump his bones right here on this very love seat?

  The thoughts bring me back to reality, and I change my approach.

  “I know you probably can’t understand this right now.” My voice is small. Sheepish. My gaze averted to the throw rug. “But I really didn’t mean for any of this to happen.”

  And as the next bit comes out, it’s like a kick right in the stomach, but I say it anyway.

  “You should give Ansley a shot. Get to know the real her. You both deserve someone great, and you both deserve better than what I gave you.”

  He just stares. I can feel the energy about to leap from his skin, but he stands still. The hurt in his blue eyes palpable. His gaze of realized betrayal fixed on me like an X-ray. Scorching me.

  And before he even moves his mouth to utter anything more, my feet, my legs are working again. A little too quickly perhaps. I don’t want to hear what he has to say next, so like the ridiculous coward that I am—congrats on getting the last word!—I snatch my purse and I go.

  Chapter 20

  It’s hard admitting you’re a shitty person. Most of us may suspect it from time to time. It may be one of our worst fears, that the things we wonder about ourselves late at night are things others actually think about us. That we’re right—we are The Worst.

  And even though we already kind of have a kernel of this in the back of our minds, when we’re presented with the evidence, when it’s undeniable and the reasons are laid out in front of us—by someone we care about, no less—it’s still a surprise.

  We don’t want to believe this about ourselves.

  We want to trick ourselves into thinking the way we conduct our lives, the way we’ve come to think, is Normal and The Right Way. We think we’ll get away with it. That we’re really being too critical of ourselves and we are actually Just Fine.

  A lot of times, especially when we’re younger, we have a support system who will have us believe this. And that lulls us into this false sense of comfort.

  Luckily for me, however, I don’t have that. My people tell it like it is.

  That’s why, by the next morning, I’ve decided I’d be a fool not to try my hardest to get that job in New York. Why the hell not? It’s not that far away. Just a two-hour train ride to see Isla, Graham, and Gordon.

  And the rest of them? The rest of the people whose lives I inadvertently or advertently screwed with? I’d never have to see them again. Never give them a second thought. I could start anew—wouldn’t need the second income with the salary increase.

  “I’m glad to hear it, Blanche,” Roger Van de Kamp trills when I call him with the good news. You’ll start right after the fund-raiser, then. Good?”

  “Perfect,” I say.

  When Gordon gets home, I’m a disaster of take-out containers and empty cans of wine—not bottles, not boxes. I’m classin’ it up with cans this evening.

  “Ooh—Chinese” is all he says, grabbing what’s left of my noodles and helping himself to my leftovers.

  I relay the whole thing to him, and he just listens, offering nod
s and hmms where necessary. When I’m finished, we sit in silence a long while, stretched out on the couch and positioned like conjoined twins connected at the head. He’s absently playing with my ponytail, and I’m winning the melting race with a carton of mint chocolate chip ice cream.

  “I’m happy for you, of course—and for me,” he adds with a grin. “But I don’t know if running away is the answer. And I don’t know if staying here and taking on more clients is either. You’ve been sitting in the same damn clothes the last three weeks and I know the money’s rolling in from these side jobs, but I think it might be rotting your brain.”

  I laugh. “I have not been in the same clothes. This happened last night.”

  “It’s a metaphor. You know what I mean. Figuratively. Same thing, day in, day out. Not dealing with anything. Pretending to be other people. Avoiding reality for yourself.”

  I scrape every last inch of the pint container with my spoon. “Well, that’s definitely true, but that’s why I’m going to do this. Start the hell over. I just don’t want to be myself right now, and getting out of here? I can reinvent myself. I’m better as someone else anyway.”

  He gives his head a sad little shake. “Maybe.”

  I smack him.

  “Oh, come on. You know that’s not true. You just wanted me to say it, and no. I’m not going to coddle you.”

  I sit up. “It is true, though. Explain to me how I can give Fuck All about some douche who was supposed to be a fling. A fling. Me.”

  “I don’t fault you for that. You were trying something. Everyone around you was having Feelings and Caring about stuff, and all of us were encouraging you to do the same. Plus you were nursing your wounds at seeing—”

  “Don’t even say it,” I warn him with the spoon.

  He crosses his arms right back and says, snot dripping from his tone, “Well, you were.”

  “Maybe. But that’s not going to happen.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because Henry hates me now, and he kind of has every right. I manipulated him. I can’t believe—”

  “I’m sure he’s just trying to gain his bearings. If you talk to him—”

  “Why can’t taking this job be…‘taking on something new’? Why does it have to be ‘running away’? Why can’t you just be happy for me?”