by Tia Siren
Their parting was something I remembered as clearly as I remembered giving him those massages. It had been after the police station, the reporters and the trial. Bill had isolated himself from everyone, including us, but Jesse had begged my parents to let him enter the house and see my brother. With reluctance, they allowed and a screaming match, such as I had never witnessed before, ensued.
I was not in the room when it happened. I was upstairs with my face buried in my pillow, spilling silent tears, so their exact words were, to this day, murky to me. All I knew was that Bill’s voice had thundered with anger and hurt as he accused Jesse of terrible, terrible things. Jesse’s was filled with grief and regret as he begged for forgiveness.
As my eyes continued to assess Jesse in the parking lot, I wondered. Was he responsible for what had happened? Was my brother’s demolished future brought about by this man standing before me?
I looked for clues in his eyes.
Beneath the cocky grin and the rippling muscles, I saw sadness. I saw a pain almost as profound as my brother’s. Pain, perhaps, as deep as my own.
“So, Mary, what do you think?” Jesse interrupted my painful moment of reverie. “Could I come over and see your brother?”
I blinked and thought of the dark dinginess of our home, the gray floors, and my brother’s grayer socks I fought so hard to clean. I imagined my brother’s face, contorted with rage and humiliation, as Jesse Valen, glowing with success, walked into our sad and lonely apartment.
“No, Jesse,” I said. “I don’t think that would be wise. My brother is still pretty angry with you.”
Jesse sighed, sagging as if the thunderous might in his shoulders had suddenly vanished.
“Yeah, I would be, too,” he murmured.
My heart constricted at his tone, and I ached to open my mouth and ask him what had happened. Bill only spoke of it to lament the effect it had had on his scholarship and team. He refused, obstinately, even to mention Jesse and acted as if they had not known each other at all—had not gotten drunk off my father’s liquor, won and lost football games together, had their hearts broken, plotted silly vendettas that were never carried out. That whole past had been scoured away.
All of Bill’s past.
All of Bill’s future.
Sometimes I understood his wallowing despair, his inability to rise up from the sunken cushions of the couch.
Other times it just made me mad.
A reckless daring seized me. I am a woman now, I thought, not just some scared teenager. I pay rent. I support a household. I work two jobs, go to school, and contend with assholes all the time. I can handle talking to Jesse Valen.
Gulp.
“Let me make it up to you,” I said and looked at the pub beside the grocery store. “Why don’t we go to O’Reilly’s and I buy you a drink? For old time’s sake? It’s not too early, right?”
Jesse smiled sheepishly. We both knew he had already had a few, and his apparent need to lean his bodyweight on his beautiful blue convertible was further proof of the fact.
“Sure,” he said at last. “But what about your groceries?”
I shrugged. “I didn’t buy anything frozen, and it’s not a hot day. I think it’ll be okay for a half hour.”
“Hey, that’s all the time I need,” he exclaimed suggestively, making me blush and giggle. It was surprising, but also kind of nice that such an obviously manly man could make self-deprecating jokes like that.
Both scolding and commending myself for my bravery, I waited as Jesse Valen placed my stray groceries into my trunk and then followed him into the pub.
* * *
O’Reilly’s Pub was a lonely and sad place at noon. In the corner, a heavyset man with sad eyes and a newspaper picked at a bowl of soggy French fries, while a woman smoked a cigarette at the other corner of the room. Her frowned upon habit told me this was not the sort of place to be judgmental over ordering a drink this early in the day, and I felt myself relax a little.
Jesse sat and ordered a scotch on the rocks and then turned a questioning look on me.
“I’ll have same please,” I responded as I sat beside him.
After working the late Friday and Saturday shifts at a restaurant for so long, I had learned to drink whatever the bartender snuck my way. Since men like Jesse usually assumed girls didn’t like scotch, or couldn’t drink hard liquor on the rocks at all, I saw this as an opportunity to impress him with my skill.
Sensing my confidence, Jesse held up his glass, took a large sip, and, with barely a grimace, placed it back down on the table. Then, he gave me a challenging look.
Buddy, I thought, you try living with Bill for five years, and then we’ll talk drinking contests.
Matching his look with a cocked brow, I jokingly kept my pinky out as I picked up the glass. I held his gaze, batted my eyelashes, and sipped. Though it burned on the way down, I did not wince or make a face. Instead, I took a little bow and set down the glass with grace.
“Wow,” he said. “That’s impressive. You can drink like the best of ’em, can’t you?”
I blushed and sort of shrugged. Was that something to be proud of, really? Congratulations, you’ve pummeled your liver enough times that it can now take a punch.
Suddenly, Jesse’s demeanor changed. His impressed smile turned into a frown. “These five years have been hard on you, too, haven’t they?”
The answer was obvious, but I thought it would be ungracious to say so. Instead, I settled on taking another drink.
“Let’s talk about something else, okay?” I requested, glancing around for a new subject. I noticed a football game playing on the TV to my right. It was muted, but I could tell it was a Jets rerun. “Congratulations on making the team. That’s incredible. Everyone here was so proud of you.”
“Except Bill, though,” he responded. “Right?”
I felt myself shriveling up in embarrassment. Could anything not involve my brother?
Not with his best friend, it can’t, a little voice said inside my head.
“No,” I said and took another long sip. This time I did not bother concealing my grimace. “Not Bill.”
Jesse sighed. “It seems strange that I haven’t seen you since I joined the team,” he said, playing with the ice in his glass. “Well, not counting the funeral…” He trailed off and looked at me with embarrassment.
“My parents’ funeral?” I asked. “You were there?”
“Yeah,” he said, exhaling. “I hid in the back. I knew Bill would not want to see me—our fight was still so fresh—but I always liked your parents, so I went.”
“Wow.”
I didn’t know what else to say. Not seeing Jesse there had stung and disappointed me more than I could say, but now that I knew, I felt weirdly comforted.
Without thinking, I reached out and placed my hand on his. Warmth burgeoned within me, and I blushed. Yanking my hand away, I circled it around my glass and looked down.
To my surprise, Jesse was not embarrassed or uncomfortable. He took his arm and wrapped it right around me. For a moment, my heart fluttered and my brain filled with silly questions. Was my hair okay? Was my T-shirt sweaty? Did I wear enough deodorant? However, when he didn’t wince or wrinkle his nose or laugh or tease, I relaxed and enjoyed the feel of his arm around me as he hugged me close.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” he whispered, then added, “And for everything else.”
He kissed the side of my head and then broke our embrace.
It took several long seconds for me to form words again.
“So…” I started, quite awkwardly, “you think the Jets are going to do well this year?”
He laughed, sloshing the ice in his now empty drink.
“I sure hope so,” he declared. “There’s a bit of an uproar with some of the teammates this year. You might have heard…”
I blushed again. “Yeah, I saw something online. But I knew you couldn’t be involved.”
The smile that blossomed across
his face at my words made me grateful I was sitting. I’m sure my knees would have folded right under me had I not.
“Thank you, Mary,” he said, and, at the sound of my name, my heart skipped a beat. “Some teammates got involved in something stupid. I was there and tried to stop them, but all anyone sees is that I’m in the pictures too. I hate it.”
I didn’t know what to say. Instead, I bit my lip and thought about how Bill had said almost exactly the same thing nearly five years before. It was then that I noticed my drink was empty, and that I was feeling a little buzzed.
“Damn,” I said. “I need to get home. I have a lot of work to do.”
In reality, all I wanted to do was get out of there. Our time together was going so well, and I didn’t want to fuck it up.
“Oh, alright then,” Jesse replied, looking rather sad. Then, almost immediately, he cheered up again and pulled a pen from his pocket. “How about this?” he said while scribbling on a napkin. “Why don’t you meet me tonight? There’s this party I’m going on. Here’s the address and my phone number. Give me a call when you’re there.”
Before I had a chance to say anything else, he pushed the napkin toward me, paid for our drinks, and stood up to leave. I stared at the scribbled words as if they were glowing with neon lights.
“So, Mary,” he added after a moment, and my stomach did that little swoop thing again. “I’ll catch you later. Okay?”
I raised my empty glass to him. “Yeah,” I managed to say.
He winked, and I sat there watching his sheer athleticism as he made his way outside. Wanting to make sure he didn’t see me stumble or fix my shorts on my butt or something embarrassing like that, I waited a full minute before I finally stood, thanked the bartender, and slipped out of the bar. I felt as if I was walking on ice: half elated and half terrified that I would lose my footing. After all, I, Mary Taft, had just scored a date with Jesse freaking Valen.
Ha ha, freakin’ ha!
God help me.
Chapter 3
The party was not until nine o’clock that night which gave me about seven hours to finish my chores, change out of my ridiculous outfit, shower, and make myself look good enough to go out with a man such as Jesse. Although it sounds like a lot, it definitely wasn’t. In fact, a week wouldn’t have been enough time to get me ready, and for that reason, my anxiety grew with each passing second.
Adding to that was also the problem of telling Bill. If I were just shuffling out of the house in my usual all-black waitressing outfit or the maxi dresses I wore to class, he would probably not even notice I was gone. However, in dating clothes, I would certainly raise all sorts of suspicions. Still, I pictured myself walking into that party, arm in arm, with Jesse and decide he was worth the hassle.
Sighing deeply, I put away the groceries, dug up the vacuum, and noticed the floors were already clean.
I popped my head into the living room where Bill was immersed in yet another video game. “Did you vacuum?” I asked, not daring to believe it.
“Yeah. You asked me to, didn’t you?”
“I did, yeah,” I responded. “Thank you, Bill!”
But instead of looking happy at my gratitude, Bill seemed all the more annoyed. “You don’t need to act like it’s some big deal, Mary,” he said sourly.
I was confused. “I don’t know what you’re—”
“You’re just so surprised, so overcome with relief that I vacuumed as if it’s some amazing, astounding thing.”
I scowled at him. What the hell did he want from me? Suddenly, I felt even happier about my impending date with Jesse and discovered that lying to him was quite easy.
“Well, since it’s no surprising thing,” I snapped, “you’ll find it no big deal to clean up after dinner, too. I’m going out with some friends, so I won’t be able to.”
He paused his game and cocked a sardonic eyebrow at me. “You? Going out? Ha. Have fun with that. Ten bucks say you’ll be passed out at the bar by ten thirty.”
Outrage welled up inside me. I was so sick of him, so sick of whom my brother had become. We used to be close. He taught me how to drive and showed me how to throw and catch a football, even though I was a girl. We used to stay up really late, watching movies and eating popcorn and ice cream in front of the TV. It was like when they cuffed him, all those years ago, they didn’t only bind his wrists, but his whole spirit, too.
“You don’t want me acting like everything is a big deal, Bill?” I cried. “Fine! But why don’t you stop acting like a jerk?”
And with that, I stormed up toward my room.
I did not even bother to cook dinner for him that night. I made a simple plate of vodka penne with a side salad for myself, and openly glared at him while I carried it up the stairs to eat. Still, a small finger of remorse poked at my heart and forced me to leave out a warm portion of noodles and a jar of sauce, which he could quickly throw together.
Did that make me a good person or a weak one? I wasn’t sure.
Anyway, after I scrounged down my food, careful not to leave a single bite unaccounted for—we were too broke to throw anything away—I brushed my teeth and began my transformation into someone presentable.
My first step was to find an outfit that accentuated all my good features.
When I was in high school, I made the stupid mistake of thinking that dressing in skinny jeans and clingy, featureless Abercrombie and Fitch T-shirts like the stick thin, popular girls was the only way to dress. Since then, I’ve learned a few very valuable lessons.
The first was that unlike those girls, my rounded hips, pinched waist, and large boobs gave me an hourglass figure that looked completely wrong in those trendy clothes. However, there was a broad range of clothes that flattered my curves to perfection, and therefore, lesson number two was dress to my body type, and no one else’s. The third and hardest to learn lesson, was that despite how difficult it was to convince myself of the fact, my body was incredibly sexy and desirable.
Although they may seem simple, these are lessons every woman should learn but most don’t. I knew I was one of the lucky ones to have had that insight on my junior year in college.
I kept those rules in mind as I pulled out a ruby-red, low-cut, high-bottomed little dress out of my closet. My mind told me I looked good in it, but my heart and soul dared not believe it. Ignoring the little voice in my head that called me ridiculous, I put the dress on and looked at myself in the mirror.
I couldn’t help but smile at the way the deep V-neck made my bust bloom through while still displaying my delicate collarbones. The little frilled sleeves hid my shot-putter’s biceps, and a tight black band cinched my waist in a way that made my body look like two hearts, one facing up and one facing down. The skirt was loose and flowy in the hips and butt, showing all the goods I had to offer while leaving just enough up to the imagination.
All of this, coupled with a pair of black heels, made me look like Carmen from the opera. It is important to remember, I think, that it was only recently that stick-thin, ruler-shaped women started to dominate the fashion world. In my opinion, the change was made because if more women like me—all tits and butt and hips—started grazing the cover of fashion mags and billboards, it would wreak havoc amongst the average male passerby.
That was, at least, what I kept telling myself.
And, it was what I reminded myself, again and again, as I finished getting ready for my date with Jesse. Although there would always be that little ghost of self-doubt that haunted women like me—the one conjured in high school, where there were about half ways to appear sexy—but I was getting better at ignoring it.
“You look beautiful,” I told myself in the mirror. “You look freaking beautiful.”
A dab of brandy-colored lipstick, a swish or two of mascara, and I was ready.
At least I thought I was until I tripped on the top step and nearly tumbled all the way down the stairs.
“Okay, Mary,” I told myself with a deep inhale, “y
ou’re wearing heels, not your ultra-stick, no-slip waitressing shoes. Focus.”
Breathe in. Breathe out.
Paying attention to my steps and hoping that Bill wouldn’t spot me, I slipped as quietly as I could toward the door. Considering I was a big, sure-footed woman, you can imagine how “quietly” I was able to go in freaking stilettos. Therefore, it should come as no surprise that just as I put my hand on the knob, Bill’s voice echoed from the living room.
“Mary? Hey, can you grab me a beer before you leave, please?”
For a moment, I thought about saying no, or even swearing at him, but he was asking politely, and this was behavior I wanted to encourage. With a sigh, and still mindful not to trip over the slightly uneven floor of our apartment, I fetched him a drink and brought it to him.
I wondered if he’d make fun of my outfit; call me ridiculous or even fat. I wondered if perhaps he’d compliment me, tell me I looked nice or hot or something. But Bill never even looked up. Not once.
“Thanks,” he muttered, cracking open the can. His eyes never left the TV screen, and in a way, I was relieved. Still, part of me was deeply saddened by the whole exchange.
Or should I say lack of exchange?
Anyway, I had looked up the party earlier and found it was only a couple of blocks away. So, in spite of my heels, I decided to walk. Thankfully, the night air was crisp and refreshing, so I did not even work up a sweat in the time it took me to find the location.
At first, I was concerned that I might not be able to. My phone had GPS, of course, but I tried to be stingy about using it. We frequently ran out of our data allowance and our overage charges were murder. However, after several minutes of walking, I found I had absolutely no reason to worry. The three-story apartment building where the party was taking place was lit up like a beacon, with music pumping out so loudly I could make out the words nearly three hundred yards away. The street was lined with cars, many illegally parked, and party guests in various states of drunkenness teetered in and out of the main doorway, which was propped open with a box of cheap beer.