I set my handbag on the console by the door and step out of my heels. I don’t turn on the lights. I stand there for a moment in the dark, watching the night sky, all the lights that sparkle like faraway diamonds.
I think of all the joy at the hospital today. All the love and warmth and happy tears.
Inside my living room, it’s as cold and silent as a tomb.
At times like this, my loneliness is so raw, so sharp and burning, I have to fight to breathe.
This is one of the reasons I chose the career I have. I couldn’t help myself. There was no cure for what ailed me, so I wanted to help others who might be going through something similar. I understand what drives people to stay in relationships long after the love is gone. I know why they accept less than they deserve, and put up with too much shit, and suffer for years rather than get out.
Because loneliness can kill you.
And even if it doesn’t kill you physically—which it certainly can, disease of the psyche often leads to disease of the flesh—it can kill your soul.
Which, in all the ways that count, is actually worse.
Just ask me.
I pad in my bare feet into the kitchen, flip on the overhead light, pull a frozen dinner from the freezer, heat it up in the microwave, and eat it right out of the plastic tray, standing over the sink. Then I go to my bedroom. I wash my face, brush my teeth, get undressed, and get into bed. I watch television for as long as I can keep my eyes open, switching between late-night talk shows and old movies. Finally at 3:00 a.m. when I can no longer fight sleep, I turn off the TV.
Then, staring up at the ceiling with my hands clenched to fists at my sides, I wait for the darkness to take me.
At one o’clock the next afternoon, I’m eating a salad at my desk in my office when the phone rings. I pick it up, say, “Grace Stanton speaking,” and laugh when the response comes, sharp as a tack.
“The Grace Stanton, marriage therapist to the stars, ultimate commitment-phobe and dedicated dickaholic?”
“Dickaholic?” I repeat, grinning. “That’s a new one, Kat. Bonus points for creativity.”
“It was either that or ‘cock-gobbling meretrix.’”
“Meretrix? Have you been reading the dictionary again?”
“Aha!” she crows, pleased. “You don’t know what the word means, do you, Ms. PhD from Stanford University?”
I look at the ceiling and sigh. “A meretrix was a registered prostitute in ancient Rome.”
In my mind I see her on the other end of the line, sticking out her tongue and flipping me the bird. “I’m gonna get you one of these times.”
“In your dreams, princess. And thanks for the compliment, by the way. It’s so wonderful to have friends who ring you at work just to call you a whore.”
“You’re not a whore,” comes the immediate response. “You just like dick more than any person I’ve ever met.”
I smile. “So technically I’m a slut.”
She protests, “If you were a man we wouldn’t even be having this conversation!”
“Hey, you started it.”
“That’s not why I’m calling anyway,” she says, changing the subject. “I just wanted to let you know that Chloe was released from the hospital late last night.”
I stuff a bite of salad into my mouth and say between chews, “I know. I called this morning and they said she’d checked out.”
“So d’you want to go visit her after work tonight?”
“Tonight? You don’t think we should give her a few days to settle in, spend time alone with A.J. and the baby?”
Kat snorts. “Whose idea do you think it was that we come over? A.J. has already texted me like ten times trying to find out how soon we can be there. He’s dying to show that baby off to whoever he can. I think he’s dragging people in off the street!”
“I didn’t get any texts from him,” I say, surprised.
There’s a short pause. Then Kat says, “You might be the only person on earth he’s afraid of.”
“Oh please! That man isn’t afraid of anything!”
Kat’s response is wry. “I hate to break it to you, Ice Queen, but you have no idea how intimidating you can be. I know a few mobsters who’d shit their pants if they had to go up against you.”
Ice Queen? I’m not sure whether to be insulted or pleased, so I settle on neutral. Even if it does sting a little. “Well, good. It’s better to be feared than loved.”
This time the pause is longer. Softly, Kat asks, “Is it?”
Oh shiznits. Here comes the lecture.
“I can’t tonight anyway. I’ve got plans with Marcus. How about tomorrow?”
“You have plans with Marcus? That’s like twice this week, right? And you said you had another date with him this coming Saturday?”
I hear the hope in her voice, close my eyes, and pinch the bridge of my nose. It’s hard having two best friends who so completely, utterly, and unreservedly believe in true love.
Not everyone gets the happily-ever-after.
“Kat. Please don’t do that.”
“Do what?” she asks, sounding hurt.
“You know what.”
“Wanting you to be happy? Why is that so bad?”
“I am happy. We don’t all need the white picket fence!”
It comes out harsher than I expected. I hear it in the silence that follows, in her offended little huff, so I backtrack. “I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with the white picket fence. It’s just not for me, that’s all. You know that. It’s how I’m built.”
“It’s how you choose to be built,” she shoots back.
“I’m not fighting with you about this,” I say firmly. “And I’m not defending my personal choices about my love life, either. Do you want to go together to Chloe’s tomorrow night or not?”
After a tense pause in which I count every tick of the clock on the wall, Kat sighs. “You drive me to drink, girlfriend.”
“Don’t blame your chronic alcohol problem on me, dear.”
“Gah. You’re such a bitch.”
She says it with love, though, so I know I’m forgiven. “Do you want me to drive? I can pick you up around six?”
“Fine. See you at six.”
We say good-bye and hang up, but I have a bad feeling this conversation isn’t over.
The next night promptly at 6:00 p.m., I push the button on the call box at the bottom of the long, gated drive that leads to Nico and Kat’s place in the Hollywood Hills. When the buzzer sounds, I pull through the gate. When I get to the top of the drive I start to laugh, as I always do when I see their house.
“The Shack,” they jokingly call it. It’s an enormous compound of glass and stone, perched on the side of the hill with a spectacular view of the entire Los Angeles basin, from downtown to the sparkling Pacific to Malibu, far north. It’s about as shack-like as the Taj Mahal.
I park next to the fountain in the middle of the circular driveway and head to the front door, a massive slab of redwood twice as tall as I am. It opens before I’m even halfway across the cobblestone drive.
Barney stands there waiting. He’s looking at me over the rims of a pair of mirrored sunglasses, with his brows lifted and an expression like he hasn’t eaten in weeks.
“Hey there, big boy,” I say playfully when I reach the front step. “How’s it hangin’?”
He smiles, exposing a set of gleaming white teeth. “To my knees, Angelface.”
“Oh my. And I thought that was just a big gun in your pocket.”
“Oh, it is big. And fully loaded.”
We grin at each other.
“Your girlfriend’s in the kitchen.”
“Thanks.” Then, just to see if he’ll play, I add, “I’d ask you why you’re wearing sunglasses indoors but then you’d probably tell me something dumb like your future is so bright you have to wear shades and I’d lose all respect for you.”
His smile is blinding. He slides his sunglasses farther down his nose,
looks me up and down, and drawls, “I know that’s a line from a song. And honestly, sweetheart, it’s not your respect I’m interested in.”
“No?” I blink coyly, thoroughly enjoying myself. There’s nothing like a little harmless flirting with someone who can give as good as he gets. “Then what are you interested in?”
I half expect him to say something creepy, but he surprises me when he deadpans, “I just want to say one word to you. Just one word. Are you listening?”
“I’m listening.”
“Plastics.”
It’s a famous line from a movie. He’s testing me to see if I’ll get it. Which, because I’m a huge film buff, I do.
“Exactly how do you mean, Mr. McGuire?” I answer, playing the part of Dustin Hoffman’s character, Benjamin.
Barney’s face lights up. “You know The Graduate?”
“What, you thought I was just another pretty face?”
“I thought you were a pretty everything,” he answers instantly. “But getting my stupid movie references makes me think you might actually have a brain, too.”
I pretend to be insulted. “I’m a licensed therapist, Barney. I’ll have you know I have an advanced degree!”
He’s clearly not impressed. “Some of the stupidest people I’ve met have advanced degrees. Also, therapists are generally as much of a whack job as their patients are.”
“Usually more,” I agree, taking no offense because he’s right.
“I’m glad we had this conversation,” he says with a straight face, nodding. “Now I can masturbate to the thought of your enormous brain and not just your beautiful body. I’ll feel much better about myself afterward. You know, women’s rights and whatnot. I know you ladies like to be taken seriously.”
“You’re fun,” I declare, charmed by this Armani-wearing, smart-mouthed thug. “Why didn’t I know this about you?”
“Probably on account of the huge cloud of testosterone that surrounds me. Makes it hard to see me through all this”—he swivels his hips and waggles his eyebrows up and down—“machismo.”
I throw back my head and laugh. “Yes. That’s definitely it. Now let me in before I throw myself at you and ruin a beautiful friendship.”
“Goddamn. Don’t tease me like that, woman,” he says, his voice gravelly and his dark eyes alight.
“You can take it.”
I place my hand on his broad chest and gently shove. He steps back, grinning, his gaze raking over me, and lets me inside. As I walk by him, I say over my shoulder, “I know you’re staring at my ass, Mr. Machismo, because I can feel it burning.”
His husky laugh follows me all the way into the kitchen.
I find Kat perched on a stool at the huge marble island in the middle of the gourmet kitchen, staring at an open cookbook on the counter as if it just arrived from outer space.
I say, “Hey.”
Without looking up she asks, “Lobsters can feel pain, right?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never asked one.”
She glances up at me, distress in her eyes. “Seriously. This recipe”—she points at the book—“calls for a live lobster to be thrown into boiling water. That’s, like, torture!”
“Your warped sense of morality is torture. Where do you think those juicy steaks you like so much come from? Murdered cows.”
Kat puts her hands over her ears. “Stop it. I’ll have nightmares.”
I fake a dying cow staggering around the kitchen. “Moooooo!” I moan loudly.
“Cut it out!”
I stop when I realize she’s freaking out. I cross to where she’s sitting and give her a hug. “Oh, honey,” I say, patting her silky dark hair. “It must be tough going through life with half a brain and a too-big heart.”
“I don’t even know why we’re friends.” She sighs, pushing me away.
I gently smooth her hair off her forehead. “Because Chloe only blows rainbows and sunshine up your ass and you need someone to bring you back down to reality once in a while.”
“You’re hopeless.”
“Thank you.”
“Can we go now?”
I smile. “Yes. Where’s Nico?”
She hops off the stool. “In the studio working on some new tracks. He probably won’t be done until late, so we have hours and hours to smother little Abby in auntie love.”
“A-smothering we shall go!” I link my arm through hers and we head back out to the car.
The drive from Kat and Nico’s in Hollywood to Chloe and A.J.’s in Laurel Canyon takes about thirty minutes in traffic. By the time we get there, it’s dark and my stomach is grumbling. I skipped breakfast and only had a salad for lunch.
“We should’ve brought food,” I say, pulling into the driveway. The house is much more modest than Kat’s, but still sprawling in comparison to the average home.
Kat says, “No need. A.J. said Chloe’s mother has brought so much food over there’s not enough space for it.”
I shut the car off and turn to look at Kat. “Chloe’s mother doesn’t cook.”
She waves a hand at me. “When I say Chloe’s mother you know I mean their housekeeper. Same thing.”
“Chloe’s mother isn’t anywhere near the same thing as their housekeeper.”
“You’re right,” Kat says, getting out of the car. “Their housekeeper has a soul.”
Chuckling, I follow her to the front door. “You’re in fine form tonight. Everything okay?”
“Yep,” she answers, a little too quickly. Avoiding my eyes, she knocks on the front door.
Chloe opens it before I can force Kat to tell me the truth.
“Girls!” Chloe throws her arms around both of us. When she pulls away she’s beaming. Even in a ratty T-shirt and sweats, with no makeup and her blonde hair pulled into a sloppy ponytail, she looks stunning. “How are you?”
“I’m fine.” I look pointedly at Kat. “But this one is only pretending she is.”
Kat snaps, “Hello pot, meet kettle!” and barges past Chloe into the house.
Chloe and I look at each other. “Uh-oh,” says Chloe.
I lower my voice. “Do you think she and Nico had a fight?”
“She hasn’t said anything to me. You?”
“Not a word. We’ll get it out of her, though.” In a normal tone, I say, “Now where’s that gorgeous baby of yours?”
Chloe giggles. “With her daddy, of course. Where she always is. C’mon in.”
I step inside the house. Warmth and a profusion of scents hit me, baked bread and baby powder and fresh flowers, a pleasant mélange of homey goodness. Chloe shuts the door, and then leads me through the entryway into the living room, where we find Kat standing silently in front of the rocking chair A.J. is sitting in.
More correctly, the rocking chair A.J. is stuffed into. His huge frame overflows from all sides, threatening to crush the thing. His eyes are closed. His head lolls to one side. His mouth is slightly open, and he’s softly snoring.
His sleeping daughter is cradled in his big, tattooed arms.
Kat turns to us. Her eyes are bright with tears. She makes a motion with her open hands—Look at this, would you!—and turns and heads for the kitchen.
Chloe and I share a smile.
We tiptoe past A.J. and the baby, careful not to wake them. Thankfully the kitchen is on the other side of the house, separated from the living room by the dining room and the den, so we can talk without disturbing the two sleeping beauties.
When we walk into the kitchen, Kat already has her head stuck inside the fridge. “Do you have any white wine?”
“No, I have something better.” Chloe reaches past Kat and pulls out a frosty pitcher full of pale yellow liquid. “I made margaritas!”
“Oh, thank God,” moans Kat. “You’re an angel. Gimme, gimme!”
“Go sit, both of you.” Chloe motions with her chin to the kitchen table. “I’ll get us set up.”
“Honey, you should be resting, not waiting on us!” I protest, tryi
ng to take the pitcher from Chloe’s hands.
She lightly smacks my hands away, laughing. “I had a baby, Grandma, not a heart transplant! I feel fine!”
“I’m pretty sure you’re abnormal, though.” I watch her with narrowed eyes to make sure she’s not overextending herself as she gets glasses from the cupboard and pours two drinks. She sets the pitcher on the table, empties a bag of tortilla chips into a big bowl, and puts that out along with some freshly made guacamole.
“Ta da!” she says, grinning like a maniac. “It’s just like we’re at Lula’s!”
“Except there’s no hideous mariachi music and you’re not drinking,” notes Kat. Not wasting any time, she slurps her margarita.
“Yeah, I’ve gotta figure out the whole breastfeeding versus alcohol consumption thing. I can’t have a drink if Abby needs to eat within a few hours, and considering she always needs to eat within a few hours, I’m pretty much out of luck.” Chloe smiles. “Not that I mind. I’d make that trade-off any day.”
I take a seat at the round wooden kitchen table and reach for my drink. “How are you not even tired? You look like you just got back from vacation!”
Chloe’s smile grows soft. Her blue eyes glow with warmth. “Turns out the drummer from Bad Habit is a natural-born baby whisperer. Believe it or not, I’m sleeping almost all the way through the night because every time Abby makes the slightest peep, he picks her up and she goes quiet. Even when I’m breastfeeding she always looks right at him, and has to be holding his finger. He’s doing everything from changing diapers to giving her a bath. He’s been amazing.”
I’m a little surprised by this information. “He can do all that?”
Chloe nods. “The mobility and independence training he’s been getting since the operation has been incredible. He’s taken to it like a duck to water. I honestly think there isn’t anything he couldn’t also do when he was sighted.” She smiles. “Except drive. Though as far as he’s concerned, the jury’s still out on that.”
“Oh, sweetie,” I say softly, reaching out to squeeze her hand. “I’m so happy for you.”
Sin With Me (Bad Habit) Page 5