by Tia Williams
“No, I’m completely to blame. Your nervous breakdown, moving to Virginia. Cheating you out of the family we’d always planned. That was all me.”
“Yes, you were an asshole. You were careless with me, and selfish. But you didn’t cause me to spiral. I did. I gave you so much power that, when you took your love away, I dissolved.”
Jenna said this with intensity in her voice. “I put myself in that helpless role.” Jenna looked at him, her eyes shining. She was over feeling like their breakup happened to her. Because it wasn’t true—she’d been the masochist to his sadist. Willingly.
“Brian,” she continued, “you backed out of our plans. But you didn’t cheat me out of a family. I should’ve been woman enough to be clear about my terms, instead of suffering quietly for years.”
Eric’s words—you’re a coward—rang in her ears.
“If you didn’t want that future with me, I should’ve had the balls to go out and find that life with someone else. You weren’t the only man on Earth.”
Brian flinched, caught off guard.
“What happened to us was my fault, too,” said Jenna. “But for your part in it, I forgive you.”
Brian looked like he was struggling to find words. “Who…are you now? You’re so centered, calm. It’s like you’ve gotten an Iyanla Vanzant transplant.”
“And try to say that three times fast.”
Brian smiled, his expression tinged with regret. For a second she saw a flash of Brian at nineteen, floppy-haired, baby-faced, telling her that he couldn’t take her to Uno’s Pizzeria because he’d just spent his last dime on bailing two of his junkie brothers out of jail. He didn’t even know how he’d eat for the next month. Brian admitted this with such shame. Even then, the idea of not being able to provide made him miserable.
Jenna cleared her throat. “So, have you changed, too?”
“Yes. Want me to prove it?”
“How could you possibly?”
“Woman, you know I have ways. What time is it?” He glanced at his Bulgari watch. It was 11:20 pm. “Let’s go somewhere.”
She paused. This all felt so familiar. Brian in a tux, Jenna in an evening gown, winding down in their bedroom after a night at a fancy gala. But on every forensics or crime-centric TV show, it was said that when you’re abducted, you should never allow yourself to be taken to a second location. The second location is where most victims get killed, or worse.
“I think I should go home,” she said, making a move to get up. “But if you ever want to talk about Anna, please call me.”
“Jenna.”
He never called her by her real name, only JJ. She sat back down, sighing.
“Fine. But where will we even go dressed like this?”
“Somewhere I should’ve taken you a long time ago,” he said, pulling out his phone. He clicked on a number, and then put the phone against his ear.
“Who are you calling?” whispered Jenna. “Matthieu,” he said with a rakish curve of his lip.
Matthieu was Brian’s manservant. The Alfred to his Batman. He had the personal cell numbers for every restaurant and boutique owner that mattered. Armed with Brian’s credit card information and a salesman’s dogged determination—plus, a French-Haitian accent so thick that most vendors couldn’t even understand what extravagance they were agreeing to—Matthieu was capable of making anything happen, at any time of the day or night.
“Meet me downstairs in five minutes,” he said, leaving the room to speak in private.
And the tiny, miniscule flicker of the thing left inside her that responded to Brian—to him taking the lead, taking control—made her nod “okay.” Without asking any questions, she met him in the foyer minutes later. Just like he said.
Jenna knew she should go home. But despite everything, it felt good being with Brian—therapeutic, somehow. In his presence, she had to face the foibles of her past, to reckon with who she used to be. Maybe she had to experience this night to move on with the rest of her life. Maybe it would give her clarity on how to work things out with Eric. Maybe it was just that, in this heightened, emotional moment—Anna death, Brian’s melodramatic story—her defenses slipped, and Jenna Parte Un’s voice was louder than Parte Deux’s.
God help her, she was going to the second location.
CHAPTER 28
As Brian and Jenna rode in the back of his towncar through Lower Manhattan, they slipped into a hesitant chattiness. They weren’t fully comfortable, but they were pleasant, and given everything that Brian just confessed, this was a surprise to them both.
Brian still hadn’t told Jenna where they were going, but they were clearly headed toward Brooklyn. Which was odd, because he hated Brooklyn. He thought it was too self-consciously everything (organic, liberal, artsy, urban, etc.). What the hell were they doing?
When the car pulled up at the entrance to Prospect Park, she got it. There was only one thing they could be doing.
Together, they walked on an unpaved path, a path that was familiar to her, and stopped at a sprawling, hilly expanse of grass. It was filled with hundreds of picnic blankets and people, all there for the weekly midnight screening of a classic movie.
It was where she’d asked Brian to take her, during their horrible last dinner together. She’d said it was her dream date, but he’d scoffed, as if it were beneath them. Not only was Brooklyn out of the question, but so were black-and-white movies (and sitting on the cold, hard ground to watch them).
It was also the place Eric had spontaneously taken her—without even knowing she’d been dying to go—where she told him she loved him for the first time. And now, here she was, at the scene of one of her most sublime memories; but she was with
Brian, instead of Eric. Her past was colliding with her present. “Look,” said Brian, pointing to a large oak tree set back behind the sea of movie-watchers. In front of the tree was massive, fluffy white blanket with a little table set up next to it, loaded up with an assortment of things she couldn’t quite make out. Standing next to the tree was Matthieu, a slip of a mocha-skinned man in a tailored suit and a don’t-mind-me-I’m-just-here-to-fulfill-your-every-desire expression. Brian had created their own V.I.P. section in the middle of the park.
He took her hand and wove her through the couples in jeans and hoodies, chilling on well-worn Mexican blankets—all of them turning their heads to gawk at the mystery couple in dramatic black tie. For a moment, the movie wasn’t even happening. It was just Jenna and Brian, surrounded by people whispering about who they were, and why they looked like they were about to present one of the lesser awards at the Oscars.
It was paint-by-numbers Brian. He loved making jaws drop. He lived to knock people out with his elegance. His taste. His woman. They made their way over to the blanket, and Jenna got a good look at the folding table—which was filled with raspberries and strawberries (neither of which were in season), cheeses, grapes, toast points, caviar on ice, and three buckets of champagne. There was an Louis Vuitton picnic basket, the size of an airplane carry-on, which was stocked with porcelain tableware, silver cutlery, crystal champagne glasses, a mini French press, and LV linen napkins.
The spread was breathtaking and caught her off guard—but it shouldn’t have. Of course Brian couldn’t experience the screening like everyone else, in cargo pants, inhaling kettle corn and beer on mismatched beach towels.
I spent most of my adulthood living with this decadence. Why does it seem so over-the-top now?
With an enthusiastic, “Long time no see!” Jenna gave Matthieu a hug that he did not appreciate. (He never encouraged showy forms of affection. He was there to provide a service, and expected everyone to ignore his presence and carry on.) Then, she looked at Brian with a bemused smile.
“You really went all out.”
Jenna could practically see Brian’s chest puff out. “You always said you wanted me to take you here.”
“I know, but it’s supposed to be a drive-in type of vibe,” said Jenna. “This is mad ex
travagant!”
“Mad extravagant? Are we on MTV Jams?”
“I um…work with a lot of young people,” mumbled Jenna. “It’s extravagant, JJ, but I know you. You love exquisite details.”
“Not so much anymore,” she said. “It’s gorgeous, but you didn’t need to do this for me.”
“Fine, then I needed to do it for me.”
“A-ha! The truth.”
“If I’m going to come out here, sit on the goddamn grass, and watch Casablanca surrounded by art directors, self-published novelists, and feminist photographers, I’m going to do it while eating catered hors d’oeuvers. On a waterproof-lined alpaca blanket.”
Jenna looked at him blankly. “You had Matthieu bring an alpaca blanket? To a picnic?”
He grinned. “Sit down. Feel it.”
Brian held Jenna’s hand while she balled up the bottom of her gown and then sank down into the blanket. It was luxurious. With much huffing and puffing, Brian sat next to her, his legs stretched front of him.
“You look like the world’s most dapper toddler,” said Jenna, “being forced to sit down for story time.”
“But look how much I’ve changed. I came to Brooklyn for you! I’m basically camping for you.”
She laughed. “You consider coming here a sacrifice? That’s you, staying exactly the same.”
“Well, I’m watching a pre-Eighties movie. Something I’d never do.”
“You’ve never understood my movie thing.”
“Why watch a bunch of people who are all dead, deliver corny lines and get caught up in cornball, predictable situations?” He pointed to the screen. “Humphrey Bogart is supposed to be a leading man, but he looks like a butcher.”
Jenna sighed. She used to try to explain her film love to Brian, but his boredom was always apparent. It never really bothered her—after all, she couldn’t care less about the Giants or, like, wearable tech. It wasn’t until Eric that she realized how thrilling it was to share an obsession, to have things in common besides each other. Just then, Matthieu appeared out of the shadows, draping a pale pink pashmina over Jenna’s shoulders. She hopped a little, startled.
“Zere’s a chill in ze air, Madame,” he said, and disappeared.
“I forgot what he’s like,” she whispered to Brian, and then continued their conversation. “I don’t know what you have against Brooklyn. You know, I live here now.”
“I heard,” he said. “And I hate that you live in an uninhabitable, dangerous neighborhood. I hate seeing you diminished.”
“I love my apartment.” And she did. She’d made delicious memories there. “It’s the first place I’ve ever had that’s all mine.”
“But you’re going to argue that it’s not low rent compared to us? We had everything.”
“And nothing,” said Jenna. She drew her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them.
“I want to change that. I regret so much.” He paused. “These past couple of years have been…empty.”
“I doubt you’ve spent many nights alone.”
“There have been women,” he admitted. “Some I’ve been fond of. Most were transactions. Escorts and gold-diggers make you lonelier than being alone.”
“Can’t say that I’ve spent much time with gold-diggers, since I have about four hundred dollars to my name,” she said.
“Four hundred dollars?” Brian was scandalized. “Why didn’t you ever ask me for help? You have art, I set up bonds in your name. You don’t get a medal for being too proud to take what’s yours.”
“It’s not about pride,” she said. “I just don’t need any help. Especially from you. No offense.”
“None taken.” He paused. “Well, some taken.”
“I’ve learned how to live very well with little money. I pay my rent, I take the subway instead of cabs, and I hardly ever eat out. Hopefully, when I renegotiate my contract I can make some investments in low-risk funds. I’m fine.”
Brian studied Jenna. She was a forty-year-old woman who’d never checked the balance on her checking account, never budgeted, and lived off of a glorified allowance her entire adult life. And now she was discussing her finances with the scrappy capability of a lifelong coupon-counter.
It was like she’d never needed him.
“So, back to the women,” said Jenna. “What happened with Lily L’Amour?”
“She left me,” Brian said, simply. “Without you, and now without Anna, I feel alone in the world. Now that I’m finally back on my feet—who am I making all this money for? If something happened to me, who would care? I have no purpose.”
“I think this is called having a midlife crisis. Can’t you just buy a new jet?”
“I’m being serious.” He looked at her. “Before, when you wanted to get married and have a baby, I wasn’t in a place to do it. Now, I am.”
Jenna listened to his words, but they weren’t connecting to her brain.
“I’d marry you tomorrow if you’d say yes. I want to be a father. I want your fairy tale.”
Her fairy tale. It had been her dream for so long, that even though everything had changed, she wasn’t immune to hearing him say the words. The old pull was no longer there, but she got flashes of how it used to feel, like feeling tingles in a phantom limb. Involuntarily, her mind went to the box of Brian’s baby clothes that Anna had given her. She wondered where it was.
Jenna was hurt. Not for herself now, but for the girl who’d ruined herself waiting for Brian. All she’d ever wanted was this level of commitment from him.
“You’re only feeling this way because you’ve just suffered a huge loss,” said Jenna. “It’s your sadness talking.”
“No, it isn’t,” Brian said. “I’ve missed you for years, I just didn’t know what to do about it.”
Jenna nodded. She glanced up at the screen, watching an impassioned, conflicted, very married Ingrid Bergman beg her lover Humphrey Bogart to do the thinking for both of them.
And then Matthieu popped out in front of them, scaring the living shit out of Jenna. She was already on edge, but every time he materialized, her nerves frayed like split ends. It was like being tazed every thirty seconds.
“Fromage Francais,” he said, wielding a tray of cheese. “You will try ze Boursin or the Brebicet, Madame? I know you enjoy ze soft cheeses.”
“Thank you, I’ll have the Boursin,” said Jenna, dipping a knife into the smushy cheese and spreading it on a toast point. She prayed Matthieu would just relax so she could get her thoughts together.
They sat quiet for a few moments, two old lovers in the dark, bathed in the silvery glow of the screen. Jenna looked at Brian—at his aristocrat-by-way-of-Philly profile –and finally felt bold enough to go there.
“I’ll always love you, Brian. But it’s not in the same way.”
He frowned, scratching his five o’clock shadow. “It’s that kid, isn’t it?”
“I’m sorry?”
“I read the New York magazine interview. You could barely hide it.”
“Oh,” she said, adjusting her flower garland.
“What are you thinking? He’s Darcy’s child, do you know how ludicrous that it?”
“Actually no,” she said dryly, “it didn’t occur to me until this very moment.”
“How old is he anyway?”
“It’s none of your business. And what does it matter?”
“It matters because he’s a sophomore in high school. Are you fucking him or helping him with his World Civ homework?”
She dropped her toast point and made a move to get up—but Brian grabbed her wrist, keeping her in place.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “But you have to understand. I wasn’t arrogant enough to think you wouldn’t find someone else. I just assumed he wouldn’t be boy-band age.”
Jenna didn’t want to talk about Eric with Brian. It felt disrespectful to even bring him into the conversation. “Tell me you’re just getting your groove back.”
“No,” she said. �
�I’m in love with him.
“That,” he said, “sounds like a bad joke.”
“You can’t imagine the utter bottomlessness of my disinterest in your opinion.”
“You’d honestly choose him over me?”
“It isn’t even a choice, Brian.”
“Impossible,” he said, his face incredulous. “Why?”
Jenna shrugged and peered up at the starless sky. “We’re friends.”
“We were friends.”
“Us?” Jenna chuckled. “We were never friends. You were the boss, and I was your geisha. A feisty one at times, but I was never unclear about my position. My job was to be the person you wanted me to be.”
“I take charge. That’s who I am. I always thought you liked it. You certainly benefited from it.”
She ignored that last comment, because it was a shitty thing to say. “I did like you being my boss. But Brian, I was so young when we met. I’d never even kissed a boy. I knew nothing about guys, or relationships, or myself. You taught me what to like.”
Before Brian could respond, Matthieu emerged out of the shadows again, popping in front of them with two bottles of champagne. This time, Jenna yelped.
“Champagne tasting, madame? I have ze 1999 Gaston Chiquet and ze 1993, Dom Perignon. Nectar of ze gods, both a dem!”
“Matthieu, you’re going to give me a heart attack!”
“That’ll be all for now,” said Brian, dismissing him. He disappeared again, with a huffy shrug.
“It just doesn’t add up,” he continued, unable to get past Jenna’s involvement with Eric. “Why him?”
“We’re the same,” she said. “We’re from the same ‘soul tribe.’ Ever heard that expression?”
Brian scoffed. “It sounds like the name of a Blaxploitation Western flick.”
“It’s when you meet someone and, no matter who they are, where they come from or what they look like, you know that you’re made of the same stuff.”
“So, because of this soul tribe member, you’re turning down what you’ve wanted your whole life?”
“No. Even if there was no Eric, I couldn’t marry you.”