by Roya Carmen
“Sorry,” Peter says. “I wasn’t thinking.”
Was he not? Or was he? Did he purposely want to make me sick? He knows it’s not a deadly allergy. He knows I’d just end up perched over a toilet. Maybe he was angry because I fucked Blake. Could he really be that vengeful? I study him with a raised brow. I honestly don’t know what to think.
Or was it simply a lack of concern? A self-absorbed man who doesn’t consider others enough to remember something important like this? Either way, I’m not impressed. I’m suddenly brought back to that morning at the Inn when Blake made sure there were no mushrooms in the quiche.
He remembered.
The veal and capers truly is delicious, and so is the pasta and the wine Peter has chosen. There’s something to be said for a man who knows his wines. I’m starting to feel a little tipsy, and starting to forgive and forget. The night is young and life is too short to fight over trivial things.
We chat a bit about his job and our mutual friends. Apparently our friends Sebastian and Anna just got engaged. Seemingly the fiasco that was our almost-wedding didn’t deter them. I’m sure she thinks that Sebastian could never do that to her. That’s exactly what I would have thought about Peter too.
The food is great and the conversation flows smoothly. Of course it does. We know each other so well, we’ve been part of each other’s worlds for years now, ingrained in the smallest, most mundane details. He hates blue toothpaste. I love fuzzy slippers. He hates Jim Carrey, thinks he’s annoying. I love Ryan Gosling. He loves to play soccer with his buddies. I love to read and journal, and have coffee with my friends. There are many, many things that Peter knows about me that Blake doesn’t know.
On the flip side, there are also many things that Blake knows about me that Peter doesn’t. Such as: I used to steal Popsicles from the corner store in the summer. My favorite catch is Walleye – I love the shimmery gold, and love the taste when Momma cooks it. I hate worms. I love the movie Cocktail with Tom Cruise. I peed my pants in 2nd grade. And so much more.
So many stories to tell Peter. So many years ahead of us to share them.
We split a bowl of ice cream and tiramisu for dessert, and he flirts shamelessly with me, just like old times. He tells me I look amazing, slides his foot along the inside of my leg, up high. He tells me he wants me. He tells me he’s missed me.
I’m tipsy and happy. I want to be with him again. We can try to start over. I want to give him a second chance.
34
WE’RE BACK IN OUR APARTMENT, and I’m perched on the edge of our bed. My legs are pried open, and his head is between my thighs. He’s kneeling on the floor, blowing hot kisses on my sweet spot. The skirt of my red dress is hiked up over his head. “God, I missed you,” he mutters against the silk of my panties. “You’re so sexy.”
I still have my Louboutins on and I feel empowered. I throw my head back and stretch out on the bed. After all he’s done to me, the least he could do is make me come. “Take off my panties,” I beg, and he’s quick to oblige. He practically tears them off, and peels off the shoes while he’s at it.
“Do you want me to go down on you, baby,” he asks. He always asks. And every time he does, he ruins it a little bit. Blake doesn’t ask, he just goes for it. Some might say that’s bad, but it’s also so much hotter. “Yeah,” I breathe.
He knows just what I like, where to kiss, where to lick and swirl, how to tease me. He lingers and teases, just how I like it. All I see is Blake. I shake my head, trying to jiggle his face out of my mind. In no time, Peter brings me to climax. I grasp onto his shoulders as I ride the waves of pleasure and I cry out into the silent room. When I come to and finally look at him, he seems pretty happy with himself. He climbs over me. “God, that was hot.” His face is wet and when he kisses me, I taste myself on his lips.
He pulls his mouth from mine. “I want you,” he says. “It’s been so long.”
A few seconds later, he’s pulled down his pants and he’s inside me. It’s like it’s always been, fast and not very exciting. No sparks, no rainbows. My heart beats its usual rhythm, my breathing is unaffected. When he’s done, he kisses my forehead very sweetly, like he always does. I’ve kind of missed that.
He slides down the zipper of my dress and takes it off. I reach for his shirt and peel it off. We undress each other slowly after the act, doing things kind of backwards. He snuggles close to me and wraps his arms around me. “I’ve missed you so much.”
I smile up at him. I can’t repeat his words and return the sentiment. Have I missed him? I don’t know. I don’t think so. I ponder this for a second or two.
It’s true, but it’s not fair at all. I’ve been busy with my family, and having sex with my old high school flame. I haven’t had a chance to miss him, but now that I’m in his arms, I’m happy.
So the sex is lackluster. There’s more to a relationship than great sex. There’s mutual interests, friendship, sharing goals and views of the world. Peter and I have all that.
I get lost in his eyes as he smiles at me, his nose almost touching mine. I’m glad the two of us have found ourselves together again in our cozy bed. He slides a hand seductively over the curve of my hips, and I smile. I’m not quite sure why I’ve slept with him again so quickly – he’s familiar, I suppose.
“You’ve been eating your mom’s cooking again,” he teases. “We’ll have to whip you back up into shape. Starting tomorrow.”
My stomach sinks. We’ve been separated for weeks, and that’s what he notices – the fact that I’ve gained a few pounds. I jerk away and wrap myself up in the sheets. I struggle to keep myself covered up as I get off the bed. I don’t want him to see me naked.
Fuck, you’re beautiful, Freckles.
“What the—” he says.
Every curve is perfect.
“Get out!” I scream. “Get out of my bed, and go back to your brother’s.”
Every single freckle.
“C’mon, I was just teasing,” he says. “So you got a little chubby… I kind of like it. Your tits are bigger.”
I want to taste every inch.
“Get out!”
Now I’m throwing pillows at him, and when that doesn’t work, I fling random things at him, anything I can get my hands on; a box of Kleenex, my tin of body lotion, the hardcover I’ve just started.
I get him right on the forehead.
He slaps a hand over his eye. “You’re fucking crazy,” he scoffs and jumps off the bed. I keep hurling shit at him, and he’s running around naked, trying to locate his clothes. It’s actually kind of funny.
“Fuck, I was right to leave you at the church,” he says. “You’re fucking insane.”
“No, for the first time in my life,” I snap. “I’m finally sane.”
“What else did you throw at him?” Corrie is asking, completely riveted.
I smile, recalling the whole unfortunate scenario. “I hit him in the back with a candle holder as he was trying to escape. It fell to the floor and cracked in two.”
She laughs. “Those are the ones I gave you, right,” she points out. “The big chunky black ones? I’m glad they were put to good use.”
I smile. “Okay, back to business,” I say. “We are a journaling club, not a gossip club,” I remind them as I tend to do often. I’m the unofficial head of the club.
“Does anyone have anything to share?” Gabbie asks. “I’ve been too busy.”
“Oh, we all know what you’ve been busy doing,” Corrie teases.
“I have something…” I chime in.
They all study me curiously, knowing that I’ve gone through a lot lately and probably need to share. I dig out my notebook, the one with the panda on it, and flip it open to my latest entry. I start off slowly…
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference. – Robert Frost
Dear Journal,
Sometimes life throws you off.
It holds your hand kindly as you walk side by side, and one day, for no reason whatsoever, it jerks its hand away and shoves you. Life is cruel that way. It could be the loss of a job you love, the illness or passing of someone who means the world to you, or possibly a broken bone, an injury, or even a life-threatening disease.
I thought my life was perfect. I just didn’t see it clearly, didn’t see the bumps and cracks. I looked at it through rose colored glasses. I chose not to see its imperfections. But it all came to a head and threw me for quite the loop.
First, it was the loss of my job. Then the man, whom I thought was the love of my life, abandoning me at the altar, and now the final closure of that relationship. Seven years I’ve devoted to this man, and it all feels like wasted time. I feel older, I feel like I’m running out of time, and I’m so angry. How dare he take those years from me. Take my youth.
Some might think that I should have held on, tried harder. Some might say I should simply resume my old life, buy the perfect house with the picket fence, have a few kids, bake muffins, cheer at soccer games, a smile plastered on my face, pretending that he didn’t completely break my heart, pretending that he makes me feel beautiful, smart, and loved when he doesn’t. Pretending that we’re happy.
I deserve more than that. Every single woman on earth deserves more than that.
I feel like I’m standing at the precipice of a cliff, just about to fall, struggling to retain my balance. All the while, winds are gusting around me, and my knees are starting to tremble. I don’t know if I can hold it together, if I can make all this work.
I need to look for a new job, and I’m not too certain where that is going. I need to find love again. Correction: I don’t need to. I just want to. I need to figure out what I want from life, in which direction I want to head.
Thankfully, I’ll always have my wonderful family and friends. Life is so much easier when you’re surrounded by people who care about you.
The future is uncertain, it always is. What a boring world it would be if it weren’t. Whatever choices I’ve yet to make, one thing I know for sure – I won’t walk the trodden path, the road that I’m supposed to take, the one I’m expected to follow. There’s only one person in this world who truly is looking out for me: and that’s me. And I’ll make the decisions that are right for me, and not simply what might be right in the eyes of others.
Later, Journal.
M
“Whoa,” Corrie cheers. “I fucking love that.”
“Yes, I loved that too,” Gabbie chimes in. “I loved the last bit… about doing what’s right for you, not what others think you should do. That’s exactly how I felt when I decided to leave John.”
“The start was beautiful,” Kayla says. “So true, how life can throw you for a loop.”
“And the bit about pretending… the house, the fake smiles, the loveless marriage,” Gabbie adds. “I’ve definitely been there.”
“I especially like the part about friends being the best thing in the world,” Corrie says. “You were talking about us, right?”
I laugh. “Of course.”
Yes, I was. My friends… What would I do without them?
35
I’M SO NERVOUS. It’s been a while. I can’t remember the last time I had to suffer through an interview. The last time would have been when I applied for my last job, about five years ago. I hate job interviews. They’re so nerve-wracking. I hate being observed, studied, judged and graded. I suppose that’s why I’ve never liked school very much.
I’m sitting on an upholstered bench, my briefcase at my feet. I tug at the hem of my tweed skirt and study the racks of clothing surrounding me; classy, conservative fashions, for the career minded woman.
I did a little spying a few days ago, came in the store, dressed in black leggings, a white t-shirt and a black baseball cap. I was trying to be inconspicuous. I wanted to check out the store so I could show up at the interview properly dressed. Hence the conservative tweed skirt, pretty blouse, classic black pumps and pearls. My mother has always told me that you have to be a chameleon in life if you are going to achieve success. You need to adapt to your surroundings, bend and alter yourself to fit in if necessary. I’ve kind of always been like that, and so was Peter.
I think of Blake again. He lives in a world of his own. He would never change a thing to suit anyone else. It’s just not how he’s built.
A friendly looking woman approaches me, dressed in a pretty pink two-piece. Her red hair suits it well. “Hello, you must be Maeve,” she says as she offers me her hand. “I’m Serena.”
I shake it enthusiastically. “Yes, nice to meet you, Serena.”
She sits next to me on the wide bench. There is no office here, as is usually the case in clothing stores. There are two other woman working, one is manning the cash, and the other is milling about the floor. It’s a weekday and not busy at all.
We go through the usual motions: she tells me all about the position, we discuss my qualifications and my last job. As the minutes pass, my pulse eases a little and my breathing settles into a normal rhythm. She’s actually a very nice woman and we have a lot in common; we both love fashion, we live in the same neighborhood, and she’s also originally from a small town up north.
I thank her profusely as I leave. I have a good feeling about this. I don’t even care anymore about the Chicago job. They never got back to me which I found a bit rude. Why would I want to live in Chicago anyway? I don’t know a soul there.
I’m officially a single woman now, and I don’t mind it at all. I’ve never really had a chance to be on my own before. Blake and I got together when we were only fifteen. We were together for two years. A few years later, I found Peter. It’s time for me now.
I should start hanging out with Kayla and Corrie more when they go out. They’re both sort of single, but not really. Corrie says she’s separated, yet she still has sex with her husband all the time, and right now she’s nursing him back to health. And Kayla has a friends-with-benefits situation going. She says she doesn’t really like him, but I think she’s full of it. I certainly have no intentions of signing up for dating sites. I’m enjoying being single. Who needs men anyway?
I have all the supplies I need: Netflix, pajamas and fuzzy socks, cozy throw, iced tea, Pizza flavored Pringles (yes, Pizza! No more boring Original flavor for me), and a chocolate bar. Not the healthiest snacks, but now that Peter is out of the picture, I’m making up for lost time.
Um… I ponder my situation for a minute.
Something else I can have now… a cat. Peter always objected, but I’ve always desperately wanted one.
I go fetch my notebook, and add it to my growing list of things to do, things I need to get done, and stuff I’ve wanted to do, but for some reason or another, have never done.
Get job (stat!)
Get the last of Peter’s things packed up (Good riddance, jerk!)
Get finances in order
Car tune-up/winter tires.
Take an art class
Bake a cake. (I can have cake again!)
Go to the library.
Check out Rosetta Stone – French.
Trip with the girls? Talk about it at our next meeting. Paris?
Write children’s book?
Buy vintage record player like the one Gabbie has. And records too.
Get cat
There are also a lot of things I’m NOT doing right now.
For instance, I’ve stopped shaving my legs. It’s cool out and I can just wear pants. No one cares. I want to see how long it takes my legs to get really stubbly.
I’m not tidying up the place either. For the past seven years, I’ve had to put up with Peter’s anal retentive ways. The smallest amount of clutter would drive him over the edge. I’m relishing my mess right now.
Dieting. Fuck it! I can enjoy food again, now that my health-nut of an ex is out of the picture.
Cooking. Hello, microwave meals and pre-washed salad kits!
My hair. Time to embrace my natural curls.
Suddenly, I have a lot more time on my hands. I resolve to read more and watch romantic comedies, and maybe learn French and write a children’s book. Life could be worse.
I settle in bed, ready to watch tonight’s movie. My phone pings. I have two messages on Messenger. Curious as I am, I’m quick to tap on the icon. It’s Corrie.
Hey girl! What’s up?
My breath catches. Just below her message, there’s one from Blake.
Blake Taylor has sent me a message.
Blake Taylor wants to connect with you, the message reads. I didn’t even realize he was on social media. I forget all about Corrie, and click on the message.
Hello Freckles, It’s me. I hope you are doing well back home. Can you believe I’m on Facebook? Me?! Mandy finally convinced me. How crazy is that? I’ve sent you a friend request. Hopefully, we can be friends. :)
I accept the message, and quickly check my Facebook, and sure enough, there’s a friend request from him. I confirm the friendship right away. There are only two pictures on his page. One is a nice photo of him fishing, and the other is a sunset over the lake. He has eleven friends. And there are a few hello messages on his timeline, which he hasn’t responded to.
Can we be friends? I ask myself. Is this a bad idea? I don’t ponder it too long before responding.
I’m great. It’s so nice to see you on Facebook. We can keep in touch now. I’m back home and looking for a job. I had an interview two days ago, and I think it went well but they haven’t called me back yet. How are you?
I put on the movie but I’m only half watching, one eye glued to my phone, impatiently waiting for a message from Blake. Following about forty-five minutes of this pathetic nonsense, I shake my head and talk some sense into myself. I grab my phone, mute it and stick it in my purse by the front door. Enough of these pathetic shenanigans.
I enjoy my movie and junk food. I fall asleep while watching a second movie, and when I wake in the morning, I feel rested and happy. It shames me to admit it but the first thing I do is run to my phone. A woman only has so much self-restraint.