This Is How It Happened (not a love story)

by Jo Barrett

  I take the Juliet ring off my finger and read the engraving inside. Forever, my Juliet. But now Forever wants Permanent Space?

  This doesn’t jibe.

  Before I can think about what I’m doing, I log into Carlton’s hotmail account. I type “carltonconnors@hotmail.com.”

  Hmm. Password, password? I’m frantic. Is it another woman? What? I know I shouldn’t be spying, but I want answers.

  I try typing a few passwords, but get an instant message: The password you typed is incorrect. Please try again.

  Damn!

  I type in the word “Organic.”

  Nope.

  “Organic 4 Kids”

  No.

  I type my own name.

  Of course not.

  Think!

  I suddenly remember Carlton’s dream boat. A 50-foot Beneteau.

  “What will you call it?” I remember asking him, one Sunday, as I glanced over his shoulder. He was surfing the Internet for sailing yachts. His favorite pastime.

  “The Heretic,” he replied. “I’ve always wanted to name my boat The Heretic.”

  I hold my breath. And type in the word “heretic.”

  The screen changes. I’m in! God, I should be in the CIA. Put my talents to use.

  I scroll through Carlton’s messages. I can feel my face burning bright red. I know what I’m doing is wrong. I’ve never doubted Carlton. Not once. Sure, I’ve caught him looking at other women. But what guy doesn’t? Still. Something’s not right. I feel it in my gut.

  I see a message from his friend, David.

  “Vegas, baby. Vegas.” It reads.

  A few months ago, Carlton went on a weekend trip for David’s bachelor party. Carlton told me he hired a few strippers to come to the suite. The girls went a little crazy and had a sex show. Complete with toys. Right in front of them. Boys will be boys, I figured, at the time.

  My fingers shake. I click open the Vegas, baby. Vegas e-mail. And scroll down the message.

  Man, don’t be an idiot and write this shit down, Carlton warns.

  My heart starts beating. I know what’s about to come. But I don’t believe it.

  His friend David writes, Carlton, who was that hottie you took back to your room? You paid extra, didn’t you, you sonofabitch?

  I feel my heart stop. Maddy Piatro. Found dead in front of computer. Reading fiancé’s e-mails.

  I race through the other messages in Carlton’s in-box.

  Another from David.

  How’s the homefront with you know who? he asks.

  Carlton replies. The bomber has its target in sight.

  The bomber has its target in sight! Gee whiz. Apparently, Carlton’s the Enola Gay and I’m Hiroshima.

  My heart is pounding hard in my chest and that’s when I hear the front door slam. Carlton! I quickly close out of the e-mail, stand up, and wipe my hair back from my face.

  Carlton cruises into the room, a dark look on his face. “I don’t feel the same as I did when we first started dating,” he says, out of the blue.

  I look at him. My heart is really going to town, now. My voice is shaky, but I try to sound calm. “Isn’t that normal, babe? Doesn’t every relationship have some ebb and flow? Ups and downs? I didn’t even realize we were in a slump.”

  Carlton looks at me. Shrugs.

  “Things have gotten so trivial,” he says. “I mean, you told me what goddamn shirt to wear today.”

  “I’m your publicist!”

  “Still,” he says. “It’s not sexy.”

  “Life is not a movie, Carlton. Don’t you think I miss the flowers you used to bring me? All the love notes? Don’t you think I miss that, too?”

  “I can’t bring flowers if I’m not feeling it,” he mutters.

  I want to tell him I know about his e-mails. But I can’t. It’ll be the straw that breaks the camel’s back. He’ll never forgive me.

  “You cheated on me in Las Vegas, didn’t you?” I demand, pointing at him.

  “Does it really matter, Maddy? At this point?”

  “Yes!”

  “As a matter of fact, no. I thought about it. Some girl even came up to my room. Knocked on the door. One of the strippers. But I told her to get lost.”

  “And you expect me to believe that?”

  “Believe what you want,” he says, sounding fatigued.

  I stare down at the floor.

  “What if I tell you I’m having this baby?” I say. I want my voice to sound strong, but it’s weak. Shaky and weak. A pathetic attempt at strength.

  “Then you’ll be alone,” he says, simply.

  At that moment, I feel as if I’ve been stabbed. Now I know how a stabbing feels. It hurts. Hurts in the gut. Not a quick jabbing pain. But a dull, sharp one. The kind of searing pain that never goes away.

  I rush into Carlton’s arms in a ball of tears. I’m crying so hard, my shirt is sopping wet.

  “Please don’t tell me you’re breaking up with me! I thought you loved me!” I say, and I feel my shoulders hopping up and down. Uncontrollably.

  “I do love you, Maddy,” Carlton says. He holds me for a while and I completely crumble in his arms.

  Carlton hustles me into the bedroom. “Don’t cry. Don’t cry,” he says, over and over.

  He hands me a box of Kleenex and I blow my nose. Hard.

  “Look, Maddy. We’ve been together four years, we live together, and nothing’s going to happen overnight. Let’s just take a breather,” he says.

  “I’m pregnant, Carlton!” I almost scream. I hold my ring finger in the air. “I thought we were engaged!”

  “I’ll be there for you when you have the abortion,” he says, quietly.

  Chapter 41

  I meet Dick at the coffee shop. Same table. Same coffee. Same big cookie.

  He grins at me and tucks his thumbs underneath the lapels of his leather jacket. “I was good, wasn’t I?” he asks, right away.

  “You did great!” I chirp. I lean forward to pat him on the shoulder, but then I remember what he said about broken fingers. Dick likes his space, apparently.

  “So whatcha got next? What does the female Don have for me?”

  “It’s time to hit Carlton where it really hurts,” I say.

  “In the balls?”

  “In the pocketbook.”

  “I know. I was just kiddin’ around,” Dick says. He bites off half the cookie. Munches it down. Wipes crumbs from his lips. Takes a swig from his coffee.

  Dick motions for me to come closer. Like he wants to tell me a secret. “Wanna know somethin’?” he asks, and I’m not sure I do. Because he could confess to murdering someone and then I’d be stuck knowing about the crime. Better to be ignorant, I figure. But I hear myself say, “Sure! Tell me.”

  “I drink my coffee black because it’s part of the look—you know—you can’t be a tough guy and ask for a latte. But honestly, I prefer my coffee with honey. You mind puddin’ some honey in my coffee?” he asks, holding his cup up. “I can’t have anyone see me do it.”

  “Sure, Dick.” I stand and walk over to the counter where there’s nonfat milk, cream, cinnamon, napkins, and coffee stirrers. Sure enough, there’s a small honey bear. I turn it and squeeze honey into my tough guy’s coffee.

  I walk back to the table, set the cup down.

  “Just like my mom used to make,” Dick says. He takes a sip and actually sighs, “Ahhhh.” Just like they do in the commercials.

  “Been a long time since I had it with honey,” he says, and he looks pleased.

  I feel someone tap me on the shoulder so I spin around. It’s Nick. The new guy from the tennis court.

  He looks terrific. In smart-looking dress pants, and a pressed navy shirt. “Hey there,” he says. “I see you found my favorite Starbucks.”

  He smiles at me with those gorgeous dimples and, I may be dreaming, but the electricity is back.

  I glance quickly across the table. Dick is shifting around in his chair, looking annoyed and uncomf
ortable. His black eyes flash and I suddenly remember who I’m dealing with. A real hired gun. Someone who’s been in the trenches. Someone who carries a concealed weapon that he calls his Marlon Brando

  Nick is looking across the table at Dick, and I guess he expects an introduction. So I say, “Nick, this is Dick.”

  I like to keep it simple.

  Dick scowls at me but rises up halfway in his seat and shakes Nick’s outstretched hand.

  “Nice ta meet ya,” Dick says. He stands up abruptly and says, “Excuse me a sec, Jane. I gotta use the can.” I watch as he strides into the bathroom.

  Nick looks at me and says the inevitable. “Jane?”

  “Sometimes I go by my middle name,” I say, and I feel my face turning pink.

  Of all the Starbucks on the planet, you had to walk into mine, I think.

  “Sorry, am I interrupting a date?” Nick asks and he’s peering at me with those clear, clear blue eyes.

  “No, it’s nothing like that,” I say. “This is just…” Just what, Maddy? I take a deep breath. “This is just business.”

  Nick says, “Oh.”

  And I can tell he wants to know about the business. I mean, what kind of business could I be doing with a guy like Dick?

  I don’t want to lie because that’s no way to start a relationship—so I say, “I’m doing some freelance marketing for Dick.”

  Nick smiles down at me. “Well, in that case, I was wondering if you wanted to grab dinner or something later.”

  Yes.

  “No.”

  Nick looks a little taken aback.

  “I mean, I would really love to, but I’m kind of busy tonight. Can I take a rain check?”

  He smiles. “Sure. How do I get in touch with you?”

  I pull my notebook out of my bag and jot down my cell number, along with my full name, Madeline Jane Piatro, and a smiley face. Then I cover the paper with my hand and write, “for a good time in bed, please call me.” I fold the paper in two and hand it to him. I expect him to put it in his pocket but he opens it right up and looks at it.

  “Funny,” he says.

  “I thought you’d like that,” I say.

  He smiles at me with those killer dimples and I feel the electricity buzzing and I wonder if he feels it, too.

  “I’ll call you later,” he says, winking at me. My goodness. A man who actually winks.

  “I look forward to it,” I say, cool as a cucumber.

  Dick watches Nick leave as he walks back to the table. “Who the hell was that?” he demands, and I see that he’s pissed.

  “Just some guy. I barely know him. He’s in my tennis class,” I say.

  “Well, what did Mr. Banana Republic want?”

  “My phone number.”

  “Hmph. Figures.”

  I watch Dick take another massive bite of his cookie. He’s frowning and munching and he looks like a big dumb kid. I’m really starting to like Dick.

  “So back to business,” I say. “Carlton stole something important from me. So I want to steal something from him.”

  “What do I look like, Jane, some kind of smash and grab guy? Some junkie off the street? You don’t need me, you need a street thug. A fifty-cent guy. I’m more of a fifty-thousand-dollar man.”

  “Fifty. Thousand. Dollars,” I say, slowly.

  “You heard me,” Dick says.

  This is the first time he’s broached the money subject.

  I swallow my coffee and it goes down hard. “I don’t have that kind of money.”

  “I take credit,” Dick says.

  “Really?”

  “No.”

  “Well I guess this meeting is adjourned.”

  “Hey, now. We can work something out,” Dick says. He smiles at me with his white, white teeth. “I’m sure you’ve got something I want,” he says.

  Oh dear Lord.

  “I actually brought you a present,” I say. I reach down into my messenger bag and pull out a bag.

  “What is it?” Dick asks. He’s rubbing his palms together, back and forth.

  “Books,” I say.

  Dick frowns.

  “On tape,” I add. “So that means you can listen to them.” I show Dick the books on tape—The Beginner’s Guide for Self-Promotion, Advertising 101, and my all-time favorite, Marketing for Dummies.

  Then I pull out my marketing notebook. I’ve spent a few hours working up a detailed marketing plan for Dick. Complete with spreadsheet data. Brochures. I’ve even had business cards made up. There’s a black widow spider in the corner. And Dick’s pager number. The card reads, PERSONALIZED, DISCRETE, MUSCLE SER VICES FOR HIRE. FOR THE HOTHEAD IN YOU…

  Dick loves the cards. I’ve had two hundred of them made. He slips five of them in his money clip, slides a few in the pockets of his leather jacket. I hand him the bag with everything in it.

  “Consider this part of your fee,” I say.

  Dick waves his hand airily. Or at least, airily for him. “Fee, schmee,” he says. “You’re doin’ me a good favor—helpin’ me promote my ser vices to the female persuasion.”

  He leans back in his chair, hands behind his head, and that’s when I spot the gun again. Hidden in a holster under his black leather jacket.

  “Are you carrying again?” I ask, and my voice is suddenly small. Meek.

  “Yeah,” Dick says, abruptly. “Wha’d you think? That I did this kinda work with my bare hands.”

  “Have you ever shot—” Shut up, Maddy!

  “A real man never shoots and tells,” Dick says. He casts an eerie smile and I feel goose bumps prickle the back of my neck. As if a cold hand just swept over me.

  Dick must see my face drain its color because he says, “Don’t worry, Jane. I like you.”

  Which is sort of a relief. I guess.

  Chapter 42

  Cheryl tells me that the pregnancy is Ectopic. That women in my age range—thirty-five to forty-four—are at the highest risk of this type of abnormality. That I will have to abort because the egg is not attached to the right place.

  “It’s not a major surgery, but if you allow the pregnancy to continue, it could be fatal,” Cheryl says.

  “For the baby?” I ask.

  “For you,” she says.

  So, I do the deed. Have the surgery. And afterward, as I lay in the recovery room, a nurse hands me a Ziploc bag filled with animal cookies and a juice box. As if I were a kid myself.

  Carlton had a conference call with some big investor, so he didn’t come pick me up.

  “Don’t worry about it,” I told him because I didn’t want him to see me as a victim. A weak-willed woman. I would be strong. And I’d do this on my own. I bet a lot of women did. But, when I walked into the clinic, I was surprised to see quite a few men. Men of all races and ethnicities. Holding their women tight. Protecting them.

  “You’ve got to have someone drive you home,” the nurse told me at the front desk. “We can’t release you otherwise.”

  I called Carlton.

  “I’m swamped, sweetie,” he said, in a muffled voice. “Can’t you call Heather?”

  “I haven’t told anyone!” I said.

  “I can be there in an hour,” he replied. “Maybe two. If things get crazy.”

  “Forget it. I’ll call a cab,” I said, and I was surprised when he agreed.

  “Good idea. You’re only ten minutes from the house,” he said.

  I snuck out of the hospital, feeling guilty about everything.

  That night, when Carlton got home, he brought me a chocolate milkshake and a small teddy bear. He sat next to me on the couch, put his arm over my shoulders, and we watched a re-run of Survivor.

  I hugged the bear to my chest, and let the tears stream down my face. Why was everyone giving me things that reminded me of children? I wondered.

  “It was the right thing to do,” he said, finally, his voice like gravel. “Don’t give it a second thought.”

  I stared at him. “Easy for you to say.”<
br />
  “It’s a worse crime to bring an unwanted child into the world,” he said, staring at the TV. “And plus, it could’ve killed you,” he adds.

  We went to bed early that night, but when I woke up the next morning, I found Carlton asleep on the couch. The separation had already begun.

  Chapter 43

  I study my hit man. “Carlton has a road bike that he rides home from work every Thursday,” I say.

  Dick takes a sip of his coffee. “I’m a hundred percent on hit and runs,” he says.

  “No. I want you to steal the bike.”

  “Look, you don’t need me to steal some guy’s friggin’ bike. You can hire a midwife for five hundred bucks to do that.”

  “It’s no ordinary bike. It belonged to Lance Armstrong.”

  “The Tour duh France dude?”

  “That’s right. Carlton bought Lance Armstrong’s training bike at some benefit auction. He used company profits to buy the bike and then rode it himself in an amateur race. He calls the bike his “sure thing.” And when he’s riding it, he thinks he’s as good as Lance Armstrong. The bike gives him some kind of power trip. And, because it was Lance’s training bike, it’s worth a whole lot more than an ordinary bike. So he keeps it inside his house, under tight lock and key.”

  “I’ll take my good buddies along with me,” Dick informs me. “Mr. Crowbar, Mr. Pliers, and Mr. Wire-cutter.”

  “That’s why you’re the professional,” I say.

  Dick smiles with his white, capped teeth.

  “But I need you to steal something else, too. Something that’s really hard to take. It’s a watch. A wristwatch. Problem is, Carlton never takes it off.”

  “Now we’re talkin’,” Dick says. “You want me to cut off his hand?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Okay. No limbs. That’s right,” Dick pounds his head. “I keep forgettin’ no limbs,” he says. “So, I’ll threaten him. Hold my Marlon Brando to his head.” Dick pats his jacket, on the bulge where his pistol’s packed.

  He puffs out his cheeks and does another Godfather impression. Right there in Starbucks.

  “I’m uh gonna make him an offer he can’t refuse,” he says, in that hoarse, throaty, half unintelligible Godfather voice.