My Life as a Doormat (in Three Acts)

by Rene Gutteridge

  Edward came in, and I closed the door behind him. He didn’t even make it to a couch. He turned and looked at me with such intensity that I stood very still at the door, my back flat against it, and held my breath. I couldn’t imagine what he was getting ready to say. I braced myself for a tongue-lashing.

  But instead, as quietly as a shy boy, he said, “Come back to me.” He stepped closer, his hands nervously playing with each other, tears at the corner of each eye. “Leah, please. Marry me. Please marry me. You’re the only thing that I want. Everything else can leave.” He looked down, searching for words when I offered only silence in response. “I’ll change, Leah. I’ll be more—what do you call it—spontaneous. I’ll let you wear pink. I didn’t know,” he said, each new word choking with emotion. “I didn’t know it meant so much to you. I thought you were trying to be someone you weren’t. But I’m realizing now I never gave you a chance to be who you really are. I grew comfortable . . . I like predictability, Leah. It’s what my whole life revolves around. But I can change. I will change. If you will please, please come back to me. Don’t do this. Don’t leave me. Please.”

  I’d never once heard desperation in Edward’s voice. He’d always taken a great deal of pride in his poise: straight shoulders, a confident expression, verbiage dripping with intellect. Now, his hair was disheveled, his shoulders slumped, and his body language oozed neediness. I couldn’t help but feel regret, because I’d always wanted to see this side of Edward that I hadn’t thought existed.

  “Say something,” Edward finally said, his pleading eyes locked onto mine.

  But I could hardly look at him any longer. “I don’t know what to say,” I admitted, and without much emotion, I noticed. Maybe I’d had my fill of crying.

  “You’ve got to say something. I need you to say something. Don’t you understand how this came out of left field? We were picking out wedding cakes, and now you don’t want to marry me.”

  I prayed for the right words. “Edward, everything wasn’t all right. You just couldn’t see it. I’ve been trying ever since the pink dress incident to tell you something wasn’t right. But you didn’t have the time or the patience to listen to me. You didn’t want to deal with it.”

  He sighed. “That’s true. I thought it was a passing phase. I realize that was a mistake.” He took three steps toward me. With my back still against the door, he took my hands as tenderly as he ever had and looked into my eyes with more passion than I ever thought he was capable of. “Leah, please, will you reconsider your position in this matter?”

  It was such a simple, small word, but so heavy on the tongue, so difficult to push out. It was one word, but it had so many implications.

  “No.”

  He let go of my hands, his brow falling over his narrowing eyes. He stepped back and studied me. Dull disappointment washed over his bright eyes. “What am I supposed to tell my family?” he blurted. He gestured toward me. “And what about your family? I cannot see your family being okay with this. Have you told them?”

  “Yes.”

  He shook his head. “This is unbelievable. Maybe I never really knew you, Leah. Maybe that’s the problem. Because the Leah I knew was not capable of doing this.”

  There was never a truer statement.

  “I’m sorry, Edward. This isn’t meant to hurt you. But I know it does.”

  “I don’t even know you!” He backed away from me like I had some disease.

  “You do know me,” I said calmly. “It’s just who I’ve never had the courage to be.”

  “I liked the old Leah better.” He pointed to the door. “Do you mind? I’d like to leave now.”

  I wanted to hold out my hands, talk this through, try to make Edward not hate me so much. But even though I knew I was completely breaking his heart, I also knew this was exactly what I wanted. I didn’t love Edward enough to marry him.

  I stepped aside and opened the door for him. He stared at me as though even that simple gesture was beyond his comprehension. He hesitated, obviously expecting me to say something. I didn’t, and with a swift stride he was out the door, which I closed without looking after him.

  I went to my bathroom, washed my face, put on my favorite cozy pajamas, crawled into bed, and slept as if my world were not falling to pieces.

  Chapter 28

  [She aims her gun.]

  Millions of stories have been told through the centuries, but stories, no matter how they’re told or why, seem to have the same basic structure. There is the beginning, where the protagonist’s life is in a state of equilibria. Life is balanced, for the time being. Of course, it cannot stay that way. Every good story has built into it the rising action—the desis. This is where the protagonist’s life becomes unbalanced, where complication is introduced, which leads ultimately to the moment of crisis, the climax—peripeteia. The way the protagonist deals with peripeteia is what brings sympathy to the character. He must deal with it. The climax is the point of no return. But then, when the heat is turned up as hot as it can go, the denouement arrives. The falling action, the unraveling of it all, where the consequences of the character’s decisions must be dealt with, good or bad.

  Then, resolution.

  That was the part, two weeks later, that had not arrived for me. I’d always referred to resolution as the story’s “deep breath.” But in my own life, during more conflict than I would’ve dared put my own characters through, I still had no resolution.

  I had not spoken to Cinco, nor had I returned to the conflict resolution class. I figured if I hadn’t learned how to resolve conflict by now, there was no hope for me. But not seeing Cinco was difficult. I had to take his absence as a sign that he was never really that interested in me, or that our fight had undone an already fragile beginning.

  Dad was still at home recovering. Mother had suggested I not come see him for a while. She told me she didn’t want him stressed. I talked to him twice over the phone, but we never mentioned the abandoned wedding plans, only his improving health.

  Kate broke up with Dillan, but she was refusing to talk with anyone about it. Mother’s snippy words, which tiptoed around the subject about as delicately as a gorilla, reminded me that she blamed me for that too.

  I heard the rumor through the few friends I had in the theater industry that J. R. was telling everyone I’d gone mental. To have that particular rumor spread wasn’t as bad as it might seem, for an artist anyway. Just such a thing could make a playwright’s work very popular, and themes inferred but never implied could become a touchstone for the artist’s every play. For all I knew, J. R. was still trying to resurrect my career.

  And as if those things weren’t enough, I missed Jodie too. I was never sure how much of her identity was really me. But nevertheless, she provided a lot of entertaining thoughts, which I could’ve used during the long and lonely days. She wasn’t the most optimistic presence in my life, but at least she was something.

  I sat in solitary confinement in my apartment on this Saturday, as I had for many days. Today would’ve been the wedding. I hadn’t cried once about Edward. I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt I’d made the right decision.

  But I couldn’t resist imagining myself walking down the aisle. In my daydream, there was nobody at the end waiting for me. It didn’t matter. I could still see myself in a white dress, the titanic version of a veil hanging off the back of my perfectly coifed hair, and guests smiling widely as I passed.

  I sat in my quiet living room at three o’clock in the afternoon flipping through a Pottery Barn catalog. Each picture reminded me of how discombobulated my life was. I stared at each engaging page, with the matching comforters; crisp, colored window treatments; expensive-looking furniture; storage space beyond your dreams—all arranged to look as enticing as possible.

  In contrast, my life looked like a garage sale.

  And then there was a knock. I raced to the door, hoping they wouldn’t leave in the half second it took me to get there. I didn’t care who it was; I just
wanted some company. I didn’t even bother looking through the peephole.

  “Hi!” I shouted with glee.

  Cinco laughed. “Hi. You look . . . happy.”

  I pulled it in a notch. “I am. I’m fine. Surprised to see you. But glad to see you. Come in.”

  “Thanks.” He stuck his hands casually in his pockets as he walked in. He surveyed the room, probably for any surprise guests.

  “How about something to drink?” I asked. I was trying to play the perfect hostess, but my efforts were really an attempt to direct my energy away from the urge to jump up and down and shout.

  “Sure. It’s starting to get hot outside.”

  I poured him iced tea that, thankfully, I’d made up the night before. I perched a lemon slice on the rim and carried it into the living room, where he’d sat down on the leather ottoman.

  “Thanks.” He watched me as I sat across from him. “You look really good.”

  I looked away. “Anything’s an improvement from the last time you saw me.”

  “True,” he said. “But you still look really good.”

  “I feel good,” I said. “A lot has happened in my life lately. More than I could even explain. But I feel good.”

  His gaze found my hand. I kept it steady on my knee so he could take all the time he wanted. “So it’s over?”

  I nodded.

  “How do you feel about that?”

  “Like it was the best thing I’ve ever done for myself.”

  His finger traced lines in the sweat of the glass. “I wanted to give you some space. You needed time to work through some things.”

  “Was it that obvious?” I laughed.

  “It meant a lot that you came to me to talk about it.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. Really. And I hated how things ended.” He set his tea down on the end table and leaned forward, propping his elbows on his knees and clasping his hands together. “I came by to apologize.”

  I came by to apologize. Before now, that was my key phrase. I used it all the time, even when the conflict wasn’t my fault. I always said I was sorry, just to diffuse a strenuous situation, or even one that had that potential. Yet here I sat, being apologized to. Nobody else knew it, but this was a monumental occasion.

  Cinco continued, “You were right. I should’ve never brought all that up in front of the class. I’m used to dealing with conflict publicly, but that doesn’t mean it’s always appropriate. I’m really sorry, Leah. I would’ve never intentionally embarrassed you.”

  I prayed the tears in my eyes wouldn’t fall. “Cinco, it’s okay.”

  “No, it’s not okay. But will you forgive me?”

  I nodded. And then I said, “I’m sorry that I lied to you about Edward. Or that I kept lying to you. The night we had dinner I should’ve told you he wasn’t my brother.” I laughed a little. “You already knew it, but I should’ve said it.”

  “You’re forgiven. And just for the record, I don’t normally go around hitting people. This reporter had promised to do a story on my father’s accomplished and respected career in journalism, but it ended up basically being part of a smear campaign. He attacked my father’s integrity, spread as many lies as possible, and then had the gall to tell me to my face that everything he said was the truth. And to top it all off, he used a long-lens camera and took a picture of my mother in her bathrobe. I gave him a chance to apologize to my family, to my father, but he said he’d rather eat dirt. So I smashed his face into the ground. The bathrobe thing was just the last straw.” He threw his hands out. “What can I say? My family’s honor was at stake.” He paused, then said, “So is two weeks enough time?”

  I wasn’t exactly following the subject change. I was trying to absorb what Cinco had told me, meld his actions with what I knew so far about who he was. “Enough time for what?”

  “For you to feel comfortable if I asked you out.”

  I laughed that laugh that always blurted out when I was nervous. It wasn’t even really a laugh as much as it was a cleverly disguised shout. I thought I might not ever be able to shake it. Cinco didn’t seem the least bit deterred. A small smile curled the edges of his lips, and he stared at me like he wouldn’t blink until I answered him.

  I, on the other hand, couldn’t stop blinking. “I would feel . . . feel, well, that would be just fine . . . and completely appropriate, and sure. That’s not problem. A. A problem. It’s not.”

  “Good, Yoda.” He leaned back as he picked up his iced tea again. “So when is a good time for you?”

  “Oh, well, you know. I’d have to check my—”

  “How about now?”

  The laugh again. Oh, how I wish I could drive a stake through it. “Now?”

  “Are you busy?” He raised an eyebrow, indicating he knew perfectly well that I was not.

  However, I was in cotton sweats and an old T-shirt. “I’m not really dressed.”

  “Now, that would be embarrassing if it were true. And by the way, you’re dressed perfectly for what I have planned.”

  “Run!” Cinco shouted. “Hurry up! You’re going to die!”

  Thick, dirty, oily sweat covered my face and dripped down my chin as I stumbled along the small path lined with trees and shrubs and sticks. As we entered a denser part of the woods, the sun nearly vanished from view. But it was still hot. Especially as we hadn’t officially hit summer yet. Cinco pulled me into the shadow of a large tree trunk. He put a finger to his mouth to indicate I should be very quiet.

  I could hardly breathe, and though I tried not to gasp for breath, it was nearly impossible. But equally impossible was ignoring the fact that Cinco kept grabbing my hand, pulling me from hideout to hideout. As our backs pressed against the tree and Cinco listened for any movement, two of his fingers intertwined with two of mine. The fact that we were in grave danger was not making my heart pound nearly as much as this small detail.

  I tried not to let it distract me. Suddenly Cinco ripped his hand from mine and fired his gun through the woods. “Come on!” he shouted, and we ran the opposite direction. And then I saw a man, twenty-five yards away, hiding behind a cluster of bushes. He peeked out and then ducked back again. Cinco apparently didn’t see him.

  I stopped, and Cinco sensed it. He turned and I beckoned him behind a nearby tree. “Stay here,” I whispered.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Trust me.” I smiled. I then worked my way around another small grouping of trees. Cinco hadn’t followed my instructions and was following close behind me.

  Then I saw the man, still squatted down, trying to get a glimpse of where we might’ve gone. I aimed my gun and shot.

  Splat! Right on target! The man groaned as a patch of blue spread itself over the middle of his back.

  “Yes!” Cinco said, slapping me on the shoulder. “Good job! You’re a natural.”

  “You can thank all the hunting trips I was forced to participate in growing up. Imagine a bunch of stuffy politicians walking around trying to shoot quail. It was a ridiculous sight. Trust me. Paintball is much more exciting.”

  He laughed, but then he pulled me behind a tree again. “There’s one more out there, and he’s not going to let up until he gets us.”

  “Are you sure this isn’t personal for this guy? Maybe he recognizes you from your radio show or something?”

  This really made Cinco laugh. “I do get recognized, but typically not in this kind of setting.” He pointed to his protective eyewear. I knew we both looked like complete idiots in our getups, but for once, I didn’t care. I was having way too much fun.

  “Where is he now?” I whispered.

  “I’m not sure, but if I had to guess, I’d say he went up that hill to try to get a better angle on us. It’s two against one, though, so we definitely have the advantage.” Cinco checked his watch. “We’ve got three minutes to find him, or it’s a tie. And I always like to win.”

  Cinco grabbed my hand again, and we wound our way through the woods to
the edge, where we could see the small hill. A made-to-look-dilapidated shack rested on top, and at that second we both saw a small movement.

  “He’s there!” Cinco said, and just then, we heard the guy’s gun fire. Paint splattered right above my shoulder on the tree behind me. “Duck!”

  We squatted down, and Cinco said, “You’ve got to cover me.” I tried not to laugh. He said it as seriously as the star of some intense cop show. I nodded stoically. “Fire on him. I’m going to try to move up the hill to get closer.”

  “Gotcha.”

  He raced toward a group of trees ahead. I fired, hoping I wouldn’t accidentally hit him. The guy in the shack fired back at me, so I fired again, allowing Cinco to move forward even farther. I fired two more shots and then noticed I couldn’t see Cinco anymore. He’d disappeared.

  The guy inched his head out the window, trying to get a location on Cinco, so I fired again, and he fired back. This went on for a few more seconds until I saw Cinco again. This time he was coming from the back of the shack. Somehow he’d made it around to the other side of the hill. I fired, trying to distract the guy so he wouldn’t see Cinco. A paint pellet whizzed by my head and hit the ground behind me. And then I heard gunfire up on the hill, followed by Cinco’s shout. “Game over!”

  I slowly rose and could see the other man coming out of the shack. The two were laughing. They shook hands. Then Cinco trotted down the hill toward me, a self-satisfied grin on his face. “Good job!” I said.

  “Couldn’t have done it without you. You fired at just the right time so I could get into the shack. If you hadn’t, he definitely would’ve seen me.”

  “How’d you get around there so fast?”

  “It wasn’t hard. He said he was expecting me to move up the front by using the trees and rocks. But when he ducked, I ran to the side of the hill, fell on my belly, and scrambled up the back. His attention stayed on you.”

  “What draws you to this?” I asked, gesturing the paintball field.

  “It’s a safe place to take out my aggression, rather than on the radio.”