by Minka Kent
Closing my eyes, I think about all the times Graham has given me credit for my hard work and long days, praised me when I least expected, and shown sympathy out of nowhere. I’d always basked in his acclaim for me, lapping it up like a kitten to milk.
But it’s crystal clear, now, it was only ever a manipulation tactic, and I fell for it. Every. Single. Time.
Twenty
Autumn
I pass Cotton street on the way to the pharmacy. One left turn and I’d be at Marnie’s townhouse. Her birthday present sits in the front seat beside me, the packaging slightly bent and battered from being handled and moved around five too many times.
At Ben’s insistence, I attended my evaluation this morning with Dr. Barringer, who asked me a series of questions and diagnosed me with anxiety. I left with a written prescription for Ativan and feeling exactly the same as I did when I went in.
I don’t think I’m anxious.
This morning while Ben was in the shower, I read his text messages and discovered that Dr. Barringer is a fantasy baseball friend of his, and that recently Ben complained that he isn’t getting laid as much anymore. Dr. Barringer replied that I “may be experiencing some situational stress from her recent job loss and there are medications that could help her relax.”
So there. Ben has a dirty little secret after all: he just wants sex.
The stoplight ahead turns red. I’m in the middle lane. My hand reaches for the blinker, though I doubt anyone will let me over this time of day.
I should do the right thing.
I should drop off her gift.
The blue corner of my prescription sticks out from the zippered pouch on my purse, and I’m hit with the sting of betrayal.
Ben . . . Ben who kisses the ground I walk on . . . went behind my back and convinced his shrink buddy to drug me up so I could go back to being his perfect, pliable dream girl.
And fucking Marnie with her fake tan and bleached hair, always looking down her smug little pig nose at everyone.
The car behind me honks, and I gaze up to see the car in front of me halfway down the next block already. Pressing my foot against the pedal, I lurch ahead, leaving the turn to Marnie’s road in the dust.
My hands grip the steering wheel, clammy and moist, and my heart thumps hard in my chest. Rolling down the window beside me, I swallow lungful after lungful of humid June air that only serves to make things worse.
Reality tastes particularly bittersweet today.
All this time I was using Ben, he was using me too.
He doesn’t care about me. And he probably never did.
And maybe it’s not fair for me to have such a double standard, but if he only knew how much I sacrificed for him–how much I sacrificed to be everything he could ever possibly want in a woman . . .
That ungrateful bastard.
Kingman Avenue lies ahead, and in a split-second decision, I maneuver myself between a mini van and a rusty Oldsmobile and hang a right. Up ahead lies Brinkman Academy, where Grace and Rose McMullen attend school.
I almost called the other day to schedule my tour, but I took an additional look at their website and saw that all prospective parents need to complete paperwork before requesting a tour, which includes two written referrals.
Kind of hard to get a referral when your kid is imaginary.
The clock on the dash reads a quarter past one, and a quick glance toward the distance shows an abundance of children running around a fenced-in playground. It must be recess.
I pull ahead, parking beneath a shade tree on the opposite side of the street.
My eyes scan it all, from the slide to the monkey bars to the swings, where little girls stand in line patiently waiting their turn.
It doesn’t take long for me to find Grace, swinging higher than everyone else on the fourth swing on the left. She’s grinning so big, her dark hair airborne each time she swings forward.
I smile along with her, clasping my hand across my chest.
That’s my girl.
My sweet, happy Grace.
And then it happens so fast.
A boy stands in front of her swing, daring her to kick him, only she drags her feet along the scooped out rocks beneath her, coming to a quick stop. I can’t make out what they’re saying, but she looks angry. He reaches for her hands, yanking them off the chains, and then another little boy appears out of nowhere, arms crossed as if he owns the place.
My heart races in my ears.
Where are the teachers on duty?
Why are they letting this happen?
The second little boy pushes Grace off the swing from behind, and she lands on her hands and knees. Standing, with ruddy, wet cheeks, she brushes the gravel from her knees and hangs her head.
A teacher with a whistle comes running.
About damn time.
My chest rises and falls in quick succession. I had no idea I was breathing so fast. But my ears are still warm to the touch, and I can feel the scowl formed across my face.
My baby wraps her arms around the teacher, crying into her shirt as the teacher pats her back and waves for another one to deal with those snot-nosed menaces.
Those boys hurt Grace.
I’ve never felt this way before, but every bone in my body wants to kill them for hurting her.
Twenty-One
Daphne
Graham’s hand on the small of my back as I butter the children’s toast this morning startles me out of my thoughts.
“Who is she?” he leans in, whispering into my ear.
I glance over my shoulder, toward the family room where my friend Elizabeth’s daughter, Addison, sits on the carpet playing with the kids.
“Her name is Addison,” I say. “And she’s watching the kids.”
“I told you I was handling everything.”
“Yes, and that was over a week ago. The kids have been out of school for five days now, and I need help.”
“My assistant’s scheduling interviews today,” he says with a scoff.
I look toward Addison to ensure she isn’t hearing our exchange. She’s merely a Band-Aid until we find someone a bit more qualified, though she’s been here all of an hour and the children do seem to like her already.
Graham lifts a hand to his hip and follows me as I move about the kitchen. Wiping my hands on a Grecian dish towel, I turn to him.
“Interview your applicants and if we find someone better, we’ll make a decision then. In the meantime,” I say, “we have Addison.”
I neglect to inform him that in addition to being a quick fix Band-Aid, Addison is also an insurance policy. I wanted someone here on the off-chance that Graham didn’t follow through with this whole summer nanny business promise of his.
“Addison,” I call over the island. She pops up, her tiny little waist peeking out between her short shorts and tight tank top. Maybe that’s how girls this age dress these days, I’m not sure. I’m going to have to tell her to tone it down, but I’ll wait until she’s been here longer. The last thing I want is for her to feel uncomfortable. Or for her to run back to Elizabeth complaining about me. A woman’s reputation in this city is worth her weight in gold. “Can you bring the children over? It’s time for breakfast.”
She claps her hands and grins and talks to my kids as if they’re puppies, but they seem to respond to it and they follow her like ducklings, all in a row. It’s amazing how well-behaved my children are with everyone but me.
“Addison, this is Mr. McMullen,” I say.
“Nice to meet you.” Addison extends a lean, tan arm toward my husband, and my soul dies a little when I watch his eyes light.
I think I’m going to be sick.
“Okay, I’m leaving,” I say. “I’ll be running errands all morning. Call my cell if you need anything.”
“Will do, Mrs. M.,” Addison rises on her sneaker-covered toes, shoving her hands into her back pockets and jutting out her perky breasts. She’s a walking, talking teenage cliché, but it isn’t her fault. She i
s her mother’s daughter, and Elizabeth is as cliché as they come . . . white colonial, two children, doctor for a husband, cooks a mean veal parmesan, and keeps a Volvo in the garage.
“I want to know who she is.” I take a hit from a freshly rolled joint and squint across the dark of Mitch’s living room. Even in the dark, I feel his gaze drinking me in.
He’s missed me.
He said so the second he opened his door.
“Does it matter?” he asks.
I exhale, a wispy halo of smoke rising above my head, and then I sink back in my chair.
“I don’t know,” I say. “I feel like it does.”
Mitch lifts his hands behind his head and kicks his legs out. His flat stomach caves. His tie-dyed shirt is probably a size too big, but it’s soft and faded and comfortable, and that’s exactly how I feel when I’m with him.
“I don’t think it does,” he says.
“I just want to know what he sees in her.”
“You’ll never get an answer to that. Only way is if you go straight to the source, and even then, why would he tell you the truth?”
Mitch has a point. I groan, taking another drag. “I hate when you’re right about things.”
“It’s not about being right or wrong, Uptown. It’s about not giving a fuck. The second you stop caring is the second you free yourself from all this shit.” He reaches for the joint, takes a greedy puff, then passes it back.
“That sounds really great and all,” I say, an edge of sarcasm in my tone, “but it doesn’t make me any less curious.”
“You know what they say about curiosity.”
“It killed the cat?”
“Curiosity can be as dangerous as a butterfly over an open flame.” He reaches for the joint again, only this time he snuffs it out in a crystal ashtray on the cluttered coffee table.
“Why’d you do that? I wasn’t finished.”
Wrapping his fingers around my waist, he gently tugs me to the sofa. Bob Marley’s raspy croon plays from the speakers behind us, telling us that every little thing is going to be okay.
I want to believe him.
“What are you doing?” I ask as Mitch pulls me into his lap. I laugh, as if this is the funniest thing in the world. And though I know it’s the weed, I couldn’t stop if I tried.
The warmth of his palms flanking my hips captures my attention, and the giggles begin to subside. Mitch’s eyes, honey brown and as deep as his philosophical ramblings, hold my entire existence for what feels like forever, and for the first time in weeks, I am still.
“You’re a beautiful woman,” he says. “People would fucking kill to look like you, you know that? People spend a lot of money to look the way you do.”
I lift a hand to my warming cheek, but he pulls it away.
“But it’s your insides that are all fucked up.” His words sting, but I feel their truth in the darkest parts of me. “I think that’s why you’re so hard to figure out. Your insides don’t match your outsides. It’s all off-kilter or something.”
Tucking my chin, I release a nervous chuckle and glance away for a second. “Okay, I see what you’re saying, but I don’t know why you needed to pull me into your lap. Kind of overkill, don’t you-”
Before I can finish my sentence, I’m silenced by the taste of his smoky mouth on mine. His tongue, warm and unfamiliar despite what we have or haven’t done in sessions prior, sends tingles that settle in my middle before radiating to my fingers and toes.
I press my chest against him. I want to be close to him. I want to be close to anyone. I want the kind of exclusive intimacy I’ve only ever known with one other man before.
My hands gather the fabric of his t-shirt, and I begin to lift it over his head until he stops me.
“I’m not going to fuck you,” he breathes, his lips against mine.
Now I’m hurt, my ego bruised. He can’t pull me into his lap, silence my words with a hungry kiss, put his hands all over my body and then act like I’m the one who wants to go too far with this.
Pulling myself off his lap, I tug my shirt into place and scan the room for my things. I’m high as a kite and unprepared to drive home, but if I can just sit in the car for the next hour, hopefully it’ll wear off and I can be on my way like none of this happened.
“It was a mistake coming here,” I say.
“Shit. Uptown. Wait,” he says, though it’s unconvincing.
I swipe my bag from the far end of the couch and fling it around my shoulder.
“Don’t go,” he says.
He’s following me now, and I’m standing in his kitchen. A sink full of dirty dishes and an old sack of fast food on the counter make me nauseous. The basement door is open, and the smell of must and cat litterbox wafts up. I wonder if he has a roommate? I wonder how much there is about Mitch I’ve yet to discover. And most importantly, I wonder what the hell I ever saw in him.
He’s dirty and his house is filthy and he smells like pot ash and smoke, and he’s the biggest know-it-all I’ve ever encountered in my life, and that includes my mother-in-law.
I move to the door. He’s one step behind me. His hand splays across the deadbolt.
“It’s not that I don’t want to,” he says with a dissatisfied sigh. “God, you’re so fucking sexy. I’d nail the fuck out of you.”
I turn to face him, arms crossed tight.
“God.” He buries his face in his hands, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his palms. “I don’t even know how to tell you this.”
My heart sinks into the pit of my stomach, its fall cushioned by a pillow of sheer dread.
“When I’m with you,” he says, “I don’t feel like Mitch, the deadbeat pot dealer.”
I roll my eyes.
“When I’m with you, I feel like the man you think you see when you look at me,” he says. “And I know that doesn’t make sense. But let me explain.”
My brows meet. “Go on.”
“When you look at me, it’s like you have so much hope or some shit. It’s like you want me to have all the answers, to be everything you need me to be, and the truth is, I’m just some guy who barely made it out of high school and happened to make the right connections so he could get by selling dope.” Mitch’s hands fall against his sides. “I’m not special. There’s not a damn special thing about me. But you don’t look at me that way. And I want to be that guy you see when you’re looking at me. I wanna be him. But I’m not.”
“So that’s why you stopped me from taking off your shirt? Right. Makes perfect sense.”
“That’s part of it,” he says, biting his full lower lip. His head falls and his eyes won’t meet mine. He drags his fingers through his greasy hair and then blows a heavy breath. “I have a girlfriend.”
“You son of a bitch.” I taste the irony of my words the second they leave my lips. But it’s too late now.
“I know, I know.” His honeyed eyes lift to mine. “Look, I love my girl. We’ve been together a long time, since we were practically kids. She’d do anything for me, and she’ll always have my back. She’s loyal to the end. But at the end of the day, I’m a man. I get bored. I want to escape every now and again. I want to be someone else sometimes. I found that with you.”
Silence engulfs us. I don’t know what to say. I don’t know whether to be flattered or infuriated or a violent mix of the two.
Twisting my fingers around the doorknob, I try to leave, but he flattens his palm across the door.
“Wait,” he says.
I face the side, not wanting to look at him.
“Your husband,” he says, “I’m sure loves the hell out of you. I’m sure you’re his number one. And this other chick? He must get something from her he can’t get from you, and it’s probably something you’ll never be able to give him because what you have is so deep and so rooted. I speak from experience when I say this, so I hope you’re listening.”
I nod.
“My girl, I know she deserves better than me,” he says. “B
ut I know I’m not going to do better than her, so I’ll never let her go. She’s got me for life . . . if she wants me. Your husband, if he’s got any brains at all, probably feels the same way.”
“Can I go now?” I pull back my sleeve and glance at my watch. “You’re trying to make me feel better and you’re trying to smooth all of this over so you can feel better about what you did . . . what you’ve been doing for the last several weeks . . . and I just want to go, so can I go now?”
“Uptown,” he says, smirking and head tilted. He thinks I’m cute when I’m angry, I can tell. His hand moves to my arm, but I smack it away. “I’m sorry. I really am. I . . .”
“You let me suck your cock,” I blurt.
He laughs. “God, I know. I’m a fucking scumbag, aren’t I?”
I twist the knob and yank the door open, finally, and he squints and shields his eyes as daylight blinds him.
“I was always honest with you,” I say, staring outside. My mellow is wearing off quickly. “I told you everything. I confided in you. I trusted you. I thought you were different. I thought you were the most genuine man I’d ever met. So when I looked at you in a certain way, Mitch, it was because I thought I was looking at the one man who could prove to me that not all of you are selfish assholes.”
“I’m sorry. I really am.” He follows me outside, under the carport. “Let me make it up to you.”
I laugh, my shoes scuffing his cracked, weeded driveway. “No thank you.”
“I mean it,” he says. “You want to know the name of that girl? I’ve got people who can find out.”
Rolling my eyes, I say, “And I should believe you why?”
“Tell me where she goes, what she drives, what she looks like,” he says. “I can put one of my guys on it and get you a name in less than a week.”
Tossing my head back and moaning, I turn to face him again. “I’m not normally in the habit of doing business with lying sacks of shit. But I feel like this is the least you could do after everything.”
“Text me the details,” he says. “I’ll get it done.”