“That, I understand.”
“I hope I didn’t wear out my welcome.”
“Not at all.” She touched Davis’s shoulder, both to comfort her and to try to reestablish the connection she’d felt listening to her talk about the kids. It was so affirming to have someone to share those kinds of feelings with. “You can stay all day if you want, and I hope you have fun when you have to review all the photos tonight.”
“I appreciate it, but I should go.”
“That’s fine, too.”
“And thanks, about tonight. It’ll be a lot to sort through, but I hope I captured a little piece of what drew me to them in the first place.”
“Me, too.”
They stood there, staring at each other for a long, heavy moment. Annabelle felt like she should say something more. There had to be more, didn’t there? After sharing the things they’d shared, the understanding that passed between them, the first genuine connection she’d felt in months, could they just walk away? They should. They’d been thrown together by uncontrollable circumstances, both this morning and in months past. They weren’t friends. They didn’t really know each other, in fact.
Why did she have to keep reminding herself of that?
“Well, I guess I’ll see you around the neighborhood,” Davis said.
Bumping into each other around Midtown was becoming a habit for them. Aside from glancing at Davis’s apartment every morning, Annabelle would have to leave future meetings to chance. “Enjoy the rest of your day.”
Davis’s smile seemed strained, as if she had to work to make herself believe that possible. “I’ll try. You, too.”
They hesitated another few seconds before Davis finally turned to go. Annabelle’s loneliness returned before she was even through the door. Was she really that bad off? It was hard enough to live with missing Nic every day, but at least that made sense. Missing Davis was beyond illogical, even dysfunctional, but for the first time in a long time, she was certain what she wanted. The instinct to call Davis back gripped her so completely she didn’t have time to question the fact that her instincts had only betrayed her in the past. “Davis?”
“Yes?” She turned around so quickly she startled Annabelle
“If you’d like some help, with all that sorting through…” She hadn’t actually formulated that thought until the words tripped off her tongue, but she always fell back on work these days.
Davis’s lips parted silently.
“I mean, not that you need help,” Annabelle rushed to explain, “but I know the kids and the school, and I thought—”
“I’d like your input.”
“Really?”
“Really.” Davis’s sweet smile reassured her. “Do you want to come over this weekend?”
“To your apartment?” The thought immediately reminded her why hanging out with Davis was a bad idea. Davis’s apartment held only bad memories. Maybe bad wasn’t the right word. The kiss wasn’t bad, but the circumstances surrounding it tinted everything in a nightmarish light.
“Or we could meet somewhere else, if you’re uncomfortable,” Davis said, candidly. “There’s a lot of baggage there. Trust me. I know.”
Baggage. Yes, there was. Baggage Davis lived with every day and night. Surely Annabelle could survive for a few hours. She forced a smile. “No, your place is fine.”
“You sure?”
“No.” She laughed. She wasn’t sure of anything. “But let’s find out.”
*
“Damn,” Nic muttered, and rubbed her eyes in an attempt to make them focus on the television. She was drunk. There was no use lying to herself even if she didn’t want to think about how regularly she put herself in this position these days. She’d had her first hard drink her first night away from Belle, just to numb the pain. Later, when she’d gotten used to the constant companions of disappointment and sadness, she’d used a little whiskey to fall asleep. She didn’t need much since she usually worked herself to the point of exhaustion. One glass on the rocks kept her from thinking about everything she’d lost. If she’d forgo the ice she could also avoid thinking about how she’d played into Davis’s fears about her ability to love. Making the drink a double assured she’d drop off to sleep without wondering how Davis and Belle were doing. At least it used to be enough.
She glanced at the half-empty bottle of Glenlivet she’d bought three days ago, or had it been only two? After three months her tolerance had risen, and her ability to induce sleep seemed to have decreased exponentially. Her limbs felt heavy and her thoughts slowed, but now she could have three or four drinks and still not slumber. Instead she squinted at the ESPN ticker running across the bottom of her TV screen, completely unable to make out the score of the Braves game or even decipher which team they were currently playing. She was also alone, painfully alone, which according to common sense was a bad time to drink, but if she followed that rule she’d never drink again.
Then again, drinking with someone else was just one item on a long list of things she might never do again, like eat a home-cooked meal, fall asleep in someone’s arms, or have an orgasm that wasn’t self-induced.
She flipped off the TV and walked to the bathroom, running her hand along the wall as she went just in case she lost her physical balance. Her mental and emotional states spun constantly. She went from self-hate to regret and remorse to resignation in a matter of minutes. She hadn’t just devastated the two most important women in her life; she’d destroyed her self-image in the process. Even if she met someone she wanted to have sex with, she feared what it might lead to. What kind of person let her libido run that far out of control? Then again, what she’d done with Davis had never been about libido, but she’d rather blame an out-of-control sex drive than consider the possibility that maybe she was her father’s daughter after all.
Splashing cold water on her face, she stared at her reflection in the mirror. Her cheeks looked fuller, her hair shaggier, her eyes glossed over. Her forehead creased with concern. God, she even looked like him, sitting alone in a lifeless room unable to pull herself out of a stupor. She walked back toward her bed, taking one last swallow of scotch along the way, but it didn’t even burn, much less carry the power to erase lingering questions about her genetic predisposition toward failure.
Could she turn into the man she’d spent her life trying to prove wrong? Did she have that little control over herself? She flopped on the bed and tried to think of all the ways they weren’t alike. She hadn’t seen him in fifteen years, but when she’d left, he’d been sitting in a recliner in a run-down trailer, cussing at a football game. She fought desperately to think about something else, anything else, but the alcohol numbing her mind also allowed it to wander freely. He’d lost every job he’d ever had, he’d lost her mother, and then basically he’d lost his will to live. He was overweight, out of work, and once she walked out of the door, completely alone. Fear settled in her chest as she looked around the little room devoid of any personal touches. The comparisons flowed unbidden through her mind’s eye.
Panic tightened her chest and constricted her throat. She hadn’t thought she could feel any worse, but with each realization she sank deeper into despair until finally she thrashed upright, gasping for air.
“No,” she said aloud. “I’m not him.”
She had a job, she had money, and while she was single by choice, she could have a woman anytime she wanted. Maybe not either of the women she wanted, but there were others. She could even have more than one of them. Isn’t that what had started all this? Her father had nothing. She could have everything. She needed to remember that. She needed to feel it at her very core. She wasn’t finished living. She would prove herself to all of them.
She lay back down and closed her eyes, trying not to question who all she intended to prove herself to, since no one was left who cared. Maybe her first step should be finding someone new to impress.
*
Davis glanced at the clock when she heard footsteps
on the stairs outside her door. Three o’clock? Shit. Where had the day gone? She’d just meant to rest her eyes for a little bit, but she must have fallen asleep hours ago. Sleep was such a fickle impulse these days. When she wanted to, she couldn’t, and when she really shouldn’t, she absolutely had to. Naps in the middle of the day virtually guaranteed she’d be awake all night.
A knock formally announced Annabelle’s arrival as Davis kicked yesterday’s clothes under her bed. “Just a second.”
She glanced around the apartment. The place wasn’t a total disaster zone, but it was probably messier than Annabelle was used to. Then again, she didn’t know what she was used to for sure. Just because she looked like Southern Living Barbie didn’t mean she actually lived like one. Maybe her apartment had empty food cartons and old newspapers stacked all over the place, too. Not bloody likely, but she didn’t need to impress Annabelle. If anything, Annabelle might be the one person who understood how cleaning could take a backseat to things like showering, sleeping, and other baser functions.
Davis gathered a stack of paper plates and dumped them in the trash before mumbling, “Fuck it. That’s as clean as this place gets.”
She opened the door, trying to look casual. “Hi, Annabelle, come on in.”
“Thank you.” She stepped in and held out a loaf of bread. “I would’ve brought some wine, but I don’t really drink anymore.”
“Oh?” She took the bread and examined it, confused.
“Well, after things…happened that day, I didn’t really trust myself around alcohol.”
Davis’s memory flooded with images of things that had occurred between them over a bottle of scotch. Come to think of it, the bottle was still in the cabinet above her sink, untouched since that day for the exact same reason. “That’s understandable, but why the bread?”
She smiled and shrugged. “I may have traded one possible addiction for another. I can’t stop baking, and if I eat all those carbs myself I won’t fit into my new school clothes much longer.”
“Wait, you baked this yourself?”
“Yes, last night.”
“Like you went to the store and bought a box or a can of dough and put it in the oven?” Davis asked.
Annabelle raised her eyebrows. “Yes, but without the box or the can part.”
“How do you do it without the box or the can part?”
“You know, you mix yeast and flour, a little sugar. It’s not rocket science.” Annabelle frowned. “You don’t have to eat it.”
“No, no. I didn’t mean that. I’ve just never met anyone who baked their own bread.”
“No one? Not even your mama or your grandma?”
“Especially not them.” Davis walked over to the counter and grabbed a serrated knife. “My mother is a dental hygienist, and her mother sold furniture. My father’s mother is a paralegal. They bought their bread at the store on the way home from work like everyone else I know.”
She took a bite of the bread and immediately started talking with her mouth full. “Amazing.”
“It’s just regular old country bread.”
“No, it’s light and fluffy and perfect. You could sell this. I’d pay twice what I pay for the store bakery stuff.”
Annabelle seemed pleased with the praise even as she shook it off. “Well, you don’t have to. I bake at least two loaves a week and barely manage to eat one of them.”
“What do you do with the others?”
“I usually give them to neighbors or friends. Last week I gave some to my landlord. She seemed to like it, but I think she liked the brownies better.”
“You make brownies, too?” Davis asked. “Are those from a box?”
Annabelle clucked her disapproval. “Nothing I make comes from a box.”
“What else can you make?”
“Cookies, cakes, scones, pastas. I can make anything I have a recipe for. If you can read, you can cook.”
This woman couldn’t be real. No one really had it all the way Annabelle seemed to, a classic beauty with a sweet disposition who just happened to also be a domestic goddess and a great kisser. Davis’s stomach clenched.
“What’s wrong? You look like something hurt you. Are you getting sick?”
“No, I just—” Davis shook her head trying to stop the words, but she’d fallen out of the practice of holding her tongue. “I just wondered why the hell anyone would ever cheat on you with me.”
Annabelle gasped and stepped back.
Davis reached out, instinctually trying to steady her as she sank onto the couch. “I’m sorry. What a shitty thing to say.”
“No, it’s not that. I’m getting used to talking about what happened, but that’s a terrible thing to think about yourself.”
“It’s the truth, though.” Davis shrugged, her dispassionate façade slipping comfortably back into place. “You’re everything a person could want in a wife: graceful, generous, sexy, and talented. What could she have possibly seen in me to hold her attention?”
“I see what she saw in you,” Annabelle said sadly, her eyes glazing over. “You’re beautiful and passionate, fiery even. I bored her.”
She thinks I’m beautiful?
Davis shook her head, but Annabelle kept talking. “While I cooked and cleaned for her, you took her to the Roller Derby and go-kart racing. How could she not be pulled away by someone as exciting and full of life as you?”
“I didn’t pull her away. She didn’t choose me. When you called she ran to you.” Davis could hear the detachment in her own voice. The anger was gone, and the hurt throbbed at a manageable level. All that remained was the haunting whisper of unanswerable questions and truths she couldn’t avoid. “We shared a few nights a week, but she shared her whole life with you. I’m the kind of woman people like her screw, but women like you always win out in the end.”
“I didn’t, though. I lost, too.” Annabelle sighed. “And I guess that’s the ultimate commonality between women like you and women like me. We both ended up in the exact same spot.”
*
Annabelle sat back and rubbed her eyes. They’d settled into a nice rhythm of eliminating pictures they didn’t love, then sorting the remainders into one pile of possibilities for the brochure and another group to keep for future use. Despite the heavy tone they’d established early—or maybe because of it—they managed to work smoothly together. Several hours had passed without so much as an allusion to Nic or their shared grief.
“Wow, it’s six thirty already.”
Davis’s stomach growled loudly. “We should think about getting dinner. Do you want to order takeout, or are you opposed to food prepared by other people?”
“Why would I be opposed?”
“Because you can probably cook them all under the table.”
She laughed, but it felt nice to have Davis compliment her culinary prowess. Cooking for herself wasn’t nearly as much fun as sharing her creations with someone else, especially someone so easily impressed. “No, takeout would be great. I want to see what the neighborhood has to offer.”
“Well, then, you came to the right place.” Davis opened her desk drawer and unloaded a stack of restaurant menus. “We’ve got Chinese, Japanese, Thai, pizza, Mediterranean, wings, bar-b-que, tacos, soul food, and much more. Name your poison.”
She scanned all the menus but couldn’t begin to process so many options. “I’ve never seen so many restaurants in my whole life.”
“Surely they have all these things in Athens.”
“Yes, in Athens, but we lived in the suburbs. We never went into the city to eat, only to the country club.”
“Right, suburbs and country clubs.” The edge of bitterness returned to Davis’s voice. “I’m sorry, but you’re not in Kansas anymore.”
“I’m not.” Annabelle touched her lightly on the arm, hoping to reach past whatever wall Davis was trying to build between them. “I’ve been wanting to try sushi.”
“You’ve never had sushi?”
“The
re was some at a bar we went to in San Francisco once, and I tried one kind, but Nic didn’t care for it, so we never ordered any again. She mostly stuck to American food.”
Davis started to say something, then seemed to catch herself, and Annabelle felt the hair on the back of her neck stand up. “What?”
“It’s nothing important.”
“Please, Davis, don’t lie to me.” She’d had enough lies. She’d had enough of people trying to spare her feelings. “You of all people understand what that leads to.”
“It’s just that…Nic and I ate out a lot, at a lot of different places.” Davis rushed to soften the blow. “She probably did it because my cooking was so bad compared to yours.”
“She ate at all these places with you?” Annabelle picked up the menu for the Mediterranean restaurant and tried to imagine Nic eating lamb over couscous. Then she moved to the Thai food and tried to find anything Nic would choose to order. There was no steak, no baked potatoes, no grits, no banana-cream pie. Were they talking about the same person? “She enjoyed these kinds of food?”
Davis nodded apologetically. “She seemed to. Maybe she was lying, though.”
“She lied to one of us about her tastes, but why?” She covered her face with her hand. “God, I’ll never stop asking that question. Why? I would’ve gone out with her. I would’ve loved to come to the city and try new food. If she wanted an adventure, we could’ve taken one together.”
“And I would’ve stayed home. I would’ve cherished movie nights curled up on the couch or Saturday strolls through a farmers’ market. I would’ve even gone to the suburbs for her, and you don’t know me well enough to know this, but that’s a big deal. I would’ve planted a vegetable garden or flowers or whatever homeowners grow.”
“No, she wouldn’t have let you.”
Does She Love You? Page 21