by Heidi Lowe
“I need you to get off me now,” I say, my voice more stern.
She plants a kiss on my sex one final time, then straightens up. Her lips and chin are shimmering with my sap. I can only glare at her, looking pleased with herself, wearing the incriminating evidence of my infidelity like a badge of honor. Now that the aftershocks of my orgasm have faded, the guilt is returning.
“What?” she asks with a laugh, seeing the look on my face. “You're not seriously blaming me for your surrender are you?”
Without speaking I climb off the table and retrieve my clothes, putting them back on as fast as I can. I feel light-headed and generally unwell, like I've been punched in the gut a few times. The realization of what I've done is starting to hit me, hard.
“Okay, so I did think I would have to work a little harder to get you to put out...” She finally wipes me from her face. “How do you feel? Or should I ask, how does she feel?” Her gaze falls to my crotch.
“Dirty,” I say. “Dirty and wrong. Like I've just been screwed by a cheap whore I met on the street.” My words are purposefully harsh, and I don't regret them. Not even when the smile fades from her face. Is that really hurt I see in her eyes?
She turns away from me so that I can no longer see it, whatever it was. But when she speaks again it's present in her voice. “I need to get back to work. You can see yourself out.”
I start to the exit then stop. “I hope you stick to your word, Angel. That's all this was for, getting you to leave. I hope you do the right thing.”
She says nothing, doesn't turn to look at me. Maybe my insult was too harsh, on reflection. She has a thick skin, but it's hard to shrug off being called a prostitute after giving someone amazing head. I consider apologizing, telling her I didn't mean it. But I hurry out of the room instead. I pass her coworkers without looking at them, mumbling a hasty goodbye, my cheeks burning as I feel their eyes on me. I can only imagine what thoughts are running through their heads.
FOUR
“You look like you've just been having sex!” It's the first thing Sandra says when I return to the office that afternoon. My heart starts thudding against my chest. “Did you stop off home for a quickie with the wife instead of getting lunch?” She does a filthy smirk. “Or was Faye lunch?”
“What are you talking about?” I ask grumpily as I sit down at my desk. “I had a few errands to run.”
“Yeah, and your hair's a mess. You have what I like to call sex-hair. I get it all the time, so I know what it looks like.”
“Well, you're wrong this time.”
“Wow, someone's defensive.” The great thing about Sandra is that she knows when to drop something. We've been friends for a long time, and whatever's bugging me normally comes out eventually. But this is different. Close though we are, she would judge me for this. It might even ruin our friendship. It's a matter that's a bit too close to her heart, having been cheated on herself a few years back.
These thoughts only sink my mood to lower depths, and I spend pretty much the rest of the day not speaking, only wallowing in the misery I created myself.
For the second time today I sit in my car, eying a building, refusing to step out and face the person inside. Only this time, I have every right to be here. I've been parked outside my house, across the street, staring at the living-room window, watching Faye reading to Emily. The scene brings tears to my eyes. Even without seeing the cover I know which book it is. Emily's favorite, the one we've read to her a hundred times or more between us, but she never gets bored. I usually read to her as soon as I get in from work, but this evening I can't bear to.
I've been out here for twenty minutes; I deserve to stay out here forever. I'm prepared to stay here for as long as it takes to build the courage to walk in and face them, to look them in the eye and play happy families again. To pretend that I didn't just give it all up for a tumble on a massage table in the backroom of a beauty salon. But my front door opens and Faye steps out carrying the trash. As she empties it she spots my car and waves dubiously.
“How long have you been out here?” she says when I join her. She pecks me on the lips, and because I'm so grateful for her kiss and love, I pull her close again and extend the kiss, catching her off guard. “What was that for?”
“Do I need an excuse to kiss my wife?” I say, and kiss her again. I feel like weeping in her arms, telling all and asking for forgiveness. Maybe if I tell her now she'll give it to me. But I don't want to destroy what we have, and telling her would change us. Inevitably.
She taps my nose lovingly. “Sometimes you're so soppy.”
We go inside, and Emily comes bounding at me. I lift her into my arms and plaster her face with kisses while she giggles. There's so much love in this house for me that it's almost impossible to believe I risked it for a silly fling.
“You smell like coconuts, mommy,” Emily says as she twists her finger around some strands of my hair.
Faye sniffs my neck. “You do,” she agrees.
I swallow and laugh nervously. “It's the new soap we have at the office.”
“I'm just going to get dinner started, love,” Faye says.
It's all business as usual. I keep thinking she'll notice my guilt, notice that something has changed, but that's just my guilty heart talking. No one in this house knows what a piece of crap I am. With any luck, they'll never find out. Angel will be out of the picture, and no one will ever have to know what I did in my moment of weakness.
***
We all have weaknesses. If we didn't we wouldn't be human. No weakness is advantageous or helpful, though some are more detrimental than others. I've always known that Angel was my Achilles' heel. That golden hair, those long lashes set around diamond-blue eyes, the hour-glass figure. When someone who looks like that is interested in you, you'd be a fool to turn her down.
That's how it was when we first met, back in 2006. I was sitting in one of the only lesbian bars in town, and in walks this model-like, breath-taking blonde, dressed to the nines. There wasn't a lesbian in that bar who didn't think she was lost, had stumbled upon the place by accident while on a quest for a straight bar. She sat alone for five minutes, while every woman around her practiced their internal monologues of what they would say when they approached her. I was the only one who didn't look her way, and continued drinking with my friend. Not because I didn't want her myself, but because I knew she was way out of my league. She'd always been a 10, even back then. The type of gorgeous girl you could only ever dream of being with, and you'd look at her every day and wonder what she saw in a plain Jane like you. That's what it was like being with Angel. I know how my father feels.
When my friend disappeared to the restroom, who should show up but the gorgeous blonde who'd hypnotized the whole bar. She asked if she could buy me a drink, I stared at her, speechless, she laughed in that easy way she does. We slept together the same night, and it was mind-blowing. I never thought in a million years she would call me back, or want to hook up again. But she kept coming back, for two whole years. I couldn't quit her, even though it became apparent quite early on that she was crazy. Jealous, vindictive, reckless. Someone like that enters your life, you turn the other way, you don't continue sleeping with them.
Addiction. It comes in all shapes and sizes. I knew Angel was my addiction seven years ago, and thus prayed she never reentered my life. I mean, if you're an alcoholic you stay away from bars. If you're addicted to incredible, filthy, shout it from the rooftops sex with a crazy person, you stay the fuck away from her, right?
Seems pretty straightforward.
***
It's been a long time since I've taken a bath, normally opting for the quick and easy showers. But it's a Saturday evening and I'm not in a rush to get to the office. As I sink lower in the tub, letting the soapy water envelop me like a warm hug, I close my eyes and rest my head on the back of the tub. This isn't about getting clean, it's about relaxing. The only thing that's missing is Faye.
“Mrs Co
x-Everett, get that beautiful butt in here right this minute,” I call. We used to take baths together all the time when we first got hitched, and before we adopted Emily. I'm looking forward to all the fun and frolics.
“Nik, your phone's ringing,” she calls back.
“Don't answer it.”
“It's your father.”
I sit up. Is this the call I've been waiting for? It's been five days since my encounter with Angel at the salon; surely that's enough time for her to have left. A hopeful feeling consumes me thinking that he's calling to tell me the wedding's off. I feel only slightly bad about my happiness at his misery. Really, Angel being out of the picture is better for everyone.
Faye comes in moments later and hands me the phone, before shooting out again, not joining me in the bath.
“Dad, what's up?”
“Hi, love.” There's a note of melancholy in his voice, I pick up on it straight away. My optimism rises. “Hope I'm not disturbing you.”
“It's fine. What's up?” I say rather impatiently. I don't bother telling him that any call from him is a disturbance. Yeah, as you can tell I'm still sour about the whole not speaking to me for six years thing. I'm getting there, though. Taking his calls at all is a step forward in my book.
“Got some bad news.”
Is it that the bimbo half your age has kicked you to the curb and taken off, never to be seen or heard from again? I wonder optimistically.
“Oh, no, what's happened?” I'm trying to sound as sympathetic and at the same time clueless about the whole thing as I can.
He lets out a long, loud sigh that I can almost feel on my ear. It's more than bad news coming. I wait with bated breath. “Harry passed away last night. A heart attack.”
“Uncle Harry?”
“Yeah. One of his friends found him lying in his garage yesterday evening, cold as a turkey. He'd probably been like that for hours.”
I don't know what's more shocking to me: That my uncle Harry, the most miserable man on the planet, always quick to blame everyone but himself for his failures, actually had friends; or that my father seems so cut up about his death. They were never very close as brothers, hardly ever saw each other or spoke on the phone. I only met Harry a handful of times, and he would always make horrible comments about the way I dressed. He thought that their parents favored my father as a child, hence why he became so successful. Of course it was all bullshit, but that didn't stop Harry regurgitating it each time we saw him.
“I'm sorry to hear that.”
“We always said he'd die alone. Ah, man.”
“I guess that's what happens when you push everyone who cares about you away...” From my father's long silence I suspect that my words have come off more sanctimonious than I'd intended.
“True. Still, he was my brother. I wanted better for him. Always.”
I wonder then if he had thought the same about me after disowning me. Did he still wish me happiness, success and everything else, despite me being Daddy's Little Homo? I don't ask, because we're supposed to be moving on from that.
“When's the funeral? Who's arranging it?”
“Friday. I hope you can make it out to Concord. It would mean a lot.”
“Yeah, of course.” Great! Going to the funeral of a man I didn't know or like very much, exactly how I want to spend my Friday.
“Thanks, love. You know, I'm taking this harder than I thought I would.” He does a sad little laugh. “And Angelique has just been a gem. She's already started making preparations. You'd think she wouldn't have time, what with the wedding preparations and running a busy salon.”
My body goes cold all over, despite being submerged in hot water. If there was a mirror to hand I would be able to confirm that the blood has disappeared from my face, leaving me pallid and sickly-looking.
“W–wait, what did you say?”
“About what?”
“About Angelique?”
“I said she's been amazing through all of this. That girl can really organize. Funeral, wedding, it's all the same to her. I definitely picked a winner.”
The phone threatens to slip from my hand as my grip on it loosens.
That lying bitch! She tricked me into sleeping with her, knowing she had no intention of breaking it off with my father. I feel like throwing up. How could I have been so foolish? I, more than anyone else, know how manipulative Angel can be. I should have known it wouldn't have been that easy to get rid of her.
“So the wedding's still on?” I don't realize what I'm saying until it's escaped my mouth.
My father laughs. “Of course it's still on. Why wouldn't it be?”
“No reason, I just thought...” I have nothing suitable to say. “Listen, Dad, I gotta go. Something in the oven. I'll see you soon.” I hang up before he has the chance to speak again.
I'm going to kill her! I really am. I shake my head over and over, because it's the only thing I can do. I'm powerless. She's already taken what she wanted from me. My body feels numb and weak.
“Honey, are you all right?” Faye asks when she strolls back in. “You look like you've seen a ghost.”
“My...my uncle died.”
“Oh, honey.” She hugs my naked, wet body and soaks her clothes in the process. “I'm so sorry.”
I don't deserve her hugs or sympathy. If she knew the real reason for my pallor she would throw an electrical appliance into the bathtub with me!
“The funeral's on Friday. I promised Dad that we would go. I hope that's all right.”
“Sure.” She kisses me on the cheek, then on the forehead. Under any other circumstances her kisses would make me feel better, but now they just make me feel worse.
FIVE
For five days I consider going back to the salon and confronting Angel, putting pressure on her to stick to her end of the deal. Each time I talk myself out of it. It would be akin to walking straight into the lion's den. Besides, this had been her plan all along, so calling her out on it would be pointless. I envision her laughing to herself about me and how naive I was.
Friday arrives. I load my family into the car and set off on a two and a half hour drive to Concord, Massachusetts to pay my last respects to my uncle. It's the longest two and a half hours of my life, and the closer we get to our destination, the harder and faster my heart beats, knowing I'll have to face my demons. Well, one demon in particular – the blonde temptress who goes by many names. It doesn't help that Emily's been acting up the whole journey.
“I'm bored.”
“I'm too hot.”
“I'm hungry.”
The whining coupled with my misery about Angel gets too much. We're about fifteen minutes away from the church when I make an abrupt stop at the curb. I twist around to face Emily, now filled with rage. “One more word, young lady, and I'll stop this car again and leave you by the roadside so the one-legged man can take you away! You hear me?”
The threat is frightening on two levels, and I know I've gone too far the minute her little face scrunches up and a river of tears bursts forth from those huge, puppy dog eyes. She's a child with attachment issues. Even though she was too young to remember her parents, I think subconsciously their passing and her subsequent abandonment have left scars that will follow her into adulthood. The one-legged man thing, well, that's just something that scares her. We've never understood it.
“Nikki, what's wrong with you?” Faye rarely gets angry, and seeing her face, that anger, that disappointment in me, makes me feel two inches tall. “It's all right, baby, Mama didn't mean it.”
It might be the worst thing a parent can say to an adopted child, and honestly I didn't think before I said it. Sometimes, when I'm under a lot of stress, I say and do stupid things and spend a lifetime trying to fix it.
“I'm sorry, Em. Mama's not herself right now. I would never leave you. And I'd never let the one-legged man come anywhere near you,” I say. Grovelling to a three-year-old who's bawling her eyes out is impossible. The next thing I know,
Faye, still looking vexed, climbs out of the front and joins our daughter in the back to comfort her. She doesn't speak to me for the rest of the drive.
I count about thirty people when we step into the church. That's thirty people more than I was expecting for a person like Harry. Among them I see his estranged ex-wife and their two sons – my cousins – now grown. The last time I saw them we were still in high school, and they were trying to get me to eat some weird concoction they called Surprise Soup, made with things they found around the house.
We make our way down the isle to the front, all eyes upon us. I don't recognize most of these people. And then I see her, sitting on the front pew, gripping tightly to my father's hand, looking every bit the doting, devoted wife. It's just like her to look like a catwalk model at a funeral. A black jumpsuit that, unfortunately for my easily-aroused nature, accentuates every curve. The big hat is so theatrical, and so her. No one will be looking at the corpse, but at my stepmother-to-be.
I know I'm expected to kiss my father on the cheek, tell him once again how sorry I am for his loss, but I avoid doing so. Because if I kiss him I'll have to kiss her, and that would be too awkward. Faye hugs and kisses both of them, and I notice that Angel is making a point of avoiding eye contact with me. This is going to be a long day.
My cousin Graham, firstborn of the deceased, makes a beeline for me while I'm pouring myself a drink. We're back at Uncle Harry's house now, and there are considerably more guests here than there were at the church or graveside. It's because of the free booze, courtesy of my father.
“Hey, stranger,” he says, wrapping me in a bear hug. He was such a tall, goofy, skinny kid when we were growing up. Had braces to boot. Now he's a handsome, muscular guy who, I'm sure, has made a lot of women swoon over the years. “You look great.”
“So do you.” It's the first time we've been able to talk properly all day. “Sorry about your old man.”