Bait

by M. Mabie

  Then Aly came into the room, not paying any attention, digging through her purse. When she was all the way in the room, and heard me pulling the paper towel out of the dispenser, she stopped, an evil smile crossed her face.

  It was not what I needed at that moment.

  When I saw her come in with Casey earlier, I almost lost the ability to walk. I did lose the ability to talk and stopped midsentence while speaking to Micah's mom.

  And there she was again.

  I took a long steadying breath. The look on her face told me she was going to enjoy a conversation with me. I'd thought it best to get out of there as soon as possible.

  “Leaving so soon? I was hoping to talk to you,” she said coyly and walked herself to the counter, setting her purse down, continuing her search for whatever. I was gathering up my clutch to leave when she caught my gaze in the mirror.

  “Your husband seems like a very nice guy,” she said as she found and lifted her lip gloss out of her big bag. Her fingers unscrewed the lid and then her eyes found mine again. “He and Casey sure do get along. Maybe we could all go out sometime? You know, when you're in town.” She began applying the scarlet color to her pouty mouth.

  “I don't think so,” I replied and then turned to head for the door.

  “I don't think you think at all.” She snapped and faced me when I had almost made it around her. “Do you?” Her voice sounded saccharine sweet, but her tone was anything but.

  I stated, “Not tonight, Aly. You don't know what you're talking about.”

  “Oh, I know exactly what I'm talking about. Exactly, what were you thinking when decided to cheat on your boyfriend-wait-fiancé-wait-husband? What were you thinking when you came here after Casey's mother died and then just left him like you did every other time? What were you thinking when you brought your husband here?” Her voice had risen and she was just shy of yelling at me. Yelling things that I knew way-fucking-more about than she ever would.

  She had good points, but it wasn't her business no matter how much she thought it was.

  I collected myself and made sure my voice was calm when I spoke, “It would do you good to stay out of it. And while we’re on the subject of why we do what we do, why do you want a man who clearly doesn't want you? Hmmm?”

  Her hand collided with my cheek. The slap was hard and loud and it echoed off the marble walls. I was shocked. I always thought she was rude and manipulative, but I never thought she would be ballsy enough to hit me.

  The bitch slapped me. I had been bitch-slapped in every sense.

  All the while, I stood there processing what had just happened, she went back to applying her gloss. She finished and put it back into her bag.

  “It's ironic, you know? That you asked me that. I ask Casey the same question. Why do you want her, if she doesn't want you back?” She stepped to me and surprisingly I stood my ground, even seconds after being hit. She continued, “The answer is simple. I love him like he loves you. So, go on and keep tearing him down. I'll be here every single time you do to build him back up. Just like I was the other night.” She laughed again. “He always did know how to make me come harder than anyone else.” Then she left the small room, but her words hung in the air as if they were in little, comic strip word bubbles.

  As I feebly tried to calm myself, I thought about how this mess, our mess, had affected so many people. I hated Aly, but replaying the things she said to me I almost had to respect how much she really cared about Casey.

  At least she had good taste.

  Then, a flood of jealously washed those thoughts away.

  He fucked her?

  He brought her here that night.

  He danced with her.

  My head fizzed with doubt and anger and—even though it wasn't mine to have—betrayal bobbed its way to the very top.

  I didn't know how much more I could take.

  I needed to leave.

  When I finally had my bearings, I found myself walking out into the bustling bar. I needed to find Grant and when I did he was, again, talking to Casey. I couldn’t imagine what they’d have to talk about or why they kept finding each other. My stomach rolled like it had since the plane wheels left Washington State.

  Their bodies both looked tense. Each man stood full-chested like roosters about ready to fight. I'd never seen Grant behave that way. He didn't give anything away the night before or that morning. I thought that maybe it was all in my head. Then I saw them there, almost chest to chest.

  Something wasn't right. Something big was about to happen. The energy in the room popped and crackled. I had no choice but to throw myself at the mercy of the situation. The air was charged exactly like the air before a summer storm.

  I slowly made my way to them. Listening to my heels catch on the uneven wood floor of the bar that changed my life. I diverted my eyes to the ground and took my place next to my husband.

  “I think it's time to leave,” I said and both men looked at me. I still couldn't make my mind up about who to look at, or maybe I had and thought better of it, so I continued to stare at my shoes.

  “I was just talking to Casey. I didn't know you guys knew each other this well,” said Grant. He had drunk more tonight than I'd seen him drink—well, ever. His voice held an edge to it that I wasn't acquainted with.

  I chanced a look up at him, his eyes were glassy and blood shot.

  “He's Cory's brother. I've known him since Micah and Cory started dating.” It sounded like an excuse, even to me. My head and heart were at odds and it made me sound like a robot not knowing how to use my voice, not wanting to say the wrong thing with the wrong tone to the wrong man. I thought it was trivial how, in that moment, I was the one who sounded like an emotionless recording. My hands fidgeted and my hips rocked back and forth. My nerves were shot.

  “And we share a godson, Blake, I'm Cory's brother and godfather to Foster, your godson. It feels like there's more to it though. Don't you think?” His face had hardened in the time I was in the bathroom with Aly.

  Casey’s inelastic posture didn't wear the same on him as his suave easygoing one did. His body was tense and uncomfortable, appearing as if it itched in all the wrong places. His words felt like wool against my two-faced heart. I felt his irritation and reciprocated it.

  Grant was just the opposite. Loose. Fluid and his body moved in ebbs and flows and his face swayed with his head that looked back and forth between Casey and me.

  “My wife,” Grant said, the sound of his f fizzed like the air being let out of a tire, “wants to leave. With me.” He grabbed onto my arm and spun me much faster than I was prepared for. Grant wasn't a hands-on kind of guy. This included all handy actions. Ass grabbing. Tickling. Petting. Pulling. He was always in control of his person. But not then.

  His hand squeezed my arm right below my shoulder. The difference in height, and the force of his hold, brought me up on my tiptoes.

  I whimpered. And I heard a gasp from around the room, it was another one of those moments in between songs where the volume on life gets cranked up to deafening decibels. I turned to find all of them watching. They all had been waiting. They'd all earned this show. Audrey's hand covered her mouth, but everyone else stood very still.

  My eyes swelled with molten tears. I did everything in my power to not look into Casey’s hard stare. Again, my willpower wasn't enough.

  Much more sober than my husband, in every way, Casey's nose flared and a wicked smile parted his lips and his teeth bared. I'd been wrong. It wasn't a smile. It was more of a snarl and my free hand reached out to him.

  It was the most freeing feeling, a cool breeze swept over my mind.

  I stayed my feet into the floor and resisted Grant’s pull toward the exit.

  “No!” Casey shouted, having seen my hesitance. “I don’t think she wants to go yet.”

  My husband turned and faced him.

  I wrenched my arm free and went to stand in between them choosing to face Casey as he advanced. I was introduced
to a vein in his forehead that I'd never seen before. He looked almost homicidal.

  Grant’s chest heaved as he stood behind me, snaking an arm around my waist, maybe to steady himself, maybe to hold on to me. “You don't know her! You don’t fucking know what she thinks,” Grant yelled.

  I tried desperately to make Casey's eyes meet mine, but they bore into the man behind me. “Grant, you need to calm down. We're at my brother's wedding.” His voice was firm and more rational than he had to be feeling. I'd heard this shouting voice before. I'd heard him yell and scream over much less.

  My body reacted to this voice. But when didn’t my body react to Casey?

  Then he added, “And I don't recommend you put your hands on her like that again.”

  “I wouldn't hurt Blake.” That was the truth. He really wouldn't, the Grant I knew wouldn't.

  “I know you wouldn't, because I would know.”

  There it was.

  “Stop, Casey.” I breathed, my words were discreet. “Please.”

  He looked down to me.

  I saw flashes of my life with Casey fire off in my mind. The laughing. The playing. The sex. The want.

  He said, “This is our chance, honeybee. Do it.”

  “Don't look at her like that!” Grant snarled, interrupting the publicly private conversation Casey and I were having. “Take your fucking eyes off her. Let’s. Go.” Grant tried to turn me again and I moved with him.

  “My eyes are the only thing I haven't taken off her,” Casey said, not far enough under his breath.

  We heard.

  “Liar!” Grant spun and lunged for Casey.

  He lost his footing and grabbed for Casey, snagging Casey’s shirt, his momentum sent him past his target and Grant fell to the bar floor.

  I looked up at Aly, who stood next to Nate at the bar. Nate held a hand up to Cory, who was ready to step in, telling him to hold off.

  Grant laid there, the fall jolting his clarity some. He shook his head, having landed pretty hard.

  Casey looking down at him. Only feet from these two men, my hands covered my ears as if I was trying to teleport away from there. I quickly realized that this place, this bar, Hook Line and Sinker, really loved to fuck with my life.

  Grant made an attempt to stand up and, for some reason, Casey leaned down to help him. It was the most peculiar of things. Something flitted across Grant’s face. He blinked slowly, over and over, fixated on one spot.

  “Betty,” he said and the air sucked from my lungs. “Your tattoo says Betty,” said Grant pulling his hand free of the charity he'd been offered. “Betty. BETTY!”

  Grant got up and hurriedly walked past me without even looking, knocking onto a few chairs as he passed. I didn’t know exactly what had just happened.

  When I looked back at Casey, his shirt was spread and the buttons ripped off like I'd seen it many times. One side was untucked and it was flapped open. Across his chest in a script that almost looked like a ribbon, it read, “Betty. Mine.”

  His body language changed. He, too, looked betrayed.

  He said, “I guess he knows Betty, too. I didn't even have to tell him. You did.”

  He snickered and strode past me.

  One door. Two men. Three minutes and I simply stood there.

  Maybe it was longer.

  The music started back up. The hustle and bustle resumed.

  I couldn't turn around.

  I had to go forward.

  I saw Casey talking to a driver across the street and then get into the back of one of the cars Cory and Micah hired to get their guests safely into their beds.

  I kept walking. I walk past the unmoving car, predicting that he'd roll down the window and say something.

  He didn't. The car pulled away as I made it to the other side of the street.

  I stayed the course. Keeping my word that I wouldn't go to him until I could be all his and he could be mine.

  I needed to hit the situation head on. And head on took me straight into the hotel’s elevator. I went up one floor higher, and to the opposite side of the building from the room where I’d let the proverbial cat get killed by curiosity, less than two years prior.

  The argument we played out was new to Grant, but not to me. It was almost line-by-line of one of the many variations I'd rehearsed in my head over and over throughout the past few years.

  This was the one where he asked me if it was true and I couldn’t say anything.

  He pleaded, “Just say it isn't true and then it isn't!”

  The truth blurred. The lies blurred.

  “I'm sorry,” I said, and watched him drink a bottle of water, while packing his clothes.

  “Why? Why, Blake. Why?” He'd said the word nothing short of ninety times.

  “I wish I knew.” Hello truth.

  “How long?” he asked and stopped his packing to watch me with complete focus.

  “So long,” I confessed.

  “So long?” He began packing once more, going into the bathroom and collecting his shaving kit and deodorant, not stowing them like he normally would. Instead of dutifully securing them in the mesh pocket under the lid of his suitcase, he just threw them in.

  He repeated, “So long” over and over in place of his previous “why” in which he recited in various tones, trying each one out until he found a contrite-sounding one that he liked.

  “Where are you going?” I asked.

  He looked up. “Do you care?”

  “Of course I do.” Of course I do or otherwise I wouldn't have strung you along for so long. So damn long.

  “God. What didn't I do right?” he asked, his voice sounding more like himself. More like the Grant I married.

  “You did everything right,” I said.

  “Well, I guess not,” he said, as he heaved the luggage off the bed. Pulling out the handle, it got stuck on its way to its full height, and he yanked it.

  If it weren’t such a bitch of a conversation, it would have been funny.

  But it was and we didn't laugh.

  He took a deep breath, his blond hair looking more disheveled than I ever remembered.

  His voice was even and measured, which was par for Grant, and said, “I'm leaving. I'm calling the airline on the way. I'm getting on stand-by and I'm going home.”

  There it was.

  When he made it to the door, he stopped. He unzipped the front pocket of his leather bag and tossed out a folded piece of paper. It landed on the floor. He looked at me one last time; then bowed his head and sighed. “I found this in your suit case a few weeks ago. I want you to come home, Blake. We can figure this out. Please, come home. But only if you want to.”

  He didn’t even fight for me, not that I expected him to. He left.

  I didn't have to unfold the paper to know what it was. I'd waited for that moment for so long.

  Thursday, December 31, 2009

  I'D WAITED FOR SO long for something like that to happen. When you're sleeping with a wife who doesn't share your last name, you always think of how it will all play out. It was usually more dramatic in my head.

  In my head, we’d duke it out and I kick his fucking ass. Blake would run to me and I’d kiss her like at the end of an action movie.

  It wasn't like that at all by comparison. If it hadn't been at my brother's wedding, I would have levelled him. At least that was what I told myself. My adrenaline still surged through my blood.

  I paced on the other side of the street, the driver asking me where I needed to go. I told him, “Back in time.”

  He said more than asked, “That bad?” A quick understanding and camaraderie linked us. I discerned that he'd been there before with only one nod of his head.

  “I don't know if I should leave,” I said. Then, I saw her come out of the bar, she looked like a lost person. She saw me, and her arms dropped to her sides.

  She didn't smile. If she would have smiled at me, I would have been one thousand percent sure she was taking steps toward me, but instead a
s she got closer, she felt farther away. I stepped to the door of the stretch-sedan and he followed my eyes and then my cue, like a natural wing man. I had the driver, who told me his name was Andy, leave. We didn't get to the next block before I told him to head back.

  I had him stop us just short of the doors so I could watch if anyone were to leave. I needed to see them walk out together. I needed to nail this coffin shut, my new tattoo was becoming a memorial. A tribute to love lost. Time and time again.

  Betty.

  Mine.

  His. Always his.

  I didn't know her.

  He didn't know her.

  I waited. Andy turned on the radio.

  We waited some more.

  Grant came out, raised his arm and almost immediately flagged down a taxi. He never looked behind himself to see if she was coming. Not once.

  He got in and he drove away. Alone.

  My heart sprinted.

  Then, after a little more time, I saw her come off the elevator through the large glass windows. She had her suitcases. She was leaving, too. She looked around.

  Was she looking for me? Had she really done it?

  Her steps were rushed across the marble floor and she skidded to a stop in front of the doors to get through the glass turnstiles.

  “Pull up, Andy. Please?” I asked.

  He put the car in drive and crept ahead a few dozen feet so that my window was centered with the hotel doors. I rolled it down and looked out from my seat, waiting for her to see me. I knew she would.

  And when she did her face eased, but her lip quivered and her shoulders sagged. Like she’d been holding everything together until that exact moment.

  I got out and went to her. Her hands dropped the bags and wrapped around me. She clung to me so tightly and she cried. She didn't say anything, she just sobbed into my chest. I ran my hand across her back and let her do it.

  When she calmed some, I lifted her chin to see puffy eyes and tear-streaked cheeks.

  “Come on,” I said. “Let's get in the car.” I lowered to pick up her bags and carried them in one hand. Wrapping the other around her shoulder, I tucked her into my side.

  Andy got out of the car and popped the trunk, taking her things from me and stowing them in the back. I opened the door and let her get in first then followed. I looked back at Andy and asked, “Can you give us a minute?”