If Ever

by Angie Stanton

  36

  It's after 4 a.m. when Chelsea and her friends stumble in. They're loud and rowdy after a night of drinking. I roll over and punch my pillow. It's been a sleepless night thanks to Chelsea's constant texts. I knew she wouldn't be happy seeing Tanya in the show, but I didn't expect her to practically ignore me after the show and then go out and find ways to make her point.

  The girls clunk around for a few minutes. It finally quiets down until the bedroom door springs open and the light flips on.

  "Hey babe!" Chelsea slurs and half launches half falls onto me. I grunt, glad she missed the family jewels.

  "We had fun!" She's a hot mess with smeared eye makeup and reeks of booze.

  "Yes, I saw that," I say.

  "No, I mean really had fun! Wanna get frisky?" she whispers in my face with a blast of ashtray breath.

  I gently push her away. "Have you been smoking?"

  "I had a cigar!" She boasts, stumbling away. "It's so warm in here."

  She fans herself and then stretches behind her back to reach her zipper. She turns in a circle like a cat trying to catch its tail. She sways and bumps into the wall but then is able to get the zipper part way down.

  "How about you just climb into bed and go to sleep." I reach to help her.

  She slaps my hand away. "I don't want to go to sleep. I want to have sex!" She locks eyes with me in an intoxicated lure and slips out of her dress, her arm catches on the strap and then the dress stops at her hips as she didn't lower the zipper enough.

  It would be laughable if I weren't so exhausted and losing my patience. I roll my eyes.

  "Don't you like my strip tease?" she pouts.

  "Chelsea, you're drunk. I have a matinee tomorrow and need to sleep."

  But she ignores me.

  "You can sleep when you're dead." She stands barefoot in her black lace pushup bra and bunched up dress, staring at me. "I bet lots of guys at the bar would sleep with me."

  I get that she was ticked off about Tanya, and I don't think she'd ever cheat on me, but this is a side to her I don't like. I sit up on the side of the bed and rub my face. "I really don't want to talk about this tonight. Trust me. We'll have loads to talk about tomorrow. Now please just come to bed before you fall and knock yourself out."

  "You don't want to have sex because you got it all out of your system with Tanya!" She stomps to her side of the bed and falls onto it with her dress still hanging around her waist.

  Clenching my jaw, I don't respond. There's no getting through to her right now. I lie back down and hope she'll pass out soon so I can get some rest.

  Finally she stops talking and lays quietly. Thank God. But just when I think she might be asleep, she says, "Tom?"

  I tense up and try to make my voice sound patient. "Yeah?"

  "I don't feel so good."

  Suddenly she claws her way off the bed and lunges toward the door, banging into the dresser on her way. One step into the bathroom and she retches.

  Groaning, I climb out of bed, pull on some pajama pants, and check out the damage. My nose wrinkles in disgust at the pink vomit across the white tile and Chelsea gripping the porcelain bowl, her hair draped around it like a curtain.

  I throw a towel over the mess, go to her, and lift her hair out of the way as another wave of her wild night hurls its way into the toilet.

  She spits and spews, refusing to release her death grip. After a couple more rounds, as she's catching her breath and leaning back against the tub, I wring out a cool washcloth and wipe her face and mouth, but then she retches again.

  "I was afraid this would happen," Anna says from the doorway. She flicks on the bathroom fan.

  "Dare I ask what she drank?"

  Anna rinses out a fresh washcloth, and hands it to me. "Flavored martinis and a couple of shots. She never drinks this much. I'm sorry."

  "It's hardly your fault." But somehow I fear it's mine.

  "She told me about the run in with her dad," Anna says. "I think this is her way of letting out her frustrations."

  But I don't think this has anything to do with her dad

  "There's not much Chelsea can't handle, but his abandonment really messed with her."

  I glance at my usually beautiful girlfriend huddled between the toilet and tub, pale-faced and shivering. I want to hold her, but she smells vile, can barely hold her head up, and likely isn't finished puking.

  Anna kneels next to her. "How about we get you to bed?"

  Chelsea groans and presses her face against the cold tile. "I'll stay here."

  Anna and I share a smile.

  "Then let's get you out of your dress. You look like a strung out hooker," Anna says with a laugh.

  Chelsea shakes her head, but lets me wrangle the zipper lower and as she sits up, retches again. When she's finished she sinks bonelessly to the cool floor. "Moving makes it worse. Just leave me."

  I've had nights like this, but not for a long time. "I'll get her a blanket." When I return, Anna is on the floor talking softly to Chelsea, teasing her and moving her hair out of her face.

  "We'll laugh about this someday. Just like the night we all auditioned for Celebrity Dance Off."

  But Chelsea doesn't agree. "Please go away and let me die in peace."

  * * *

  I didn't die. Instead I wake up to a sledgehammer pounding on my brain and what feels like moss growing in my dry mouth. My head is resting on a toilet paper roll and a blanket covers me.

  "Morning, Sunshine!" Anna says brightly.

  "Promise me you're never having another bachelorette party."

  "Nope. Just this one." She pours a glass of water and hands me two ibuprofen, and then I remember Tom and some of the horrible things I said. I cringe, which hurts my head.

  "How mad is he?"

  She cracks a smile. "I think he's fine."

  "I need to talk to him." I strain to stand. My head swirls, so I sit on the toilet.

  "Why don't you finish your water and take a shower first?"

  "I need to apologize."

  "Honey, it might be best to wash the vomit out of your hair first."

  I touch my hair. Sure enough there are clumps of hurl cemented in it. Evidence is also dried on my arm, and my dress is wadded around my waist. I hide my head in shame. "Oh God, he must hate me."

  "Hardly, despite your efforts to change his mind, the chap seems quite smitten," she says in a British accent and chuckles.

  But he must be horrified by my behavior. I am. After a hot shower and another cool glass of water, I ease into the kitchen. Pastries are laid out on the kitchen table. Tom's making scrambled eggs, pancakes and bacon, and Bloody Marys to chase the hair of the dog.

  He glances up. "You're looking better."

  I spot his phone on the counter and remember sending him pictures of me flirting with other men. My heart sinks, and not only does my whole body ache from a raging hangover, but how could I have been so childish?

  "I'm so sorry," I say softly. He gives me a tight smile and returns to cooking breakfast for my friends.

  A half hour later Tom has his backpack and is putting on his coat. "It's been a pleasure meeting all of you," he says.

  Normally he doesn't leave for the theatre for another hour. I'm afraid to ask why he's going so early, because likely he just wants to get away from me, but Megan saves the day by asking, "You have to go in this early for your show?"

  "Not usually, but the understudy I worked with yesterday is out with the flu. The second understudy has never actually performed the part live before. I'm going in early to run scenes with her." He glances at me and I'm not sure if it's to see how I'm digesting that information or to throw it in my face. I'm too miserable to care.

  "Have a good show," I eek out.

  The girls all pop up to say their goodbyes with quick hugs. And Tom leaves to go to work and make out with a new girl.

  My friends have headed to the airport. Saying goodbye brought tears to my eyes. I still feel like death warmed ove
r despite a nap and eating nothing more than toast and saltines. I've sipped water to rehydrate and scrubbed the bathroom floor and toilet. I'd like to sleep away my crushing hangover, but I need to do something to show Tom how sorry I am.

  My laptop is open with several recipes that are completely foreign to me. I stopped down to the market around the corner for the ingredients, and now I'm a gooey mess wrapping raw sausage around a peeled hardboiled egg.

  When I've got it cobbled together, I drop it into a fry pan and watch it spit and sizzle in the hot oil. As I work on the next one, I replay my actions of last night and desperately wish there was a way to travel back in time and erase everything I said and did. Can he even stand the sight of me after that?

  I plop another globby egg into the oil, turn the first one with a fork, and fish out two others that are brown. They look nothing like the picture of perfect crispy ovals. Mine are huge lumps that look more like hunks of coal.

  "What are you doing?"

  Startled, I jump, bumping into Tom. "Oh my God, I didn't hear you come in."

  He peers at the mess I've created. "Are those..."

  "They're supposed to be Scotch eggs."

  He tilts his head skeptically and examines my poor execution. He cracks a smile. "Why?"

  He looks so handsome next to me, a sloppy hung over mess. "I thought this might help make up for last night. I know you miss home, and you mentioned Scotch eggs one time." I look at the disastrous results of all my work. "But I can't seem to get anything right lately."

  And without intending to, I burst into tears.

  Surprised at my sudden meltdown, he pulls me into his arms. "Hey, love, don't cry."

  "I'm so sorry. I've made a mess of everything."

  "The kitchen, yes, but what else?"

  "Stop being so nice. I was horrible, and you must hate me."

  He looks into my eyes. "I could never hate you. I might have been a bit mad, but after seeing all the trouble you've gone through here, I'd say it's mostly passed.

  "I really am sorry. I have no excuse for the way I acted." The frying pan starts to smoke. "Shit." I quick move the pan off the burner and take out the last two eggs before they go up in flames.

  Tom turns off the stove, then leans against the counter to face me. "You were saying."

  I gaze at him. He deserves the truth. "You always have girls at the stage door hoping for a picture and a hug. After those French girls you were so nice to ended up being my dad's other family..." In reality they are my half sisters, but I'm not ready to face that fact yet. "...I'm just having trouble with it."

  He nods, so I continue. "And then watching you with Tanya pushed me over the edge. I have no choice but to stand by and just take it, to pretend I don't care. But sometimes it really hurts."

  "You know I can't change that," he says gently.

  "I do, but if I were to kiss another guy it would be cheating." There's turmoil on his face, but I'm being honest.

  "Is that what you want?"

  "Of course not." I look away, not wanting to meet his eyes. "But last night felt like a betrayal in front of my friends."

  He sighs and runs a hand through his hair. "There is no answer I can offer that will change the reality of my job, my life."

  "I know. It's my issue, not yours, and it'll be fine." I offer a weak smile. "But it's not fair for me to take it out on you. I should be better than that. Can you possibly forgive me?"

  He gives me that look of his that overflows my heart with love. "Already done. Now let's see how these Scotch eggs of yours taste." He reaches for a misshapen egg.

  "Maybe you better not."

  He arches a skeptical brow and takes a bite and chews, and then chokes.

  I watch in horror.

  He easily swallows. "Kidding. It's delicious. Come here." He pulls me in and kisses me.

  He tastes of sausage, which actually is pretty good, and my world brightens. We're going to be okay.

  37

  The next morning I'm drying off from my shower and hear voices, which is odd because Tom was sound asleep when I got up fifteen minutes ago feeling incredibly achy. I've never heard of a two-day hangover, but I feel crummy and a hot shower hasn't helped. I'm getting sick.

  I turn off the fan to hear better. One voice is Tom and the other has the higher pitch of a woman. I can't imagine who it could be. A neighbor, a coworker? Then a vision of Tanya pops into my head. God, it better not be her.

  With no clothes in the bathroom, I'm forced to slip into the bedroom wrapped in a towel. But I'm taken aback to find a woman in our bedroom. She has sleek dark hair, long legs in heeled boots, and is wearing a fitted leather jacket. This is definitely not Tanya, but who the hell is she? I can't stand in my towel all day, and I'm not going to hide in the bathroom.

  "Tom, this is my place again, too. I sublet the extra bedroom from Ryan," she says in a silky voice.

  "Why the bloody hell would you do that?" Tom fumes.

  "You've been ignoring my calls for days. It's the only way I knew you'd talk to me."

  On that note, I step to the foot of the bed where they both can see me. Tom, looking irritated, is sitting on the side, a sheet covering his naked midsection. The woman, and damn she is definitely that with her carefully arched eyebrows and glossed lips, is a combination of knock out and determination.

  She spots me in my towel and the corner of her mouth raises in a sly smile. "So this is the new girl. Not your usual type is she?"

  Tom's expression hardens. "Chelsea, this is Barbie. She's leaving," he says in a level tone as if struggling to keep his patience in check. I've never seen this side of him, not even when I was a drunk idiot.

  "No, I'm staying." She says with a satisfied smirk and leans against the frame of the closet, crossing her legs at the ankles.

  I'm speechless. There's no denying that this woman and Tom were an item. The question is when and for how long? And she might not think I'm his type, but she sure doesn't look like it either with her runway model makeup. I tighten my towel, wishing I had a bathrobe, but she's blocking the closet.

  Tom snatches his jeans from the floor and pulls them on sans underwear. Barbie watches with a catlike smile. I'd like to grab a pillow and smack the lipstick off her thin lips.

  He buttons his jeans and turns on her. "You're wrong. This isn't happening. I don't care what Ryan told you, there is no room to sublet, and I have no time to talk." He grips her upper arm and hustles her into the living room.

  Unfazed, the woman places her hand on his chest, looks into his steely eyes, and says in a honeyed voice, "I understand. You're still hurt."

  “You overestimate yourself.” He delivers a withering stare. "You left before, now do it again."

  "And I'm sorry. I was wrong." She sidles up and runs her hand down his arm, which raises my hackles. "I came back to apologize and make it up to you."

  She wants him back, and she doesn't look like the kind of woman who takes no for an answer. I'm about to interfere, but what am I thinking? Tom's an adult. He can make his own decisions, and yet my heart is lodged in my throat as I hear the soft murmurings of her making her move.

  I close the door and change into jeans and a sweater. A glance in the mirror reveals my freshly scrubbed face. Next to the sophistication of Malibu Barbie, I'm a washed out Girl Scout. I pinch my cheeks and drag a brush through my hair. There's no way to transform myself in two seconds.

  Do I stand back and watch her hit on Tom, or do I stake my claim? This feels like high school when Kelly Monson stole Kirk Tiegen from me.

  Ready to face them, I open the door and hear Barbie say, "She's really got her clutches around you. Was it a rebound thing?"

  Unable to stand idle, I march into the living room. Unless Tom wants me to leave, I'm going to stand with him. But I stop short at the sight of Barbie's arms around his neck and lips locked on his. I gasp, and Tom pulls her arms away and steps back.

  Barbie frowns. "Can we do this someplace where your pillow buddy isn'
t eavesdropping?"

  His arms are crossed and his jaw set. "The time for talk was a year ago." He casts me a quick glance as if apologetic, then looks back to her. "You walked into my apartment uninvited, so, no. And I'd like my key back." He holds out his palm.

  Unfazed, she wanders through the apartment picking up a stray piece of mail and scoffing at the picture of Tom and I from Celebrity Dance Off. "Well that's not going to happen until you and I have a heart to heart."

  "Barbie, my feelings for you are as dead as the plant you left behind."

  She looks to the corner at the dusty dried up fern and gasps. "You killed my plant? How could you?"

  He wipes his forehead. "Seriously? It's time for you to go." He opens the apartment door, but she ignores him.

  "Not until we talk, and I'm pretty damn sure you don't want her—" She flips her hand my direction, as if I'm an annoying gnat that won't go away. "—hearing what I have to say."

  I'm an outsider in their battle of wills. Tom has only looked at me once since she arrived. What's going through his mind?

  "I think it's fair to assume that whatever you say is a load of inflated drama," Tom says.

  She saunters over to him. I desperately want to shove her out. Instead I stand frozen in place.

  "Is that what you think? After everything we went through?"

  "Barbie, we were history a long time ago. I was just a stepping stone for you."

  "Why are you always so difficult?" She runs her fingers over his shoulder and down his arm. "You want me to say it? Fine." She whispers something in his ear that makes Tom go still. He stares at her, speechless. Barbie tilts her head and shrugs.

  What the hell did she say? She's pulling him away from me. Who is this woman and why does she have such power over him?

  "Tom?" I need him to acknowledge me during this insanity.

  But before he can register my voice, Barbie says, "surprise," watching his face for a reaction. "And if you want to know more, you will talk to me. Now." She hikes her purse over her shoulder and steps over the threshold."