by Celia Styles
"Honey," Alan stammered. "What are you doing home so early?"
"The same thing you're doing with this bitch. Fucking around," I retorted.
"Now, now, I know you're not happy, but there's a perfectly reasonable explanation for this--"
"I know, I heard. She just fell out of the roof."
"Are you kidding?" she said. "I don't weigh enough to break beams. You, on the other hand--"
"Get the cunt out of my house," I said, trying not to break down. Holding on to the one thought in my head--revenge--and working out how to change my plans around this fact--how would a true cool bitch do it, how would a "bad girl" use this to her advantage? I couldn’t be a meek little Stepford wife anymore. Move past the pain, get angry.
“I hope you know you just ruined his life,” I said, watching Deborah dress. I don’t normally go for humiliating other women, having experienced plenty of it myself, but if anybody deserved to feel bad it was a woman who would fuck her married lover in the wife’s bed. “Your panties are inside-out,” I told her.
She turned red and put on her jeans and ran out the door, sobbing, holding her shoes. “A real man would’ve stood up for you!” I shouted after her.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Alan snarled, snapping himself out of bed. “That’s no way to treat a lady!”
“This—” I shouted, pointing at his naked, lanky body, and the shriveled, wilted cock that only a week ago had astounded me with its size, “—is no way to treat your wife!”
He remembered himself, and reached for his shirt, tying it around his waist. “You wouldn’t understand,” he grumbled.
“You know what, you’re right. I don’t understand how I could have been as faithful and devoted a wife as I have been to such a loser and a horndog as you.” I couldn’t believe the words that were coming out of my mouth. Quiet, little Evelyn Goodman actually had some balls after all—that was a good thing, because my plan would require that I do things that I’d never done before. “If I have one regret in my life, it’s not marrying you, actually. It’s letting you think that you can get away with treating me the way you do.”
“Is that a threat?” he asked, his face turning a shade of reddish-purple that was somewhere between “ridiculous” and “dangerous”.
“I would never threaten my husband,” I said, turning around and leaving him to stew in his own indignation. And I was true—I wouldn’t. Warning him about the storm that was coming—well, that was just a courtesy. And I am a lady.
My plan was simple: slip away, preferably in the middle of the night. While leaving my soldering gun on, and near a puddle of turpentine. It was a careless mistake—I’d made it myself a few times already, luckily always catching it before any serious damage could be done. And a perfectly understandable one, too—because the on-off switch was on the stand, and not on the gun, and the “on” indicator would go off by itself if you just left it alone. It was a well-documented problem with that particular model, but it was cheap, and the point was tiny, so people just kept using it and hoping for the best.
I’d already put out a story that I’d been invited to a gallery opening, which would be believed because I had sold some pieces already, after all, and I did have a website and the gallery opening was real. But I’d told them—the people running the gallery opening—that I wouldn’t be able to go, because my husband and I were going through marriage troubles and about to enter counseling. I’d gone so far as to book an appointment with one Dr. Sheldon, adding it to Alan’s calendar (which he never looked at—he had assistants to do that for him)—we’d synced our virtual calendars when we first got married and I did add things like the occasional gallery opening to it. He never went. It did bother me at the time, but now I was glad—because it made him seem that much worse of a husband.
Disappearing alone wasn’t that hard to do—I’d managed to get a new ID with another name; because we lived so close to the state line it only took a few trips to the DMV on the other side to set up a fake address with a PO Box, where I had a whole new set of credit cards sent. I made a new life for myself online. Easton Miles was cool, sexy, confident—and it was the name I already used when I painted. She knew what she wanted, and she knew how to get it. No, the truly hard part was knowing that I would be hurting some people that I cared very much about: Marley; Simson, the owner of the gallery who’d agreed to let me present a few pieces there, where I’d made my first sale; even Janet and the rest of the Martini Morning crowd. We weren’t especially close, but as I drove away from Wild Flower Meadows at two in the morning I was pretty sure that they’d be shocked at my disappearance. But after the insurance company found the positive pregnancy test I’d planted (it’s amazing what you can get on Craigslist) they’d never look Alan in the eye again.
Let’s be clear about something—I wasn’t out to ruin his life, per se. Just make it miserable enough that he would never, ever, be able to live it down, that every time he went on a date with a woman and she decided to do a Finder search for his name, she’d come up with the article in the local papers about how his house burned down and his pregnant wife disappeared. One tragedy might be chalked up to bad luck, but two of them, linked somehow, would be sinister enough as to effectively put him off the market for good. And the noncommittal neighbors, who could only say, “Well, I thought they were fine—working through a rough patch—but who doesn’t have those? I don’t think he did anything to her, but then again, he never showed up to her gallery openings.” The last was something that I’d harped upon several times to the Martini Morning people in the past—they’d merely murmured sympathetically, but it wasn’t as if it were their responsibility to get him to go.
I drove out to the middle of nowhere, and got out the bike—something he’d bought back in the day when he was a fitness freak, rode twice, and now languished in the garage. It was a nice bike. I hoped whoever stole it would get some pretty good mileage out of it. I’d spray-painted it red and gold, so that it would be harder to recognize, but the odds of Alan even remembering he had it much less knowing what it looked like, were pretty slim.
I’d calculated that it would take me two hours to ride the bike from the middle of nowhere to the suburban train station, given that I would be carrying my overnight bag and a poster tube of my latest works. I wasn’t too far off, either. It was took me a little more than ninety minutes riding on the country roads before I saw the town, and then twenty minutes later I was at the train station. It helped that there was almost no traffic at that hour.
By then it was five in the morning. I left the bike in the bike rack, unlocked, and bought a ticket for the city with a credit card belonging to Easton Miles. It was my first purchase made under that name—and it finally, really felt like I was getting somewhere.
The fire was chalked up to an accident, a careless mistake with the soldering iron. The police suspected Alan with some mischief, but they would never be able to prove anything except that he was a total dick of a husband, and made every aspect of his dick-ness known: “Sources have confirmed that there were DNA samples of at least three people found in the bed.” I wondered what Deborah thought about that. They found the car, abandoned on the side of the road, and no trace of me in sight. It was a bit of a mystery to them as to why I told people that I was going to a gallery opening and then the car was found somewhere in the complete opposite direction, but while they might make Alan rather miserable for a rather long time, they couldn’t charge him with murder without a body. And, well, I was very much alive.
I was feeling pretty darn good.
Easton Miles flew into Philadelphia with an overnight bag and a tube of paintings. Over the course of a week, she got herself set up with a job as a barista, a new apartment, a new wardrobe. No more conservative jackets and scoop-necked shirts, no more sensible shoes and sedate jewelry. I went to work, served coffee for eight hours, clocked out, and painted, went to gallery shows, hung out with people who liked my work and whose work I admired
. I even managed to sell a piece, which was good because I was despairing of ever saving up enough to buy my next set of oils.
I became known as the “cartoon barista”, because if I had time I would do a quick, funny sketch of the customer as they waited. They always loved it, and after about three months I started taking on more managerial tasks, like keeping track of inventory and store layout and design. I got permission to display some of my smaller works in the shop—and managed to close a few sales.
Easton Miles was rocking this thing called “life”, and loving every minute of it. She was single, hot, and making it as an artist. I took a vacation to New York one day and basically bought out the Max Factor line of makeup at Sephora. Where I used to be content with just a light foundation and some mascara, I now began to discover the joys of going totally glam. I dialed it down a little for work, but now that I could afford to go out again I loved the feeling of being in total control of my life and the men that got up the courage to flirt with me. But I never took any of them home. They reminded me too much of Alan.
And then she started coming to the coffee shop where I worked: she gave her name as Stella, and I drew her as a cartoon star. She had a lovely smile and an athletic build, and deep-brown, soulful eyes, rimmed with thick, long lashes. “I heard good things about this place,” she said, when I gave her the order for the first time. My heart skipped a beat.
She usually came towards the end of my shift, in the afternoons, always ordering the large latte made with skim milk. It was a slow time of day, and we often chatted as I wiped the counters and cleaned the machines: she’d just moved to the East Coast from Chicago. She was a lawyer. I told her about my art, and the pieces I’d managed to sell. “I think that’s really brave,” she said. “It’s a piece of you, isn’t it? To give that to a total stranger must be totally nerve wracking.”
Finally, someone who gets it. Usually when I told people I was an artist, they’d nod, and I could just see them thinking, Painting a dead cat doesn’t mean you’re an artist, sweetie, but if that’s what you want to believe, go right ahead. If the conversation managed to progress to where I’d be able to tell them about the pieces that I’d sold, then their faces would morph from complete disdain to annoyed condescension: So you sold a few pieces. Doesn’t mean you’ll be able to quit your day job.
“You’re the first person who truly understands what it’s like for me,” I said. “Thank you for that.”
She smiled sadly, and said, “It’s nice to know I’m not the only one left who has an appreciation for the finer things in life.”
“I know!” I cried. “Guys these days—they’re all like, ‘C’mon, let me touch your titties—‘”
“—and then if you let them, you’re a slut, and if you don’t, you’re a bitch,” she finished.
We laughed bitterly. I picked up my water bottle—free coffee was one of the perks of working in a place called Counting Beans, but I’d learned long ago that there was, in fact, too much of a good thing. “To progress,” I said.
“Amen,” she said, raising her paper cup.
We each took a sip. “Well, I gotta get back to work,” I said, sighing. “Floors aren’t going to wipe themselves, you know.”
“Wait—Easton.” She grabbed my hand, and in that moment a thousand butterflies began to flutter in my stomach. I’d never been held with such urgency. “Meet me. Tonight. Little bar on Sixteenth, between Walnut and Chestnut.”
I don’t remember what I said. I was too overwhelmed by the surprise of being asked out while on the job, never mind by a woman, that I was literally stunned. The only thing I do remember was her eyes, and how they spoke of hope and desire—and how in that moment I realized that I felt the same way about her.
I remember being nervous as all hell whenever I went out on a date with Alan. Part of it was serious-boyfriend jitters, part of it was the fact that he always chose these swank places and expected me to look the part. Not easy when you came from a house where your mother bought nearly-date-expired milk by the gallon, transferred it to plastic one-liter soda bottles, and froze it because of the dollar difference in the price tag.
But that was Evelyn Goodman. Easton Miles was cool. She did not stress about dates, because she always had her pick of men—and women, apparently. Where Easton was concerned, if a guy didn’t like the way she dressed, then he wasn’t going to like the things she said or what her past was hiding, either.
But a woman—I’d never considered dating women before. I mean, yeah, I was sexually curious in college, and Alan and I watched a good deal of lesbian porn because he believed “in equal treatment of the sexes” or some other bullcrap like that. But although the women I experimented with were open and sweet about sharing their bodies with me, it was clear that they were just doing me a favor, and that they weren’t interested in having a deeper connection. I was, at that time, just starting to date Alan, so my idea of a deeper connection probably wasn’t the most enlightened, either.
“Be Easton,” I told myself, when I got home. I brushed my teeth, let my hair down. I’d bleached it a bit, lightening it a few shades from Evelyn’s and adding highlights. I’d done a good job of it, too—the color looked natural, the hair glamorous. It was getting to that length that I no longer needed the extensions, and fell to my back in a rippling cascade of blondish-brown. I brushed it, spritzed it with some hairspray.
I chose a camisole top, red with lace trim. Black bolero, black pants, black ankle boots with a cantilevered heel. Sensible, yet sexy. Beautiful but not fussy. The look of a woman who knows what she wants and how to get it.
Except I didn’t really know what I wanted with Stella. Did I want a relationship? Or did I just want to have sex with a hot woman who liked me? I remembered the butterflies, and the look in her eyes when she asked. Did she want a relationship, or just hot sex?
“Well, you’re never going to know unless you go find out,” I told my reflection.
I stepped outside and took the first bus in the general direction of the bar. I went inside and Stella immediately waved me over to a corner booth, saying, “I’m so glad you made it! Reese and Katie—” she indicated the couple she was sitting with “—were taking bets on whether you’d show up.”
I was incredibly grateful to Stella that she’d invited other friends along—it would ease the pressure and I wouldn’t have to keep talking about myself. “I’m Easton,” I said, shaking hands. “I’m an artist.”
“Stella said you’re her barista,” Reese said. He was a tall guy, with a young face but completely white sides of his neatly trimmed hair. I wanted to punch him, but Katie made a face at me—a face I’d made for Alan in the past: sorry, he gets this way when he’s had a few. I felt bad for her—if Reese was anything nearly as terrible as Alan had been, he was already sleeping around and making her cover for him. I had to actively remind myself that Alan had been exceptionally awful, and as such was not the right man against which to judge all other men.
Stella ordered a pitcher for the table, and we all decided on sliders and onion rings. Reese abstained from another round, though. He seemed to realize that he’d been a jerk, and as the evening wore on he turned out to be a pretty cool guy. “Yep, that’s me, Evil Big Pharma,” he said, laughing. “My company is represented by Stella’s firm. Pre-emptively, of course. We’re not involved in anything scandalous.”
“Yet,” Katie reminded him. Katie was a doctor that Reese had met while doing one of his sales rounds. She was petite, red-haired, with wide eyes that reminded me of a praying mantis. Stella and I had a great time; we ribbed Reese and Katie about getting married, to which Reese firmly said, “Never.”
That put a damper on the evening, until he added, “The ring that could hold the amount of respect and love I have for this woman doesn’t exist.”
We aww’d at that. Then Katie called it a night, saying that she had to get up early for grand rounds tomorrow, and Stella and I moved to the still-crowded bar. I noticed a lot of men stari
ng at us—half of them wishing we’d make out, the other half daring us to. We ordered tequila shots.
“So, do you think they’ll actually get married?” I asked Stella.
She smiled mischievously. “Don’t tell Katie, but Reese has already bought the ring.”
The bartender slid over two shot glasses of tequila, with the rims generously crusted in salt. I liked this place—they weren’t skimpy where it counted.
“So, tell me, Easton. Where are you from?”
“New England,” I said. That much was true. “Bad marriage,” I added, before she could ask. “I filed for divorce and signed the papers the moment they came. I didn’t even bother to negotiate alimony. The son of a bitch would’ve just dragged it on forever, and I just had to be free, you know?”
“He let you go, just like that?”
“He was sleeping with the receptionist,” I said, feeling the story grow even as I told it. “He said ‘It was love’ or some other bullcrap like that. And we’d been falling out for quite a while, so, yeah—sign on the dotted line.” I found myself believing it could’ve been like that, too.
“It takes guts to come out into the big city,” Stella said, taking my hand and giving it a friendly squeeze. I let it linger, wondering—hoping? Perhaps—that it would go on. Stella noticed, and she looked at my face, searching for something.
“You’ve never been with a woman before have you?” she asked, softly.
“I had a few wild times in college,” I said, not wanting to sound like a total newbie. “But being with someone—anyone, guy or girl—I want that. I just don’t know if I’m ready for it.”
Stella said, “I’d love to get to know you better, but I’m not going to rush you into things you’re not ready for. I had that kind of boyfriend, too. High school.”