by Minka Kent
He sits up. “Just feel bad about last time. You gave me . . . I just feel like I owe you something in return.”
“Last time was a mistake.” My words slice through the thin smoke that lingers between us.
I’m not sure what I was thinking.
I wasn’t thinking. That was the problem. I was high out of my mind. I was having a god-awful day. I was lonely. Doubting my marriage. Doubting my ability to raise these children into adulthood. Doubting every choice I’d ever made up to that moment.
It all happened in a blur of desperation and despondency. He kept telling me how beautiful I was, how lucky my husband must be to have me, and I lapped it up like an eager puppy, like a woman starved of love and affection.
And then his hand found my hair and his lips found my mouth, and before I knew what was happening, I was on my knees, my hands unzipping his fly. His satisfied moans were music to my ears. He had nothing but praise of the filthy variety. For the first time in a long time, I felt wanted. Desired. Appreciated. Carnally needed.
When it was all over, I bolted out of his house like a crazy person.
I cried so hard on the drive home, I had to pull over to the side of the road to catch my breath.
“Must not have been that big of a mistake,” he says with an air of arrogance that doesn’t quite suit him. “You came back.”
“Forgive me, but I don’t exactly know a lot of . . .”
“Dealers,” he huffs, dragging a hand through his messy, dishwater blond waves that stop just above his shoulders. “You can say it. Or is it not in your country club vocabulary?”
“I can’t tell if you’re trying to be cute or insult me.” My brows meet. “Either way, you’re ruining this high, so can you please stop?”
“As you wish, Uptown Girl.” His eyes flutter closed, the length of his lean body stretching so far his feet hang off the arm of the sofa.
“Why are you always in shoes?” My body drips over the side of the chair, or at least it feels that way. “Every time I see you. You have shoes on.”
He puts his joint out in a nearby ashtray, mouth half-smirked. “Never know when you’re going to have to run.”
I smirk, readying a clever comeback, and then I stop myself once I realize he isn’t joking.
“Plus have you seen this floor?” he adds. “There’s a reason it’s so dark in here all the time. The dark hides shit.”
“You live alone, right?”
“Forever and always.”
“Doesn’t take much to tidy up every once in a while. You know, I think I have a spare vacuum in one of my storage rooms. I could give it to you if you’d like.”
He sits up, elbows resting on his knees, his expression fading. “Yeah. That’s just what I need. Some lady in ninety-dollar yoga pants pushing a goddamned Dyson down Johnathan Street to my house. Like that’s not obvious.”
I laugh. He doesn’t.
“Sorry. I . . . I’m new to all this,” I say. “I don’t think like . . .”
Our eyes catch, and my mouth stops moving. I’m not sure I can finish my thought without insulting him.
“You can say what you need to say. Not much offends me. Thick-skinned over here.” He leans back, slipping his hands behind his head, never taking his eyes off me.
Five weeks.
That’s how long I’ve been coming here.
“I don’t think like someone trying to stay out of trouble,” I blurt. “I’ve never been in trouble before.”
We have a standing date of ten o’clock each Tuesday morning. He has my phone number if he has to cancel, otherwise he knows I’ll be here as promised.
“Mama, I’ve spent my entire life trying to stay out of trouble.” He snorts, eyes fixed on me. When he inhales, his shoulders loosen and he studies me. “I’ve got it down to an art.”
“Can I be honest with you?”
He shrugs. “Of course.”
“I don’t like when you call me ‘Mama.’” The room spins, but I don’t mind. “I’ve got three that call me that all day long. I come here to get away from that.”
Dragging the back of his hand under his nose, he sniffs, mouth twitching. “Okay then. What am I supposed to call you? Been over a month now and you still won’t tell me your name.”
Right.
I rear-ended him last month on the east side of town when I was driving past Graham’s office to make sure his car was still there. He’d canceled our lunch plans at the last minute, seeming distracted and uncharacteristically giddy on the phone. Not wanting a police report to be filed or Graham to see the insurance claim, I offered to give this man cash. He was reluctant at first. And then I fished a hundred-dollar bill from my wallet as a down payment as well as the gold Bulgari timepiece on my wrist. The damage to his car was noticeable; streaks of white paint on his chrome and a good-sized dent. My car was more or less unscathed.
After a quick deliberation, he scribbled down his number and address, and I showed up the next day, an envelope of cash in hand, not expecting for this man to invite me in, offer me a piece offering in the form of a freshly rolled joint, and present the solution to my problems in the form of a simple, temporary escape.
“You tell me yours first,” I say. I didn’t want to know his at first. It seemed pointless to exchange names. Plus, not asking for his name made it easier for me to withhold mine. But it almost seems silly to keep it up at this point.
“So if I tell you my name, you’ll tell me yours?” He lifts an eyebrow, his face all angles and edges in the dark. He tucks his hair behind his left ear and clears his throat, lips holding his constant smirk.
“Yes. Your real name,” I say. Inhaling, I readjust my position in the chair, soaking in the last half hour of this magically euphoric state. “Not your street name.”
“I kind of like the mystery between us. It’s hot,” his mouth pulls at the corner, and I spot a dimple, “despite the fact that you’re a married woman. Normally I’d respect the hell out of that by the way, but . . .”
My cheeks blush, even in my high state. “Oh, really? Is that why you let me put your . . . in my mouth.”
His face winces. “Just call it a cock, all right? And yeah. I was blazed out of my mind when you did that. And you’re sexy as hell. You think I was going to say no to that shit? What’d you expect? My dick wasn’t going to roll into itself just because you’re rocking a giant diamond on your finger.”
“So then you don’t respect that I’m a married woman.” My eye catches the glint of my ring.
“No, you didn’t hear me. I said I normally do. But the whole problem is that you don’t. Because if you did, you wouldn’t be here.”
“I come here to get high and only to get high. You caught me in a moment of weakness last time. It won’t happen again.”
His head tilts to the side. “You know how many times people say shit like that? It won’t happen again. This’ll be the last time. It was a one-time thing. They never mean it. They keep doing the thing they said they weren’t going to do because it makes them happy. Gives ‘em what they need. Doesn’t matter if it’s right or wrong.”
My mind goes back to that day, the cold hardness of the wood floor against my knees, his hips thrusting as I choked on his length, his hands knotted in my hair. I felt free. Alive. Un-numbed.
I wasn’t thinking about Graham. I was thinking about me; something I probably haven’t done enough of these last few years.
“You can’t compare that little indiscretion with the promises of the drug addicted and criminally corrupt.” I brush a loose strand from my face, tucking it back under my cap.
“That’s right. You’re above that shit. I forgot.”
“I’m not above anyone.”
“Then why do you park three blocks away every time you come here? Why do you stuff all that fancy blonde hair under a baseball cap? Everyone else, they just come as they are. They park out front. Get their shit. Get on with their lives.”
“I can’t be seen here. You
know my reasons.”
“And yet you keep coming back.”
“It’s complicated.”
“Life,” he exhales, “is complicated. But please, by all means, keep believing that yours is some special snowflake.”
“I don’t expect you to understand.” My high is fading fast, and I’m clinging on with everything I have. The moment I return to my car, it’s all over. I’ll be re-immersed in the very reality I came here to escape.
“What do you see when you look at me?” His question catches me off guard.
“I beg your pardon?”
He laughs. “Jesus. Not even a high can keep you from sounding like some resort wear broad. Let me rephrase my question. When you look at me, do you see some dope dealer or do you see a person? A human being?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“I’ve always been curious about your type. I figured you rich people walk around judging everybody else all day. Just curious how you judge me.”
“That’s a really strange question.” I try to concentrate, swallowing against my smoky dry throat. “When I look at you,” I begin, eyes focused in his direction, “I see someone who’s taken an alternate route in life. You’re intelligent. You don’t let people push you around. I see someone I can be real with. You’re not fake. I like that. You call things the way you see them, and you don’t sugarcoat. You’re probably the only person I can be myself around.”
He’s quiet, his eyes focused on the half-smoked joint in his ashtray. Digging in his pocket, he produces a lighter and then reaches for the joint.
“Well, then,” he says, lighting up and speaking through pursed lips. “I’d say that’s a crying shame. A real tragedy.”
“I’m confused.”
His gaze flicks to mine.
“It’s sad you can’t be real with anyone but me.”
“Are you being sarcastic?” The hands of the clock on his TV stand glow under the dark light. It’s time for me to go. I feel around for my keys, digging in my front pocket and wrapping my fingers around the metal. I’m not sure what I’d do if I got so high I lost them.
He takes a puff before placing the joint between his thumb and pointer finger, offering it to me. I shake my head and wave my hand.
“Not being sarcastic but for the record,” he says, exhaling. “I don’t feel sorry for you.”
“I don’t want you to feel sorry for me.” My words snap back at him.
“Good,” he says. “If you can’t be real with people, that’s your problem. Not theirs. Don’t be one of those assholes who blame their problems on everyone else.”
“Now you’re making assumptions.”
“Lady, you’ve been coming here every Tuesday for the last five weeks pouring out your heart and soul. All you do is take a few puffs and the filter comes off.” He takes another toke. “At first I thought you had it rough, but now I’m convinced you do it to yourself.”
My nose wrinkles. “You don’t even know my name. How can you judge the way I live my life?”
I stand, hands gripped on my keys, eyes scanning the dark room to ensure I don’t trip over something on my way out.
He rises, moving toward me. The sweet, stale scent of pot ash and smoke circles us. “I know enough. I know your husband doesn’t appreciate you. I know your kids are spoiled little shits. I know your friends are a bunch of fake bitches. Your life, Uptown Girl, is a joke. Coming here is the realest part of your week, and you know it. It’s why you keep coming back. I give you something you need, one way or another. Something you can’t get anywhere else.”
“I have to go.” I shuffle in the dark toward the back door by the kitchen, with the sound of his sneakers scuffing the carpet behind me.
He walks me to the door, following so close I feel his hot breath on the back of my neck.
“Mitch,” he says, his hand on the door knob a moment later. “My name’s Mitch.”
Eight
Autumn
Graham McMullen jogs by at seven fifteen Monday morning. Shirtless, tan, and taut, his muscles gleam and glisten beneath the late May sun. Wrapping my hands around a steaming mug of coffee, I peek through the blinds, watching until I hear the soft tromp of Ben’s footsteps as he makes his way downstairs.
So close, yet so far away.
Our lives barely seem to intersect anymore, and it’s as if the McMullens are slipping out of reach.
My attempts at calling Daphne from my burner phone have led me no where. She doesn’t answer. Ever. It doesn’t matter what time I call. Twice now she’s sent my calls straight to voicemail, and of course I listen to her greeting in its entirety and then hang up before it beeps.
“Morning,” he calls out, leaning against the oak bannister. It’s Memorial Day and the office is closed, as evidenced by the Coldplay t-shirt and ripped jeans Ben has chosen to wear today. It’s a far cry from his usual suit and tie uniform, and I decide I like him better dressed up. I also decide never to tell him that just like I’ll never tell him that the collection of ties in his closet were heavily inspired by ones worn by Graham in several of Daphne’s Instaface photos.
Graham wears a lot of gingham, a lot of complementary colors. Gray suits with pink and green plaid ties. Navy suits with burnt-orange buffalo check shirts. Graham is a walking department store billboard in the best of ways. Classic, cool, and effortless, he reminds me of those smiling dads in the Sunday flyers, the ones smiling and throwing footballs in their polo sweaters and pressed suit pants.
“Morning,” I say, lifting my mug to my lips. “You want some coffee?”
Ben’s not a coffee drinker, but I always offer. It’s little things like that that go a long way with him. He likes to know I’m always thinking of him, that he’s always on my mind.
Some days I wish that were the case.
My life would be much simpler if it were.
“What do you want to do today?” He hops off the bottom step and heads into the kitchen, rifling through the refrigerator. He makes a lot of noise, and part of me wonders if he’s doing it intentionally . . . perhaps he wanted to wake up to a nice breakfast this morning? But I brush off the notion because Ben isn’t like that. He isn’t passive aggressive.
“You want to take the dog for a walk?” I ask. I could use a reason to pass the McMullen’s house and Ginger’s the perfect excuse. “It’s really nice out.”
The doorbell chimes and the dog yaps, startled from her soft place on the back of the sofa. Seconds later, the mail truck drives away. Before I have a chance to stop him, Ben strides across the kitchen and through the living room to the entryway, stepping outside to grab the package from our doorstep.
“You order something?” he asks, reading the label. “Trina’s Trinkets?”
Tucking a strand of hair behind my ear, I paint a casual expression on my face and take the small box from him.
“It’s just a charm.” I tuck the box under my arm, and Ben doesn’t question the fact that he’s never seen me wear a charm bracelet in the entire two years we’ve been together.
Taking my package with me, I climb the stairs and shuffle to the guest room at the end of the hall. It’s sort of unspoken, but that room belongs to me. My things fill the closet. My dresser rests against the far wall. My bed anchors the middle. When we moved in together, I didn’t want to sell all of my things on the off chance it wouldn’t work out. Everything I own, which isn’t much, is in this room, and Ben, as far as I know, steers clear. He has no business being in here anyway. Nothing in these four walls could possibly interest him.
Softly closing the door, I fall to my knees and feel around beneath the bed until my fingers rake across a small wooden box. Dragging it across the carpet, I lift the top off and push it aside while I open my package.
The gold locket I ordered from a small shop online is displayed neatly in a small, gray velvet box. It’s an oval, maybe an inch and a half long, and the letter “G” is inscribed in the center in cursive. Carefully sliding my thumbnail betw
een the clasp, I pop it open, smiling when I see the laser-printed portrait of a grinning Grace staring back at me.
I give myself another moment to admire my small treasure, and then I tuck it neatly into the wooden box along with some other “mementos.” A sample-sized bottle of Daphne’s signature Jo Malone orange blossom perfume. A tube of Chanel lipstick she once recommended. A Tom Ford pocket square embroidered with Graham’s initials. Various photos of Grace I’d copied and saved and had printed. A letter for the McMullens from a distant relative, mistakenly mixed up in our mail. Various items Daphne had recommended via Instaface . . . hand creams, shampoos, detox teas, stationery, and facial creams.
Everything in this box is a materialistic, three-dimensional embodiment of that family.
Ben’s heavy footsteps return me to the present, and I quickly place the locket into the gray box and slide the gray box into the wooden one. Securing the lid, I push it back beneath the bed and pull the bed skirt down to keep it from plain view.
Holding my breath for the sake of making the least amount of noise possible, I listen closer, my ear pressed against the guestroom door, until I hear him go back downstairs.
I have to stop being so sloppy.
Nine
Daphne
“What’d I miss?” Graham strides into the kitchen Monday morning, grabbing an apple from a fruit basket on the island. He bites into it, wiping a drip of juice from his lower lip, and grins. His dark hair is still damp from his shower and his skin glowing from his AM jog.
I don’t tell him about Grace stealing Rose’s last pancake, and I don’t tell him about Sebastian stabbing Grace with his fork. He should have been there, referring breakfast this morning as I cooked and served, but I decide to pick my battles.
“You’re in a good mood this morning,” I say, rinsing breakfast plates in the sink before making my way to the table. With a damp wash cloth, I wipe Sebastian’s sticky face and fingers. He climbs down, running toward his father and wrapping himself around his left leg.