What We Leave Behind

by Weinstein, Rochelle B.

  “No, it wasn’t.”

  The waitress brought Marty‘s food and another round of shots. I didn’t have to be coaxed into it. He raised his glass to mine, and we toasted to fidelity.

  “Jonas Levy, the first boy you ever loved. Hard to believe.”

  He said boy like we were in the eleventh grade, but it didn’t matter because I was already there. It was like being on automatic pilot. A gear switched, and I was catapulted through time. I could only nod.

  “Are you feeling okay?” he asked. “Why don’t you have some chips or something to absorb the alcohol?” I’d become ravenous, as if my body knew that it was about to become depleted of vital nutrients. When the waiter approached, I ordered nachos loaded with cheese, sour cream, and extra jalapenos.

  “And there’s been no one since? How long ago was that?” He looked repulsed.

  “Six years,” I said, knowing the number by heart.

  “That’s a long time to be living without love, without letting anybody close.”

  I brushed it off. I’d been living without love long before that, long before Jonas.

  “I thought I’d never get over it, but I did, and you’re wrong, I’m not still pining over him.”

  That’s when the tequila kicked in, speaking on my behalf. “We don’t always leave someone we love, or forget them, or get over them all at once. Every time they hurt us and every time we cry, we’re saying a partial good-bye until the person is eventually gone. Believe me, I’m much better off now.”

  “Adam never said anything. He must have meant a lot to you.”

  “Hasn’t anyone ever broken your heart?” I asked.

  Marty leaned forward, hands clasped. “People have never broken my heart, Jess. Films and songs, now they’ve broken my heart. Sometimes their words, their plots, leave me as flustered as a person might leave others. I don’t think I’ve ever allowed myself to love someone the way I love my work.”

  “There’s something sad about that.”

  “Yours is sad. Mine has been a lively road marked by great triumphs. I don’t just create and watch films with my eyes and ears. I observe and listen with what’s in my heart. I’ve experienced grief. I’ve felt pain. I’ve known loss and betrayal, and on the upside, I’ve felt great joy and even love.”

  “But you’ve experienced all of that alone. Those are the types of emotions we’re supposed to share with other people, the kind that connect us.”

  “I guess I never had a relationship with anyone that made me feel all that. If I had, I might have been encouraged to make it last.” I savored this about him, and then he said, “All the guys in the office have crushes on you.”

  “You’re just trying to make me feel better.”

  “It’s true. I told them you’re off limits.”

  “You’ve really become my knight in shining armor, haven’t you?”

  “Isn’t that what every girl wants?”

  The fourth tequila shot landed in front of me. “I used to think that was what I wanted,” I started, but I didn’t finish. I’d seen how far away I can be carried.

  The plate of nachos arrived, and I realized how nicely the cheese and the sour cream could coat my belly. I was ready for the next shot. Marty’s eyes were red and still a beautiful blue. He wasn’t outwardly drunk, but there was a definite loss in gross motor skills, and his guard was down—the way he was casually flirting with me and making me feel beautiful. I didn’t even try to pretend that I wasn’t charmed by him.

  We talked about men and women and relationships, and although I’d had a very limited amount of exposure to the jerks that women complained about, I still had to agree with Marty that most of the time, women could be tough, scheming, and spiteful. If the men were guilty of anything, it was weakness, but the women, they could be utterly daunting.

  “There was a love,” he blurted out.

  “She must have hurt you real bad. It only took five tequilas to unrepress her from your past.”

  “Her name was Michaela. She was South African, a model, and we were seventeen and mad for each other. I thought I was going to marry her, and then she went away for a shoot, and I, being the quintessential bastard, ended up in bed with one of her best friends.”

  “You piece of shit,” I said.

  “It’s not what you think. She played games, all the time, loving me one minute, keeping me at arm’s length the next. She was painfully insecure. I think she pushed me away to protect herself. There were rumors she’d slept with one of the photographers on a shoot.”

  “But her best friend?”

  “I had to do something to get a rise out of her.”

  “And presumably yourself.”

  “She didn’t talk to me for years. She’d forgotten her participation in our demise.”

  He reached for my nachos. I watched as he rolled a black olive against his tongue. “And then she fell in love, this time for real, and we’ve been close friends ever since.”

  “How come you don’t drag her to your Sunday movie break-up club?”

  “She lives in South Africa. Gave up modeling, has three kids, lives on a farm or something,” he laughed. “I thought you enjoyed our movie dates.”

  “I never thought of them as dates.”

  “Semantics.”

  “No, it’s okay,” I slurred, putting my hand on the table close to his. “You’ve been amazing. I don’t have many friends, and you’ve become one…” I didn’t go on because the words forming in my head weren’t for Marty, my boss, but for the man sitting across from me, the one who had me tiptoeing closer to possibility. Marty was giving me something, call it relationship, friendship, whatever it was. The seed was being planted, and it didn’t have to be hidden from the world or even from ourselves. Opportunity was before me, and I was allowing it in. Or maybe it was the tequila. God, I was feeling horny.

  The emotions mixed with the shots, and as though he was watching a movie, Marty watched my face change. How the things he made me feel took over and frightened me. “I’ve never had this effect on a woman before,” he said. “Usually they’re ecstatic to be around me, and the last thing they want is to be my friend.” He said this with such a straight face it made me chuckle.

  “Laughter. That’s good. I want you to be happy when you’re with me.”

  “What’s with you guys?” I asked. “Does a little vulnerability scare you?”

  “Only when I’m feeling a little vulnerable myself,” he said, which made me think twice about my next sarcastic reply. “I didn’t mean to pry about your past,” he went on. “Your sadness makes you who you are today. I’m enjoying that person, and I want to know her more and understand her better. The last thing I want is to be the person who makes you sad. So let’s leave the past where it belongs and concentrate on other things like tequila and glass slippers and fidelity and maybe,” he teased, “making out a little.”

  He was right there in front of me. My lips could have reached his and let him inside. I felt out of control. Fortunately, the Mexicans intervened, arriving at our table for a mariachi session. I listened to the music, but my thoughts were swelling. When the trio finished, Marty handed them a nice wad of bills, and I observed him. This was a different type of man—secure, honest, candid, a breed of man that came with age, experience, and no false pretenses. He was himself, not a pretender.

  “You never fell in love after Michaela?”

  “Oh, I fell in love with hundreds of women. They just didn’t last very long.”

  “Why doesn’t that surprise me?”

  “You make me sound like some animal.”

  “Aren’t you?”

  “We’re all innately animals,” he said.

  “Some of us.”

  “I just never found the right one,” he confessed. “If the relationship was good, the sex was bad, the sex hot, the conversation cold. I have strict criteria.”

  “Hot, voluptuous, with a penchant for music?”

  “That’s what you think of me
?” he asked, almost sadly. “You’re just saying that because you know exactly what my type is, and it scares you.”

  We were officially hammered. I knew this because when my eyes met his, the room around me began to spin.

  “I don’t know what I think of you,” I said, finding my voice. “You’re forthright and mysterious. It’s a contradiction.”

  “What are we doing here?” he stopped me, unexpectedly.

  “What do you mean?”

  “What are we doing? What are we really talking about here?”

  I was silent. I’d never been with someone so direct before. My adrenaline was pumping, and with each impulse, my body was becoming more and more alive.

  “Tell me why I’m a contradiction.”

  “You’re this cool, detached womanizer. You crave the wild, crazy nights, the women, the booze, possibly the drugs, but I think you’re just waiting for the next Michaela, the woman who will steal your heart away.”

  “And you think that might be you?”

  I didn’t want the tequila to speak on my behalf, but against my better judgment, my mouth opened, and “I never said that” shot out.

  “I’m serious,” he said, searching my eyes.

  “No, you’re not,” I refuted. “That’s just the tequila talking.”

  His words stopped me from reaching for my glass.

  “I like you, Jessica.”

  “I like you too, Marty.”

  He repeated it again. “And if I have to, I’ll find you a job at another company so I can be with you, but I’m selfish and I don’t want to lose my best employee.”

  “You’ll chew me up and spit me out in less than two months, and then I’ll have no job.”

  “Two months?” he asked. “I’ll take it.”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “I know what you meant,” he said. “It’s hard for you to admit it, but you like me.”

  I looked up at him. Did I really need to respond to that?

  “Maybe you’re not used to men like me,” he said. “I don’t play games. If that’s what you’re looking for, I’m not it.”

  This was what I’d wished for and avoided for years, my heart skipping multiple beats, my judgment clouded. I was on a cliff about to jump off, the feeling that I couldn’t breathe, the drama, the longing, and all the other terrible things that got me into trouble in the first place hovering around me.

  “Would you be opposed to going on a date with me?” he asked. “And just so we’re clear, a real date, not as friends, not as your boss, not because I’m paying you, but because you want to be there.”

  He was challenging all my existing pretenses. I couldn’t comprehend that we could just come together so easily. It didn’t fit into the schema I’d invented in my head. Love was supposed to be a struggle, dramatic and leaving you wanting for more. Love wasn’t supposed to be so simple. ‘Cause then it wouldn’t make sense when it got to the part when someone leaves.

  “My chatterbox has suddenly gone mute. What’s wrong with you, Jess? What are you so afraid of?”

  “I think I’m helplessly drunk,” I garbled.

  “Think about it. I think we’d be good together.”

  “You make it sound like a business proposition.”

  “I’d never be this forthcoming in business.”

  This was a sobering moment for me. His hands had found mine on the table, and he was touching them. His fingers were soft; they were strong; they were heating up my entire body. “Do you want to get out of here?” he asked. It was an invitation and a question all rolled into one. “I already called Julio. The car will be waiting for us out front.”

  I stood up, because to say yes was admitting how impossible it was for me to say no to him. Grabbing me by the arm, he led me out of the restaurant. Julio was there, as promised, opening the door first for me, and then holding it for Marty, who took the seat beside me. The sun glared in my eyes, and I squinted from the brightness. I was trapped in my head, replaying the conversation again and again.

  We didn’t speak as the car drove up the hill toward Los Angeles. The sun was beginning to set and I wished for darkness. Marty reached for my hand, and I allowed his warm, caring fingers to encircle mine. Happy, scared, and caught up, I was a combination of many dangerous sensations.

  Julio was driving well above the speed limit, and I felt something unpleasant filling my throat.

  “I think I’m going to throw up.”

  “No, you’re not,” he said to me reassuringly. “You’ll be fine. Here, put your head on my shoulder.”

  I rested my head there where he said, our bodies cozied up to one another across the backseat. I swore to myself I wouldn’t get sick. Partly because he sounded so convincing, I didn’t want to disappoint him, and partly because I didn’t want this to be the way he remembered the night.

  “Make this louder,” I heard Marty say to Julio. I grasped onto the tune, the lyrics a rope that grounded me, restraining me with its words. It was a Tesla song. I could tell any song in three notes or less, even when I was drunk, and Tesla was easy with the shrill of their distinct voices. Marty had a penchant for rock bands. It had something to do with this long-haired phase he went through. He was into the rhythm and the noise, and although I enjoyed the music, I was a word girl. In business, I could pick a tune better than anyone, but when I was home alone and flipping the stations and listening to demos and there were no pressures to enlist a song to a particular movie, I was all about the words. Words always told a story.

  Tesla was singing to me tonight. It always happened that way, it seemed, but then again, there are statistically more songs about love than any other subject on the radio, which means if you’re a love junkie, it’s not hard to find one that mimics your life.

  “Did you hear that, pretty darlin’?” He was stroking my hair. My shoulders were sinking into his chest. His arm was wrapped around me. I was falling.

  I nodded, because if I opened my mouth, more than just a word would come out.

  Being there on Marty’s shoulder, how could I describe it? If I wanted it, I knew he could take care of me forever. This caused me to hyperventilate. Breathe, I said to myself, breathe. I knew if I could just take breaths, I’d be okay. And when I did, the air filled my lungs and bits of Marty were sneaking in. They were the masculine scents, the mix of sweat, cologne, booze, and a cigarette that would remind me of him when I smelled him on my clothes days later.

  I must have fallen asleep, because my eyes opened, and we were in front of my apartment in Santa Monica.

  “Here, let me help you out,” he said, lifting me up, careful not to let my skirt rise past my thigh. His hand reached inside my bag for the keys, and in one fluid motion, he was inside my apartment; thankfully, my roommates were nowhere to be found.

  I pointed to the bedroom, where he laid me on my bed. “Do you want some water? Coffee?” he asked.

  “I’m fine.” I looked at the clock. It was either 8:13 or 8:33. I did need to get a new clock.

  “You don’t have to come in tomorrow if you’re not up to it.”

  “Have faith,” I heard myself say.

  He was sitting on the edge of my bed, Marty, in his sexy jeans, white oxford, bloodshot blue eyes. The room seemed smaller. “I’m gonna go now,” he whispered.

  “Don’t,” I said, leaning in closer, “Stay.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Don’t ask me that, or I’ll change my mind.”

  He got up, and I heard the front door open and close. I was glad I didn’t have to see Julio’s face when he told him he was staying. When he returned, he handed me a glass of water and then went into my bathroom in search of some Tylenol.

  “Take these. You’ll feel a lot better.”

  “Please tell me you didn’t go into my medicine cabinet.”

  He laughed. “Nothing I haven’t seen before.”

  He sat beside me taking my hand into his, touching each finger. “The alcohol hasn’t spoile
d your judgment, I hope.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t know why it was so easy to give myself to someone who only wanted part of me. Here you are, everything a girl could want, and I’m struggling with letting you in, letting you close.”

  He watched me and didn’t say a word. He squeezed my hand even harder. That’s how I knew what he was thinking, by the strong, careful grip of his hand.

  “You make me want to be that person,” I continued. “That person you think I am, that person who’s like you, in search of that one great love, but I don’t know if I’m her. I’m scared.”

  He moved toward me in slow motion, or it just seemed like that because I was in sluggish, tequila time. He gathered me in his arms and hugged me. It wasn’t sexual. It wasn’t friendly either. It was meaningful and kind, and I knew I wanted to hug him back, really, really hug him back. We sat like that for a few minutes. He, stroking my hair, rocking me in his arms; me, lapping it up like a lovesick puppy.

  He pulled away first, brushing my cheek with his palm. I leaned into him, feeling the smoothness of his fingers across my face. I wanted to curl my whole body into his hand.

  “I want you to trust me,” he said, just as a barrage of thunder resounded throughout the room. Within twenty seconds, it was pouring rain, the hammering sounds drowning out the swelling in my heart.

  I nodded, resting my head against his hand, listening to the swells accumulate outside my window, wanting to tell him more.

  “Trust hasn’t always come easy to me,” I said. “Not when I lost my father at such a young age.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “That explains a lot.”

  “It was eighteen years ago.”

  “That’s a tough thing for any kid to deal with.”

  “He was leaving work early to be home for birthday cake. It was a perfectly beautiful June day. I was playing in the yard when clouds had hovered overhead and a stretch of rain was ready to unleash itself from the sky. It wasn’t ominous at the time, but when I think back to that afternoon, there was something chilling about the way the wind swept in, hugging my hair and neck, wrapping itself around my dress and shoes.