Shatter (Club Grit Trilogy)

by Brooke Jaxsen

  I’d texted Lawrence after I’d bailed out Becca and he’d replied in a few hours, able to make a coffee date with me. Even though it was finals seasons, I didn’t offer to reschedule the date, or ask him to meet me somewhere closer to campus. He chose a Starbucks in the financial district and we didn’t text after that. What was there to say over text that I couldn’t just say in person?

  Sitting in the back, on a large leather couch near a window, waiting for Lawrence, I looked up too many times expecting to see him but instead seeing another twenty something like myself, until I went to my phone to check the time. Of course, that’d be the time he showed up, and of course, I’d miss it. I sipped at my soy skinny cinnamon dolce latte as I waited, placing it on a small end table and picking it up over and over. It was almost like time had stopped and I was just reliving one moment over and over. Inside, I was doing what I’d done since I last saw Lawrence, almost two months ago: replaying the scenes of us together in my head, each memory like a precious crystal that I polished with remembrance, rehearsing the lines I was going to say to him, as if it’d make things better: as if it would ever make a difference.

  “Kim,” he said softly but firmly. It was a voice I hadn’t heard for so long, but there was no mistaking it as anything but essentially and entirely Lawrence’s. I looked up and there he was, in business clothes rather than the clothes I’d seen him in at the nightclub. There was a subtle distinction: the brands he was wearing were American rather than European, the cut of his suit simpler, the materials still high quality but lack the luxury factor, all fabrics plain, all buttons with an almost matte patina. Forget the millionaire next door, he looked like the billionaire next door type: the kind that didn’t wear his money on his sleeve, and even when he did, was undistinguishable from another rich guy in terms of clothing, because the way he showed off wasn’t as conspicuous as others: sure, he purchased expensive bottle service, and a night club, but he didn’t have an entourage, or a personal assistant in tow, and he hadn’t rented out the café just to talk to me in private. We were far from in a private place: unlike the shielded owner’s box, we were open, exposed, and ironically, for the first time, actually seeing each other by the light of day.

  I looked up and put my phone away at the same time. “Lawrence. It’s been too long,” I said, but I didn’t get up to give him a kiss, nor did he sit next to me, instead, taking a seat in the chair across from me. “Can I get you a drink?” I asked, sincerely.

  He shook his head once. “No, I’m fine, but thank you for the offer.” It was so weird, offering to get Lawrence a cup of coffee, after all that had happened between us and because of me. If I had been told, six months before, that I would get coffee with a billionaire at a Starbucks, and that he’d remain anonymous and not covered in paparazzi, I would have called the person crazy at best, a liar at worst, and stupid at my meanest. However, here we were and there was nobody else that was privy to the secrets we carried. To anybody else, we could look like a normal couple, a couple that went on dates, met up for lunches, and who picked out furniture together at IKEA, but we knew what we were: the ex-sorority sister and the bachelor billionaire, neither of us fit to date, certainly not one another. Together, we brought out our worst traits, but separately, we were shades of our formal selves. I could tell it in his eyes, and in the way he carried himself, no longer tall and confident, but slouching, a shell of a broken man, a husk of the person I’d found myself falling hard for but no longer could call my own.

  “I just...I want to apologize,” I blurted out, in the least elegant way possible. What had happened to the speeches I’d compared and contrasted in my head, that I’d rewritten and unwritten and unraveled countless times? And what had happened to me.

  Lawrence was still looking at me, but his eyes had a gleam. “You’re...really sorry, aren’t you?” he said, his voice betraying his emotion with the unexpected pause. All around us, the clicking and clacking of keyboards, like pianos lacking hammers and strings, covered in aluminum and chromed plastic, was like an orchestra as empty and ghostly as the man that Lawrence became again, within seconds.

  I had done this to him. I had taken away his essence, that which had made him him, and now, all I could do was fill him with the knowledge that I was trying to redeem myself, to right my wrongs. “I honestly am. I’ve quit the sorority, and...I reported what was happening at the UCBH chapter to the proper authorities,” I admitted. “I know it doesn’t mean a lot to you, but—”

  Lawrence held a finger to my lips and I wanted to take it in but knew that by taking him in, I’d just push him away. This wasn’t a touch between lovers, but like the brushing of shoulders between strangers on the bus. “It does. It does mean a lot, but...nothing can change what happened at Club Grit that night, Kim. I’m so sorry, but I can’t fix the past.”

  “Who said I was trying to fix the past? What I want to do is salvage our future,” I said, every line I’d rehearsed suddenly gone, and I was speaking from the heart, not the brain, as I looked into Lawrence’s icy blue eyes, the only things that hadn’t gotten warmer and melted away in the Los Angeles heat. I knew that our past was messed up, that there’s a reason lasting relationships aren’t forged in the heat and pressure of nightclubs, that people like use weren’t meant for one another, or really, for anyone, but I didn’t care...so why couldn’t I just tell him that?

  “I don’t know if we have a future, Kim. I don’t know what we have. There hasn’t been anyone else since you, Kim, and that’s not normal for me. I’m not the kind of man that dwells on a woman, but you’re not the kind of woman that I normally meet. You left an impression on me, when we first met and then, after...the rape. You aren’t the kind of woman I’ll ever forget about, but I don’t know how you and I can move on past this.”

  “By learning to forgive, to trust, to not make the same mistakes again. I’m going to be testifying at the rape trial. I’m turning in my sorority president to both the college and the head of the sorority in general so that what happens at Omega Mu doesn’t happen to anyone else again, and I’m a better person now, I swear.”

  “I know. I saw the tabloid pics. You took the fall for your friend, Rebecca, right? And that was noble of you, but is it enough? A lot of the things you said you’re going to do to fix situations aren’t even going to happen until later, like the trial, like your report.”

  “You don’t understand, at all.” I said, looking at the cup in my hand, probably an inch of liquid left inside, liquid I didn’t want to drink or see, but just switch around as I moved the cup back and forth with my wrists, feeling the weight of the cup, feeling the cardboard of the cup holder in my hands, rough but not as rough as an emery board, smooth but not as smooth as my fingers.

  “Then why don’t you explain?” he asked, more gently than he had before.

  I looked up and glared, which I could tell surprised him. Even though I was the one that had called this ‘meeting’, the one that had wanted to make amends, he wasn’t entirely guiltless and wasn’t “Then why don’t you just ask, instead of assume? I’m putting off the report so I don’t hurt other people in the sorority by causing drama, and the trial isn’t for a few months so of course I can’t just magically waltz into a judge’s office and spill my guts, that’s not how things work, but of course, you wouldn’t know that, given the fact you don’t live in the real world, at all. I thought I was sheltered, living at Omega Mu Gamma, but you? You have people take care of things for you, you’re waited on hand and foot, and money makes your problems go away! You’re a billionaire, Lawrence, and you aren’t on my level, at all, as cliché as that sounds. I have more in common with a frat boy than with you.”

  “So why are you here with me, instead of with some random fraternity guy?”

  “Because I can’t get you out of my mind! Believe me, I’ve tried, but what you don’t understand, Lawrence, is that you make me a better person. As fucked up as this sounds, I want to be a better person so that I’m worthy of you, because may
be, I’ll win you back, because maybe, you’ll take notice of what I’m doing and eventually forgive me, but apparently, that was a waste of time.”

  “If you think it’s a waste of time, then you’re doing it for all the wrong reasons, Kim. You think I got to where I am because I was trying to impress a girl? No. I know men that have done that and as soon as the woman leaves their life, they’re back where they started, in terms of ambition, in terms of drive, and so what I do? I do for myself, and for nobody else. I don’t try to impress anyone, Kim. I don’t have to, and I don’t try to.”

  “Exactly: you don’t have to. You don’t know my story, Lawrence. You don’t know my struggle, where I’m from, or how I work, but still, you insist with your very presence, with your very existence, on capturing my affections. I can’t run away from you like I ran away from the paparazzi or today, am sort of running away from college.”

  “And why not, Kim?”

  “Because I’m in love with you, damn it, even given the fact that you’re so fucked up and flawed, in ways that are different than the ways I am, but I’m still in love with you, and you haven’t noticed. You haven’t cared. You’re just doing whatever billionaires do, while I sort out the drama at Omega Mu. You have no idea what goes on in that house, or the fact that I’m the one that’s basically had to clean up a bunch of messes I didn’t make, just to ensure my scholarship isn’t at stake.”

  “Your...scholarship?”

  “Exactly, see, again, something you didn’t know about me. The fact that I was a member of Omega Mu because they offered me a very large scholarship, one that would cover the loans I was taking out, so I will be able to graduate with only five thousand dollars in student loans, less than a tenth of what I expected. You know why I put up with being the sorority president’s servant girl, essential? Why I do her dirty work? Because although you might not have a price, most people do, and mine...mine was apparently about fifteen thousand bucks a year, plus room and board, plus all the other benefits of being part of Omega House.”

  “I had no idea, Kim, I’m...”

  “Sorry, right? Because you had no idea, right? Because you gave a shit about my financial situation before, right? Because you, the billionaire bachelor, can really relate to my life? Who paid for you to go to college?”

  “My grandparents.”

  “Did you have loans? Did you ever struggle to pay the bills?”

  “No...never. It was always taken care of for me. By other people.”

  “Wow, sounds like that probably made being a billionaire a Hell of a lot easier, when you didn’t have to worry about things being taken care of, because for you, there’s always ‘other people’. Guess what? I’m one of those ‘other people’, essentially, and that’s what I’ll always be. My mom used to be one of those ‘other people’, cleaning houses until she got her store with my dad, but you wouldn’t know that, because you never asked. You never asked, and you’re never going to.”

  ‘I’m sorry, Kim.”

  “I don’t care!”

  “Kim, look at me. I’m sorry, okay?”

  “It’s not okay! It’s never going to be okay!” I felt my eyes well up with tears and I blinked them up and away so that they wouldn’t make my eye makeup smudge. I’d bared my soul to Lawrence, I wasn’t about to bare my skin, but I got up from the table and just left, the bus back to campus rolling up. I didn’t look to see if Lawrence was chasing me, because I knew he wasn’t, and it wouldn’t matter if he were either.

  Sartre wasn’t right: It was H.P. Lovecraft, who wrote of it best: Hell is not other people. Hell is the whole fucking universe and it is a Hell as able to corrupt the body, as it is the mind. In a universe where the cheapest way to get from point a to point b is by utilizing public transit, expect a loss of all right or reason to personal space and dignity.

  Prepare not to be Sisyphus but to be the ball, ever in danger of crushing an infant in a stroller while its matron is occupied with an e-reader and attempting to connect to every open Wi-Fi connection the bus passes. Prepare to hold onto a bar for dear life like you are stuck in an unending gym session and the only grade is given to dignity and to that aforementioned woman, her failure karmically, never comically, causing yours.

  The small talk with patrons will alert you to their own mortal struggles, cosmically insignificant but personally, the most urgent, seconds becoming eons for them and for you as you learn that the bus was a half hour late and they have fifteen minutes to get to the bank and could you please press the yellow bar out of reach to ensure that yes, the stop requested beacon is working, and, and, and will the bus driver please stop please.

  Please, stop, please.

  And their torture is over, and they wish you thanks, good bye, good night, and ascend to whatever heaven lies on the street and as quickly as you fade into the distance and they into the crowd ...that relief is released and discomfort again ensues

  Our fellow passengers are angels but also devils. You know the one, the distracted mother, but also the college student with lots of bags he refuses to put on his lap and under seat, instead taking multiple seats and standing. You’ve seen the redhead who wishes she lived in the pinup era but refuses to give up her seat to the elderly man who actually could have met Betty Paige, but who wouldn’t want to be a bother.

  That man, what is he? Frustrating enough to be a devil because why won’t he speak up and ask for her seat and why won’t he just ask, just ask.

  Just...ask.

  And now you’re glaring and that face you’re making, god, that face. You can’t hide it between your sunglasses. The eyebrows form a v. They give you away. Now everybody knows you’re judging them. Even if you change the expression they’ll still know what you were doing.

  And now you are the devil.

  Maybe Sartre was right

  Maybe Hell is other people.

  Maybe Hell is you.

  Maybe Hell is me.

  Chapter Twelve:

  “WE’RE IN FOR A REAL THRILLER OF A STORM,” said the husky blonde TV anchor to his wife and co-anchor. My morning radio was set to pick up signals from a local TV station that I’d watch when I could, so I recognized the anchor and his wife, and could visualize their appearance even without a television set.

  “That’s right, for all of you in the Los Angeles area, get ready to pull out some of your winter clothes, at least for today. There’s a freak storm off the coast and it’s about to pass over the Greater Los Angeles Area,” she replied with a laugh. “Meteorologists are advising people to stay inside and off the roads because most residents aren’t used to driving in such harsh conditions, but damages to infrastructure are predicted to be minimal. Now, back to you, Tom.”

  I didn’t care about the news, but I did care about waking up and actually packing to leave. Today was the last day that I’d be stuck at Omega House, given that I’d passed all my finals, not necessarily with flying colors, but with grades that were good enough to pass. That’s all I wanted to do at this stage: just pass. As I packed the boxes into my car, a hand-me-down from one of my mom’s wealthy sister’s kids, I had time to reflection on the closing of this time in my life.

  I’d tried to push thoughts of Lawrence out of my head and all through finals, he was on my mind, no matter how hard I tried to push him out of my head. I’d wanted this, right? I’d wanted to be free of the feelings I had for him, and things had been more complicated at the Starbucks then I’d expected. I’d wanted him to reject me, I’d wanted him to tell me he wasn’t interested, because a sick part of me was sabotaging my chance at happiness. I was protecting him from having to be with me, from having to be with someone who would never be worth his love. He was better off without me and I was better off without my feelings for him.

  The only thing more unbelievable than me becoming a sorority girl was the fact that I’d want to quit Omega Mu. Our chapter had dismissed many pledges, but it was rare for a full-fledged sister to want to leave. Even though it seemed like it wouldn’t
matter, given the fact that I was a second-semester senior on my way out anyway, it was, because it meant that I was abandoning all the things that represented the memories I’d had at Omega Mu. I was able to pawn off most of the stuff, like picture frames and binders, but I kept a few things: photos of Becca and I, before everything had happened, the homemade lavalieres we’d hand glued rhinestones onto, and a shard of the shattered clipboard, so that I’d never forget what I’d almost become, and how lucky I’d been that the monster I had become was brittle enough to be shattered into a million little pieces.

  Anything that I had left that I couldn’t sell, I packed to take home to my mom. She’d been so proud of me not only getting into UCBH, but of me getting tapped by an exclusive sorority. This was supposed to be the big time, this was supposed to be me, changing my stars, but what had the sorority done for me? They’d provided a shield, an insular bubble that prevented me from doing things outside sorority life, because I’d always been made to feel like I owed them something, for giving me a scholarship, for giving me friends, for giving me shelter and food and good times. There’d been some great times before everything turned to shit, but I’d missed out on a lot of normal college experiences because the sorority lifestyle wasn’t at all normal. It was like we were living in some fantasy world that didn’t exist, the kind of world you see in a movie, not the kind of world you actually live in...except we did.

  The only thing I had left to do was rent a car. I didn’t own one but I didn’t want to hire movers and I didn’t have any friends with cars on campus, so I took rented a Zip Car, one of the ones kept on campus, and loaded the boxes into the car. Before I went back home, to Compton, though, there was one place I had to go: the Santa Monica Pier.