TAKE ME, OUTLAW: A Dark Bad Boy Baby Romance

by Zoey Parker

  I desperately wanted him to assemble any combination of words and phrases that could possibly make these feelings inside of me go away. Something that could erase the last few moments and make me believe everything would be okay. Something that could let me unclench my jaw and not feel so utterly humiliated and broken.

  I don't know, Jared, can you do anything I thought, the words themselves wavering and distorting in the burning wreckage of my mind. You're clearly hoping this scene will magically end with me somehow liking you anyway, so you can leave with a clear conscience and a song in your heart.

  Will you skip straight over to her apartment, so you can celebrate together about your newfound “freedom” and fuck triumphantly without the fear of discovery? Will she ask how I took the news, and whether I'm okay? Will she care?

  Can you at least be the lawyer I need you to be in this moment, Jared? Can you play the part of the dashing and charismatic attorney so that this will somehow all seem like it'll be okay? Can you do that for me, Jared? If you couldn't love me enough to keep your dick in your pants and act like a real boyfriend after four years, can you at least do this?

  Or are you a lousy lawyer, just like you were a lousy lay?

  That last thought snapped me back to reality, as I realized what a cheap charge that would be to hurl at him. Too shrewish and predictable, too easy for him to shake off as just something girls lie about during bad break-ups.

  Our break-up, my thoughts twirled nauseatingly, the words doubling and tripling like something seen through a kaleidoscope. Our break-up. Not some tear-jerking thing we saw together in a movie or a TV show, but our own, and had I really never seen this coming? Had I really spent the past four years so certain of the outcome, so sure that the only way this could possibly end was with a ring presented on one knee and a ceremony filled with teary-eyed relatives and a Happily Ever After?

  Yes, it turned out. I had been exactly that certain, the same way I was certain that the sun would come up with each new morning. I had never doubted it, not once, not even during our rare fights, and not even secretly.

  And suddenly, I realized that I didn't hate him. I wanted to, and I could find so many different ways and reasons to, but ultimately, I couldn't. Instead, I could only hate myself for being so naive, for letting myself believe in bullshit fairy tales.

  All of these wild and noisy thoughts stampeded across my mind in the space of seconds—deafening and destroying everything in their path. I didn't say any of them out loud. Instead, I inhaled and tried to form the words with my numb and trembling lips. “Please, just...tell me why.”

  He blinked again, looking dazed, as though this simple question was the one thing he hadn't expected me to ask. How could I not want to know why he'd do this to me? How could he be so damn surprised that I would demand an answer to that? After all these years, how could he know so little about me?

  Because he doesn't care, another voice in my head answered briskly, with a sound like a purse primly snapping shut. You've just wasted four years on someone who simply does not care. And each new minute that ticks away while you stand here asking stupid questions is yet another minute of your life you've wasted. He won't give you any magical answers that will put all of this into focus, because he doesn't have any.

  Why did he do it? Because he wanted to. He wanted her.

  And he doesn't want you anymore.

  Period.

  Jared was still stammering and struggling with his answer, his words echoing hollowly against the ones in my mind. “Well, it's not...I mean, it's not you, obviously. It’s not that I think she's, y'know, better than you are, or, or anything like that...it's just she's, y'know...different, I guess...”

  Again, I wanted so badly to put my hands on him, to wrap my fingers around his throat and shake him and choke him until he vomited all of his words out at once, just so I wouldn't have to watch them drip from his mouth one at a time like foul gray water leaking from a toilet pipe.

  “I mean, she's...not...an actress, y'know?”

  Now it was my turn to blink, confused. “What's that got to do with anything? What, is it a problem for you now, that I'm an actor?” I realized that I'd automatically corrected him for the hundredth time, without even meaning to this time.

  Ever since we'd first met and I told him what I wanted to do with my life—how important theater was to me—he'd casually referred to me as an “actress” no matter how many times I pointed out that the word was chauvinistic and derogatory.

  “A female actor is still an actor,” I used to insist patiently, confused when he'd invariably respond by laughing and shaking his head and kissing my forehead. I used to think this was some private joke of his, a way to gently rib me.

  It wasn't, the prim voice said again with its snapping-shut sound of finality. He wasn't repeating it as a joke. He just didn't care. He didn't remember and he didn't care, because you were simply not important to him.

  He exhaled slowly, squinting at the question as though it were a complicated math problem he hadn't studied for. “Yes-s-s-s-s-s...?” he drawled hesitantly, cocking his head and pursing his lips. I thought about how satisfying it would be to ball up my fist and send it directly into those too-red lips, mashing them against his teeth, replacing the quaking uncertainty in his mouth with the shocking taste of coppery blood.

  But that wasn't me. Never had been, and I knew it. My hand remained limp at my side, blood gathering in my fingertips until they felt as though they were small lead weights.

  “I mean, she...works with me, y'know?” Jared added, spreading his arms with the palms upward in the universal gesture of “Hey, what can I do, here, right?”

  Nothing, Jared. You can't do anything. Or at least, you can't do it well.

  “She's a lawyer, we, um...we have that in common, and, and at the end of the day, we can talk to each other about how our day went, and we'll, y'know, understand each other, and be able to really be there for each other, right? I mean, hey, you get that, right?” he asked hopefully, his eyebrows raising with his inflection.

  He must have seen how unconvinced I looked because he pushed on, his words running together nervously. “I mean, ever since college ended, we haven't, y'know, had that much in common...like, I'm always talking about legal stuff that I'm sure you don't understand, and you probably even find it boring, right? I mean, I would, anyone would, if that weren't, ah, y'know, what they were interested in. And you with all of your constant audition talk, and I mean, obviously all of that's over my head, too...”

  “I understood the legal stuff,” I heard myself say through gritted teeth. “I understood it perfectly, because I paid attention. I cared about what you cared about, because I cared about you. As for my 'constant audition talk,' maybe it was all over your head because you never bothered to actually listen to me.”

  I could feel my voice rising sharply, out of my control like a dog that's broken free of its leash, bounding down the street now, far beyond my ability to rein it in. I didn't care. “Maybe while I was sharing my thoughts and feelings with you, you were too busy planning what you were going to say next, or fantasizing about who you'd prefer to be fucking!”

  Jared flinched then, as though he was afraid I'd slap him, and in that moment I realized how deeply I hated him. I knew that he would never be someone who would protect me or take care of me when I needed him to. He'd only ever be a squirming mess of selfishness and insecurity—someone who would always demand the protection and comfort of others without the ability to ever offer any in return.

  I suddenly felt exhausted and drained. There was nothing left inside of me except despair, and I knew that Jared could say nothing, do nothing that would ever make this feeling go away. I wanted him to be gone.

  “Just go, Jared,” I sighed, my voice hoarse and weary.

  His lower lip trembled, and a tear actually spilled down his cheek. Oh, you self-absorbed fucker. What do you have to cry about? When this is over, you get to go spend tonight—and every other n
ight—in her arms. I'll be alone.

  Alone. Jesus. I haven't been alone in four years. I don't even know who I'll be when I'm alone now. I don't know if I can do this.

  Jared took a baby-step forward, spreading his arms again like some awkward bird about to attempt flight. “Listen, Lauren...”

  “Listen?” I shrieked, finally unable to control myself any longer. He took two steps back and almost tripped over his own feet, his arms raising in front of his face as though attempting to ward off some evil spirit. “Why, Jared? Why should I listen? You think you can somehow still be the good guy here? You think this will end with a big hug, and I'm going to wish you love and happiness with the girl you've been with behind my back? Is that really how you think this is going to go? Because if that's what you think, you are goddamn fucking delusional, and you never really knew me at all!”

  Jared twitched and jittered with each new expletive hurled at him, as though he was being blasted to pieces by a machine gun.

  “Now get out!” I screamed, mustering the last of my strength to banish him. “If you want her so bad, then go be with her, because I never want to see you again!”

  He skittered to the door, fleeing, letting it slam behind him.

  I suddenly felt so close to fainting that I reached out for my kitchen counter, steadying myself. I heard a high-pitched buzzing, and it took a moment for me to realize that the sound wasn't in my head. It was my cell phone, vibrating next to my hand. I picked it up, still feeling numb from the shock of the confrontation, and checked the caller ID on the screen: “Royce - Agent.”

  I answered, trying to keep my voice level. “Hi, Royce.”

  His enthusiastically nasal twang greeted me. “Lauren my love! How are you?”

  Well, Royce, I just had my heart ripped out of my chest and lit on fire like some kind of finishing move in a shitty arcade game, and it's looking like all of my hopes and plans for the future over the past four years were basically a bad joke that I wasn't in on...

  “Fine, Royce. Doing great. How are you?”

  “Good-good!” he responded without hesitation. Never just “good” from him, always “good-good.” Never just “Lauren,” but “Lauren my love.” God, he had so many vocal tics, and I positively loathed them all.

  “So! Buttons'” he continued, pausing to chortle briefly at his own unfunny quip. Another favorite saying of his.

  Please, Royce, please just say what you called to say and hang up, because if I have to hear one more male voice right now I swear I'll grab the kitchen scissors and stick the blades as far into my ear as they'll go until they hit brain and beyond.

  “I'm calling about the coffee commercial you auditioned for last week. You know, the sip-and-smile?”

  That's industry slang for a part in an ad that doesn't require any dialogue or any physical acting beyond simply lifting the product to one's lips, sampling it, and smiling as though it's the answer to all of life's problems. Sips-and-smiles generally represent the lowest rung of the acting ladder, just short of working as a background extra or lighting double. However, sips-and-smiles also represented paid work and exposure, which I sorely needed as an actor who was just starting out.

  “Anyway, they called me to say that they've got it narrowed down to three people.”

  Finally, I thought. At least there's one piece of good news I can cling to. I'll be able to pay rent this month. Maybe this is God or fate, or whatever telling me that it's not really over. It’s just the start of a new chapter in my life.

  “That's great,” I said, trying to bolster my voice with excitement I barely felt. “Wow, really, thank you. I'm so glad to hear that. So they're, what, doing a second set of auditions? When do they want me there?”

  An uncomfortable silence followed, and when I heard Royce's voice again, it was somehow flatter and more toneless. It took me a moment to realize that he sounded uncharacteristically flustered and embarrassed.

  “Yeah, uhhh...so...like I was saying, um...”

  Fuck, please, no more stuttering, no more uhs and ums and pregnant pauses. For God's sake, what is wrong with the people in my life today? What is wrong with all the damn men?

  “...they've narrowed it down to three people, and, um...well, you're not one of them.”

  I wanted to laugh. I think I even tried, but it came out as more of a choked sob. “Seriously?”

  “Yeah, they, um, said to thank you for coming in, but, uh, they decided to go in a different direction...”

  Yeah, they probably chose a girl who's a lawyer instead, I thought, and a morbid giggle escaped my lips. Someone they have more in common with.

  “...Lauren? Are you there?”

  “That's how you decided to tell me?” I asked incredulously, the giggle widening into a titter that felt almost hysterical. “That's how you set me up for that news? Really?”

  The tittering boiled over, becoming a laugh so shrill and jagged that I felt myself doubling over and holding the painful muscles in my sides. The phone was muffled as it pressed against my sweater, but I could still hear Royce's voice: “Lauren my love? Are you okay? Is there anything I can—”

  I threw the phone across the room, hard, hearing it smack against my closet door before clattering to the floor. The laughter broke in my throat, and that's when the tears came at last. I simply couldn't hold them back anymore, and I felt them spill hotly down my cheeks, tickling my chin, wetting my hair against my neck. I'd never cried that hard before in my life, never felt more ashamed, never felt more like someone's idea of a punchline.

  After some time had passed—I didn't know how long—I composed myself enough to walk across the room and pick up the phone again. Still functional. No damage, other than a thin crack in the screen. Good. I could at least call my parents. Maybe I’d go see them and spend a week or two with them. At least they'd understand. At least they would take care of me, support me as they always had, and reassure me that this wasn't really the end of the world despite how much it felt like it.

  As I picked up the phone and unlocked the screen to dial their number, I noticed the date and cursed to myself—December 24th.

  Christmas Eve.

  Between the break-up with Jared and the stress of waiting to hear about the acting gig, I had completely forgotten that it was Christmas Eve. Mom and Dad were on the east coast, half a country away, visiting relatives for the holidays.

  They had asked me whether I wanted to join them, offering to pick me up in their old Chevrolet and drive me out there with them since they couldn't afford a plane ticket for me, and they knew that I couldn't afford one either. I remember nodding through the phone conversation, only half-listening, thanking them for the offer but assuring them that I'd be spending the holidays with Jared because, well, why wouldn't I? We always had before, and I assumed we always would.

  And now, we never would again.

  I wanted to throw the phone again—to finish the job and actually break the stupid thing this time—but instead, I just put it back down on the counter gently, my shaking hands causing it to chatter briefly against the formica.

  I sat on my old couch, hit the power button on the remote, and channel-flipped listlessly. A Christmas movie. An old romance. Another Christmas movie. A sitcom's very special Christmas episode in which two long-infatuated characters finally got together and declared their undying love before kissing passionately in front of a whooping studio audience. A sip-and-smile. A very special Christmas special, with special carolers harmonizing in front of a special live audience filled with happy couples clinging to each other for warmth.

  Another sip-and-smile.

  And another.

  I don't remember how many more times I cried that night, or when I ended up falling asleep, the tears drying on my face in sticky streaks and soaking my pillow. I woke up the next morning with needles of sunlight stabbing into my eye sockets, and my clock radio braying about how “jingle bells chime in jingle bell time” and inviting me to “rock the night away.” I brou
ght my hand down on the radio hard, smacking the off button so violently that I cracked the machine's cheap plastic shell and cut my hand on a jagged edge. I spit out a curse, followed by a weary laugh.

  Well, looks like my luck is holding.

  As I went to the bathroom to carefully apply disinfectant and a small adhesive bandage to my cut, I made a firm decision. Tonight I would not be forced to suffer through endless reminders of this holiday and my own loneliness in relation to it. No sitting at home in front of the TV. No going out for a quiet walk and facing street after street of Christmas decorations. No hitting one of my favorite bars and being forced to endure tacky Christmas-themed drinks, or infinite song-loops of Burl Ives demanding that I have a holly-jolly Christmas. I didn't want to go anywhere where it would be Christmas...only a simple Friday night, like any other.