“Okay, we need more caffeine. Come on.” We shuffled into my tiny kitchen, and Bryan plopped into one of the two chairs at my round glass-top table. I rustled around in the fridge for the coffee grounds, threw some in the pot, and plugged it in. The aroma was heartening. I put two chipped mugs on the table, along with the sugar bowl and two spoons. I sat down opposite the wreck that used to be my boyfriend. “How could you have fallen for D in the first place?” I cast my mind back to those sunlit days in Chicago, when Bryan and I were the center of the universe. “How on earth could you have fallen for that b—”?
He slapped his hand so hard on the tabletop that the spoons jumped. So did I. He spat out the words. “Shut up! She is my wife.”
His eyes bulged, and a tiny wad of saliva landed on my hand. I felt as if someone had slapped me. Bryan’s eyes rasped my face, and my lungs tightened as if they were collapsing. I thought we were having a meeting of the minds about the bitch that is my sister, but things were suddenly reversed. I couldn’t respond.
So Bryan kept right on. “You have conveniently constructed a myth around our relationship. Diana fit so perfectly into the plotline you built around it—the beautiful and evil sister who enters your little kingdom and steals away the prince. Of course, you tend to gloss over the fact that you jilted the prince in the first place.”
The coffee pot beeped—coffee was ready—but I had no strength to get up and pour any. My bones had dissolved. I put my hands over my ears, but I could still hear him.
He reached over and pulled one arm away from my ear. I looked into his eyes and dropped my other arm onto the table with a thud. What on earth was going on inside Bryan’s head? His face was grizzled and worn.
“Listen.” He splayed his hands out on the table. “Let’s lay this all out and examine it, okay? You and I: different goals. You wanted . . .” he paused and drummed his fingers on the table. “God knows what you wanted. But it wasn’t marriage and a family with me. So you spouted some feminist garbage and left me. Us.” He made the “cut your throat” sign across his neck. “So, when your sister entered my life, all beauty, enthusiasm, and an obvious desire for me and for a family, things clicked right into place.” His eyes bored into mine, the dark purple smears under them emphasizing their intensity.
Diversion. I needed diversion. I pulled myself up somehow, grabbed the pot, and poured us each some coffee, trying to ignore the fact that my hands were shaking. I set the pot back on its stand and fell back down into my chair, wishing I were anywhere else but here, in my apartment, facing my desolate ex as he spilled all of his guts right out in my direction.
The coffee was scalding, but I slurped some anyway. The burning on my lips and tongue felt appropriate. Bryan kept on pounding away at me.
“Beck, I knew you wanted to write. I felt that you were happy working at the coffee shop and putting in keyboard time whenever you felt inspired. Life was rolling along predictably, and I had no notion of what was going on in your head.”
There was some sort of burning starting behind my eyes. It felt like the backs of my eyeballs were drying up. I rubbed my forehead with the heel of my hand.
Bryan went on. “The only clue I had to how you were feeling at the time was the night we had dinner with the Bagleys, and Mimi was so excited about having a baby. You seemed enthusiastic until she mentioned that she was going to quit her job at the law firm and become a stay-at-home mom. You got right in her face about it and told her that she was crazy to give up what she had spent her whole life preparing for, just to sit at home and ‘change dirty diapers.’ I was embarrassed that you seemed to be unaware of how rude and deflating your remarks were. But I chalked it up to you being a feminist, and I forgot all about it.”
Bryan looked thoughtful. Suddenly, he snapped his fingers. “Of course, if I had been really smart, I would have seen this coming. After all, you were gutted when your parents split up. Naturally, after you lost your beloved dad, you would flee any sort of long-term, binding commitment.”
This was a jolt I didn’t need right then. “Bryan, we don’t need to go into all of this, do we? It’s history.” The ache behind my eyes was spreading. My scalp felt too tight for my skull.
“Yes. We do. Because now that my marriage seems to be exploding in my face, you are the only one who can help me.” Bryan pointed a forefinger at me, like shooting me with a gun, for God’s sake. “You know D better than anybody, and you certainly know me. So for starters, I need you to help me resolve this misunderstanding with my wife, so I can put my family back together.”
I reared back. “Put that gun away, you ass.”
Bryan looked down at his finger, then smiled and made as if putting his ‘gun’ back into his holster. Then he ran a hand through his hair. “Okay. No guns. But Beck, you can’t look forward without looking back first.” He reached out and tapped me gently on my forearm. “You are right. It is all in the past. And now we both have moved on. And despite her larger-than-life personality, I love your sister. There is more to her than meets the eye. Trust me on this, and give her another chance. Help me, here!”
“I hate to defend my sister, but it sounds sort of like you drove her away.”
He rubbed the stubble on his cheeks. “Like I said, the pregnancy hormones made her go nuts.”
I burst out laughing. “Oh, that’s it? Right. So for the entire other portion of D’s life, pre-preggers, it was just the regular hormones making her bitchy? Of course. The selfishness and the egomania. Just the run-of-the-mill hormones.”
He tilted his head back, all of the bristles of his beard glowing white in the milky light coming in through the kitchen window. He looked so mature. “Diana is complicated. She feels as if the whole world sees her as nothing more than an animated Barbie doll. So she pushes back. All the time. She makes people mad at her, because then at least they see her as something other than a ‘goddess.’ She gets back at the world this way. How would you feel if everybody you met wanted to be your friend just because you were beautiful? So they could be seen with you? Wouldn’t it make you want to act out all the time?”
Oh, Bryan, you wonderful, insightful, I shoved you right into my sister’s arms man.
I had to admit to myself that D had a good side.
A Monday night. Basketball game at school. I was rarely put in by Coach Miller, since I suck at all sports, but tonight she had given me a chance. The score was forty to fifty-five. Granted, it looked like a shoe-in for us in the fourth quarter, but STILL. I grabbed a rebound shot after Debbie Pinkley missed, and I lurched forward and tipped it in for a basket. The crowd went WILD. Mom screamed so hard, her voice was hoarse for three days afterwards. I wasn’t the hero—we would have won without my score, but it was a huge moment for me.
In the parking lot afterwards, as we passed family after family on the way to their cars, some dads slapping their daughters on their backs, others grinning and holding up their palms to their girls for high-fives, I was empty. Instead of glee, all I felt was numbness—no guts, no brain—just a void. I shook my head at Mom’s offer to stop on the way home for ice cream—hell, I just wanted to go home and sneak a stiff drink from the liquor cabinet.
At home, Mom tried her best to make me feel that her pride in my achievement was enough. She stroked my cheek. Told me I was “the star.” Then she handed me a fresh bar of Ivory for my shower, hugged me as if she might never see me again, and went downstairs to the TV room to watch Dick Van Dyke reruns. I nearly boiled myself under the hot water. It didn’t help. As I dried off, staring at my miserable face in the steamy mirror, it was Diana who snuck upstairs, a can of Sprite under each arm and a bottle of vodka in her hand, one finger over her lips, whispering, “Ssshhh. Let’s get totally drunk and forget we’re fatherless!”
I thought about all the times my sister had let me have half of her Hershey bar. The time that she knew very well that it was me who dropped and shattered Grandma�
��s cut glass water pitcher, but told Mom that she did it because that was the day that Bob Murphy broke up with me in front of everybody in the cafeteria. I also remembered that Diana absolutely loved kids—and spent every sizzling summer weekend helping grade-schoolers make bracelets out of gimp at the community center shelter in the middle of Framington Park while I stayed home in my room, AC blasting, reading books.
“Bryan, you make sense. But you need to understand two things: ONE, old habits die hard, and so not only do I need to reconsider my sister in light of this conversation, but so does dear Diana need to face the fact that she has alienated me for years and years. There is work to be done on both sides. There is no quick fix. And TWO, it is almost sunup, and we both need a little rest. Come on.”
I walked into the living room and sank into the sofa. “Sit down. We need to rest our eyes for just a tiny bit, before our heads explode.” I leaned my head back onto the cushions as I felt Bryan plop down beside me. It was as if somebody put a black hood over my head, I fell asleep so damn fast.
I was running away from Bryan, who chased me, holding out an empty baby blanket. Even my dreams were second-rate potboilers. He chased me out into the street, where I was almost hit by a garbage truck backing up, beeping, beeping.
We both sat up, bleary eyed. It was my alarm, bleeping away all alone in the bedroom.
“My God.” Bryan rubbed his eyes. “I feel like hell. You look like hell. What time is it? We need to finish our conversation.”
I struggled to stand up. “Bryan. This situation is extremely convoluted. There are many people involved. Well, three people. Maybe four. But one of the most important people in this little drama is your wife and my sister, and I have absolutely no idea right now what to do. Except brush my teeth get dressed, and go to work.” I ran a hand through my hair. That would have to do. I brushed past Bryan and stumbled into the bathroom. One look in the mirror was enough—I was the absolute wrath. I did a fast minty scrape of my teeth with Crest, and went back to grab something out of my closet that I could throw on and get out of there.
Bryan followed me into the bedroom like a lost puppy. “Where should I go?”
I had to get ready for work. Hell, this was a man who had seen me naked. No time for modesty. I threw off my sweats and tee shirt. I stumbled into a pair of jeans, stepped into Birkenstocks, and grabbed a white shirt off a hanger. I threw myself into it, buttoning it up incorrectly (I could fix that later), and shook my head at him. “I suggest you go back to Chicago. Or even better, go over to my mom’s and talk your stupid, complicated, Barbie doll of a wife out of staying here on break. Grab her fat ass and take her back with you!”
I grabbed a silver bracelet out of my jewelry box, shoved it on my wrist, and spritzed some cologne in the vicinity of my armpits, because there was no time to unbutton, go back to the bathroom, and apply deodorant. Plus, I just wanted to GET OUT OF THERE.
As I rushed out the door, car keys in hand, I heard Bryan yell from the bedroom, “She doesn’t have a fat ass, for your information! She just sticks out in front!”
CHAPTER TWELVE
I managed to pull myself together and serve coffee for about an hour. I gave away two cappuccinos that I had made with whole milk instead of skim, but the customers seemed happy with free, so that was okay. Joe gave me the stink-eye, but I could live with that.
I took an early break and pulled my cell out of my bra and called Gail. I needed some moral support. It went to voice mail, shit. So I texted her:
I am in dire straits over here-u better get in touch-we are talking death and destruction
With Gail, it takes mucho hyperbole to get a call back.
A few seconds later, my cell binged. I did what they do in all the TV suspense shows: I just hit the green button and didn’t even say “hello.” I didn’t need to. Gail was already talking.
“What on earth is going on? Did you throw coffee in somebody’s face? Did Robert Downey, Jr. just walk in? This better be good—I am in the middle of a showing, and I left my couple ogling the jetted tub, and I am calling you from the master closet, so make this FAST.”
I bashed my forehead with my fist. “Is the fact that Bryan Dallas is at my apartment right now good enough for you?”
I heard what sounded like Gail’s phone hitting hardwood floor. Scrabbling, then she came back on with a muted screech. “What the hell?”
“You want fast, I will give you fast. In a nutshell. Bryan is in town, he showed up at my apartment last night in the wee hours, he looked like something my cat might have dragged in, and he spilled his guts.”
Pause. A gasp. “What is he doing here? Are he D are separated? Did he come here for you? My God, are you getting back together? WAIT. What about Theo?”
“No, we are not getting back together. Of course not! He is here, looking like a zombie, asking me for help getting his wife back.” I paused, to let that sink in at the other end. “Gail, this is all very complicated. Like a Gordian knot. And I am at work. I told him to get out, but who knows if he left. Can you go over there in a bit and see if he’s still there?”
Gail has flexibility at work and a company car.
“What the fuck am I supposed to say to him if he is still there?”
I shrugged. “Gail, you’re a realtor; you’re glib. You will think of something. Just go over there and check. If he is there, get his sorry butt out! Please! I will have my phone on me” (I know; the bra thing and breast cancer—but this was an emergency) “all day, so text me after you find out what’s going on. He can’t just hang around at my apartment!”
She laughed ruefully. “You owe me zillions of dollars and your undying devotion. And every single property listing for the rest of your life.”
We ended the call, I put the cell back in my underwire, and I bit my nails for the next hour.
I had just handed a latte and a scone to a lady who did not get the memo that leggings should not be worn if you are more than forty pounds overweight, when my cell pinged. I told Joe I had to go to the restroom. Thank heaven Starbucks has single-occupant facilities. I wrenched the phone out of my bra and immediately wanted to throw up.
I just pulled up in front of your apartment. He is still here. Sitting on the front steps chatting it up with the scooter queen
Hell and damnation. This was not what I wanted: My ex-boyfriend hobnobbing with Bob. That would mean I would need to provide a logical, grownup explanation of the mess that was my life just then to a little kid whose own short life so far was also a total disaster. I would have to manufacture some sort of story line that would not end up with Bob thinking I was a sorry excuse for a role model, having an ex spend the night at my house. I groaned.
What I did want was this: my cozy apartment with vintage touches, a cat, a secure job that provided me with enough solid income so that I could write a piece of literature instead of sex books. I wanted a fire in the fireplace in chilly weather, challenging recipes with unusual spices. I wanted lazy nights watching British dramas with someone who would rub my feet. I wanted fresh fruit in a fruit bowl on my kitchen counter and an orchid on the windowsill. I wanted to have a blank past and a sunny future.
Instead, I had this: an ex-boyfriend married to my sister who was holing up at my apartment, the potential scandal of an ex-boyfriend married to my sister holing up at my apartment, a scarred little kid needing emotional support that I am not sure how to provide, a frail old person depending on me for this kind of help, and a best friend who wanted to make this summer “the one that changes both of our lives.”
OMG just get him out of there somehow. I don’t care if you say that D is having a miscarriage
This was starting to read like a bad sitcom. My shift was over in fifteen minutes anyway, so I told the “always dependable in a pinch” Joe to cover me (I am going to have to buy him a present), and I made for my car.
So here I was. A woman
with a pregnant and extremely unhappy sister who was in town to sort out her selfish feelings about her long-suffering husband, who was right now at my apartment. How would this pan out? Of course, Diana would find out that Bryan came to see me first. She would be furious.
On the way home, I considered my options. One: I could just haul off and sock Bryan in the head with my lug wrench. But then I would have to enlist Bob to help me dispose of the body. Not good to involve minors in murder. Two: I could scream and threaten to kill him. But Bob. Three: I could turn the car around and go over to Mom’s and hope that D was home, wallowing in her unhappiness, and drag her over to my house with me to deal with her husband. And maybe he would just be so happy to see her, it would end just like a Lifetime movie, with a passionate kiss and happy ever after. I flipped my left turn signal.
WAIT. Don’t get him out of there! Keep him there-I am getting D right now
I know. Texting and driving are a lethal combination. I didn’t care. Gail texted back:
Will do my best but hurry
I screeched into the parking lot in front of Mom’s, careened into a parking space (or two), and leapt from the car. I ran inside, punching the elevator button at least forty times, because we all know that if you do that, the elevator comes faster. Finally, I loped down the hall to Mom’s stylish teal front door. I rang Mom’s doorbell, just for appearances. Twenty times. Nothing. I juggled my keychain around like a janitor, located Mom’s key, and inserted it in the lock. Just as I was turning it, the door opened. There stood Diana.
Let’s just pause for the full effect. She stood, hand on the edge of the door, glaring at me, her eyes puffy from the perpetual crying that was her new most favored activity. Her hair was a mess, greasy at the roots but puffing up in the rear in the glory of bedheaddom. There was a coffee stain on the front of her Ingrid and Isabel maternity top. I swear she was wearing the same damn pink polka-dot leggings she had on the last time I saw her. Her mascara was in disarray. She had a row of pimples across her forehead. In other words, she was a sight for my sore eyes.
Crossing the Street Page 11