Monsters

by Liz Kay

  “Okay,” he says, “you were right.”

  “How’s Sadie?” I say, but I make sure my tone stays pouty. I don’t want him to think that I’m not still pissed.

  “Better, maybe. I don’t know.” He sighs. “You were right. I’m a terrible father.”

  “I didn’t say you were a terrible father. I said you were a narcissist.”

  “Same thing.”

  I’m almost to the front of the line. I say, “I should go. It’s not a good time.”

  “C’mon, Stacey, what are you doing?” he says.

  “I’m mailing a package,” I say, and I shift its weight to keep from dropping it.

  “You know,” he says, “sometimes people argue and then if they aren’t complete assholes, they figure out a way to patch shit up. So, you know, stop being a complete asshole.”

  I set my package on the counter and try to smile at the woman behind it. I’m trying not to let anything slip. I shift the phone a little away from my mouth and say, “I need to send this to Minneapolis. Media rate.”

  On the other end of the line, Tommy says, “Oh, fuck you,” and hangs up.

  • • •

  When I walk out to the car, I don’t get in. I lean against the trunk and let the sun warm my face. We’re having one of those early springs when it’s already warming up in March. I have always loved spring in Nebraska. When Michael wanted to talk me into moving here, he brought me out in the spring, and the whole city was so green, and the trees were budding, and Michael and I were starting a new life, and I said, Yes, let’s do it here, and so we did. And even here, in the post office parking lot, it feels like the air is filled with possibility. It feels like the very beginning.

  I take my phone out, and I call Tommy, and when he answers, I say, “I’m lousy at apologies,” and he says, “You suck at forgiveness too.”

  “I know,” I say, “but you’re good at it, right?”

  “I am,” he says. “I’m like fucking magnanimous.”

  APRIL

  PHILLIP IS TAKING ME to dinner for the fourth time on Friday, and once again, Jenny’s offered to take the kids. He seems more relaxed this time. He’s actually wearing jeans, and he wants to hit this Mexican place in the Old Market. He tries to order me a margarita, but I say, “I like my tequila straight.” He gives me a look, but the thought of all that sugar makes me feel nauseated. I sip my tequila and rub my leg against his.

  When he hands the check to the server, I lean close to his ear. I let my breast press against his arm, and I’m sure he notices. I whisper, “When are you going to show me your place?”

  • • •

  He lives in a condo in an old converted warehouse. It’s small but very, very nice. Hardwood floors, high ceilings, top-of-the-line everything. It looks like it came furnished because I can’t imagine him picking out any of this. It’s lots of glass and chrome and leather. We stand in the kitchen, and he pours me a glass of wine. I remember the two tequilas at the restaurant and promise myself that this will be my only glass. I don’t want to regret it in the morning.

  He says, “We can go up to the roof deck?”

  I say, “I like it here,” and I set my wine on the counter behind him and turn toward him, and tip my head up and kiss him on the chin. He puts his arms around me. It’s more hug than passionate embrace. He keeps his hands very still. “Are you going to give me a tour?” I whisper into his neck, and he says, “Yes, oh, yeah, sure.”

  He takes my left hand, and I grab the wine with my right because I feel like I’m going to need it. I feel like this is going to be a long night. And of course, he shows me the whole goddamn place, a little balcony, and off the hallway there’s a bathroom with a very expensive sink. I say, “Is this a one-bed, or two?”

  And he says, because I’m realizing he’s really an idiot, “It’s a two-bedroom. There’s a small guest room down this hall.”

  “Where’s your bedroom?” I say, and I use my huskiest voice, which frankly, I don’t do very well or often, but I’m running out of ideas.

  “Just up these stairs.”

  I realize he looks a little nervous. And I know this isn’t the first time since his divorce. I know he dated a woman for almost six months last year. It must be me. It must be the widow thing. I walk in front of him and take his hand and pull it close behind me, and when we reach the top, it’s an open loft with a double bed and beyond it a wall of windows with an amazing view of the city. I walk over to look, and when I turn around he’s next to me. I take his hand and place it on my waist. He kisses me again, and I unbutton the top button of his shirt and then the next, kissing the skin underneath. I drop his shirt on the floor.

  He says, “Are you sure about this?” but I don’t answer. I reach for his belt and unfasten it, unbutton his jeans. I let my fingers slip inside, trace the line of his pelvis. I push him backwards toward the bed, and when he reaches it, he sits down. I lift my shirt up over my arms and move his hands to the zipper of my jeans, let him strip them off. I push him flat on his back and lean over him and kiss him, and my hair completely covers his face. He pushes it out of the way. He says, “God, Stacey, you’re beautiful,” but I put my hand over his mouth. I make him kiss my fingers. He tries to roll me onto my back, but I push him down and climb on top of him. I think, It’s better this way. I know exactly what I’m doing.

  • • •

  When I wake in the morning, Michael has been dead for two years, and there’s a man twelve feet below me in the kitchen of this expensive loft downtown, and I can hear him making me coffee. I pull the top sheet off the bed, and I wrap it around me and walk downstairs in my bare feet. Phillip is in the kitchen in just his boxers, and when I see him, I don’t regret a thing. He smiles and pours me coffee. I let him make me a slice of toast.

  I sit on the couch and curl my legs underneath me, tucking them under the sheet.

  “Do you mind if I grab a shower before I take you home?” he asks, and I shake my head, bite into the corner of the toast. “I’ll be quick,” he says, and he kisses me on the cheek.

  My phone rings while he’s in the shower, and my breath catches in my throat when I see that it’s Tommy. It’s early here, and barely five o’clock his time. “What’s wrong?” I say when I pick up. “Is it Sadie?”

  “Nothing. No. We just wrapped. We just shot the last scene.” He sounds tired and excited. “We’re packing up. We’re going home.”

  “God.” I let out the breath I’ve been holding. “You scared me.”

  “No, no. Everything’s good. We’re a week ahead of schedule. We cranked this shit out.” I hear him take a deep breath. “And it’s good, Stace. It’s so good. I can’t wait for you to see it.”

  I hear the water turn off upstairs. “Look, can I call you later?”

  “Why? What are you doing? I know you weren’t sleeping.”

  I twist the sheet through my fingers, think hard about what to say next. “I’m not actually at home,” I say, and I bite my lip.

  “What are you doing out this early?” He stops. “Oh fuck. Jesus, Stacey, I don’t want to know this shit.” He makes this disgusted shivery groan like he’s just gotten a chill down his spine. “I can’t believe you answered the phone. You are such an asshole.”

  “Jesus, Tommy, I thought it was about Sadie,” I whisper.

  “Still, Christ. You have no fucking tact.” He’s yelling now, and I think, Really? Try reading about it in the checkout line.

  It does almost make me smile though, and I have to concentrate so that it doesn’t show in my voice. “Just call me when you wake up,” I say, and I hang up.

  I hear Phillip’s feet on the stairs and look up. He looks good coming out of the shower. His hair’s wet. He’s pulling a T-shirt on. “Who was that?” he asks.

  “They wrapped the movie,” I say. “Just now.” I stand up and walk around the couch. I meet him at the bottom of the stairs. I run my fingers through his hair and say, “I’d better get dressed.”

 
• • •

  On the drive back to my house, Phillip tries for small talk, but it’s awkward, so he settles for holding my hand. He seems distracted, and he nearly misses the expressway. It’s light out, but cloudy and gray, and it’s hot already.

  “Tornado weather,” Phillip says, pointing to the clouds stirring in the west, but he’s wrong. The real storms come on clear days. The real storms come when the air is very, very still.

  “Everything okay?” Phillip asks.

  “Everything’s great,” I say, and I pull my hand away from his, run my fingers through the hair at the back of his neck, but I’m getting tired. I didn’t sleep well. I cross my legs, fold my hands around my knee, and turn to look out the window. There’s not much traffic. This shouldn’t take long.

  • • •

  I grab a quick shower before picking up the boys. Bear lies on the floor watching me, looking pouty. He’s feeling neglected. Like it’s not enough that I pay the neighbor kid to let him out. Jenny lives close, less than a mile, and I don’t believe it’s actually going to rain just yet. I decide we can walk. When he hears the jangle of the metal collar he perks up. I can see that he wants to flip out, spin in circles, but he’s way too big for that. We had to train him to stay steady, to rein it in. He sits, but he sort of shivers in place with all that energy. It’s hard to fasten the clip without pinching one of us.

  When Jenny opens the door, she says, “Well?” and I shrug. I say, “Hey.”

  I don’t want to spend the day on this. I just want to get the boys and make it home before it rains. There’s a reason I brought Bear. Now I can’t come inside. Jenny just opens the screen door and steps out to sit on the stoop. She says, “Uh-uh, this is how you pay me for taking the kids.” Bear sticks his giant nose in her face, and she scratches him for a minute before she pushes him away.

  I know she wants to know everything. She wants to know about feelings and heartache and love. She’s a romantic, but more important, she’s a family girl. She wants me to get married so we can go back to the Sunday dinners and shared vacations. She and Michael were like a matched set. Let’s rent a cabin. Let’s take the kids on a cruise. Sometimes I think she misses him more than I do.

  “So do you like him?” she says, and she rests her head in her hands. She looks at me expectantly. Her eyes are big.

  “I do,” I say. “I think he’s really sweet.” I feel like I need to give her something, so I say, “And he made me breakfast.”

  She makes this giddy cooing sound and smiles behind her hands. She bounces her knees.

  “Oh, I’m so happy,” she says, and she reaches out to squeeze my hand. “I don’t want you to be lonely.”

  I want to say, I’m not lonely, but I’m not good at lying. I’m better at just not telling the truth, so I say, “I should really get them home.” I look at the sky like, Any minute now. Any minute these clouds could break.

  • • •

  Tommy calls late, so late I’ve already finished my glass of wine and poured another. I’m making an exception. I take my time answering so he won’t think I’ve been pacing the house with my phone in my hands, which of course I have been. Though when Phillip called three hours ago, I didn’t answer.

  “So,” he says, “you’re officially fucking around on me.”

  I smile, sink into the couch, because the tone in his voice makes me feel like I can finally relax.

  “I don’t think there’s anything official going on here. And you’re working on the assumption that I intend to keep sleeping with you, which I don’t.”

  “You can intend or not intend whatever you want, honey. We’ll see how you manage to follow through.”

  “Because you’re so irresistible?”

  “I think I’ve demonstrated some talents that you would miss. I mean, it’s like if you need some work done on your house and you’ve had this really talented carpenter, not just any carpenter, like an artisan, and you’re gonna go from that to just some handyman in the phone book?”

  “So you’re like a master craftsman now?”

  “I know my way around some trim work, yeah.”

  I laugh. “You know, I don’t even know what that’s a euphemism for, but it sounds filthy.”

  “I know, right? See, even over the phone, baby, I can get you like halfway there.”

  “Fuck off,” I say, but I say it softly. I say it like everything’s fine.

  “Seriously, who is this guy?”

  I shake my head, like he can see me. “Just someone I met at a fundraiser. Divorced. A doctor.”

  “Oh, a doctor.” Tommy’s brilliant, but I don’t think he even has a GED. Not that he needs one, but sometimes he’s a little sensitive. “Like some cocky surgeon type?”

  I laugh. “No,” I say. “He’s an allergist.”

  “A what?” he says, and I don’t like his tone.

  “An allergist,” I say again, but slowly.

  “Are you kidding me? Like he spends his day writing prescriptions for Zyrtec and shit?”

  “I don’t know how he spends his day, Tommy.” But I can see where he’s going with this.

  “Wow, Stace, that’s exciting. That is some exciting shit.”

  “Okay, you know what, fuck you. He makes a good living at it anyway,” and then I immediately regret it because Tommy really laughs now, and he says, “That’s fantastic, because I have this beach house I’ve been trying to unload.”

  “Jesus, would you stop being such an asshole?”

  “I can’t help it, baby. You’re making me crazy with this. You’re driving me out of my fucking mind.”

  Then do something about it, I think, but I don’t say that. I say, “I’m sure you can find something to distract you.”

  MAY

  TOMMY PICKS ME UP at the airport. They’ve got a rough cut, and he wants me to see it. That’s the excuse anyway. I walk out past the security gates and I think, Shit, why didn’t you send Daniel? He’s just leaning against the wall, waiting, and there are all these photographers snapping pictures. Tommy, can you give us a smile? Tommy, are you coming or going? He’s just ignoring them like they’re not even there. He keeps looking down at his phone. I don’t even want to go over, but he spots me immediately. He says, “Hey!” and he stands up straight and walks toward me, and the photographers just sort of move enough to let him pass, stepping backwards, keeping him in focus. He hugs me, kisses me on the cheek. “How was your flight?”

  “Um, okay.” I’m having a hard time tuning all of this out. I can’t seem to block out the flashes and clicks.

  He rolls his eyes. “Don’t let them freak you out.” He grabs my bag and throws it over his shoulder and takes my arm. “So how are the boys?” he says as he starts walking toward the doors, and he talks really quietly, really close. I don’t know if it’s to keep people from overhearing or just to force me to pay attention.

  “Good,” I say. “They’re with Jenny for the weekend. They’re going to eat popcorn and pancakes and fucking sundaes.”

  “I feel like I need to meet this Jenny. Think she’d make me pancakes?”

  “I think a lot of people would make you pancakes.”

  Then one guy comes in really close. I feel like he’s going to walk right into me, and I take a step backwards and trip. If Tommy wasn’t holding on to me, I’d fall over. I think maybe I wore the wrong shoes. The whole time, the guy just keeps snapping pictures, and he says, Who’s your friend, Tommy? Tommy puts his hand up and shoves him hard in the chest. “Fucking space, man!” he yells. “Fuck! I am always cool with you guys, but give me my goddamn space!” And the tone of his voice makes the muscles at the back of my neck tighten. The tone of his voice makes me want to curl up in a ball.

  • • •

  My phone rings just as I’m getting in the car, and the photo that comes up is the same as Phillip’s profile from his clinic’s staff page. Tommy leans over to look. “Is this the guy?”

  I wave him off and pick up, and he mumbles, “Jesu
s, you’re answering it?”

  I just roll my eyes and say, “Hi!”

  “Land safely?” Phillip says. Like he doesn’t already know this. Like I didn’t text him when I saw Tommy outside the security area, Just grabbing my bags. Call me in 20?

  “I did,” I say. “I just got in.” I use my brightest voice, and Tommy wrinkles his brow like, Who are you? He pulls out into the line of cars leaving the airport.

  “That was fast,” Phillip says. “You must not have had a layover.”

  “No,” I say. “They flew me direct. They’re really very good to me.” I smile at Tommy when I say this, and he mouths, Fuck you.

  “Are you staying downtown? I know a few great spots you might like.”

  “No, um, I’m staying, uh, with one of the producers, actually.”

  Tommy throws his hands up and mutters something under his breath. I make a face at him and mouth, Shut up.

  “Oh, okay.” Phillip seems to be searching for something to say. “Well, have a great time, and call me if you have a few minutes free.”

  “I will, yeah.” And I reach across and slap Tommy on the arm because now he’s mimicking me.

  “I’ll be thinking about you,” Phillip says, and I say, “Yeah, me too,” and then we’re both kind of quiet, and it feels really weird and not at all worth it, so I make a quick excuse and hang up the phone.

  Tommy pulls out of the airport and into traffic. He just shakes his head, cocks his chin forward. His jaw looks tight. “That,” he says, “was ridiculous.”

  “Whatever.” I turn my head away from him and look out the window.

  “I can’t believe you took his call. You know I don’t take calls in front of you.”

  “Because Daniel doesn’t put them through. You can hardly take credit for that.” I turn back to face him, smile. “And you know I always take your calls too.”

  He glances at me, then back at the road. “I think it’s in your best interest not to remind me of that little incident.” From the expression on his face, I feel like this is probably true.