“Your Catholic is showing.”
I laugh hard at that. “No kidding. It pops out now and then.” I continue my story—and now I’m getting to the hard part. “We dated sophomore year, junior year, and senior year. We were like, six months from graduation and I was sure he was going to propose any day. I had my acceptance speech ready, and had even practiced it in the mirror, as embarrassing as that sounds. And I feel it’s important to note that at no time did I ever suspect a thing, and I was looking for reasons to distrust him. Even then, hopelessly in love, I was still skeptical and cynical and suspicious. But there was just…nothing. So, keep that in mind as I tell you the rest.”
“Uh-oh.”
“Yeah, uh-oh. I was out with Imogen and a few other girls. It was a time-apart night for Jared and I—I’d always insisted on regular nights out apart, me with my girls, he with his boys. I thought it was healthy, you know? Keep it fresh; keep my independence to some degree at least. So I was out with them, at a bar drinking, dancing, just girls being college girls. Well, the bar we were at started to feel stale, you know? So we bailed, headed for a different place. We had a few places we rotated regularly and, for some reason, none of us wanted to go to any of the usual spots. So, we picked a bar across town, way out of our usual stomping grounds. We rolled in, bought drinks; the single girls angled for the good-looking guys…you know the routine. There was this darker area near the back, behind the pool tables. There were a couple ratty couches, an arcade machine, and a coffee table kind of thing—a cool little hangout. I saw a few guys I knew from campus hanging out, some from the football team, some from the gym, but whatever, right? None of them were in Jared’s immediate crew, so I didn’t even get a red flag when I saw them.”
“Shit. This is making me queasy with anticipation,” Franco says.
“Because you know what’s coming, don’t you?” I sigh, nodding. “Yeah. I went over and started talking to the guys. Just talking, not flirting or anything, just making conversation. And then I had to pee. I was laughing at something one of the guys said and not really paying attention as I headed for the bathrooms, which were right around the corner. So I went into the wrong one—quickly noticing, oops, those are urinals, and this is the boys’ bathroom. No big deal, I haven’t even closed the door behind me, so I’ll just back out and pretend nothing happened…except I heard funny sounds coming from one of the stalls. And god, wouldn’t you know—that grunt sounded awfully familiar? I peeked down, saw a pair of girl’s knees on the floor, and a pair of jeans around a pair of very, very familiar, perfectly white Nike shoes. I knew those shoes—I’d watched him polish and clean them obsessively many times.”
“Betrayed.”
“I didn’t freeze. Oh no, not me.” I let out a breath. “I left the men’s room, went to the ladies’, did my thing, and went back out to the guys—all of whom were somewhat anxiously watching for my reaction. I kept my shit together and acted like nothing was wrong. I hung around for a second, and then went to find my girls. I hid at the bar in the center of my group and kept watch. Sure enough, a few minutes later Jared comes out grinning like a fool, buckling his jeans, and this dumb little cheerleader bitch follows him out, wiping her mouth and hanging on him like he’s Jesus. I mean, you should’ve seen the fawning look in her eyes. You’d think he was Justin Timberlake or something, the way she gazed adoringly at him.”
“Yuck.”
“Yeah. And he was…god, he was gloating. High-fiving his buddies, laughing, making rude gestures as he obviously detailed the blowjob he’d just gotten from Misty the cheerleader, or whatever her name was.”
Franco snorts. “Damn, girl—you’re still fired up about this.”
I glare. “Yeah, I guess I am. So what?”
He holds up his hands, palms out. “So nothing. It’s a long time ago, is all.”
“And you’re not still pissed at Maria for what she did?”
He sighs. “No, I guess I am.”
“Exactly.” I unroll and reroll the sleeve of my borrowed shirt. “I left, and started plotting my revenge.”
“Oh dear.” He sighs. “You didn’t confront him there then?”
“Oh, hell no. I had bigger plans. I started following him. I was good at it too—he never knew I was there. I could’ve been a CIA agent, the way I tailed him. I took photographs like a private investigator and, bit by bit, I realized that he’d been playing me—elaborately, I might add—the whole time. It wasn’t just one girl sucking him off in the bathroom of a campus bar. It was Shelley the med school major, in her dorm, after chemistry class on Mondays, and Abby the journalism student and marching band drum major on Tuesdays between European lit and Business Accounting. Wednesday was Rebecca, early in the morning, before his first class, and she was the most unlikely of his side pieces—she was a goth when goths were long-since passé, and he was literally everything she seemed to rail against. Thursday was Janelle late at night after he left my place; she was a drama nerd, library science major, and secret slut, apparently.”
“Secret slut?” he asks, laughing.
“Oh man. In the process of all this, I discovered a lot of stuff about a lot of people. I was only stalking Jared, but I found out things about others just by accident. Such as that Janelle, who had this persona of nerdy innocence, complete with cat-eye glasses and sweaters and pleated skirts, and never swore or had boyfriends, was actually more active than I’d been before Jared. She had more guys than Jared did girls! She was just super tactful and quiet about it, and as organized as you’d imagine a library science major would be.” I wave a hand. “Whatever. She was actually really cool, and we were friends for a while after college, until she moved to D.C. to work at the Library of Congress.
“Anyway. Where was I? Friday—Friday was Brit, bubbly, sprightly, giggly sorority girl majoring in sugar babying and high-end escorting. True story, actually—that’s what she was, Jared was just her for-fun go-to. They met after lunch in her dorm. And all this was just his regular rotation girls. There were countless more random hookups, usually at night, at that bar.”
Franco’s eyebrows are raised. “Busy guy, Jesus. He must have had the stamina of a goddamn racehorse to keep up with that schedule.”
I make a disgusted face. “I guess so, because he was with me regularly on top of all that.” I shudder.
“How long did you stalk him?”
“It wasn’t actually stalking, it was…revenge-driven research,” I say, archly. “And for about three weeks. Until I had sufficient evidence collected. In the meantime, I pretended to be suffering from a long-term bout of the stomach bug, and buried in schoolwork, just so I didn’t have to let him touch me.”
“That was going to be my next question.”
“Yeah, no—I never touched him again, sexually, after the day I caught him in the bathroom.”
“So, what did you do with that research?”
I sigh. “I had a good friend who worked for the school newspaper.”
“Uh-oh.”
I nod. “Yeah. I got her to help me put the photographs into a spread, complete with a timeline of his activities. I didn’t have anything against any of the girls, so I blurred their faces out, and used fake names, although anyone who knew them would know who it was. And then we published it as a front-page exclusive.”
Franco rubs his jaw. “Let me guess—it backfired.”
I nod. “Yeah. Turned me into the laughingstock of the entire fucking school—I guess everyone knew except me. Even the girls he was fucking in rotation knew there were others, just not who.” I stand up, pace, and sit back down. “I worked out with a guy who knew Jared in high school, and he told me this was just his M.O.—a regular rotation of girls on the side, plus a clueless girlfriend. He had the system down pat, how to keep everyone separate, how to avoid suspicion and getting caught. He just didn’t factor in me and my friends varying our routine, since we never did, except that one time.”
“Was it the cheating that hurt the most, or t
he fact that you were the clueless girlfriend?”
“It was everything. The cheating, the obviousness of it all. I mean, he wasn’t really hiding it—he’d walk around in public with these girls, he just wouldn’t be publicly affectionate with them. But everyone saw them coming and going, and knew what was up, except me. And I saw him with them myself, I just prided myself on not being jealous, on trusting him to have female friends without going apeshit.” I sigh, rubbing my face. “The fact that I was the clueless girlfriend? Yeah, that hurt. But so did the fallout of my stupid, naive revenge. I thought I was taking him down, you know? Like, tarnish the sterling rep of the school’s golden boy. Apparently, his rep went deeper. Guys thought he was the man because he could haul down all this ass and not get caught by his girlfriend, and girls thought he was a pig, but they didn’t care because he was hot and they just wanted him for his cock. Which was, honestly, pretty magnificent. And he was good with it, too. Which made it all the worse—because the stories about him were all true. Girls would spread stories about how great he was in bed and how big and amazing his cock was, and I just thought they were all jealous, like, how could they know? That was the one thing that should’ve clued me in earlier, but I just dismissed it as jealous gossip. But all the stories were true, which was what, for some reason, burned my ass almost more than anything. Stupid, but true.”
I have to pause to gather myself, and Franco just listens, watches, and waits.
“Then, just as icing on the cake, after my revenge-reveal article published, my so-called friend who helped me publish the piece revealed in another op-ed that she knew all along that Jared was banging other girls, and she knew how everyone would react—laughing at me, and only cementing his rep on campus—and that she herself had fucked him several times in the library.”
“Well fuck.”
“So I only managed to burn myself. Everyone laughed at me. They’d always laughed at me, just behind my back, but after that it was to my face.” I have to choke back a knot in my throat. “Ruined me at the school—and it’s not like there was much to ruin, since I never really cared about my social status all that much…or so I told myself. But being Jared’s girlfriend had, annoyingly enough, afforded me a popularity I couldn’t have achieved on my own, and it did feel nice, even if was only because of him and not me.”
“Fuck, Audra—that’s brutal.”
“The rest of my time at the school was utter agony. Just pure hell. He went open with everything—started flaunting his rotation. A few girls bailed, not wanting to be open about it, but he replaced them easily enough. He was like a…like a pimp, except all the sluts were selling themselves to him for free.” I groan. “Stupid metaphor, but you get what I mean.”
“That was a simile, actually,” Franco points out with a smirk.
“You’re seriously correcting my English right now?” I demand, half laughing. “Some nerve, asshole.”
He just laughs. “I’m just messing with you.”
“Not in the mood to be messed with, Franco.”
“Sorry, sorry.” He smiles, winking. “Anyway. So that was what cemented your hatred of love and relationships?”
I nod. “Yep. I spent the next ninety days after the story broke celibate, as in not a damn thing, not even with myself. And then…” I sigh. “And then, the month before graduation, I did something a little crazy.”
“Uh-oh. Crazier than going Magnum PI on your boyfriend?”
I bob my head side to side. “That’s debatable. I vowed I would erase Jared from my system, and get over him by getting under as many guys as I could, as further revenge. So, I slept with a different guy every single day for a month.”
Franco whistles. “Wow. That’s some interesting revenge.”
I eye him sidelong, watching for his reaction. “Gross, huh?”
He shakes his head. “Nah. I’m in no position to judge. After my divorce from Maria was finalized and I had my own place, I sort of went nuts, too. Brought home a different girl every night, played the single Don Juan, until I got tired of the whole stupid game.”
I nod. “Same here. It was fun for a while, then it was just exhausting and too much work. And then I graduated, got a job out here and started building my clientele.”
Silence, then.
He says nothing, I say nothing—but something is boiling inside me, and I don’t want to acknowledge it, or admit it into my thoughts, or past my lips.
No, no, no.
Don’t say it, Audra.
“But I have one more thing to say, Franco. What we did, tonight, was more than just sex.”
I can’t believe I said it.
Franco sighs. Nods. “Yeah, I know.”
“And not just because we forgot a condom.”
“I know.”
“And we just traded our deepest, darkest, most painful secrets.”
“We did.”
I stare at him, waiting for him to say something more. “And?” I say, when he remains silent.
He sighs again. “And what, Audra?”
“What now?”
He shrugs, his face carefully blank. “And now…nothing.”
I feel nothing at hearing those words. I refuse to feel anything. There’s no punch to the chest at his words. No catch in my throat, or burn in my eyes. I feel nothing. I’m the ice bitch. Eat your heart out, Elsa.
How long do I sit in silence, refusing to feel? A whole minute? Longer? Definitely longer. An eternity, maybe. Or just a lifetime. I don’t know. Long enough for the silence to develop a coating of hoarfrost.
“Okay.” It’s all I say for another long moment. But I have to say more, to keep the ice frozen solid. “And nothing. I just wondered where you stood about the whole thing…and now I know.”
I rise from the stool and leave the garage workshop, exiting the comfort and warmth, and the familiar scent of wood and sawdust and age. I’m halfway to the house when I hear his voice ring out.
“Audra?”
I stop, turn, and see him in the warm incandescent orange-yellow glow, shirtless and beautiful, with a carved eagle in one hand and a carving knife in the other, hair loose and golden around his shoulders, wood shavings on his thighs and the workbench and sawdust on the back of his hand.
“What?”
He pauses, swallows. “Did…did you want there to be something? I mean, did you want there to be a now?”
I think of Jared. Of Maria. Of the twenty years of one-night stands and hookups and quasi-not-really-but-almost relationships torched before they could become anything, and I think of the four-fuck rule, and the no-kissing rule; I think about how he felt in my bed, and how I felt in his; I think about the feel of his seed trickling out of me even now, and the protective curl of his arm around my shoulders, and feeling safe and small and vulnerable and protected there; I think about the stories we just traded, how it was so much easier to tell him than I thought it would be, how similar our stories are, how different we are yet how much the same; all of this passes through my mind in a Matrix-like scud and whirl and barrage of ideas and images and thoughts and feelings.
“No,” I say, and my voice is steady, low, and not quite cold enough, but as cold as I can make it sound. “No, I didn’t.”
And then I go back inside, get dressed, grab my purse, and leave his house through the front door.
It’s only a fifteen-minute walk over to my place from here, but I have no energy for it. I order a Lyft while I’m dressing, and in a stroke of dumb luck it’s at the curb in less than five minutes. The driver says hello, and I summon enough to nod at him and smile tightly—the kind of smile that basically screams fuck off and take me home; or maybe it’s my overall demeanor, or the obvious walk of shame. Ride of shame—whatever.
I see Franco in his driveway, fiddling with the eagle carving, watching me.
I thought about the bunny he’d carved, sitting on the workbench—dammit, I liked that little carving. It was cute.
And then…nothing.
&nb
sp; Conceal, don’t feel. Yeah, I identify, Elsa.
Chapter 12
I bury myself in work and my own workouts. Imogen is worried, but I assure her I’m fine. And that works for a while, at least on my end.
Sort of.
Okay, it doesn’t work at all.
I still can’t get my mojo back, as Austin Powers would say. I can’t make myself care about guys—they’re all lackluster and ugly and boring and lame, and I have no interest in pursuing any of them. I try, and I fail, multiple times—until I quit trying. Even alone, my sexuality is frozen. And I know why: it’s safer this way. If I’m numb and frozen, I’m not feeling anything, especially whatever may be lurking below the thick layer of ice.
Finally, another three weeks after my ride of shame from Franco’s house, there’s a quiet, discreet knock at my door. It’s late, almost midnight, and I’m in my robe eating Halo Top and drinking wine and binge watching a new Netflix comedy series.
Who would be at my door at this time without having pressed the buzzer? I check the peephole, and then open it.
“How’d you get past the buzzer?” I ask.
Imogen enters without answering, two bottles of wine in a bag in one hand, and a box of Enlightened ice cream bars in the other. “Somebody was coming in and I followed behind her.”
“It’s almost midnight,” I point out, letting the door shut.
“And you’re off tomorrow,” she says, putting the box of ice cream bars in my freezer.
“How do you know my schedule?” I ask.
She rolls her eyes at me. “You’re a creature of routine, Audra. No matter how busy you get, you always take the first Sunday of every month off. Always. It’s your dedicated self-care day, and it has been since you started working as a personal trainer.”
“Oh.” I sigh, and snag glasses from the cabinet, pouring the rest of the bottle I started into our glasses. “Well, you’re here, I assume, to drag the details out of me?”
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