The Good Life

by Beau, Jodie

  “But?” His voice was already getting louder. I was glad Adam wasn’t home because I had a feeling this was going to be a blow out.

  “But he’s giving me half of what it’s worth. Well, minus what we owe.”

  “And?”

  “And he’s paying off most of my credit cards.”

  “And what does that mean?” he asked, even though I knew he knew what it meant.

  I shrugged and looked up at him with tears in my eyes. “I’m sorry, Jake,” I whispered. “Being there, it’s the only thing that feels right to me. I’m not running away. I’m only going back home.”

  “So what you’re saying is you’re moving back to New York?”

  “Yeah,” I whispered and looked back down again. And I waited. I waited for the explosion of accusations, for the psychoanalyzing, for him to tell me how crappy of a person I was to be leaving him AGAIN.

  But it didn’t happen.

  He was quiet for a minute before he walked toward me on the couch. I felt a teardrop dangling from my chin and watched it splat onto the toe of his Adidas shoe. He patted my shoulder.

  “If that’s the only thing that feels right to you,” he said quietly, “then you should go.”

  He left the room. I heard him walk up the stairs to his bedroom. Then I cried some more.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  I was certain that I wanted to move back to the city, but that didn’t mean I was going to pack up, take off and hope for the best. I needed a plan this time – a good solid plan.

  I needed an apartment, of course. I could look on the internet, but I would need someone in New York to help me out, too. A lot of listings on the internet were spam and scams and sometimes the best apartments were the ones with the inconspicuous For Rent signs in the windows.

  I needed a job. Hope assured me that I could have a job at the martini bar, but I was going to look around a little on my own as well.

  Most importantly, I needed to become self-sufficient. I could use Caleb’s money to get by for a little while, but I needed to figure out a way to take care of myself before all of that money ran out. That was the tricky part because I was still unsure how to do that. Did I still want to pursue my MSW? Working with Violet had me doubting my abilities to change the world. I didn’t feel I was in a position to mentor teenagers when I was such a mess myself. I was starting to wonder if social work was the wrong type of work for me. If that was true, what was the right type? Jake had joked about me starting up a catering business or party planning company. That sounded like something I’d enjoy doing a lot more than social work, but that kind of stuff only happened on TV. I’m not Bree Van de Kamp. I can’t flitter about Wisteria Lane with a basket of muffins and all of a sudden be running my own empire. But even Rachael and Martha had to start somewhere. Maybe culinary school? Or public relations?

  Whatever it was, I needed to stop screwing around. Now! No more wine or whining. No more roommate sex. No more TV series on Netflix. No more lounging around by the pool. Mission: Back in the New York Groove had begun!

  Step One: Find a liaison in NYC. I called Hope and told her I was coming back. She agreed to be my apartment scout.

  Step Two: Pack. Most of my things were still in boxes in the basement so all I really needed to pack were clothes, shoes, other accessories and beauty products, which I had in abundance. I set some things aside to take to the women’s shelter, too.

  Feeling inspired, I went down to the basement to see what all I had down there. When the moving truck had arrived earlier in the summer, Jake and I threw everything down there, and I had never bothered to open any of the boxes to see what was in them. If I hadn’t needed any of it in two months, I probably didn’t need it at all. I might be able to donate more to the shelters than just shampoo and lotion. The less crap I had to haul back with me, the better!

  I’ve never believed much in destiny. I always felt my life, and the way it turned out, was up to me. But of all the boxes down there, I do believe I was meant to open one. Lying right near the top of the only box I opened was a clock my mom had given to me when I graduated from UNC. It was engraved, “Your future is an unwritten script. Make it award-worthy. Love, Mom.”

  I kneeled down on the floor with the clock in my hands and let her words marinate for a minute. I thought back to the time in my life when I also believed my future would be award-worthy. During my marriage to Caleb, this clock had sat on my nightstand. Nearly every day I would glance at it and a little wave of disappointment would ripple through my mind. Why had I waited so long to realize my mistake? Why had I let him make the decision to save me? I should have had the courage to save myself! My mom had never said anything to me about it, but looking at the clock, I knew. I knew I hadn’t achieved the greatness, or even the happiness, she had hoped for me. I’d let her down. I’d let everyone down.

  But the clock was still ticking. I had time to make it right.

  I knew what my mom had really been hoping for when she’d had that clock engraved. She didn’t care about financial success. She didn’t care if I married an important man or had an important job. She only wanted me to be happy.

  I took another look into the box, and the next thing I laid my eyes on may have also been placed there by destiny. It was an expensive knife set I’d bought for myself a few years back, when I’d taken some cooking classes. The set of high quality cutlery even came with a carrying case.

  I had signed up for those classes as a way to get out and be social and maybe make some new friends. I had gone once a week for ten weeks. Those classes were some of the most fun I’d ever had without alcohol.

  Even though my decision-making record was pretty bleak, I was confident the one I made then was the right one for me. It was so right for me that I was surprised I hadn’t thought of it sooner.

  Step Three: Research. Feeling very accomplished, I took my tablet out to the pool to look for apartments, jobs and culinary schools. I figured lounging by the pool could be permitted as long as I was doing something productive regarding my mission.

  I did a lot more research throughout the next five days. I took back control of my life and ended up with some impressive stats.

  Number of apartments looked at by Hope: 2

  Number of gigantic decisions made: 1

  Number of fantastic meals prepared: 12 (As if I even needed schooling).

  Number of boxes donated to the homeless: 6

  Number of schools applied to: 1

  Number of times I saw Jake: 0

  How is it possible to share a house with a person and not see him once in five days? Either he was super busy or super skilled at avoiding roommates. I was pretty sure it was the latter, but either way, his absence was driving me nuts!

  When I made the decision to go to culinary school, I’d instantly felt inspired and determined and, for the first time in what seemed like years, I believed in myself. As soon as I clicked the send button on my online application to the Institute of Culinary Education (ICE), I felt like my imaginary audience was applauding. The people in the theater even stopped throwing popcorn at me and nodded in agreement as if to say, “Yeah, that’s totally what she should do.” I was relieved, happy and even proud of myself … but without Jake to share it with, I’d only enjoyed it about half as much as I should have.

  I tried not to be angry with him. I knew he was allowed to be upset with me. I didn’t call him, go out of my way to find him or send him any texts. I let him deal with whatever he had to deal with and hoped when he reared his head around me again, we could skip right over the argument and go back to being friends.

  That was why I didn’t give him any attitude when he finally came around on the sixth day.

  I was in the kitchen cutting up veggies for kabobs when he casually walked in from the living room. He was carrying a bottle of water, and the way he was twisting the cap back and forth in his hands showed me his casualness was just an act – he was nervous.

  “Hey!” I said cheerfully. “I’m g
lad you’re here.”

  “Why’s that? You need some help?”

  “I do,” I admitted. “You wanna skewer the meat?”

  He shrugged and sat down on the bar stool across from me.

  I grabbed two bowls from the fridge; one with steak and one with chicken, both marinating in different sauces. I set them down on the island, and he started threading.

  “You’ve been doing a lot of cooking lately,” he observed.

  “Yeah,” I said cheerfully. “I’ve decided to go to culinary school.”

  “I see.”

  “I wanted to tell you, but you were off somewhere avoiding me.” I smiled to let him know I wasn’t mad.

  “I wasn’t avoiding you,” he insisted. “I just needed some space to get you out of me.”

  “Get me out of you?” I repeated.

  “Like a detox,” he explained. “Or I guess a de-Rox.”

  I laughed and looked up from the peppers on my cutting board. “That’s funny. But you don’t need to de-Rox just because I’m moving. It won’t be like last time. We’ll still be friends, and you can visit whenever you want.”

  “It was more the idea of you I needed to get out of my head,” he said honestly. “Ever since you came back, I’ve been thinking we might get a second chance. I thought once everything was done with your divorce, it would finally be the right time for us. Now I know it’s not happening. So I took a few days off, got rid of the idea and I’m ready to help you pack. What is this steak soaking in? It smells good enough to eat right out of the bowl.”

  My stomach turned at the thought of eating raw meat and possibly e-coli. Or maybe it was him telling me he’d help me pack that made me feel sick. “What do you mean you’re ready to help me pack?” I was officially in defensive mode. “You’re in a hurry to get me out of here? It’s going to be a few weeks. Maybe more.”

  He shrugged again and looked nonchalant. “I’m not in a hurry. I’m just over it. Stay as long as you want. All I’m saying is when you’re ready to go – as your friend – I’ll help you.”

  Maybe he wasn’t trying to start a fight. Maybe I was being too sensitive. But he was pissing me off. I set my knife down on the cutting board with enough force to make my peppers jump a little.

  He sat up straighter and stopped threading. “Something wrong, friend?” he asked.

  “Stop calling me that!” I ordered. “And I’m glad you’re over it because there was never going to be a right time for us anyway!”

  “Dude,” he said calmly. “Chill the fuck out. I’m working with what I have here. Do you want me to be friendly, or would you rather I stay upstairs and cry into my pillow?”

  I scowled and fought the urge to pick up the knife again because an angry woman should never hold a knife. “No, Jake. I want you to be friendly, not sarcastic. And I don’t believe for a second you would cry over me because you’ll move on to the next girl like you always do. There’s always going to be a next girl, and that’s exactly why there’s NEVER going to be AN US!”

  I looked up toward the ceiling and took a deep breath. I hadn’t meant to raise my voice and get all out of control. Now I was embarrassed and wished I could take it back because I revealed way too much in that dramatic outburst.

  Jake looked stunned for a second. He dropped the piece of steak and wooden skewer he’d been holding.

  “What do you mean, baby?” His face looked wounded and his voice sounded just as hurt.

  He called me baby. I could tell he hadn’t meant to. It was a slip, but it sounded like he was my boyfriend or something. I really liked it. If I could close my eyes and pretend for a few moments there was an us – that Jake only wanted me and I would never have to worry about a pretty Shot Girl catching his eye and pulling him away – in those few moments I would be happier than I’d ever been. But it was a fantasy world, not the one we lived in.

  I bit my lip to distract me because I could feel tears starting to form behind my eyes.

  I shook my head and went back to cutting the peppers before I changed my mind and grabbed the onion instead. I could use the onion as an excuse if the floodgates cracked.

  “Nothing,” I said quietly. “I can finish this if you have something to do.”

  “What are you talking about? Why did you say that?” He wasn’t going to let it go.

  I rolled my eyes at his playing-dumb game. Good, get mad again, I told myself. Mad is a better weapon than sad. “I’m not blind, Jake. I watched you move from fling to fling all through high school, all through college, and I know you were the same after I moved. You don’t do relationships. When it comes to anything serious, you’re a dead-end road. Forgive me if I’m not willing to change my entire life to be your flavor of the month so you can toss me aside as soon as someone dumber and blonder comes along.”

  He was quiet for what seemed like a really long time as he stared into the bowl of steak. “Is that really what you think?” he asked quietly. “Or are you using that as an excuse to push me away?”

  “I don’t think it. I know it.”

  “You know for sure what I’m going to do in the future? How is that possible?”

  “What is it they say?” I asked him. “A leopard doesn’t change its spots, right? Look, I don’t blame you for the way you are. I think it’s probably because of your parents that you have a fear of intimacy but –”

  “A fear of intimacy?” he asked loudly. “Are you fucking kidding me right now, Roxie? Did you seriously just accuse me of being the one in this room with a fear of intimacy?” He threw his head back in angry laughter. “Oh, God. That’s rich.”

  He pushed off the island and turned to leave the room.

  I set the knife down again, wiped my hand on my apron and went after him. “I’m over it, too!” I yelled. “We can’t even be in the same room for five minutes before we’re taking off our clothes or arguing. Or both at the same time. That isn’t normal. It’s fucked up!”

  He turned around so fast I bumped into him, and we collided in the hallway. But I didn’t stop yelling.

  “This isn’t an Eminem video!” I continued. “Maybe you like the drama, but I’m done with it! And you better believe I’ll be out of this house as soon as I can! And I WON’T need help packing, but thanks anyway!”

  He put his face so close to mine our noses almost touched. “Good,” he said. He touched the corner of my bottom lip and traced it with his finger. Then he traced the top lip. When he was done, he raised his eyes to meet mine.

  The intensity in his eyes made me hope he would kiss me. What the hell is wrong with me? How can I be turned on right now?

  “Good,” he said again. “Then you can marry another guy you don’t love because you’re afraid of being hurt, and you can live the rest of your life in mediocrity.”

  That was enough to clear away my desire. I pushed him out of my way and ran up the stairs to my bedroom. I hate him.

  A little while later I heard the patio door below my bedroom window open and close. I peeked out and saw Jake in the backyard turning on the gas grill. The SOB was going to cook my kabobs without me! UGH, whatever! I wasn’t hungry anymore anyway.

  I changed into my pajamas, climbed into bed and crawled under my down comforter where I was safe from Jake and his insults.

  I was just starting to drift off to sleep when I heard music from out back. “In Your Eyes” by Peter Gabriel.

  I heard my phone beep. I figured it was Jake, and I wanted to ignore it, but curiosity got the best of me, and I looked at the text.

  JAKE: Look out your window.

  I got out of bed and did as he said, expecting to see him standing out there with a boom box held up over his head like the popular scene from Say Anything.

  I was close. There wasn’t a boom box, but he was holding the speaker from his phone out to me as an olive branch.

  It took everything I had in me to keep a straight face. If I laughed, he would think I’d forgiven him, and that was far from true.

  Wh
en he saw me looking, he put the speaker down and started texting

  My phone beeped again.

  JAKE: Have dinner with me?

  I didn’t want to have anything with him, but I couldn’t let someone else eat the meat I’d been marinating for an entire day.

  I closed the curtains, put on a zip-up hoodie and left my room. I stopped in the bathroom and looked in the mirror. My hair was a mess and my mascara was smeared from crying; I didn’t even have a bra on. I went downstairs anyway. Why? Because fuck him, that’s why!

  He was standing at the grill, placing the kabobs onto a plate, when I stepped outside. The patio table was set up very nicely. There was a candle in the center, a glass of wine for me and a bottle of beer for him. The volume on the speaker was turned down, but still played eighties music. It was all a sweet gesture. But he was still a jerk.

  He looked up from the grill and waved his hand at the plate of kabobs and said, “I cooked.”

  “Thanks,” I said, my voice as flat as could be. There was no emotion left in me. I was tired of the emotions – tired of this whole screwed up relationship. I thought I could move back to New York, and we could still be friends, but I knew now I’d thought wrong. Jake and I couldn’t be friends. Not in any city.

  I walked over to the table and sat down. He had made a simple salad to go with the kabobs. I was impressed.

  He brought the plate over, set it on the patio table, and sat down across from me.

  I tried the chicken first (incredible), then the steak (unbelievable), then the veggies that Jake had finished on his own. They were also good.

  “I’m gonna miss this,” he said as he licked his fingers clean.

  “Yeah, I guess it’s back to frozen pizzas for you two,” I said dryly.

  “Guess so,” he agreed. “But I was talking about hanging out with you, not the food.”

  I didn’t know why he’d want to hang out with a gold-digger who ran away from her problems, tried too hard to impress people, cared too much about what other people thought and had a fear of intimacy that would lead her to a life of mediocrity … but I didn’t say that. I didn’t have any fight left in me. I wanted to eat and get back in bed.