Emmaline Waters, This Is Your Life

by Maggie Bloom

  “I don’t have to,” he explains. “I’m not some kind of sex deviant or whatever. But when an opportunity presents itself . . . And you weren’t into it yet, which was cool and everything, but you can’t expect a guy to wait forever.”

  Gee, why didn’t I think of that? “So you’ve been sleeping with other people all along?” I ask, feeling rather indignant, even though I’ve done the same thing to him, albeit (presumably) on a smaller scale.

  “It’s nothing to get upset over,” he says, hanging a disgusting paw over my shoulder.

  I slip out of his grasp and head down the hall. “You know what?” I say as he trails me into the master suite. “Forget it. I’d rather not talk about this right now.”

  He scopes out the bed. “So you just wanna do it?”

  For the record, I do not want to “do it” with him. Not now, not ever. “Sure. Yeah,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady and upbeat. “Why don’t you get in the shower, and I’ll join you in a few minutes?” I put on an encouraging smile.

  And he falls for it! “All right,” he says, untying his apron. “You’re on.” He turns and stalks off for the master bath.

  As sick as this sounds, I think about following through on the deal for one last soaking in his gigantic, super-jet-powered shower—not to mention to give him a taste of what he’ll be missing once I justifiably kick him to the curb.

  But I can’t bring myself to stoop so low. Instead, I rummage through the closet for my junky old college suitcase, stuff it with a few must-have possessions, and prepare to put this unfortunate chapter of my life behind me.

  Not before I do one last thing, though.

  I peek around the corner to confirm that he is, in fact, sudsing up in anticipation of our humpfest. (He is.) Then I fish the trademark-blue Tiffany box out of the dresser and leave it open on the bed, the diamond ring sparkling in the glow of a thousand track lights. Beside the ring, I place a hastily scrawled note that reads: THANKS, BUT NO THANKS.

  On my way out, I grab the cat.

  Chapter 23

  There’s nothing more demoralizing than landing on your parents’ doorstep in the middle of the night, after driving aimlessly around the city for hours trying to analyze your wretched life. I mean, if I could only figure out where I went wrong, at least I could make new mistakes next time around. . . .

  “It’s up to you,” says Mom, her eyes like slits, her voice gravelly with sleep. “The living room floor or Angie’s trundle. We weren’t expecting you, and the couch cushions are at the dry cleaner’s.”

  I stand corrected.

  At this point, I’m just glad she woke up to let me in before one of the neighbors either a) sicced their Rottweiler on me or b) alerted the police to my aggressive doorbell ringing.

  “I’ll take the trundle,” I moan.

  Luckily, Mom is too exhausted to bother grilling me tonight. Instead, she flips the hallway light on, pushes Angie’s bedroom door ajar, and pads off for some much-needed shuteye.

  I roll my luggage to a stop at the foot of Angie’s bed and sigh.

  * * *

  “We can’t have a cat,” Mom tells me the next morning over breakfast. “Your father’s allergic.”

  I grimace. “Since when?”

  She shushes me, as if Dad might come charging out of the bathroom and insert himself in our disagreement. “I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to return it to Trent. Honestly, I don’t know what he was thinking in the first place giving—”

  “But I love him,” Angie interjects, the kitten cradled in her lap.

  Mom huffs. “See? Look what you’ve done.”

  “I’m gonna get a new place right away,” I proclaim, though this “new place” might bear a striking resemblance to a cardboard box. “The cat can live with me.”

  “No, he can’t!” Angie wails, squeezing the poor ball of fur to her chest. “I love him, and he’s mine! And he’s gotta stay with me!”

  “Let me see her,” I say, hoping to pry the cat from Angie’s grip without triggering an international incident. “Just for a minute, okay?”

  She thrusts her lip out and shakes her head.

  “Please,” I say in the most sugary tone I can stomach.

  The head shaking continues.

  “What if I let you name her?” I ask. “And visit her whenever you want? You could be, like, her number one babysitter. Wouldn’t that be fun?”

  My daughter is no dummy. “But if she lives here”—see, she’s even picked up on the kitten’s sex and switched pronouns—“I’ll see her always. All the time.”

  This logic is hard to argue with, so I try another tack. “That’s right,” I say. “But taking care of a cat is a lot of work. If you keep her”—Mom shoots me an acidic glare—“if you keep her, you’ll be too busy for lots of other fun stuff, like going to the park, and visiting Aunt GiGi, and playing with Xander, and ice skating. . . .”

  Her grip on the cat loosens. “I love ice skating.”

  “Me too. We had fun, didn’t we?”

  She nods. “Your friend is nice.”

  My mouth goes dry. “Yes, he is,” I say. “Maybe we can talk him into skating again soon, as long as you don’t have to stay home and take care of the kitty.” I smile and hold out my hands and, reluctantly, she turns the cat over. “So what should we name her?”

  She bites her lip and glances at the ceiling. After a few seconds of thinking, she suggests, “Snowball?”

  I wholeheartedly agree.

  * * *

  Since the train wreck formerly known as Trent, I am attempting to reevaluate my priorities—or at least nail them down to actionable goals, before my life unravels completely. To this end, I’ll be working the following plan for the foreseeable future:

  Pay Mom and Dad rent for allowing me and Snowball to bunk in Angie’s room—thank God, they caved!—until I can find a rental in my price range (yeah, right!) that allows cats.

  Accept Sharon Fleming’s offer to pimp me out as a relationship guru.

  Pick up some shifts at The Crowbar, as Jimmy suggested, so I can cover my horrendous debt load and also eat.

  Figure out what is going on between me and Mark. Is he into me? Am I into him? (Obviously, yes!) I mean, inquiring minds want to know.

  Finally, finally tell Angie the truth, no matter how hard it may be. (With any luck, Mark will be holding my hand the whole way.)

  I circle and boldly underline my Life Plan, which I’ve scribbled on a legal pad in my cubby at The Times in lieu of editing my most recent column, a lukewarm review of a Japanese steakhouse by the airport.

  Why hasn’t Trent called? I wonder. Even though I’m disgusted with him, I was sort of looking forward to his dejected groveling. Sadly, it wasn’t meant to be, I guess.

  Or was it?

  Since I replaced my phone, I’ve been getting so many unsolicited text messages—whoever had this number before me must’ve been a shopping addict who tracked department store sales via text alerts—that I sometimes go a whole day without checking them, just to spare my brain the stress of weeding through so much useless garbage. Maybe Trent’s gushing apologies have drowned in the flood.

  I decide to look, even though the move is lame. And after a few moments of intense skimming, I net a solitary post-breakup communiqué that reads:

  YOU LEFT YOUR PILLOWS.

  SENDING THEM FEDEX.

  He must be referring to the throw pillows I bought to spruce up his living room, though I don’t know why he’s zeroed in on those when I’ve abandoned a number of other possessions too. Regardless, I will accept the pillows and move on.

  I delete the text.

  Whew, that felt good! Now to rid myself of the other, oh, seventy or so annoying intrusions on my digital life. I get through roughly twenty of the messages before spotting a burst of a dozen consecutive texts from the same number, a number I recognize as belonging to the weirdo who called to warn me off Mark.

  Great. What the hell could these be about? A s
mart person would delete them without looking, but . . .

  MESSAGE #1

  ARE YOU DEAF OR STUPID?

  This lovely sentiment, I assume, is in response to the fact that I have not followed the caller’s advice (read: threat) and kept my distance from the father of my child. (Also, I assume that the caller—now messenger—has run out of lithium and is awaiting a refill from the pharmacy.)

  MESSAGE #2

  HE’S USING YOU. JUST SO YOU KNOW.

  Um, this one gets under my skin a bit more, because technically it could be true. Although Mark has been a willing co-parent and a voracious sex partner, he has yet to propose any sort of romantic entanglement.

  Should I go on, or will the messages just get more bizarre? I’m a glutton for punishment, it appears. . . .

  MESSAGE #3

  YOU SHOULD REPLACE THAT UGLY PUSH-UP BRA. IT’S FALLING APART.

  Okay, now I’m freaked out. How the hell does this nutjob know about my unmentionables?! (And how dare she mention them?!)

  That’s it. I’m done reading. Whatever else this freak has to say can be expressed through an attorney in a court of law. Until then, she—whoever she is—does not exist. Of course, I should probably turn these gems over to the police, on the chance that this woman is actually dangerous. If she contacts me again, I vow, I’ll do something about it. Otherwise, I’ll bury my head in the sand and pray not to suffocate.

  Chapter 24

  I emptied my bank account to pay Mom and Dad a month’s rent, leaving me sixty-two dollars to my name until I either 1) rake in some sweet tips (I called Jimmy, and he put me on the schedule tonight at The Crowbar) or 2) get my next paycheck from The Times, which will be for the same paltry amount as ever, Sharon Fleming suddenly in no hurry to campaign for my promotion—if at all.

  Ten feet away from The Crowbar, I get a stomach-churning déjà vu feeling that stops me in my tracks. Can I really do this? Can I, a self-respecting (sometimes, anyway) college graduate and up-and-coming journalist, sink so low as to mix drinks for the huddled masses in exchange for whatever meager crumbs of compensation they deign to flick my way?

  Yes, I can. And I will do it with a smile. A smile that is painted on my face when I breeze into the bar, Jimmy’s head snapping around at the sight of me. “Woo-hoo, she’s back!” he exclaims with a big, fat teasing grin.

  I take a goofy bow and, deadpan, say, “Hell hath frozen over.” I scan the bar. “This place looks about the same, though.”

  He shrugs. “I like to keep it consistent for the regulars.”

  “The regular dust mites, you mean?” I ask, running a finger along the edge of the bar. “You should get someone to clean this.”

  “Hello, Someone.”

  Our jabbing repartee continues until a gorgeous, young blonde—who, I can’t help noticing, is clad in The Crowbar’s apron of choice—whips in between us. “Two Buds and a Corona,” she barks at Jimmy, sliding a damp serving tray across the bar. “I’m cutting that dipshit in the farmer pants”—she means overalls, I realize, following her spiky glare—“off after this. If he gives me any shit, it’s on you.”

  “Gee, thanks,” says Jimmy. “My favorite.” He fills the beer order, and the blonde goes back to work.

  “Is that my replacement?” I ask.

  “Chloe?” He chuckles. “She’s all right. Her Dad does the grounds at Fenway. You’ve probably seen him in here before: big guy, red hair, hilarious. Name’s Rick. Or Rob. Something like that.”

  This ancestry lesson is fascinating, but . . . “Has anything changed around here that I should know about?” I ask, slipping past him for the back of the bar. I rummage through a battered cardboard box for a spare apron, which I might as well wear to match Chloe.

  Jimmy twists his lips. “Kayla’s pregnant again.”

  Not what I meant. “Wow, congrats,” I say, feeling gladder than ever that Jimmy and I didn’t sleep together. “Four kids, huh? That’s crazy.”

  “Yeah, a little.”

  “Boy or girl?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine,” he says, glancing at the clock. I know from experience that he’ll be rushing out of here within the next five minutes, so Kayla can make her night class at MassBay. “I’m hoping for a boy, though.”

  We have a friendly argument over the merits of sons versus daughters, which ends in our agreeing to disagree. Then, right on cue, he heads out the door.

  I spend the next two hours refamiliarizing myself with bartending—it’s amazing how fast I’ve forgotten how to shake up a Cosmopolitan or garnish a Bloody Mary—and getting to know Chloe, who turns out to be as sweet as she is snarky. (In fact, for the first time in a while, I’m feeling like I’ve met a kindred spirit, most of my high school and college friends having fallen by the wayside.)

  And just when I’m getting the hang of things again . . .

  In flits Dominique, the otherworldly manager of The Olive Branch, her hair a tornado of black silk, her skin as dewy as a tropical beach after a rainstorm. If it’s possible (and it shouldn’t be, in my opinion) she’s even more beautiful than before. She slides into a corner booth, pulls a compact out of her purse—which appears to be designer, like everything else about her—and applies a fresh coat of glossy red lipstick to her unnaturally plump lips.

  For no reason whatsoever, I want to pour a drink over her head. (Am I really so immature? And jealous? I mean, so what if the father of my child has to spend twelve hours a day in the presence of such a physically blessed female specimen?)

  The good news is that I’m not flying solo, meaning Chloe is in charge of taking The Goddess’s drink order (though I will be filling it). I watch with morbid fascination as Dominique turns the laminated drink menu over (and over and over again), her indecision emphasized by the puckering of her perfectly arched eyebrows.

  Chloe leans into Dominique’s orbit and points out a few contenders for Nectar of the Gods. In response, Dominique says something requiring a hair flip and a dismissive wave of her hand. (How I wish I had supersonic hearing right now!)

  “What was that all about?” I ask, feigning disinterest as Chloe sidles back up to the bar.

  She rolls her eyes. “She wanted a French Sunrise; I told her it wasn’t on the menu. Can you make a Pink Margarita, though? And a Jack and Coke for her fiancé?”

  Fiancé? Dominique is engaged? Something inside me breathes a sigh of relief; she’s not interested in Mark, after all.

  “Coming right up.” I mix the drinks, and Chloe delivers them to a still-stag Dominique. During the ensuing lull, I steal away to the restroom. When I return, my eyes are assaulted by the stuff of nightmares. . . .

  Kitty-corner to Dominique in that cozy booth sits Mark, looking relaxed and happy with the Jack and Coke clutched in his big, strong hand (a hand that has done unspeakable things to me!).

  Fiancé?

  Fiancé?

  FIANCÉ?

  I think I’m going to vomit. Scratch that. I know I’m going to vomit. But first I have to stop hyperventilating.

  Chloe notices my distress—what gave it away, the blood draining from my face or the beads of sweat pooling on my forehead?—and asks, “Are you okay?”

  Um, no.

  “Sorry, but . . .” I say, my knees threatening to buckle. “I’ve gotta . . .” Without further ado, I rush for the backroom—specifically, to Kayla’s smidge of an office, which rivals my cubby at The Times. Once I’ve barricaded the door, I give myself permission to totally lose it. I mean, I could scream bloody murder in here and no one would know. Or kick a hole through the wall (but then I’d have to reimburse Jimmy for the damage). Maybe I should clear a spot on the disheveled desk and bash my head repeatedly.

  With a defeated sigh, I plunk down on a rolling chair, causing it to lurch backward into a dusty coat rack, which promptly tips over and knocks me on the temple.

  Mission accomplished.

  I shove the coat rack against a mountain of boxes, drop my face in my hands, and begin to cry
. Why would Mark do this to me? I think. How can I ever trust him again around Angie?

  Obviously, I can’t. Because he’s untrustworthy. Not that he owes me an explanation. (He doesn’t.) I just wish he’d had the decency to 1) tell me he was in a serious, committed relationship with an exotic Siren and 2) refrain from seducing me when he had no intention of making our relationship official.

  A round of loud banging on the door ends my pity party. “Hey, Em, what’s going on?” Chloe’s concerned voice asks. “I need you out here.”

  I ram enough boxes aside to open the door a crack. “I don’t feel good,” I say, peeking out at her. “Can’t you handle things?”

  “Not really.” She huffs. “I’m the waitress, not the bartender. You want me to call Jimmy back in?”

  The sad truth is, I can’t afford to lose the tips I might make tonight, let alone risk Jimmy rethinking my comeback. I wipe my dripping nose on the shoulder of my shirt (gross, I know) and say, “Gimme a minute. I’ll be right out.”

  Even though the sight of Mark and Dominique gives me the feeling of maggots breeding in my stomach, I keep my word and resume my post behind the bar. And, for a while, I’m able to force my eyes to remain unfocused enough—I mean, the lighting in The Crowbar is pretty dim to start with, so it’s not that big a feat—to pretend that the lovebirds are any other random couple of no consequence to me. But then Dominique breezes past me for the restroom, and all bets are off.

  I have no idea what I’m going to say when I storm up to Mark’s table, but that doesn’t stop me from doing it. (Hell, it doesn’t even slow me down!) “You lied to me,” I say, planting my hands on my hips as I halt in front of him.

  “Emmaline? What are you doing here?”

  I gesture at the apron. “I’ll let you figure it out, Don Juan.” If he hasn’t noticed my acid tongue yet, he’s sure to pick up on it now.

  “You work here?”