Sinning Again

by Heidi Lowe

  "We are different," I said, desperately. "You, you're different. I never loved Hilarie. You know that. And I would never...not with Dallas, not with anyone. Okay, we kissed. More than once. But that's it. I swear."

  Now she turned to look at me. She wasn't crying, she wasn't even angry. She just looked...tired. I would have given anything to see something other than that.

  "You know, I don't care that you kissed her. I don't even care that you've been smoking pot with her in your home. It's the lying that I can't take. The secrets. And seeing as we're confessing now, I should tell you that I saw your painting. A couple of weeks ago. And I've known about this, whatever it is, for awhile. You think I couldn't smell the wolf on you?"

  I furrowed my eyebrows, feeling even more light-headed than before. Quite dizzy, in fact, as the truth came to light. She'd known I was lying to her the whole time. Every time I stopped by her place, after seeing Dallas, and said I was with friends from work. Every lie I'd told about my painting. I hadn't even noticed that she didn't believe me.

  "W–why didn't you say anything?"

  "Because I wanted to give you the chance to come clean. And I really thought you would. I really thought I knew you, Lissa. Or should I call you Liz? That name seems to fit this new persona."

  She sighed long and deep.

  "Jean, I'm sorry I lied." The words sounded so hollow, so inadequate. If they did to me, surely they must have to her. "I'm sorry for all of this."

  "You know, I wasn't all for it when you wanted to move out. But I came around. I understood your need for growth, your need to mature. But you didn't grow up, Lissa, you just changed. You're unrecognizable. The sneaking around, the lying, kissing other women...that isn't maturity, that's just behavior I, quite frankly, don't want around me."

  "What are you saying?" I tried to swallow but found my mouth and throat were too dry. My heart thumped against my chest, the room began to spin. I didn't know if it was the effects of the pot that caused it, or my apprehension about what was coming next.

  "I'm saying that I'm done. You wanted a life that was separate from mine, away from me. Well, now you've got it. I can't do this anymore. I love you, and that isn't going to change, but it's clear that we can't be together."

  "That's–that's not what I meant when I said I wanted distance," I said in a shrill, pleading voice. "I meant I needed to live my own life, not that I didn't want you to be a part of it."

  "I'll always be a part of your life, and you're still welcome to use your studio whenever you like. I won't stop you."

  "Fuck the studio!" I shouted. Could she even hear what she was saying? What she was doing? Why did her words sound so final? "Jean, don't do this. I'm sorry, all right. I shouldn't have lied. I shouldn't have kissed her. It didn't mean anything. I love you, not her."

  She was already walking out the door. "Goodbye, Lissa."

  This couldn't be happening. Not to us. We were endgame, weren't we? She was always supposed to be there, no matter who came along. We were supposed to weather any storm, and all that other crap that the songs and movies taught us.

  There was never supposed to be a goodbye.

  She closed the door before I could run after her. And I didn't open it again because I didn't have anything new to say that she hadn't already heard. And also because, even as the tears started trickling down my face, and my nose started running, I wondered if she was right.

  Maybe we couldn't be together. Maybe this had always been our destiny. That we never should have overcome the first hurdle all those months ago. We'd never really been "right", and our whole relationship, from the beginning, had been based on a lie, a painful secret. Now lies had plagued our second chance.

  Maybe she was right.

  It still hurt like hell, though. Where was that pot when I needed it?

  TWENTY-ONE

  As with all types of grief, there were five stages: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. My grief over the end of my relationship, however, looked a little different. For starters, anger took up at least three of those spots. And as for acceptance, well, I never actually got that far.

  I just always assumed she'd be there, you know. Because she had been, up until then. I'd called her every name under the sun, said things to her that not even her worst enemy would have uttered, and she'd stuck by me. She'd looked past all of that and continued to love me, even when I dared her not to.

  And this, of all things, had been the straw that broke the camel's back. A misunderstanding, a few lies, and a friendship with someone from a race she despised. I couldn't have anticipated that.

  Over the days that followed her departure, I wandered around feeling like someone had punched me several times in the stomach. Every time I was tempted to cry, I cursed myself into resilience, stopping the tears before they fell. If she didn't want me anymore then she wasn't worth my tears.

  "Lissa, you're welcome to use my studio. I don't want anything to do with you, but you can still paint in my house," I said to myself in a mocking voice. I was on my way home from work one evening. My attempt at a posh English accent was an epic fail.

  Just as I had been doing ever since the split a week prior, I'd been reliving every painful second of the fight, over and over. The words changed each time; her words became more callous.

  "I'm so insecure that I can't stand you having any friends besides me."

  "Your lies were so bad you should be arrested for fraud!"

  "I can kill your mother and be forgiven, but you kissing another woman is unforgivable."

  This was all mumbled as I walked in the direction of my apartment. I didn't care how ridiculous or insane I looked talking to myself.

  Anyone could have seen that I was pining for her. She'd become a she-devil, a witch, a bitch, the woman who had ruined my life, all within one week. But I wanted to see her so badly it hurt. My awful impression of her accent only made me long for the real thing even more.

  "Who does she think she is, anyway? A good Samaritan just because she's big enough to let me use my own studio?"

  So that was what decided it for me that evening. I turned down another street, equally familiar, but one that didn't lead me home. Defiance. I wanted to show her that it was my studio. She'd given it to me, and I didn't need her permission to use it. She probably thought I wouldn't. Well, I was about to show her.

  My palms grew sweaty as the house came into view. I contemplated turning back, heading to my own home, and closing the chapter on us for good. But my legs wouldn't let me change course, not until they'd succeeded in embarrassing me.

  Her car was parked in the driveway, but that didn't mean she was home. She could have ridden with Robyn.

  When I reached the door and pulled out my key, I wondered if she'd had the locks changed. But I shook off the idea as absurd. That wasn't her style.

  I let myself in, then listened in the entrance hallway for any movement.

  Nothing. My shoulders sagged with disappointment. Of course this little detour wasn't about the studio. I wanted to see her, hear her, smell her. She might have been able to just walk away, but I sure as hell couldn't.

  I wandered into the kitchen. It had only been nine days since I'd been there, but I already missed it. I missed strolling in at any time to find the refrigerator fully stocked with all manner of tasty treats. I would then raid it, and no one would bat an eye, because the food was for me anyway.

  I had no right to now, but I pulled it open and peered inside. My favorite things were missing, I noticed that straight away. The very particular brand of pro-biotic yogurt, the sandwich meats, the coconut water...everything I couldn't afford myself, that I'd been spoiled with. Gone.

  I wanted to bawl my eyes out with my head in that refrigerator. I'd foolishly thought that she would be waiting for me with open arms when I got here, saying that she'd made a huge mistake and never wanted to let me go. But this crushed that hope. She'd stopped catering for me, written me out of her life without a second thought
.

  "Lissa," a voice said behind me, making me jump. I slammed the door shut quickly and turned around to see her. She was wearing her hair up in a loose bun, something she never did. She looked ageless and immaculate, like an oil painting of the most beautiful woman in the world. She'd stayed flawless, seemingly unfazed by our break up. God, I hated that.

  "I was just...I wanted a drink."

  "Okay. Take whatever you want." She picked up the evening paper off the counter and started flicking through it, paying no attention to me whatsoever.

  "I came to do some painting...if that's still all right with you." Tell me you destroyed the painting in a fit of passionate rage and jealousy, I prayed. Then I'll know you still care, and that this is all a facade.

  She didn't peer up from her paper. "Of course it's all right with me. I told you, you're welcome to use the studio any time."

  "And the painting's still there?"

  I saw her eyebrows furrow, but she still didn't look at me. "Everything should be exactly as you left it."

  I couldn't believe this was what we'd become. Two strangers having a soulless conversation in the kitchen, with one barely listening to the other. Who would have believed that I was just as in love with this woman as I had always been?

  I didn't know what to do or say next. I'd come all this way, and wallowing in my misery, confined to a cold studio was the last thing I wanted to do. So I just sort of stood there, loitering, until she finally looked at me, her eyes questioning.

  "Are you all right?"

  Hell no I'm not all right! Can't you see I'm a broken woman? Can't you see what you've done?

  "Uh, yeah, yes, I'm fine. I'll just be going down to the studio now." I started off.

  "Lissa, wait."

  Was this it? Was she going to insist we try again? My heart raced with joy. I spun around to face her again, trying to keep my smile at bay.

  It never got a chance to surface, however.

  "There's some mail for you." She picked up a couple of letters and handed them to me. "You should probably notify them of the change of address. Makes life easier."

  I swallowed back the ball that was lodged in my throat, thanked her for the mail, then hurried away to the studio. Only once the door was firmly shut behind me did I allow the tears to stream forth. Muffled cries from behind my sweater sleeve, because I didn't want her to hear.

  She didn't hate me, or merely even dislike me. It was far worse than that. She was indifferent.

  While April's animated voice boomed through my cell's loudspeaker on the toilet cistern, I brushed my hair in the mirror.

  The conversation had been going for almost fifteen minutes, all of which I'd spent getting dressed for my evening out with Dallas. And in the usual format for April's calls, I'd done little else besides listen and made affirming noises while she jabbered.

  She'd been filling me in on everything that had happened to her since our last chat two months earlier. One of the longest periods we'd gone without a phone call, as she'd been on one of those family volunteering trips to Africa and had only recently returned.

  "Oh, and we sponsored these twin boys, so that they can go to school up to the age of sixteen. It's almost like adopting, only they stay in their village and we're back in the States..."

  I stifled a laugh at how oblivious my sister was to her privileged and highly waspy attitude. She had officially arrived. I wondered what would come next: becoming a soccer mom and working on committees, organizing pointless charity fundraisers in order to appear busy while her husband worked his corporate job. After all, that was exactly what her parents' lives looked like.

  "When will you go back?" I asked.

  "We don't have any real plans to. Mom claims she enjoyed herself, but she actually complained the whole time. And she doesn't know that I caught her looking at flights back to Wisconsin on her tablet. More than once."

  I laughed. "Well, give her credit for sticking it out. That takes balls for someone like her."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Oh, nothing. Forget it," I said quickly, not at all interested in pointing out my sister's mother's obvious flaws – obvious, that is, to everyone but my sister. She lived in a bubble of familial bliss, where her parents could do no wrong. Not like the biological ones she'd initially been given. I would never stop envying her for how shielded she was from all of it.

  "Have you spoken to Hilarie?" she asked.

  I sighed. "April, you asked me that last time, and I'll say what I said then. No, we broke up. We're never getting back together, and we're never going to be friends."

  "It seems a little excessive to cut her out of your life completely. I mean, you spent two years together."

  "Do you talk to all of your exes?" Of which there'd been a few. A Louis, a Milton, a Conrad, a Henry... All rich, trust fund kids who would never have to work a day in their prep school lives.

  "Well, not really. I see them at events and stuff, and we say hello–"

  "Exactly, but you're not friends. It's no different for me and Hilarie."

  Of course, she wanted it to be different for us, because in her eyes Hilarie had been the best thing that had ever happened to me. And in her eyes, I'd done the worst thing imaginable: I'd left her for a vampire.

  Here the tone of April's voice took on a darkness. "And that...that other being is still in your life?" She would never have called Jean a person – it would have given her mouth ulcers or something.

  "Jean and I are on a break at the moment." I stopped brushing my hair, and tried to remain composed as I said this, even though I wanted to burst into tears. It had been official for three weeks by then, and it hadn't gotten any easier.

  April's glee didn't help matters. "That's the best news I've heard in weeks, sis." I imagined her doing cartwheels. "You finally came to your senses. It's just a shame you didn't realize how insane you were being before you moved away with her."

  Sisters were supposed to support each other. I'd read somewhere that women with sisters were proven to be less depressed than those without. But that evening, while I mourned the demise of my relationship, my sister twisted the knife in. Her resentment towards Jean and her race made her unwilling and unable to empathize.

  "Why do you have to be so insensitive, April?"

  "What? I'm sorry, but you can't expect me not to be happy about it." She laughed her easy laugh, now that the wicked vampire was out of our lives. "At least now I can visit you."

  "You could have visited me before. Jean wanted to meet you," I said miserably.

  April meant a lot to Jean too. She cared about her the way she had for me when we were still strangers. And she'd looked out for her too. She always asked about her, wanted to know how she was. But I couldn't tell April any of this, unless I wanted to tell her everything. And that wasn't something I ever wanted to share with April. It was bad enough that she didn't know our mother was dead. If she found out that, not only were we orphans, but my ex was responsible for it, all hell would break loose.

  So I decided to keep quiet about my continued contact with Jean, even though it was nothing more than a few words in her hallway, followed by me heading down to my studio. Some exes, particularly the ones you didn't want to be exes, were worth keeping as friends. I was fully aware of the hypocrisy in that sentiment.

  The intercom buzzed, thankfully. Sometimes my sister was just too much.

  "April, I gotta run. My friend is here. We're going to the movies."

  "What friend? Petr? Is he there too?"

  "I do have other friends, you know." I didn't, not in the true sense of the word. I didn't know what Dallas was to me. We were just hanging out, and that was what I needed. But I'd never really seen her as girlfriend material. Perhaps that would change now that I was single.

  "Is it a girl?" I heard the suggestive tone.

  "If you must know, yes. Her name's Dallas, and she isn't very patient, so get off the phone!" I chuckled.

  "Okay, okay, I'm going. Have fun on y
our date, sis. Love you."

  "It's not a da–"

  She hung up before I could finish.

  The intercom buzzed and buzzed, reminding me to get a move on.

  "Yes, I'm coming," I shouted to no one, as I dragged on my leather jacket, threw my bag over my shoulder, and headed out to meet Dallas.

  TWENTY-TWO

  As we flew through the fiery sunset, my arms gripping Dallas's waist, always afraid I would be tossed from the bike by the sheer force of the wind, I pondered what April had said. Specifically that she'd referred to this as a date.

  Dallas and I had spent a fair bit of time together since I'd become a free agent. But none of those encounters had ever felt date-like to me. Initially I'd wanted to get back at Jean by continuing to see her. She could smell Dallas on me every time I visited the house, and I wanted to hurt her. But after a while, when I realized Jean didn't care what I did anymore, Dallas had become my default companion. She was my replacement Petr, while simultaneously replacing Jean in everything but the bedroom. It wasn't that I didn't have needs, that I didn't find her attractive. Definitely not that. Hell, even grasping on to her on the bike was enough to get me hot under the collar. But she wasn't Jean. She didn't know my body like Jean did. She would never feel as right; we would never fit together the way Jean and I did. I was certain of that.

  I'd never known true compatibility until I'd made love to Jean. In a sense, she'd ruined every future sexual encounter I would ever have, simply because she'd set the bar to its highest level.

  There was also the fact that, if I did give myself to Dallas, it would really signal the end of my relationship with Jean. That would be the point of no return. I just wasn't ready to go there yet.

  "What are we watching?" I asked, once we'd parked the bike and were making our way to the movie theater entrance. It was a big place, set in one of those entertainment complexes, complete with a bowling alley, an ice rink, and an array of big franchise eateries. The type of place that was packed out most weekends. This weekend was no different.