by Tara Wylde
“So he seemed like a good guy at first?”
“Mostly. Kind of irresponsible, didn’t always plan ahead—but we both had great jobs. So if he spent half a month’s rent on a giant TV, or stayed out all night, I’d...chalk it up to immaturity. Boys being boys. I suppose the first real red flag was....” There’s a distant look on her face, like she’s trying to remember. “Let me think... We’d been together six years, so we’d been engaged for one—I was halfway through my first year of college. No student loans—I was so proud of that. But when I went to pay for the second semester, my check bounced. Insufficient funds. I couldn’t understand: I didn’t even suspect him. I thought it was a mistake.”
The blog post said pretty much the same thing: you don’t suspect the ones you love. You don’t want to. Why would it be any different for her?
Guess it wouldn’t be any different for me, either.
Keeping an open mind....
“He....” Lina rubs the back of her neck like it’s hurting her. “This is going to sound idiotic. Like, how anyone could fall for such bullshit....”
“You trusted him.”
“I did, but it was more than that.” There’s finally some color in her face, an angry red flush, high across her cheekbones. “He called the bank right in front of me. I could hear someone talking on the other end, a lot of ‘yep’ and ‘uh-huh’ from Joe—and he yelled a lot. I still wonder, if none of it was real, how’d he... Why didn’t they hang up on the psycho having a fake conversation?”
“Could’ve called that weather phone thing, screamed at a robot voice the whole time.”
“No one would....”
She stops talking as an older man in a heavy wool coat passes by. He takes us in: her tension, my presence in her personal space. His eyes narrow, like he’s thinking about saying something—asking if I’m bothering her, most like—but he shuffles on without a word.
Lina watches him till he’s safely out of range. In those few quiet moments, the furious spark keeping her going seems to gutter out. Her voice is toneless, exhausted, when she picks up the story. “So, the phone call—yeah. He hung up. Acted devastated. Even took the blame.”
“What’d he say happened?”
“Our account was frozen ‘cause he made some mistake with his military benefits, forgot to fill out a form....” She pinches the bridge of her nose. “None of it made any sense—how he’d be collecting benefits in the first place, with a full-time job; how there’d be no notice of a problem; how our credit cards would still be working, but our checking account shut down—but none of that crossed my mind.”
“Not sure it would’ve crossed mine either.”
“You don’t have to say that.”
I offer up a wry smile. “Well, I work in banking. I would’ve had some questions... But I wouldn’t necessarily expect anyone else to. No one knows how that stuff works. They make it confusing on purpose.”
“Like how a one-dollar overdraft turns into a chain reaction of fees and penalties that takes a month to pay off?”
“Exactly like that.”
“Still.” The door opens and shuts behind the man from before. It lets in a chilly gust. Lina wraps her arms around herself. “Still, I feel pretty dumb.”
“When’d the whole cancer thing start?”
“Not long after that. And I had no choice but to believe it. Because it wasn’t fake—or it was, but.... I mean, fuck!” She hugs herself too tight, digs her nails into her biceps. Takes a deep breath, and another. “He never had cancer, but he sure as hell had all the symptoms.”
That I wasn’t expecting. “So he actually—?”
“Made himself sick. And once it started, there was no time to think. Barely time to sit down. Work all day, sitting up with him nights; there were times I thought he was dying in my arms. I called 911 six, seven times, and those hospital stays were real. And the bills that poured in: real. And of course, he stopped working.” She huffs. “That is, he said he stopped. In truth, he’d never started. It was always my money, all of it, everything....”
Her eyes are glistening, her hands knotted into fists. I open my mouth to say something, but she doesn’t give me a chance.
“If I got frustrated, if I dared question anything, he’d get sicker. From the stress, he said. He’d—even if we disagreed over something completely unrelated, like...which of us forgot to pay the phone bill...somehow I’d come out feeling like a monster, like I was picking on a dying man.”
She rubs at her eyes. The rough wool of my gloves leaves her skin pink and raw. “I dropped out of college. Took a second job. And the money—he was taking it to Atlantic City, the whole time. When I thought he was getting blasted with radiation, pumped full of chemo, he was... He was hitting the slots. Or the tables. Whatever.” Lina’s rage is back: she’s practically thrumming with it, taut as a bow. “Bet those were hangovers I’d come home to, on his treatment days, not....” She thumps her own knee with the flat of her hand. I lay my own over it, to keep her from doing herself an injury.
“So when you say he took everything....”
“Everything.” Lina rubs her eyes again. “I lost my job when the story came out. My friends, my reputation; even my mother—she didn’t outright say it, but the I told you so was hovering in the air. And when I went to the cops, I found out what I thought was our joint account was actually his, his alone, so... So in their eyes, so was the money.”
“Didn’t the, uh, the Badger Club press charges?”
She shakes her head. “No. I—I managed to talk them out of it. Not that I thought they shouldn’t, but he’d—but I was—he’d made me part of it!”
“With the fundraiser, and everything?”
She nods. “I was afraid if it went to court, I wouldn’t be able to prove I had no idea what I was doing. I talked to a lawyer—he said in civil court, there’s no innocent until proven guilty.”
I nod. “Yeah, that’s true.”
“So I paid them back all I could, over the next couple of years. Anyone who could show me a PayPal receipt, a Facebook conversation—any kind of proof money had changed hands—I made good on it. Couldn’t repay the whole amount from the fundraiser: it was too much. But I sold my engagement ring, most of my clothes, my computer—just...everything that was mine. I know it made me look guilty, but what could I do? Whether I meant to or not, I helped drag them into it.”
I kind of hate myself for how relieved I feel, hearing the agony in her voice, watching her curl in on herself. I know genuine pain and outrage when I see it. There’s just one thing still bugging me, one thing that feels too cruel to ask.
She spares me the need: “I couldn’t even leave him. I had...nothing left. Nowhere to go. And when he found out I’d gone to the cops....” She ducks her head so I won’t see the tears glistening on her lashes.
I finally slip an arm around her shoulder. She shudders, but I feel some of the tension leave her body. “What’d he do?”
“I came home from work a couple of nights later. He was waiting. He...he didn’t hit me, but he slammed me into the door. Punched the wall beside my head. There were bits of plaster in my eyes, and I was desperately trying to blink them out, and he....” Her voice drops to a whisper. “He reminded me Charles Joseph Whitman was a Marine, just like him.”
The mass murderer? “Jesus Christ.”
“I started saving again the next day—to get out, I mean. College... That was a memory by then. Took me nearly another year, a restraining order, and three changes of address to get rid of him. Even now, it’s only been two months since his last e-mail.”
Shit. “And I show up at your restaurant, all ‘hey, let’s go on a date!’”
“You couldn’t have known.”
“I could’ve guessed.” Looking back, I really could have. The angry restaurant guy seemed to think I was someone else, when I called—someone persistent. And right from the start, she was cautious. Didn’t share much about herself. Even the way she snuck out of my car th
at morning... She never wanted me to drive her home. Never wanted me to know where she lived.
“So you...believe me?” I realize she hasn’t looked at me once since she started talking. Isn’t looking at me now. She’s watching the dust motes dance over the water’s surface. I cup her chin as gently as I can, and turn her head toward me. Her eyes dart to the side.
“Look at me.”
“I—“ Lina closes her eyes for a moment. When she opens them again, she’s meeting my gaze boldly. Defiantly, even.
I brush my thumb over her cheek. “I do believe you.”
“You’re not... You’re not just saying that?”
It hits me like a ton of bricks: all this time, she’s been fighting for my trust. What can I say to win hers? “I, uh—I grew up kind of rough. I knew guys like Joe, scammers, leeches, people who’d take advantage just because they could. The lies, the excuses, the way they’ll turn on you in a heartbeat, make you feel like the crazy one—it’s all part of a personality type. Nasty, but predictable.”
“Wish I’d predicted it.”
And...foot, meet mouth. “No, I didn’t mean you should’ve predicted it. I meant more... It follows a pattern, that kind of behavior. You can see it in retrospect, but not so much when you’re in it. That’s how it works: they build up this larger-than-life story, keep it moving so fast there’s no time to spot the holes.”
Lina’s shoulders slump. She draws in a long, shaky breath, like she’s been suffocating this whole time. I can only imagine how the last few days have been for her. She isn’t shivering any more, and that cold, bloodless look’s faded away, but I run my hands up and down her arms all the same. When I feel her relax, I lean in and kiss the top of her head, her nose, her fingertips. I stroke her back, pat her knee, offer whatever physical comfort I can. She smells nice, up close like this, clean and warm and natural.
She only pulls away when the door whooshes open and chattering voices float in. It’s a bunch of kids, working on a school project from the looks of it. They’ve all got notebooks and pencils, and one of them is consulting a list.
“We should check out the plants too,” I say, wanting to keep some distance between us and the kids. Feels like we’re sharing a private moment. “If you’re still up for it, that is.”
She stands up, brushing imaginary dust off the back of her pants. “Actually, I love this place. I have a whole kitchen garden going on at home. Or I did, till last week.”
I curl my little finger around hers, and am pleased when she curls back. “I’d have guessed that about you.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah—you seem, I don’t know—the gardening type.”
She isn’t quite laughing, but I feel like there’s amusement there, just beneath the surface. “And what is the gardening type?”
“Practical, humane... Oh, and I couldn’t help noticing, when I was holding you so close, you use unscented shampoo. So—the nature type. Environmentally conscious. No perfumes or dyes.”
She makes a sound somewhere between a snort and an exhale. “How do you know I don’t just buy the cheapest shampoo?”
“’Cause the scented stuff’s more popular, so it’s produced in greater bulk. That makes it cheaper. And easier to find. If you don’t want to be walking around smelling like a bouquet of shampoo and soap and deodorant, you’ve got to put some work into it.”
That earns me a sharp look. “Can’t keep much hidden from you.”
“So I’m right?”
“That I’m this...gardening type?” And there it is, finally, a real smile breaking through. “Yeah. Yeah, I suppose I am.” Her smile widens into a grin. “You, though—you smell like shoe polish. What type does that make you?”
“The type who was getting ready for a hot date, and realized he had scuffed loafers?”
“Ah—the vain type!”
I elbow her playfully. She elbows back. I’m starting to feel good about the rest of this date.
144
Elina
The succulent smell of roasting lamb and warm tzatziki is making me weak in the knees. I honestly can’t believe I’m this ravenous—didn’t think I’d be able to eat at all. Digging into the past felt a lot like scooping out my guts and presenting them for inspection. I’d never really talked about my humiliation before. Never had anyone who wanted to hear it.
“Didn’t think it’d be this...hipsterish.”
I startle a bit. “Mm?”
Nick gestures wide. “The décor; the... My God, are they eating off chopping boards?”
I hadn’t noticed. But...yep. Those would be chopping boards. And Mason jars. And—
“Sorry—I haven’t actually been here before. Someone at work said it was great, and, uh....” His train of thought gets derailed by a waitress carrying a soup-filled fishbowl. “Did I just see—?”
It’s ridiculous, all right, but all I can concentrate on is the rich, sharp smell. “Avgolemono. In a goldfish bowl.”
“We don’t have to eat here.”
“I don’t know—it smells pretty good. The presentation might be a bit—“
“Wack?”
“Yeah—wack—but the food still seems fine.” Besides, I’m way too hungry to leave. I didn’t have time for breakfast, and by the time lunch rolled around, my stomach was in nervous knots.
He pulls a face. “It does smell delicious. Just... Don’t start thinking I’m one of those food snobs who won’t eat anything that isn’t, like, locally-grown quinoa on an organic avocado bun.”
The hostess is looking our way, so I hide my laughter behind my hand. “I...don’t think that’s a thing. And besides, weren’t we originally going to do McDonald’s, before you heard about this place?”
“Good point.”
We end up seated in a quiet booth, tucked away behind a concrete column. When our food comes out, we barely manage to rein in our laughter till the waiter’s out of earshot.
“What...in the actual fuck is that supposed to be?” Nick’s eyeing up my Greek salad—or rather, my large cube of feta cheese, my snifter of chopped vegetables, my raw onion flower, and my glass of vinaigrette dressing.
“How do I even eat this?” I poke at the cube of feta to break it up. It crumbles messily off the side of my chopping board. There’s no spoon to sprinkle it over the vegetables—or am I supposed to dump everything out on the board? Won’t the dressing get everywhere?
“Maybe you do it like a body shot? Like, you lick the cheese, take a gulp of the dressing, and bite on a cherry tomato?”
“Oh, that’s gross!” I’m laughing too hard to even try. “And didn’t you order the gyros?”
“I thought I did.” Nick pokes at his appetizer. “This is...kind of a bread bowl? Filled with, uh...grated lamb? Tzatziki? And a pickle?”
“Think there’s some lettuce round the edges.”
“And this lonely tomato cube.” He lifts up a leaf of lettuce to reveal what does, indeed, appear to be a tomato cut into a cube. “Why? Seriously, why?”
“Wanna just scarf down our, uh...whatever these are...and hit the nearest McDonald’s?”
“God, yes!” Nick tries a cautious bite. “It doesn’t taste terrible, but I don’t think I could handle two more courses of this.”
“Me neither.” I end up pouring the dressing over the vegetables, and ignoring the feta and onions entirely. I may be turning over a whole new, less self-conscious, leaf, but this—this is too messy to attempt. Especially in front of someone I’m really starting to like.
Munching Big Macs in his car isn’t necessarily less messy, but the last of the bubbling tension seems to ebb away as we mock the “secret sauce” for obviously being Thousand Island dressing, and speculate on how most people probably like McDonald’s because it makes them nostalgic.
“It’s totally a childhood food,” says Nick. He takes a sip from his soda. “Mm. Their Coke is amazing. But it’s like... Where did you go, when you were a kid, out with your friends, and you got hungry? The one pl
ace you could afford, and the one place you kind of weren’t supposed to go, ‘cause it’s cheap crap.” He motions with his burger. It gloops secret sauce on his cuff. “Shit. Oh, well. I take a bite of this, and I’m twelve again. I can practically feel the curb outside the arcade digging into my ass.”
“Now you’re making me nostalgic.”
He grins. “Remember when their menu had maybe ten different things?—hamburger, cheeseburger, Big Mac—and those scalding hot apple pies?”
“I remember those. And their pancakes.”
“They have pancakes?”
“Yeah—those are my big McDonald’s memory. My mama—she’s this amazing cook, so, like... If I asked for McDonald’s, she’d take it as a personal affront. Like I was saying, I preferred fast food to her cooking. But once a year, we’d drive out to Indiana to see my aunt. It’s a twelve-hour trip, so we’d set off about five in the morning. And when the sun started to come up, we’d pull over for a McDonald’s breakfast. Pancakes and sausages.”
“They have sausages?”
“Menu’s totally different if you go in the morning.”
“It’s like... My world’s been turned upside-down.”
His world.... “You know... It occurs to me, I still don’t know that much about you.” I stir the ice cubes around with my straw, suddenly nervous. “I mean... You volunteer at the food pantry, you like Christmas, you do something involving banking, and you’re kind of a slob.”
“And ruggedly handsome.”
“And—“ I can’t repeat that back to him with a straight face. He’s definitely handsome, but the lumberjack type he’s not. More...polished. Refined. With a hidden steel underneath. “You’re very handsome. Really.”
“That didn’t sound so sincere!”
“It’s the rugged part, not the handsome part. Maybe if you had a five o’clock shadow, one of those Clint Eastwood growls—“