The Ground Rules

by Roya Carmen

  We exchange one of those slightly uncomfortable, pretentious hugs.

  “It’s so wonderful to see you again.”

  “Likewise,” I reply, forcing a smile. I’m not sure if I’m happy to see her yet. I just want someone to tell me what the hell is going on.

  Weston paces across the room. “Take a seat,” he urges us, pointing toward the contemporary, tufted, white leather seats. As I sit down, I’m brought back to that conversation Weston and I had long ago—when he told me he wanted to be with me—it was so erotic. I close my eyes for a second, remembering the delicious sensation I experienced when he touched me for the first time, putting his hand softly on my knee. That day, I made a decision that changed my life.

  Bridget takes a seat across us. “Can we offer you a drink? Weston has quite the coffee selection.”

  “No, thank you,” I say politely, my palms sweaty.

  Let’s just get this over with already.

  “I’m good too,” Gabe says.

  I shoot him a quick sideways glance, curious to see how he’s holding up—I think he’s as edgy as I am.

  Weston takes a seat across from us as well. Both he and Bridget sit upright, stiff, like they’re accountants about to go over our income taxes. Bridget has one leg crossed delicately over the other, her heeled foot bouncing ever so slightly.

  Weston sucks in a breath. “Well…” he starts, his expression heart-attack serious. “We might as well get straight to the point.” His words are heavy, dragging like lead weights. “Bridget and I wanted to meet with you today to discuss our arrangement.”

  My heart sinks at the sound of his words.

  I know what’s coming—and I know it’s not good—body language is an amazing thing—it speaks louder than words.

  I look down at my black heels, not wanting to face them when they tell us they don’t want to see us anymore.

  “Weston and I have had a wonderful time with both of you,” Bridget tells us, her voice sympathetic. I venture a look up at her, and she’s as stunning ever and seems genuinely sorry. “But we think this might be the time to…” she hesitates, looking out the window at the Chicago skyline, “cool things off.”

  My heart fills with heaviness…a heaviness I’ve never felt before. My eyes tear up…I really don’t want them to see me like this, but I can’t help myself. I’m translucent—my heartbreak completely obvious.

  Weston sees me. He sees the heartbreak. This is hard for him too—I can see it.

  He rakes a hand through his hair. “Bridget and I have discussed this thoroughly,” he explains, not quite looking at me. “And we both feel we have all gotten a little too close.”

  I have no words. I’m completely shattered. Oddly, I don’t feel shocked—I just feel numb.

  “This is…exactly when things…could start to get complicated,” Weston says, his words caught between heavy breaths. “And I think we are both very dedicated to our respective marriages and families,” he adds, his gaze catching mine. He seems truly heartbroken. Maybe he doesn’t want to do this—perhaps this is all Bridget’s doing—maybe she’s jealous.

  “Well, you guys are the experts, aren’t you,” Gabe scoffs, his tone drenched in sarcasm. “I guess you’ve had your fill of us.”

  Weston fidgets in his seat, clearly uncomfortable. “Please don’t take offense,” he says, his words measured. “We are simply trying to avoid both our families a lot of heartbreak.”

  “Believe us,” Bridget chimes in, “this is for the best.”

  Oh…shut up, you stupid cow.

  “How…can we not take offense,” I finally manage to speak, my words shaky. “You’re dumping us.”

  Weston sighs. “We are not dumping you, Mirella,” he stresses, his gaze boring into mine. “We are merely making a well-advised decision for all of us.”

  I roll my eyes. This situation is getting to me—I can feel the anger building up. I don’t think I’ve ever been so upset.

  “And although we don’t believe we should remain friends,” Weston goes on, picking up his water glass from the coffee table. His words are business-like, without emotion. “We would be more than willing to help you out financially if you were ever in need.”

  This is it…

  The exact moment.

  The moment I absolutely lose it. It is one thing to dump us like we’re nothing, like what we’ve shared was completely insignificant. But it is quite another to treat us like cheap whores.

  “You little fuckin’ shit,” I scoff, flinging my briefcase at him—the sleek red one with the brass corner reinforcements and brass buckle.

  And damn, if I don’t get him right in the face.

  He winces and throws his hand over his face. I think I may have taken out an eye. I hope I have. He’s drenched too—empty glass on his lap.

  “Mirella,” he hisses.

  Bridget looks absolutely shell-shocked, mouth gaping. Gabe loves it—a wide grin practically splits his face in two.

  I tear my briefcase from Weston’s grasp.

  “Let’s go,” I tell Gabe, and he follows like an eager puppy.

  That’s how we leave off.

  A horrible ending to a really fucked-up story.

  It’s Wednesday evening, and I’m still so angry.

  I can hardly stand it.

  Well, that’s the first stage of grief, I think. No…actually that’s the second. I realize I’ve completely skipped “Denial.” I’m not in denial. I know I’ve been dumped. I suppose I still have Bargaining, Depression, and Acceptance to look forward to. I’m definitely skipping Bargaining—I’m way too proud to beg.

  But, at this moment, it seems the “Anger” stage will never go away.

  Gabe has taken this a lot better than I would have imagined. I think he’s secretly happy—he wants me all to himself again.

  But I do think his ego was slightly bruised. “Fuck ’em,” he scoffed as we neared his truck. “They think they’re too good for us. Fuck ’em.” And that was it. That was all he said. And then, he went to the gym, back to his life, seemingly unaffected.

  This makes me happy in a way. I know he didn’t love her.

  And that’s my problem—unlike Gabe, I couldn’t remain emotionally distant.

  I fell in love.

  The anger propels wild, outlandish behavior in me. I flock to my closet and haul the twenty thousand dollar dress off its hanger. Claire is trailing me with wild eyes—I think she can tell I’ve gone completely mad.

  I bound down the stairs, sprint across the kitchen, drag the dress outside, and throw it in the steel fire pit sitting in the middle of our backyard.

  Claire watches me, her mouth buried in pudgy hands, big brown eyes as large as saucers.

  I want to burn it.

  I am going to burn it.

  “Claire,” I hiss. “Go inside. Go to your room.”

  She stands frozen.

  “Go now,” I yell at her, and she scurries away, little legs bouncing frantically.

  I feel awful. I didn’t mean to yell at her. I never yell at her. This isn’t like me. She’s probably wondering why I’m so upset. Poor little thing has no clue what is going on. I want to go to her and explain.

  But I’m still mad as hell…and I desperately need a release.

  I run to the shed and shuffle through the mess, throwing everything in my wake. Finally, I stumble on lighter fluid and a lighter.

  I grab the dress and pour lighter fluid on the charred bits of wood in the pit—just a small amount—I don’t want to burn the neighborhood down.

  I walk away from the pit, and hold the dress in my arms, stroking the delicate sheer fabric between my fingers—it is so beautiful—it is truly the most beautiful dress I’ve ever seen. Memories of the day he gave it to me flood my mind—our reflection in the mirror, his arms wrapped around my waist, the symphony, the soft stroke of his mouth on my thigh as he took it off.

  I hold the flame of the lighter up to the bodice and my eyes linger on the dress as
it lights up. The flame grows.

  I throw it in quickly.

  At first, the flames are small. And as I watch, the flames grow tall, gaining momentum, and I see the dress slowly disappear under my stare.

  Tears run down my cheeks.

  I finally cry.

  It’s what I’ve been wanting to do all along.

  It’s what I’ve needed to do.

  I tuck Claire in, wrapping her tightly into her purple butterfly-covered comforter. She smiles at me—that sweet smile that always me so happy. I stroke the golden ringlets off her face.

  I kiss her forehead gently. “Snug as a bug.”

  She looks at me, sadness washing over her sweet features. “Did you burn it, Mommy?” she asks. “The dress?”

  “I’m sorry about that, Claire,” I apologize, my heart heavy. “You shouldn’t have seen that. It wasn’t about you sweetie. I wasn’t mad at you. I’m sorry I screamed.”

  “It’s okay. But did you?” she asks, eager. “Burn it?”

  I sigh, not wanting to tell her the truth. “I did,” I finally confess. “I was mad, and I did it, and I shouldn’t have done that. A person should never ever burn anything.”

  “A person should not even play with fire,” she adds knowingly.

  I smile down at her. “You’re right Claire. That’s absolutely right. You’re a smart girl.”

  Smarter than your mother.

  “It was pretty,” she says, her eyes serious. “The dress.”

  “I know.” My heart fills with sadness.

  I shouldn’t have burned it. Unimaginable regret washes over me. It felt good at the time, but now I just feel empty.

  “Why did you do it, Mommy?” Claire clearly wants to understand. I realize this must be so confusing to her, and I struggle to find a way to explain it.

  “It made me feel really sad,” I start. “The dress reminded me of someone who’s gone—someone I miss very much.”

  “Did they die?” she asks, eyes wide.

  “No…” I hesitate, searching for words. “They moved away. And they gave me the dress. And if I looked at the dress, I would think of them.”

  “But you didn’t want to think of them?” she asks, confused.

  “Exactly, sweetie.”

  She looks at me for the longest time, seemingly in deep thought. And unexpectedly, her face lights up. “Maybe, you could get a new pretty dress.”

  I smile down at her. “Yes, that’s a great idea, Claire. Maybe you and Chloe could help me pick it out. We’ll go shopping. I’ll talk to Chloe about it when she gets back from dance class.”

  She smiles and finally closes her eyes, apparently exhausted by the conversation.

  I kiss her again on the forehead, on each cheek, and on the tip of her nose.

  And my heart sinks, remembering Weston had done exactly this the last time we were together—he knew it would be our last time.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  …it was a really, really, really long time.

  I WAVE GOOD-BYE TO MY STUDENTS, thankful my first week back at school is finally over. I’ve been in a particularly sour mood all week, and the kids haven’t seemed quite as charming as they usually are at the start of the year.

  I linger behind as always. On Friday afternoon, every teacher in the place practically sprints to get out for the weekend. But I like to trail behind, avoiding the rush in our cramped parking lot. I figure I’ll probably be the last one out again as I fiddle with my notebooks. The girls trail behind me patiently, as they always do. They are in the habit of hanging around my class while I gather my things and tidy for the next day—on a good day, they actually help out.

  As we make our way out, Chloe ventures, “We should go to McDonalds.”

  She always makes this suggestion on Fridays—she’s nothing if not persistent. Who knows? One day, I might just pipe up and say, “Yes, let’s go to McDonalds,” but it has yet to happen.

  I scrounge in my oversized purse for my keys.

  I don’t see him right away. He’s standing against a brick pillar just at the entrance of the school—but he catches my eye for a split second—a tall, shaded, dark stranger, wearing sleek, silver-rimmed sunglasses.

  And as I approach him, I recognize him. My hearts starts to pound…hard. I have absolutely no control over the damned thing—if it’s anything, it’s damned, this heart of mine.

  “I thought you would never leave,” he says, his voice friendly.

  I’m at a loss for words—I am completely shocked to see him standing there—in the front yard, at my school.

  The girls reach us, and Claire cozies up to me, hugging my skirt, as she always does when confronted with a stranger.

  Weston seems surprised by their presence. “Uh…are…” he stammers. “Are these your girls?”

  “Yes.” Part of me is happy he finally gets to meet them. I’ve dreamed of this moment often…but it was never quite like this.

  “I’m sorry,” he says, his voice soft. “I didn’t realize you were going to be with your girls. If I had—”

  “It’s fine, Weston. They go to school here, and they always ride with me. I’m much faster than the bus.”

  He smiles, extending his hand to Chloe, who’s been studying him like she studies the little creatures she captures in her bug gadget. He pulls his shades up, and I notice his bruised eye—and there’s a pretty nasty scratch just below his brow.

  I got him good.

  Satisfaction washes over me…he deserved it.

  “I’m Weston. I’m a friend of your mother’s…and your father’s too,” he’s quick to add.

  Chloe offers him a soft, “Hello,” staring blankly at his bruised eye.

  “What happened to your eye?” Claire chimes in.

  “Well,” he starts, his expression grave, “I had a rather nasty run-in with a crazy woman.” He shoots me a sideways glance, his words playful. “But I kind of had it coming.”

  “Did she go to jail?” Claire asks, full of questions.

  I smile, kind of wanting to laugh.

  “No, I’m afraid not. The justice system simply isn’t what it used to be.”

  Despite myself, a slow smile creeps up on my face—my heart betrays me.

  Claire extends her chubby hand and says, “I’m Claire. It’s nice to meet you, sir. You’re tall…like my daddy.” I smile a little—Claire has always had a way with people, just like her father.

  Weston smiles at her—that huge genuine smile that makes me melt…still makes me melt. I don’t think I’ve ever seen it directed at anyone other than me before. “Nice to meet you too, Claire,” he offers, kneeling down to her level. “You are a very charming girl.” He seems completely at ease. For all the socially awkward behavior I’ve observed from him in the past, there’s no hint of it here—I’m taken aback.

  Claire smiles brightly—she has taken a liking to him—who could blame her.

  He stands and looks at me again. He looks delicious, despite the rather impressive black eye, and I almost want to apologize—but I don’t.

  “I’m not sorry.”

  His gaze is fixed on mine. He doesn’t say a word. “Well, I am…sorry. I’m sorry we left off the way we did, Mirella.”

  Suddenly, images of the meeting in his office come rushing back to me…and the anger comes back in full force.

  I take a step back. “Why are you here, Weston?” I ask, my words clipped.

  “I…” he starts, “I wanted to apologize for the way things ended…how we left off. Perhaps I didn’t go about it the right way.”

  The girls are listening carefully, confusion on their faces. I can tell they want to understand.

  “Girls,” I say. “Could you go sit on the bench while we talk?”

  Chloe gives me a medal-worthy eye roll. “But, Mom, I wanna go home.”

  “We’ll go in a minute,” I promise. “I’m sure you have some stuff in your bags to keep you entertained for a minute.”

  They reluctantly leave us,
shoulders hunched, feet dragging. They understand this is a “grown-up” conversation.

  “God dammed straight…you didn’t handle it right. How dare you break up with me like that. You should have talked to me. Just you and me.”

  “I’m sorry. When I told Bridget I wanted to end things, she insisted on doing it this way.”

  I jerk away, not wanting him to see my reaction. “Oh…of course…Bridget,” I scoff.

  “It wasn’t just her. I just couldn’t go through with it.” His voice is soft. “I was planning on discussing it with you on our last date…but then, when I saw you…you were so beautiful and sexy.” His expression is full of regret. “I just wanted to be with you one last time. I’m sorry…I was a coward.”

  I look up at him, understanding—remembering the time I met up with him to end things…when we ended up making love for the first time.

  He rubs the back of his neck—he seems completely torn. “I want to say a proper good-bye. What we had was too wonderful to end things this way.”

  He doesn’t realize what he’s doing to me—he’s making it harder. I much preferred when I hated him—when I wanted to never see him again.

  I glare at him. “Well, it obviously wasn’t as wonderful for you as it was for me,” I hiss. “You have no idea how much I cared about you.”

  He reaches out to me. “I do. And I cared about you…still care about you.”

  He’s being nice again. I can’t stand it—I’m still mad as hell.

  “I burned the dress you gave me.”

  He jerks back. He seems taken aback. “You burned it?” he asks, his eyes wide.

  “Yep. I threw it in my fire pit and lit it up,” I scoff, satisfaction filling me. “It was a hell of a bonfire.”

  He laughs a little. “You obviously have no idea how much that dress was worth.”

  His words rub me the wrong way…they scratch me.

  “Oh…I do, but heck, there’s a lot more where that came from right? Or did you forget your oh-so-generous offer to help us out whenever we needed.” My words are filled with anger. “I could have sold it on eBay…but here’s a newsflash, Weston,” I say, closing the distance between us. “We don’t need the money.”