I Love My Side of the Story

by Sabrina Lacey

  Tearing my eyes away from the past, I fold the empty reusable bags and tuck them under the sink. Even though he’s right over there, I feel lonely. How did we get here? I look to the garbage. It’s past its due date. “The garbage is starting to smell, honey.”

  “Yeah, it is,” he mumbles.

  Yeah… it is? Awesome. Alright, fine. They say if you can beat him, join him, right? Maybe I can reach through to him by feigning interest in the stupid news, which I hate with every fiber of my being because it’s so incredibly depressing. “You reading anything interesting?”

  He looks up, surprised and I smile for the attention. I have to admit, he’s very cute; soft dark brown hair cut shorter now, green eyes, strong chin inherited from his father’s side. I am very much in love with him, regardless of our current state. He makes my heart skip and my stomach flip when he looks at me sometimes. This is one of those times.

  “On the news?” he asks.

  My smile grows wider. “Yeah,” I say, thinking maybe I’ll get a little action tonight. That’d be a nice change. I lean my hip on the counter in an attempt to look seductive and aloof. While smiling.

  “Are you serious? It’s everything that’s going on in the world, Amber. Of course it’s interesting. What’s happening in Egypt is terrifying. Unemployment in America is ridiculous. Our government is insane. It’s not exactly shopping, but it’s pretty interesting.”

  Ouch. Ouch. Ouch.

  Not so cute anymore. Fucker.

  I lean deeper onto the counter in discouragement as that stomach flip turns into an ache. “Sorry for interrupting.”

  He turns away and shakes his head like he’s dealing with a moron. He’s right. I am a moron because what have I been doing for weeks now? Nothing. Have I been speaking up, other than the hints I think I constantly give? Nope. Has he been reciprocating anything at all, what so ever? Nope. Amber… what are you waiting for, I ask myself. The answer slams into my consciousness with a strength that is shocking.

  I walk to where I left the bag of Gala apples on the built-in island that separates us. I rest my hands on the counter beside the plastic bag, my fingers very close to a shiny red apple with his name on it. I brace myself to give him one last chance, and ask steadily, “Honey. Wanna do something tonight?”

  He doesn’t look up as I tear open the bag, pull one out, small and perfect, and listen to his response with it bouncing in my hand. “I’m beat, babe. I wanna watch television tonight.”

  Huh. You want to watch television tonight? Of course you do. This apple has a good weight to it. I was pretty good at softball when I was in middle school. I hated playing it. I wanted to be a ballerina but my dad said, only sissies dance on their toes. He’d wanted a boy and I wouldn’t dare disappoint him again by not acting like one, so softball it was. Looks like it’s going to serve me after all.

  I gauge the distance. I can nail him easily, despite lack of recent practice. Maybe fury and disillusionment helps one’s aim?

  “You sure, honey?” I ask, smiling.

  Annoyed, he mumbles into his laptop, “Yep.”

  “That’s what I thought.” I reach my right arm back, get some strength and balance behind my throw. Then I take focus, aim, and let it rip.

  The apple misses Josh completely and hits the computer, knocks it right off his lap!

  He turns to me, amazed, mouth wide open. “WHAT THE FUCK!”

  I purse my lips, shrug and say, “That’s what I think of your fucking laptop, honey. I’m through. I’m done. DONE.” I pick up my bag from the counter; flounce out of the kitchen and into the hallway. Do I look back? Hell no. I grab a coat that’s waiting quietly on the hook, throw it over my arm and I’m out the door.

  “AMBER!” he calls but the sound is muffled as I run down the stairs.

  I don’t have to take this shit. I’m done.

  Seconds Later – Outside

  Walking fast, I turn a corner and hide in the inset doorway of a looming apartment building. Chest heaving, I marvel at what I just did; an apple for an Apple - what poetic justice! I meant to hit Josh, not his computer, but …meh…I’ll take it.

  My phone will start ringing soon. Snatching it from my bag, I’m grateful I hadn’t yet plugged it into the kitchen wall, because there is no way I’d have remembered to grab it through this adrenalin rush. I might need it later. But not now. Frantically, I power it off to avoid the onslaught of his calls that’s sure to begin any second. I peek my head out to see if I’m being followed. Nothing. Taking a chance, my heart pounding so hard I can feel it in my eyeballs, I stuff the phone back into my bag and break out into a run; jacket in one flailing arm, bag in the other.

  I race as fast as I can, free, past countless faceless blurs; zipping around some, forcing others to jump or get trampled. Block after block I run until my legs are like noodles. Still I run, not knowing how to slow much less stop my velocity. My legs threaten to buckle. I’m out of options. I grab onto a light post, hard, slamming into it like a first-timer on roller blades who went down a steep hill with no skills for braking. Flushed, and aching, I close my eyes against the vertigo. After a dozen deep concentrated breaths, my head begins to clear and I can smell the pungent scent of garlic bread. I also hear whispering, and can feel I’m being watched. I open my eyes fast and sneak a panting look to my right. Patrons on the patio of a quaint Italian restaurant stare back at me, bewildered. Some even look annoyed. I let go of the light post, stand up straight. Shoving wild bunches of hair away from my face, I realize, I need my girlfriends.

  I say aloud to everyone and no one, “Nothing to see here. Go back to your lives,” and walk away, mortified. From the Italian flags hanging from buildings, I ascertain quickly that I’m in Little Italy. I have to get to The East Village, to Jessica’s. She’s the closest. We’ll call Nicole from there and she’ll come running to help. Thank God. The same thoughts spin over and over in my mind. Do I want to break up with Josh? Am I really done? Give up, for good? Truly, in my heart? I refuse to be one of those couples who live like roommates rather than lovers. I just can’t. I won’t. Something has got to change. My girls will know what to do. My tired legs press onward, moving me toward an unknown future I can’t stop thinking about.

  I’m surprised at how quickly I reach the East Village. I’m disoriented; time feels like hours and seconds have switched places with each other. As I get closer to her home, a memory of Jess showing up at my place after she found out David cheated, pops into my mind. I’m where she was, shattered and lost – my relationship over. I touch my cheeks to find out if I’m… yes, there are tears.

  I need my girlfriends.

  I break into a run, powered by fear. When I reach Jess’s building, I pull on the handle. It doesn’t budge. The lock was broken, wasn’t it? For like, ever? I yank on it again. Still nothing. And I realize, they’ve fixed the door, just like she’s fixed her life. I check the directory, push the buzzer for her place, and wait. Behind me, a crazy person passes, talking to herself. I see myself in her thinking, we’re all two steps from crazy, huh? Jess, where are you? I push the buzzer again. Nothing. Shit shit shit! I can’t call her. No fucking way am I turning on my phone.

  Through the door I see a man who looks like Super Mario in a suit, walking toward me. He opens the door. “Can I help you? I’m the manager. You have a friend in here?”

  I stammer, “My friend Jess… Jessica Harper. Seventh Floor. She isn’t answering the buzzer.”

  “She left with a new male friend awhile ago.”

  I stare at the sidewalk, not moving and remember, “Oh, of course. It’s Friday. I forgot.” I see a tear fall onto the pavement, and hurriedly wipe my cheek, embarrassed.

  He says, “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine.” I nod several times and sniff.

  He smiles kindly and says, “I remember you. You came with Jessica when she rented the apartment a few months ago. I’m Prizzi.”

  I don’t remember. “Oh right, of course. Good to see you again
.”

  “You want to come in and wait for her in the lobby?”

  I shake my head no. Waiting would be useless. She won’t come home until late, or maybe not at all. What would I do without my phone to keep me occupied… pull out my fingernails? “That’s okay. Thank you.”

  “Okay. Be safe now,” he says, hesitating to close the door behind me as I turn around. “Oh, miss?” I turn back, my face blank. “I remember you very well. I remember thinking, now that’s a strong young woman. Whatever it is you’re going through, you can handle it.”

  I blink, my mouth opens in surprise. I shut it. Pride pulls at my insides. “What a beautiful thing to say! Thank you.”

  “It’s gonna be okay,” he says, the wrinkles in his face spreading wide, a lined smiling frame around kind eyes.

  “Thank you, Mr. Uh…”

  “Prizzi,” he reminds me, gently.

  “Right. I’m sorry. Thank you, Mr. Prizzi. Thank you. Really.” My smile is more tentative than his, but it’s growing. I watch him shut the door and walk back up the hall.

  Facing the hustling electricity of Manhattan on a Friday night, I take a deep breath, let what he said sink in, and commit to myself that I will survive this heartbreak. I have my friends, right? I have a job I love, most of the time…right? If Josh doesn’t want to be with me, then screw him! I’ll give the place to him and move out – start fresh. I’ve been worrying about his ability to pay the bills on an actor’s fluctuating and unreliable salary; now I won’t have to. I make more money than he does, so I can do it without too much trouble. And I mean really - if he doesn’t want to make love to me, then he’s an idiot! The world is my oyster. I need a drink!

  It’s 64º out, but I hadn’t felt chilly until now. I slip my coat on and wonder how I’m going to get a hold of Nicole without using my phone. Prayer? Oh no! I forgot. She’s out on a first date with that ballsy, bartender guy. If I called her, I know she’d come. Same with Jessica. What should I do?

  I mutter aloud, “A hot night with a bartender sounds pretty fucking awesome right about now.” Some lady, early fifties, hears me and gives me a reproachful look. “You’re not getting laid, either! Don’t lie!” Off her look of annoyance, I yell to her back. “See? I knew it!”

  I’m yelling at strangers. What is wrong with me? I have to suck it up and turn on the phone – I need to call them. I pull out my phone; push the button to power it on. It pops open, and I see a powder puff and makeup. Why does my phone have… oh… Pulling out my real phone, I look at it and hesitate. Jessica and Nicole are in here, behind the darkness. But so is Josh and a million texts and voice mails. Or worse, what if there are no messages; what if he hasn’t called?

  My stomach flips and I shove the phone back into my bag, shaking my head. “I can’t. I can’t,” I mumble aloud.

  Looking up, I see an old couple, mid-seventies, dressed up for a night on the town, holding hands. The pace with which they walk, deliberate and steady, is in direct contrast to the frenetic youthful energy swarming past. As soon as I can’t see them anymore, I bounce around people to catch up. For three blocks I follow them as they talk to each other, saying things I can’t hear, things nobody in the world can hear, but them. When the crowd swallows them and takes them away from me, I stop and a sob catches in my throat. That’s what I want. What they have…

  “Are you sad?” I look down to see a little girl, maybe six years old, her black hair curling out from beneath a pink hat. “Why are you sad?”

  “Kayla! Leave her alone,” the mother calls from where she’s zipping up the younger brother’s jacket. He struggles against her, tugging.

  “But mommy, she’s sad!” Kayla calls back from behind open innocence. “Why?” she asks again.

  I wipe my cheeks. “Um… I’m sad because I want something I don’t have.”

  She shrugs with all of her body, the way only children can, and says, “Then go get it!”

  “I’m sorry. She’s very strong-willed. Kayla, come here! I have to catch Dylan!” her mom says, chasing the little guy who’s made a run for it.

  “Bye!” Kayla says, and takes off after her family.

  “Bye Kayla!” I call out loud enough for her to hear. She waves, not looking back, the back of her hand tiny with nails polished matching pink.

  Then go get it. If it were only that easy, Kayla. Wait until you start dating.

  Where am I? I look around. This looks familiar. I look up to find the bar Nicole and I were at last Saturday, the night Jess introduced us to her new guy. The heavy charcoal grey door takes effort to open and I give my ID to a very intimidating bouncer, inside. When he smiles wide at me and says, “Welcome,” it takes me completely off guard.

  “Uh, thanks.” I take my ID and have the odd feeling I’m supposed to be here. Pushing through the Friday night crowd - sparse lighting, red booths, great music - I see a seat at the bar about to be vacated by a guy in his early twenties with long shaggy hair and cool glasses. Alternative music type. We exchange a polite smile while I wait for him to pay his bill – I’m glad there’s a seat; my legs ache. He leaves me to it with an open-palm wave like a magician showing you there’s nothing up his sleeve.

  Climbing onto the barstool, I reach below the laminated counter for a hook to hang my bag on, and find one. I try to add my jacket, but it won’t get on the hook. I wrestle with the little cloth tag to stretch it, but it’s new and tight.

  “Having trouble?” asks a deep male voice to my left.

  “I’m trying to get my coat on the hook,” I grunt, hunched forward, both arms under the bar, struggling. From my position, I crane my head to look at him, and when I see a gorgeous man – sandy brown hair, warm eyes, also brown, well dressed, maybe six foot two or three – I fail to hide a gasp. And here I am looking like The Hunchback of Notre Dame. Great. My fingers finally manage to wrestle the coat’s tag into submission and I slide it on the hook. I sit up quickly, straighten my posture, and run my fingers through my hair.

  “Got it. It’s fine. I got it on there,” I say.

  He smiles, “It didn’t stand a chance.”

  I grin shyly. “Ha. That’s funny.” Wow, this guy is hot. I divert my ogling gaze to the bartender, a striking woman with super-short jet-black hair and pretty makeup. She asks what she can get for me, with a weird look in her eye. Him, I want to say, but instead I choose the more civilized, “Do you have a nice chardonnay?”

  “How nice do you want it?” she asks, referring to the price. Up against a wall or swinging from a tree. I have a feeling he could do both.

  “Um…”

  “Seven, nine, or fourteen,” she offers. Times?

  “Get her the fourteen,” he answers. “And put it on my card, please.” Oh…dollars.

  “You don’t have to do that,” I say, flustered.

  “You deserve it. The battle of the coat was won.” No man has bought me a drink since Josh and I started dating. It feels… good?

  I chuckle like I’m trying too hard. She shoots me a knowing look and leaves. “Thank you,” I squeak.

  “You’re welcome.” It’s his turn to cast me a sideways glance. Does he like me? Hmm…

  I pretend to look around the room while I sneakily check him out. He’s got a nice face. He looks like a celebrity who I can’t quite place. “You’re not here with anybody?” I ask, pointing to the couple making out behind him. “Or is that your buddy and he found a new best friend…”

  He sneaks a look back, then whispers to me, “I think I got ditched.”

  “Just a little bit,” I whisper back.

  “I’m not with anyone, no. Thought I would have a date for tonight, but…” he trails off, then adds after a moment, “I’m here on business. I don’t live here.”

  “You flew here with a woman and she ditched you? There’s no way!” I clamp my hands over my mouth. He laughs.

  “Thank you, but no. I flew here alone. She lives here. But she’s met someone since I was here last, so…”

  �
��Ah. Gotcha. I’m sorry…”

  He shakes his head. “No, it’s okay. I barely knew her… met her during my last visit here, but I thought we hit it off. She was fun. Different. I don’t know.” He takes a sip of his beer and looks ahead.

  I nod. We sit in silence for a moment or two. “You hoped.”

  He looks up, surprised. “Yeah. Exactly… I hoped.”

  “That hurts the most.” I turn to the bartender and say, “Beautiful glass,” as she places my wine in front of me.

  She says with a wink, “That’s what you get when you go for the good stuff,” and walks away. I don’t like the way she looks at me. What is she thinking?

  “To the good stuff,” he says, and holds his beer up.

  “To the good stuff.” Our eyes hold for a second longer than they should. I clink my glass and drink. “So… you’re here on business? What business?”

  “I work for a software company in San Francisco. I’m an engineer.”

  “Ah,” I say, knowing nothing about software. I take another sip. Tastes good. “Do you like your job?”

  He nods. “Yeah, but I’d like to work for myself. I have an idea for an app. I don’t know. You’ve gotta give it a shot, right?”

  “Totally. I work for myself. It’s worth giving it a shot.”

  “You do? What do you do?”

  “Casting Director. I cast actors in films and television,” I take a sip.

  “Wow. That’s very interesting. You look a little young and too…”

  I raise my eyebrows, “What?”

  He hesitates, says, “…Nothing. Yeah, so… I’m meeting with investors tomorrow.”

  “On a Saturday?” I ask, watching his gorgeous man-thumb absently rub the side of his pint-glass.

  “I work nine to five, so they agreed to meet me on the weekend, when I could get away. Left work early to catch a reasonable flight. Just got in an hour ago, but I didn’t want to go to my hotel room yet. It’s still early…” He sees me staring at his thumb and it stops moving. I meet his eyes and he smiles a smile I can feel in my panties.