by Rana Raynes
“You missed Ann and Eric's wedding,” he says during two bites of fettuccine, and that's where the conversation finally begins to turn towards the unpleasant. “You really should have come. It was a great party.”
I do wonder if he isn't aware I was never invited or if this is just his way of underlining how utterly excluded I am from the social circles I used to belong to. It's both equally likely which is sad to say the least. He used to make quite a big deal out of the fact that our relationship gave me access to certain circles which in turn allowed me to get into high profile venues. Friends weren't necessarily people I had much in common with or with whom I aspired to be friends in the first place but more key players in society. It was all about networking.
I lean back in my chair, put the fork aside for a moment and reach for my wine glass. The atmosphere here is the same as during dozens of lunches at dozens of Italian restaurants before. The tablecloths are pristine white, the furniture is made from dark polished wood and in the background piano music is playing just loud enough to drown out the voices of people at the tables next to ours.
Across the table Mike is demonstrating his best table manners. There were times when I found this strangely stiff behaviour endearing. It's a telltale sign of a social climber who's constantly worried to slip up and betray his humble origins.
I watch him, how carefully he handles the cutlery with his big hands. He's so focussed on making it look posh, as if he was attending a formal dinner with a bunch of European royals. It is kind of cute and it also reminds me why I used to think he was quite the catch. He certainly is attractive, tall, broad, sporty with dreamy brown eyes and a nice deep voice. He has a lot of good qualities. But he's too obsessed with fitting in. Everyone I met who comes from the sort of background Mike is aspiring to reach one day is about a hundred times more relaxed than he is. I guess I always hoped he'd eventually achieve a level of chill. Instead the tendency got worse the further he climbed up the social ladder.
When I concentrate I can still see the man I fell in love with, the person I thought he might become. It's easy to fall back into this fantasy, imagine what a gorgeous couple we would have made at the wedding. I can see the pastel-coloured dress I would have worn, the pearls and gloves and radiant smile, Mike next to me tall and handsome, the perfect gentleman. It's a tempting fantasy.
“I imagine it must have been awesome,” I say to interrupt my nostalgic relapse. “Ann used to talk a lot about the wedding she wanted to have. She was very specific about the details already, about flower arrangements and bridesmaids' dresses. She had it all meticulously planned years ago, so it must have been amazing, like taken straight from the pages of a magazine.”
“You would have loved it,” Mike says with a smile.
What he probably means to say is that he loved it. So according to his logic, I would have been absolutely crazy about it too. That's how relationships are supposed to work, in his opinion. He thinks he can read my thoughts because I am, magically, a female version of himself.
But while I can see the appeal of a fairy tale wedding, it's just not as important to me as he likes to think. With women like Ann you always wonder if she isn't more attracted to the lavish life style she'll be able to afford with her husband's trust-fund money than to Eric himself. All she ever talked about were dresses and holidays and luxuries, settings in which Eric only featured as a sort of extra.
I don't understand how you can value vacations on a yacht more than a loving relationship but perhaps that's just me and my silly romantic notions about love. It's a common prejudice women are like that. Treasure hunters and gold diggers. Mike also seemed to have bought into the fairy tale. He never understood that money wasn't much of an enticement for me; he was always afraid I'd fall for one of his rich buddies and leave him.
All the arguments we had about this.
How ironic that in the end I left him because he couldn't keep it in his pants, because he was looking for something I couldn't give him, not the other way around. And the betrayal still stings.
I can't help myself, I have to put my finger into the wound. “And, did you take what's-her-name as your plus one?”
Mike's eyes widen a little in surprise. Apparently he expected me to avoid the topic. “Emily? God no. Of course not.”
“Why not?” I give him my sweetest, most understanding smile. “There's no reason we shouldn't be able to behave like adults about this. Relationships fail. That doesn't mean you have to be mad at each other forever, right? Life goes on.”
“Listen, Katharine,” Mike begins, reaching over the table to take my hand but I pretend not to notice and move it towards my wine glass at the very same moment. I pick up the glass, casually, as if I was oblivious to what will inevitably come now: apologies, excuses, explanations, declarations of love. It's not as if we haven't been through this. Every major argument was like this. Our actual break-up would have been like this if I hadn't just decided that an affair was the last straw.
I know Mike. That's why I'm 99 percent sure about what's at the bottom of his regret. Probably the thing he had with his colleague didn't work out, and now he's feeling sad and lonely and wonders who's going to cook his meals and iron his shirts and who will play hostess for his little parties and be the accessory on his arm at receptions and other festivities.
It took him several months to figure this out but now he finally did.
It also took me several months to see this with sober, almost cruel clarity and now I do. Nothing gives you a better perspective on the big picture than distance.
“I didn't intend to hurt you,” Mike says. “It was a mistake and I'm sorry. But you have to believe me when I say she didn't mean anything to me, not like you...” His voice trails off as if he, the ever eloquent lawyer, was suddenly lost for words.
It's an act, a little show he's putting up to convince me how terribly he misses me but I am unmoved. I do not even feel satisfaction that I was right and he did come all the way back here to reconcile.
Why now? Why not two months ago? Maybe he could have swayed me then, when I was still hurting and desperate. Did he he think I was too angry? Had he attempted to convince his lover to give the thing between them a shot first?
It's a déjà-vu, like going through our break-up all over again, and at the same time through every major argument we ever had. I let go of the wine glass while Mike continues his little speech but I'm not really paying attention. I can't travel back in time and pick up where we left off. It's over, it's been over for months now. It has all been said before:
“Tell me what I have to do for you to forgive me,” and: “Please, don't throw away all those years.”
I don't care anymore. I'm so tired of it all. It doesn't help that I'm still thinking about Jay. About how I feel when he touches me. But also about the shooting and the incident last night. About the fact that I might have been wrong about him too. Everything blurs together into a general sense of disappointment.
What I really want to talk about is the future. Reparations to be exact. We had a life plan, Mike and I. He achieved his goals but mine are still without reach, unless I can make him fulfil his side of the bargain. But first he has to snap out of this idée fixe of reconciliation. Only it doesn't look like he's ready that. He's still too absorbed in his monologue to register my absent-mindedness.
Perhaps it's time to cut this experiment short. Under the current circumstances we can't have the discussion I want, least of all in the middle of a restaurant.
No dessert then, I think. I'm almost more disappointed about missing out on the tiramisu than about Mike's behaviour. I rearrange my cutlery to signal I finished eating and lean back in my chair.
Mike has finally stopped talking and looks at me, expectantly.
“We should go,” I say.
There's a glimmer of hope in his eyes and I feel a spark of sadistic pleasure at the sight so I don't bother to correct him about his misconception. Maybe I'm petty but I can't pass up the chan
ge to dole out a little bit of punishment. It's only fair after all the heartache he caused me. Why not let him believe for a couple of minutes that I'm incapable of resisting his charms?
He has his hand in the small of my back when we walk outside. I know what's coming. He won't attempt to kiss me until we reached the car but then he will try. He's got these rules of how to behave in public, how it is inappropriate to show too much affection, so it won't be difficult to dodge his attempts.
It turns out I miscalculated a little. Perhaps the months of separation have worn down his self control. We're in the middle of the parking lot when he suddenly grabs my arm and pulls me close.
“Katharine,” he says, his voice breathy. “I missed you so much!”
I've already put my hands on his chest to stop him, when I hear the motorcycle approaching, a low thundering hum. Automatically I take a step backwards.
I can sense it's Jay before I've seen him.
“One moment,” I say to Mike who appears to be oblivious to what's going on. He blinks but there's no time for explanations. Mike and Jay meeting each other is pretty much the last thing I want.
“Wait here, okay?” I say before I turn around and walk towards Jay. He has climbed off his motorcycle and is striding into my direction. We're meeting half-way between Mike and the bike.
“What are you doing here?” I whisper, trying to drag him backwards by the sleeve but he's reluctant to let me manoeuvre him out of Mike's earshot.
“Your aunt told me you're here,” he says, staring over at Mike. “Don't you want to introduce me to your friend?”
He gives off an almost primal vibe of jealousy, not to prominent but enough for me to notice. It's obvious he won't let his rival out of his sight if he can't help it. I'm still tugging at his sleeve, but he won't budge. Instead he asks: “So who's the state secret here, me or that friend of yours?”
I can't conceal my exasperation when I answer: “That's Mike. My ex.”
“Ah, of course.” He doesn't sound too happy about this. He eyes Mike as if he is a threat, not just possible competition, and there's something so feral and unsettling about this, I really don't want him to get the wrong idea. Just in case he's tempted to pull off the same bullshit as yesterday.
“It's not what it looks like, I'm not making up with him again.”
Mike makes a low noise that sounds like a growl.
“You still haven't answered my question,” I remind him. “Why are you here?” That does the trick; he finally stops staring daggers at Mike and returns his attention to me. He looks at me and reaches out to cup my cheek but withdraws his hand when he sees my expression.
“I just wanted to check on you, babe. I missed your call and when I tried to call you back you didn't answer so I went by your house and your aunt told me where you are.”
I hug myself as if that helped keeping an emotional distance.
“Yeah, I left my phone at home. What's so urgent?”
He appears to be more and more at a loss about what to make of my reactions and I have to brace myself to keep my cool and resist the puppy eyes look he gives me.
“I thought you might want to know what happened? It was all over the news today.”
“Ah, you mean the shooting?”
I made it sound a little too casual perhaps because he looks even more confused.
“Yeah I mean...”
I don't let him finish.
“I called Amber to find out if you were all right.” The accusation is unmistakable in my tone.
He nods, apparently he's catching on at last. “I'm sorry, I–”
I interrupt him again. “I was worried. I was fucking worried.”
“I can explain.” His bad conscience is written all over his face but I can't have that now. I'm so fed up with half-hearted excuses. I turn around to look at Mike who's watching us Argus-eyed.
“Now isn't a good time,” I say.
“Later then?” He is obviously unwilling to part like this, and I know I'm being cruel and perhaps unreasonable but I'm also hurt, and I want him to feel it.
“Okay, I'll call you,” I concede. He seems to be waiting for at least a kiss on the cheek but I can't bring myself to play nice just so I turn around to walk back towards Mike.
This time it's Jay who catches my arm to hold me back. “What's wrong? Is this about yesterday? About what happened at the Ace?” There's a look in his eye that makes me queasy.
“Not now, Jay,” I repeat, twisting out of his grasp. Reluctantly he lets go.
“It is, isn't it?” he asks.
“Jay, please–”
“Do you mind, buddy?!” Mike has walked up to us and is standing next to me, looming over me, and I can see he's about to pull off his important lawyer act. It makes me cringe. This exactly the situation I wanted to avoid.
Jay doesn't even glance at him. “It only takes a second.”
But Mike, understandably, won't be shut up that easily. “I don't think she wants to talk to you.”
I imagine what our interaction must look like from an outsider's perspective and I can't blame him for getting protective.
Unfortunately Jay doesn't see it like that. “And I think this is none of your business.”
His voice has dropped to a growl. His body is tense and suddenly I'm tense too. I think of yesterday night as I move myself between him and Mike.
“Jay, let's talk about this later,” I repeat but unfortunately Mike is now too emotionally involved to let it slide.
“I don't know who you think you are but you better fuck off and go back to whatever ditch you crawled out of.”
“Mike!” I'm as surprised by his tone as I am by his choice of words. This isn't the proper gentleman he usually plays and it's definitely not the right time to lose his self-control. His behaviour seems to tick off Jay just as I feared it would. He is like a big cat ready to leap. I can't have them fight. I take another step towards Jay to try and pull him aside.
“Please don't hurt him,” I whisper and at once all the tension goes out of him, as if I pulled a magic plug.
“Is that what you think of me?” He looks hurt, or sad, or disappointed, I can't really tell and I want to hug him but I can't. I simply can't.
“I don't know what to think,” I say, and I realize I'm almost crying. I have to turn around to keep it together. I can't look at Jay and not lose it. It's all too much. All I want is be alone right now.
“So who was that?” Mike asks me when we're walking away from Jay towards Mike's rental. Behind me the motorcycle roars to life. I want to look back, I want to run to him, bury my face in Jay's chest, breath in his scent, feel his strong arms wrapped around me, but at the same time the thought fills me with nausea. I'm numb and dazed and I need to go home and crawl back into bed.
“Get me home please,” I say instead of an answer, and Mike actually shuts up for once.
Chapter 13
Jay
I wait as long as I can bear it before I dial her number. Give or take thirty hours after that disastrous meeting on the Caravaggio's parking lot. It feels longer though, like half an eternity. It's been only two days since I touched her last but my whole body is beginning to go on cold turkey. There isn't a part of me that doesn't yearn for her, that doesn't long for the feel of her skin on mine, for her taste on my tongue. It's like the craving for a drug.
“I call you,” she said, but she isn't calling. Hasn't called. Maybe won't call. And I can't bear it anymore. The ringback tone is resonating in the hollow of my stomach. I'm nervous. I haven't been so nervous about a girl since 8th grade.
I have to call two times before she picks up. I'm standing outside the Ace, leaning against the front. Above me the newly repaired neon lights flash their Morse code into the night. Pink, blue, green, yellow. The night air seems to be getting cooler every day now, summer is finally slipping away into autumn.
Then finally I can hear her voice on the other end of the line.
“Jay?” she asks. He
r voice sounds strange, rough. As if she'd been crying.
“Hey babe.” I'm aiming for a cheerful tone but somehow I don't quite manage. “How was your day?”
Silence. The distance between us is almost solid. I can hear her struggling for words. Everything about this is as wrong as I feared it was.
“Are you okay?” I add – not without dreading her answer.
My fears are confirmed promptly when she says: “I've been thinking, Jay...”
My heart sinks. I know what she's going to say before she says it. In my mind's eye her ex is baring his dazzlingly white teeth at me in a triumphant smile. I imagine them together in bed, tangled into each other, the satin-sheen of sweat on their skin. The picture is so vivid, I can't quite focus on what she's saying. I only dimly register the general sentiment of her breaking up with me for some more or less made-up reason.
“Is it because of Mike?” I blurt out before I can stop myself.
A moment of icy silence.
“Didn't you listen to what I just told you? It's not about Mike.”
She sounds angry.
What did she say? I try to put the pieces together, scraps of sentences, some platitudes about her not being ready for a relationship. The whole 'It's not you, it's me'-shtick. How can I take that seriously?
But then, how can I not? When she says that's how she feels, that's how it is.
“Sorry. I didn't meant to imply...” I begin, unsure how to change the course of this conversation, if that's even possible. “I only wanted to know if something happened that changed your mind. If it's about needing some time alone, then that's fine of course. I don't want to pressure you into anything, it's just–”
It's just that I fucking love you, I want to say but it seems too futile. And it would be emotional blackmail to tell her now, so I don't. Instead I listen into the silence between us. I can hear her breathing. It sounds ragged, choked.
“I do need some time but,” she pauses, “I don't think it would work to think of it as a break. You know... I... I...” I can hear her taking a deep breath then she says: “I need real distance. And I don't think we're good for each other anyways. We're too different. It would never work, not really, so... why try and force this against our better judgement?”