by Jason Starr
Marissa returned to her room and clicked on a random song on iTunes— ironically and annoyingly, Hinder’s “Lips of an Angel,” a song about a guy cheating on his girlfriend.
She turned down the music and called Xan. “Hey,” Xan said.
It was so great to hear his voice, the voice of a rational person.
“I know you’re busy painting, and I’m sorry to bother you, but there’s some crazy stuff happening here.”
She told him about how her father had found out about her mother’s affair with Tony the trainer and then had confessed his own affair.
“It’s been a total mess,” she said.
“I’m so sorry,” he said. “Man, that really sucks.”
“I’ve never seen my mother so hurt, and you should’ve seen the look on my father’s face. He looked like he was enjoying it. It was so fucking sick.”
“Oh, shit,” Xan said. “I’m really sorry, Rissa.”
“I know how busy you are,” Marissa said, “and I really don’t want to burden you, but I really don’t want to be alone right now. Is it okay if I . . .”
“Yes, definitely, come over. Unless you want me to come there?”
“No, no, trust me, here is one place you do not want to be. But are you sure it’s okay? Becau—”
“Yeah, I’m positive,” he said. “You need to get away from all that craziness, and I want to be with you now.”
“Thank you,” Marissa said. “You’re so amazing.”
As she packed an overnight bag, she couldn’t stop thinking about Xan, how thoughtful he was and how lucky she was that she’d found him. If Lucas hadn’t hooked up with that other girl that night at Kenny’s Castaways, Marissa might never have met him, and she didn’t even want to imagine what things would’ve been like then. Right now Xan was the best thing in her life, the only thing, really.
Her attachment to Xan was weird because Marissa usually didn’t fall for guys so quickly. In the past, when she was starting to get close to a guy, she’d be the one who’d freak out and say, “I need some space” or “I want to take it slower” or “I don’t want to be exclusive,” anything to avoid getting into an actual relationship. But with Xan she didn’t feel trapped or pressured at all. Hanging out with him felt so normal, so natural, so right. Aside from being extremely cute, he was easygoing, sincere, attentive, kind, generous, and funny, and she had so much in common with him it was insane. She loved that he was an artist and that he liked to talk about art. Sometimes when she was with him she felt like he knew what she was thinking ahead of time, like their brains were wired the same way. But the most amazing thing about Xan was that they’d known each other for over a week now and no red flags had gone up; she hadn’t had any what she called uh-oh moments. In just about every other relationship she’d ever been in, the guy would always seem great at first, maybe for the first date or two, but then there would be an uh-oh moment and he’d drop some bombshell, like she’d find out he was a hockey fanatic, a compulsive gambler, a drug addict, a Republican—something horrible.
The morning after they met, she did what every girl in the world did after meeting a new guy—she Googled him. She hoped to find old pictures of him or information about his art, hopefully even a blog. He’d told her his last name was something like Ivonov, but a search for “Xan Ivonov” didn’t bring up any information, nor did a search for “Alexander Ivonov.” Maybe she was spelling Ivonov wrong or, since he was just an aspiring artist, there was no information about him online yet. She was trying a few other spellings—Ivonof, Ivonoff, Evonof—when he texted her, asking her if she wanted to spend the day at the Met. Was that the perfect first date or what? She had such a good time, taking him around, showing him all her favorite paintings. When he went on about how much he loved The Storm, she knew he was just saying this to impress her, but that was exactly what she loved about him, what made him stand out versus other guys. He made that extra effort; he actually cared.
During the week, he wanted to get together practically every night, something that would normally make her feel trapped, but she wanted to spend every second with him. When they weren’t together she felt an incredible void and couldn’t stop thinking about him, and then when they were together it felt so intense that she didn’t want their dates to end. The timing of meeting Xan had been so perfect, because she’d needed to get away from her parents, distance herself from all of the fucked-upness at home, and he was the perfect distraction.
But she didn’t want to sleep with him too fast. She wanted them to really get to know each other first, wait a few dates at least. When he invited her back to his place for the first time, she was ready for something to happen and had a pack of condoms in her purse just in case.
She knew he was worried and insecure about her seeing his artwork—it was so cute to see him get like that—and she kept reassuring him, telling him that his stuff was probably amazing. And she really did expect his work to be incredible. She’d been imagining that he was this major undiscovered talent, the next big thing, and would be hugely famous someday, so when she entered his apartment and saw his paintings it was hard to not feel a big letdown.
His work was extremely mixed. Some of it was very amateurish, bordering on plain awful, but a few of the paintings showed that he at least had some basic talent. His main problem was that his work was unfocused, that he had no singular vision. While he’d told her that he worked in a variety of styles, she was surprised by how vastly different the paintings were. His style ranged from realism to modern to abstract to postmodern, and his use of oils and acrylics seemed almost random. The painting he was currently working on was a total mess; it looked like he’d splattered the paint nonsensically onto the canvas, like a child’s imitation of Jackson Pollock. The pictures looked so different from one another, in their styles and subjects, that his greatest talent as a painter seemed to be his ability to mimic other artists’ techniques, and he didn’t even do that very well. It was no wonder that she hadn’t found any information about him online.
Of course, Marissa was careful to keep all her opinions to herself. She knew that, especially given how insecure Xan was about his artwork to begin with, voicing her true opinions would be an instant relationship killer. So she was very positive and upbeat, going on and on, exaggerating the few positives about his work and ignoring the many negatives. She knew she was taking it way too far— comparing his work to Picasso and Johns was about as overboard as it gets—but at least he didn’t seem to catch on that she thought his work was mediocre. Assuming that things with Xan worked out and they continued dating, she’d have to tell him her true feelings about his paintings eventually, but she hoped by that time he’d realize for himself that he didn’t have much of a future as an artist. Besides, the important thing—and one of the things she found most attractive about him to begin with—was that he was passionate about his art. So many people didn’t have passion for anything these days; they just went along with their narrow, selfish lives without really caring about anything. But Xan was different. She knew that if he transferred the passion he had for art to something else he’d be hugely successful.
When they started kissing on his couch, she wanted to make love to him, but he wanted to wait until he met her parents. She thought this was very sweet, but she was also terrified that her parents would mess everything up for her. Her mother had been so depressed and moody lately, and her father had been incredibly annoying with all his rules. He’d told her it was “time for some tough love,” but she felt like he was just doing it to annoy the hell out of her and make life at home so unbearable that she’d be forced to move out on her own and get a job. He was such a hypocrite, acting so high and mighty all the time, telling her that she was “passive-aggressive” and “acting out” and—the most ridiculous of all— “exhibiting attention-seeking behavior.” Meanwhile, who was going around shooting people? Who was the new Bernie Goetz? Who was the one who’d made a fool of himself in that interview for Daily Intel?<
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Marissa was expecting dinner to be a total disaster. She knew her father would interrogate Xan, and she was afraid her mother would be in one of her down moods and just sit there and not say anything. But, thanks to Xan and his charm, dinner went amazingly well. Xan handled her father perfectly—taking him seriously, not getting too defensive—and by the end of the meal they were talking like old friends. Her mom was surprisingly conversational and seemed to like Xan a lot, too. Actually, she seemed to like Xan a little too much, getting a little too flirty with him. At least a few times Marissa caught her mother making googly eyes at Xan. She didn’t know what was up with her mother and younger guys these days. Weren’t men supposed to have the midlife crises? What was she going to do next, start buying sports cars?
After dinner, it was great to finally be alone with Xan in a bed. As they undressed each other and during foreplay, it felt different than it had with previous boyfriends. This wasn’t just hooking up with some random guy. This was the beginning of something special.
But unfortunately, just like seeing his artwork, the sex itself was a major disappointment. It wasn’t due to a lack of passion, because Xan was definitely trying. If anything, he was trying too hard, making so much noise. It was embarrassing with her parents so close by, and it was hard for her to relax and focus. She whispered “Shh” a few times and said, “We have to be quiet,” but it was like he couldn’t control himself, and there was a limit to what she could say to him. She sensed that—like his art—sex was something he took very seriously and that any suggestions she made would be misinterpreted as criticism. She definitely didn’t want to offend him their first time doing it. Besides, Xan seemed very inexperienced—he’d only mentioned a couple of past serious girlfriends—and she didn’t want to make him feel self-conscious, like he was doing something wrong and needed coaching. She figured that once they got to know each other’s bodies, and some of his nervousness and awkwardness faded, the sex would improve. Meanwhile, everything else about the relationship felt so perfect.
She left the house without bothering to tell her father where she was going and took the subway to Xan’s in Brooklyn. On the way to his building, she imagined that she was living with him. She knew she was getting way ahead of herself, but so what? It was fun to fantasize. Xan’s place was small, but it would be a good starter apartment, and with a little decorating and better use of the space it had a lot of potential. Living with a guy would be a blast, and she had a feeling that Xan would be very laid-back and easy to get along with. She had enough money to pitch in for rent for several months at least, and eventually she’d find some kind of job or go back to school or do something. When the timing felt right she’d gently persuade him to find a career outside of art. She wouldn’t really care what he did for a living, because to her who he was was more important than what he was. She’d never been materialistic. She didn’t want to marry some doctor and be miserable her whole life—she’d watched her mother make that mistake.
Xan buzzed her up to his apartment. Although it had only been a few hours since they’d seen each other, it felt like it had been days, and it was great just to be with him, to hug him, to feel close to somebody.
They got right into bed and lay side by side facing each other, kissing and giggling with their noses touching.
“So it sounds like it was pretty crazy over there, huh?” Xan asked.
“You have no idea,” Marissa said. “I walked into the kitchen, and they looked like they wanted to kill each other. My dad’s whole face was bleeding, my mother must’ve hit him or something, and then my dad said that he’s been cheating, too. When my mother comes home it’s gonna be a total disaster.”
She went on, venting, rehashing what had happened at the house. Xan didn’t say much. Occasionally he said things like “It sounds rough” and “I’m so sorry” and “Man, that sucks so bad.” But just having somebody to talk to, somebody who actually cared about her, made her feel so much better.
“I’m so lucky I have you in my life right now,” she said as they rubbed noses again. “I think I must be the luckiest girl alive.”
DANA WAS at the Starbucks on Austin Street in Forest Hills, into her second latte, contemplating her bleak future. It wasn’t the first time she’d tried to imagine a life without Adam, but this time the idea of winding up divorced seemed more serious, more imminent, and the alternatives were as scary and as unappealing as ever.
She had no close relatives in the New York area, and she didn’t want to burden any of her friends, so if she moved out she’d have to go to a hotel. She could stay there for a while, maybe a couple of months, then what? She knew that Adam would go all out, hiring Neil Berman, an old college friend and a high-priced, cutthroat divorce lawyer. Berman was as slimy as they came. She’d have to counter with her own pit bull, and she and Adam would wind up spending tens of thousands of dollars on nasty lawyer correspondence. She knew he’d fight like hell to keep the house and would probably be successful, given that the house had belonged to his family before they were married. She’d probably be able to get half their stock market account and savings— only a few hundred thousand dollars total, because they still hadn’t recovered the money Adam had lost during the dot-com bust. They both had IRAs, and Adam had a 401(k) or a 403(b), but she wasn’t sure exactly how much was in Adam’s retirement accounts or whether she would be entitled to any of it. She would probably be able to work out some sort of alimony agreement, but Neil Berman was such a bloodsucking prick that Dana knew it wouldn’t be much. And even if she was somehow able to work out a decent settlement, it wouldn’t be enough to pay a New York City rent and all her expenses. She’d need some kind of job, and she doubted companies would be tripping over themselves to hire a forty-seven-year-old woman with limited skills who’d been out of the workforce for over a decade. Yeah, she’d try to meet another man, but would that even be possible? In a few years, she’d be fifty and single, struggling to pay her rent in some tiny, modest apartment.
Her future had never seemed so hopeless. Not only was she on the verge of being single, maybe for the rest of her life, but she’d also lost her best friend. Dana knew she’d never be able to forgive Sharon. This was a woman Dana had trusted, had confided in. Just the other day Dana had been over at Sharon’s house asking for advice about how to end her affair with Tony. Dana had been asking her for advice. And what had the cheating bitch done? She’d gotten all holier-than-thou on her, telling her that “affairs are wrong” and she had to “think about Adam’s feelings.” Meanwhile, that bitch had had Adam’s cock in her mouth. Dana had never been angrier than she’d been when she’d had her hands around Sharon’s neck. For the first time in her life she’d felt like she could actually kill someone, she could cross that line. It was an easy line to cross; it didn’t take much effort. You didn’t have to be crazy to kill. You just had to be a little thoughtless.
Dana was taking a long sip of her latte, finishing it, when her cell rang. It was fucking Tony.
“Son of a bitch, leave me alone,” she said, loud enough that the barista, a young black woman, heard across the store and looked over.
Dana couldn’t believe he had the balls to call her now, after leaving that note and trying to ruin her life. She was going to let the call go to voice mail; then she thought, Screw it, and picked up and said furiously, “What the hell is wrong with you? Why can’t you just go the hell away?” He started to say something else, and she said, “Just stay the hell away from me,” and hung up. A few seconds later he called back, and she said, “Are you some kind of idiot or something? Are you demented?” and he said, “I got no idea what the—” and she said, “Like hell you don’t,” and he said, “Don’t ha—” and she said, “Fuck you, and I mean it” and clicked off.
Of course he called again, and this time she didn’t answer. About a minute later her phone beeped, indicating a new voice mail. She was going to delete it but then thought about what Tony had just said, I got no idea what the, and fo
r some reason she felt compelled to play the message with her thumb on the end button, ready to delete it at any point.
Look, I got no idea what the fuck’s going on, okay? All I know is your husband showed up and tried to attack me in the shower. I didn’t wanna hurt him, okay, but he spit in my face, and what do you want me to do, just take that shit? I don’t know what’s going on with you guys, if you told him about us or what, but I just called to make sure you were all right. I miss you, all right? Shoot me for saying that, but it’s true. You know how much I love you, Dana. Do what you wanna do, but do me a favor—tell your husband to stay the hell away from me. I don’t wanna have to hurt him again.
Dana deleted the message, deciding that Tony was officially insane and that she had to be insane, too, for getting involved with him in the first place. In retrospect he’d been unstable, obsessive, and prone to violence all along. The way he was rough in bed, the way he’d started telling her that he was in love with her when she’d let him know from the beginning that as far as she was concerned he was just a boy toy, the way he’d called her and texted her at inappropriate times, the way he’d sent flowers to the house, all should’ve been warning signs. He’d told her about fights he’d been in, people he’d beaten up at bars and clubs, and though she hadn’t said anything to him, she’d thought, Roid rage? Then today, he dropped off a note at the house and beat the crap out of Adam, and he acted like none of it was his fault. Worse, he was still telling Dana that he was in love with her when she’d made it incredibly clear that she never even wanted to talk to him again.
“Jesus Christ,” Dana said, and the barista looked over again. Dana shot the woman a look back that screamed, Yeah, I’m talking to myself. You got a problem with that?