by Heidi Lowe
She lets out a long breath. "She really fucked up, didn't she?"
I nod slowly. It is disappointment I hear in her voice. I don't blame her, really. She's been our biggest champion from the outset. Nikki told me once that the first day Sandra met me she said, "That woman is marriage material. If I had a licker license, I'd be fighting you for her!" (Nikki also had to explain to me what a "licker license" was).
"Did you think we would get back together?"
"I hoped you would, but I know too much has happened. And honestly, I wouldn't have forgiven her either." It's not easy for her to admit this, I can see it in her face, hear the reluctance in her voice.
"For what it's worth, I think you're mistaken. Nikki might be having problems with her new wife, but I doubt she would want me back. She must know I've moved on."
Her eyebrow pricks up, and a whimsical smile teases the corners of her mouth. "Oh? Moved on? Is there someone new?"
I laugh. "There's no one... Not exactly. I met someone, but I haven't called her yet."
At once she tosses her pastry aside, leans forward, eyes sparkling with fascination. "Now you gotta tell me everything. Who is she? What does she do? What does she look like. And why in God's name haven't you called her yet?"
Good question. Work, life, motherhood. But mostly because I'm afraid to get back out there.
I spend the next half an hour talking about the evening I met Melanie, and being convinced by my ex-wife's best friend to "give the woman a shot and get myself laid".
THIRTEEN
One last look over myself in the mirror reveals that the tag is still on my new skirt. I pluck it off and toss it lazily to the floor. I'll dispose of it later. I'm still not sure about the gray color, but it's too late to change skirts now. She'll be here any minute. In hindsight, I probably shouldn't have taken the store clerk at her word when she insisted it looked good. She's paid to say stuff like that. And maybe it does look good...just not on me. I do like the way it clings to me, though, and makes my butt stand out. Actually, I kind of love that!
The tiniest smile rests on my lips. This is a new side of me, a side that isn't conscious of trying to look sexy. The old me would have laughed at the very attempt, writing it off as pointless. Nikki is the only one who has ever used the word on me, and I'm sure she only said that because she was my wife.
A mousse-caked fringe falls over my face, while my thick, wavy locks are pulled up into a tight bun. Add to that the sleeveless, white, French blouse and the figure-hugging skirt that doesn't quite reach my knees, I look unfamiliar. I actually feel sexy. I haven't felt anything close to this in a long time. And this isn't for Melanie; this is for me.
When the bell rings, I spray on my trusty Chanel No.5 perfume like a mad woman, submerging myself in the stuff, and subsequently choking myself. It's all out of nerves. No one needs this much perfume. The scent mixes with the smell of cooking that clings to the air.
As soon as I open the door and Melanie's eyes bug out as they appraise me, I know I've made the right call with the outfit.
"Wow!" she says, somewhat breathlessly. "You look amazing."
"Thank you. Come in."
She hands me a bouquet of lilies, which I thank her for and put in a vase.
"Something smells delicious," she says, as she follows me into the kitchen. Is she talking about me or the food?
"I hope you're hungry. I went a little overboard."
She laughs. "It may not look like it, but I eat a lot."
She's right, it doesn't look that way. I've seen her with hardly anything on, and there wasn't an ounce of fat on her that wasn't entirely necessary. Her toned, tanned arms are on full display through her waistcoat. And her tight pants accentuate the definition in the toned thighs I got a glimpse of the day of the party. Pomade keeps her hair slicked back in place. It's a style that suits her somewhat androgynous look. Black gem-encrusted rings decorate her thumbs. She's confident in her own skin, without being cocky. That's what I find most attractive about her.
I pour us some Merlot before I serve the dinner.
"It's a Thai dish I've been trying to perfect for years. With a little Faye-twist to make it unique."
When I set her plate in front of her, she breathes in the aroma, smiling almost hypnotically. "I can't believe I have the privilege of tasting a Faye Cox-Everett dish."
It's a slip of the tongue, using my old married name, but she doesn't notice. I still flinch when people do. I once loved having the double-barreled name, being Mrs. Cox, while also being Mrs. Everett. I loved feeling like I belonged to someone, as she belonged to me. Now I'm just Ms, the saddest title of all.
We tuck into our meals and throughout, Melanie, though I'm sure it's not her intention, causes me to giggle quietly to myself.
"Mmm, this is the best thing I've ever tasted."
And, "I can't stop eating! This is delicious."
Her hums and moans sound more indecent than is warranted for an innocent meal between friends. It sounds like she's having an orgasm!
"I'm sorry. God, I've completely lost my manners," she says when she hears me chuckling. "It's just that I can't believe I have the honor of sampling a Mama Kitchen dish. This is probably why you shouldn't cook for your fans."
"It's fine, really. I love cooking for people. And praise is always nice, even if it does sound a little...let's say racy."
A blush comes to her face, and she laughs. "Now I'm really embarrassed. I bet you regret inviting me."
"Not at all. I'm having a great time." It's true. I haven't felt this relaxed in a long time.
"It took me a while to get back into swimming, after the injury. When your whole future is destroyed and you realize you'll never be able to swim professionally again, you don't ever want to step foot in another pool."
Our empty plates pushed away, hers almost spotless, I sip my wine and listen intently as she recounts the events that led to the demise of her swimming career, and robbed her of her shot at an Olympic medal.
"Did they rule out professional swimming straightaway?" I question, gripped by the story of a dream stolen.
"Pretty much. It was a rotator cuff tear in my shoulder. After the surgery, I wasn't the same. Certainly not good enough to compete on a major stage like the Olympics. I really wanted to go to Athens."
"That's awful."
She takes a sip from her glass, then smiles sadly. "It was. All I ever wanted to do, even from a young age, was swim. You know how most people change their minds about what they want to do with their life? Not me. I knew I was going to be a swimmer. I knew I would make it to the Olympics... I was good enough. That's the worst part about it. I was genuinely good enough."
"So what made you want to coach?"
"Well, I couldn't stay away from the pool. And I thought, if I can't get a medal, maybe I can train the person who will. Turns out I'm actually good at it. My students are great. Responsive, obedient, extremely talented. They've won championships already. Tokyo 2020 is our year. I've got a couple of potential medalists in my camp."
She speaks so passionately, and I can believe that swimming means everything to her. Swimming to her is like cooking to me.
"You said you met your ex shortly after you suffered your injury," I say, hoping that she'll elaborate on that.
"That's right. I was twenty-two, hated the world, and wanted to drown myself in my sorrows and vodka. It was a dark time. No one could console me. I'm in a store, drunk as a skunk and getting into it with the storekeeper because he won't sell me any more liquor, and in walks Tina with these two gay guys. She says I'm too young and hot to be this drunk at this time of day." She laughs. "She was like that, saying whatever she thought, whatever came to mind. The three of them took me back to their place. They could have been murderers, but I was so wasted I didn't know or care. And they sobered me up. I woke up in her bed with a nasty hangover. Woke up to her smiling face. I knew I was in love."
"That has to be the most bizarre yet sweetest story I've eve
r heard," I say. I'm such a sucker for happy endings and eternal love, that even though I know it ended badly, I still want to root for them. A love story with that sort of beginning deserves to end well.
"We were good for a while, and then one day we weren't. One day I wasn't enough, I didn't have a penis. We were over long before she cheated. It's easy to admit that now. I guess I didn't want to see it at the time. She was still the woman who saved me – the woman who pulled me from the well of despair I'd sunk into. I'll always be grateful to her for that."
Nikki, too, had been there through my struggle, through the loss of my sister – my best friend and only living relative, besides Emily. But I can't be as strong as Melanie. I'm not able to look past the betrayal in order to appreciate the woman Nikki used to be. It's too soon for that. Too soon to forget that the woman who held me, comforted me, assured me everything would be all right, became the one thing that ensured that it wouldn't.
"Do you still speak to her?"
Melanie shakes her head. "No. It wouldn't work. I did hear that she's now pregnant for the guy she cheated on me with. I'm happy for her." She sounds sincere. Is this woman a saint or something? I could never be happy for Nikki and Angel, no matter how much time passes. Does this make me a terrible person?
"You're a better woman than me," I say with a little laugh.
"You'll get there."
Once we've finished our wine, I take the plates to the sink and proceed to wash them while she uses the bathroom. I hate leaving plates in the sink, especially now that I'm the only one around to clean them. That used to be Nikki's job.
"After all the cooking you did, the least I can do is wash up," Melanie says when she returns to the room.
"Don't be silly. You're my guest."
"At least let me help you."
Before I know it, she's taking the wet plate from my hands and drying it with a dishcloth. We look at each other, our arms slightly touching, the contact giving me goosebumps. I feel the blood rush to my face as I get lost in those oceanic blue eyes.
We wash and dry in silence, though when I look over at her and she catches me, she smiles, prompting me to smile too. I don't know what this is, what's happening, but I feel like a kid again. Giddy and dizzy.
"You've got something on your face," she says.
"Where?"
Then she dips her hand into the soapy water, pulls out a foamy hand and unloads a dollop of foam on the bridge of my nose. "Right there." She chuckles.
"Oh, you're getting it now," I laugh, and flick foam at her. The next thing I know, it's become a water fight, as we flick water back and forth at each other.
This is absurd! Here we are, two grown women horsing around like children. And I've never felt freer.
Our tops are soaked by the time we head into the living room, still laughing at our silliness.
"Let me get you a towel." I hurry away and return with a couple of hand towels.
Soapy water drips from my face, from my arms. I dab at my chest with the towel, though it makes no difference.
"Here, let me," she says, taking my face in one hand and gently wiping the moisture from it. Her expression is serious. And we're looking at each other again. Her hand is still on my face.
"I've never wanted to kiss anyone so badly before," she says.
Her admission forces a smile to my lips.
"If I did kiss you, what would you do?"
My smile widens. "I guess you'll just have to find out."
The towel drops from her hands, and she presses her lips to mine. They're soft and moist and warm. And it doesn't take long for me to let her tongue in to tackle mine. Her kiss is delicate, sensual, and it stirs something in me that I thought died when Nikki left.
I don't know what makes me stop, right at that moment, but something does, and when I pull my lips away and open my eyes, there outside the living room window stands Nikki, cradling my sleeping daughter.
FOURTEEN
"Did I come on too strong?" Melanie asks, worry showing in her expression.
"What?" I'm disoriented, not really listening.
"The kiss? Was it too much?"
"No," I say absently. "It was fine." I step past her and head to the door to let Nikki in.
She has Emily slung over her shoulder, and stands on the doorstep awkwardly, a strange look on her face.
"I wasn't expecting you back yet," I say, letting her in.
"Clearly," she responds. That can't be agitation I detect in her tone. What right does she have to be agitated?
Melanie appears from the living room at that moment, and the air fills with a tension-heavy silence as Nikki stares at her, then at me. No one knows what to do or say next. I know I should say something, seeing as I'm the party in the middle of this trio. But what?
Finally, Melanie clears her throat, and says, "I'm gonna go now."
At the same time that I say no, Nikki, who for some reason is still standing in the hallway with us, holding our sleeping daughter, says, "I think that's best."
I shoot her a murderous look, but she ignores it and heads up the stairs to put Emily to bed.
"I'm sorry about that," I say to Melanie as she puts on her jacket.
"About what?" She snorts a laugh, waves a dismissive hand. "It's getting late anyway. I'm coaching in the morning."
"I had a really nice time."
"Me too." She kisses me on the cheek softly, and I close my eyes, wishing the kiss had fallen on my lips instead. A kiss on the cheek is about as platonic a way to end a date as a handshake. It's disappointing after such a pleasant evening.
She is quick out the door, and I stare at it after she's gone, certain that she won't want to hear from me again.
"I see you're broadening your horizons," comes Nikki's voice from the stairs.
When she descends it, I scowl at her.
"What is that supposed to mean?" I demand.
"Well, you've never been into butches, is all."
I tut. "She isn't butch, not really." Why am I so defensive when I have nothing to defend?
Nikki laughs. "Whatever you say."
"What's it got to do with you, anyway?" I fold my arms, my scowl ever increasing.
"Nothing. It's just an observation."
I find that hard to believe. She never just observes anything without there being a hidden meaning in her words. I hate that faint smile that's teasing her lips, too. She's mocking me for my date, because Melanie isn't as desirable as Angelique, no doubt. I didn't think it was possible to hate someone as much as I hate Nikki right now.
"Don't ever do that again. This isn't your house anymore, and you don't get to decide when my guests leave."
Her smile fades. "It's still my house. I might not live in it, but it's still mine. And my daughter lives here. I have every right to have a say in the people I want around her."
I let out a shocked breath, mouth wide in pure alarm. "Are you serious? This coming from you, who married a woman that tried to run her down with her own car! You thought I didn't know about that?"
"That was a long time ago, and it didn't happen like that," she mumbles.
"I don't care!" I shout, throwing my arms in the air. "For God's sake, I don't give a damn about you or that psycho you're married to. Just don't you dare think you get an opinion about who I decide to sleep with."
Her face contorts with anger. "So that's what's happening, you're sleeping with her? How long have you known her?"
This conversation doesn't feel right. Nor does Nikki's rage. These aren't questions an ex-wife, one who chose to leave, should be asking. I stare back at her, my own anger fizzling out, being replaced by bewilderment. Why is she so mad?
"Well? Are you?" she demands.
"It's none of your business," I say evenly.
The breath she takes in is loud and shaky, as though she's trying her hardest to keep her cool.
"You wanted me to see you, didn't you? At the window, kissing her? You wanted me to see that you've moved on."
"I wasn't thinking about you at all! Typical Nikki making my kiss with another woman about her, thinking the whole universe revolves around her."
"Typical? So what you're saying is that you always thought I was self-centered? Funny, I never heard you complaining while we were married." Her expression is pained, as though I've actually offended her. What the hell is going on here? I feel as though I'm in the most bizarre dream. Are we really having this argument nine months after separating? Really fighting about each other's flaws now, when she has remarried and I've started dating again?
"I never thought you were a lot of things you turned out to be," I say bitterly. "An asshole, a cheat, someone who hates me, someone who would intentionally hurt me..."
A few months ago, maybe even a few weeks ago, saying these words, even thinking them, would have forced tears to my eyes. But not anymore. I can make her feel guilty without breaking down in front of her. And her betrayal simply doesn't hurt the way it once did. Time really is a healer.
The words seem to do the trick, because she looks down, lets out a deep breath. When she speaks, her voice is low, almost a whisper. "How could you think I intentionally set out to hurt you? I'm not a monster."
"Conduct," I say simply. "And to me...you are a monster." I consider telling her why: Holding her wedding in the same venue we held ours, divorcing me so quickly, without even giving us the chance to try again. My feelings haven't mattered to her at all.
"Nobody's perfect, Faye. We all make stupid mistakes," is all she says. She shoots me one final, pained look before turning and leaving.
A mistake is taking the wrong lane on the highway, not crawling into bed with your father's fiancee, and subsequently marrying her! Nevertheless, I'm left feeling perplexed after her departure. I can't get that look and those parting words out of my head that night when I lie down to sleep. I can't help but wonder which part of this maelstrom she considers a mistake.