by Reiss, CD
“It’s a Signorile. I designed it for them.”
“Huh.” He made the sound as if realizing that for the first time.
“When you wear something, people notice.”
“Yeah. There’s always someone trying to get me to wear something, then getting pissed when I cut off the sleeves.”
“I’m not pissed.”
“Cool.”
“I kind of love it.”
If I was going to mention it, that was the time, but he ran me off the road.
“You were the creative director at Josef Signorile or something?”
“Just a design grunt. Sketches for days. Fittings.”
“Didn’t like it?”
“No, I . . . I just had to go.”
“Messed up—what happened to him.”
“Yeah.”
“That’s like a nightmare for every guy.”
“Really?”
“Getting falsely accused like that? And you can’t do anything? Messed up. I mean, what kind of person would do that shit?”
I pulled my hand away from his. “Your nightmare is a false accusation?”
“He almost lost everything.”
He was doing that thing where he slouched as if he actively, aggressively, didn’t care about anything. Righteous anger pushed against my filters, squeezing through.
“A woman’s nightmare is getting raped or killed,” I said. “And it happens every day.”
“Sure, sure, but—”
“Shut up, Justin. Just stop talking.”
“Hey there. That’s not cool.”
He was going to push me into punching his face. I had to get out of there, but he grabbed my arm as I passed.
“Kayla?”
“He did it.” I flung his hand off me and leaned into his offensively casual bearing, pointing an inch from his face as if I wanted to inject the truth. “He fucking did it.”
“Whoa, Kaylacakes.”
“He let the model go, and when we were alone, he put his hand up my dress. He breathed in my ear and squeezed between my legs like he owned it.” I jabbed my finger at Justin with every recitation of fact. “He did it. He did it. He did it.” I counted off on my hand. “He abused me once in the fitting room and again when he said it was nothing because it was just a little feel. He did it when he fired me. His wife did it to me when she gave him an alibi. Then he did it again when he called me a liar, and the entire industry did it to me when they believed him. I was assaulted so many times I ran away. He did it, and I’m not hearing that he didn’t. And I’m not. Seeing. That. Fucking. Sweater. On. You.”
I ran for the door, but he caught my arm. I swung at him, and he held his hands up when he let me go.
“I’m sorry.” He peeled the sweater off, leaving him in a plain white T-shirt. “I shouldn’t have touched you.” He tossed the sweater in the trash. “It’s gone.”
“I knew what he was, and I was still surprised. But why did I deserve better? He did it to me, and I didn’t say shit because I figured I’d get over it. Then he did it to Brenda, and that was it. He broke her. She was so strong, and he broke her, but even after that I stayed there and used my talent to make money for him. Of course he thought he owned me. I sold him my ass. Nothing I did made up for it. Telling what happened blew up in my face, and he’s probably still grabbing whatever he can, but now he’s better at it. Good enough to get away with it and scrubbed clean by my, quote, unquote, ‘lies.’ He’s got a billboard on Santa Monica Boulevard. Right in my face, because he wins and I crawl away. He still owns my ass. Still.”
“He doesn’t.”
“When you come here with your little dance-around asking about it, it’s not you I’m reacting to. It’s Signorile yanking the chain.” For the first time since I started throwing around the truth, he looked away. “You’re not subtle, Justin.”
“Listen, I believe you.”
“Do you?”
“A hundred percent. But okay, I’m going to be honest. I got pulled into my PR guy’s office over this. I’m trying to keep my nose clean for the label and the studio, and I’m already up a creek because of Heidi. Now this?”
“This?”
“It looks bad.”
“Wait, wait. I’m making you look bad?”
“No. No, you’re not. But you could . . . we want to just . . . all I’m saying is . . .”
“I could?”
“It’s not you. It’s just a bad . . . it’s because of my past . . .”
“Spit it out.”
“I think . . .” He put his hands over his face and rubbed his eyes, speaking with his sight covered. “Maybe we should just cool it until I’m on my feet?”
Before he moved his hands away, I went to the table and picked up my things.
“You’re mad,” he said.
“I’m disappointed.” I slung my bag over my shoulder, looking at the multicolored sky at the horizon, the food, the strings of lights arcing under the pergola. Anywhere but at him.
“I know but—”
“In you,” I said, heading for the door, eyes on my shoes. “I’m disappointed in you.”
“Kayla.”
He didn’t touch me as I left, and lucky for him. I would have taken his arm off.
The rumors about my lies had gone on without me. I had no control over what people said, and the more I defended myself, the worse they got. Lies turned into revenge. Revenge turned into blackmail. My résumé went from calling card to indictment.
With the emotional depth of a slice of pizza, Zack had shrugged my ruination off as a temporary setback, hailing the fact that I didn’t once inconvenience him with a single tear.
In his own way, my boyfriend had turned his back on me just like everyone else and still managed to make me feel guilty for moving out.
I hadn’t cried for him either.
But Justin?
The party boy in his douchecore getups, flashing his middle finger on the DMZ alerts?
The dudebro known for his immaturity and sense of entitlement?
That guy?
As soon as I closed the van door behind me, I cried like a loser. My face was full of snot, and my tear ducts couldn’t release the pressure behind them fast enough. I cried so hard I had to pull over on the 101 because I couldn’t see a foot in front of me.
I didn’t have a tissue in the glove compartment or the center panel. I went to wipe on my cuff, but I was wearing a sleeveless dress.
And still I couldn’t get control of my blubbering. I cried over that asshole and every asshole before him, too alone to care about my running nose or hitched breath, wailing as if I were at a funeral, because the possibility of getting away from my past was dead and buried.
I couldn’t even stop when there was a knock on the window, and when I cranked it down, the cop who waited on the other side got a full view of my stupid, useless bawling.
“Miss?” she said, flashing her light in my empty van. “You all right?”
“Yes!” I shouted, because my breath wouldn’t come out otherwise.
“What’s going on?”
Snot had traveled over my lips, and if I spoke again, I was going to get a mouthful of it. I picked up the hem of my skirt and blew my nose into it.
“Nothing,” I said.
“Doesn’t look like nothing.”
“Just give me a ticket, okay?”
“License and registration, please.” She took out her pad and pen. I wiped my nose on my skirt and reached for my bag.
“Miss,” she said. “Do you want a tissue?”
“I’m fine.” I got my wallet out.
“Did he hurt you?”
“Of course he did.” I riffled through for my license. “But not in a way that’s illegal.”
She put away her ticket book.
“Are you sure?”
“There’s no law against broken hearts, Officer.” I handed her my license, and she glanced at it before giving it back.
“You shouldn’t
drive when you’re like this,” she said. “Do you have someone nearby you can stay with?”
“I’m new here so . . . not sure?”
“You’re near the Hollywood Hills. I can let you go if you take the next exit. Highland.”
“Yeah. My father’s off Gower. On Park Oak?”
“Good. Follow me.”
“Okay.”
“Don’t let the bastard know you cried,” she said. “Or make it the last thing he ever finds out.”
The lights were on in Dad’s house, which was encouraging. The driveway was full of cars, which was less so. Once I gave the cop a thumbs-up, she coasted away with a wave.
I parked half a block away, and as soon as I headed up the front stairs, I could hear voices. He was having some kind of party or something.
Figuring I was fine to drive home, I turned around to leave, but the door opened.
“Kayla?” Dad’s voice came from behind me. Getaway thwarted, I faced him.
“Yeah, I was just stopping by, but it looks like a bad time.”
“What happened to your dress?”
I looked down. The front of my skirt was wrinkled into a snot-encrusted pucker.
“I didn’t have any tissues.”
A tall, skinny man holding a drink came up behind Dad.
“Who’s . . . is that your daughter? Oh my God, Raymond, she’s your clone.”
He brushed past Dad and with an outstretched hand came into the light, where I could see his red beard, brown hair, and big smile.
“Terry. You’re Kayla?”
“I was just—”
“Everyone’s been dying to meet you.”
The outstretched hand wasn’t for a shake but so he could pull me inside. The day had skinned and spit-roasted my resistance, so I let him.
Five men around my father’s age sat at the dining room table, surrounded by bunched-up cloth napkins, glasses of wine, phones set glass-down, and a large platter of crumbs. They were talking and laughing in the rhythm of people who had known each other a long time. I recognized Adam and Darren, but no one else.
“Everyone!” Terry cried.
“Terrence,” Dad said, laying his hand on my back. “Embarrass her and I’ll burn you alive.”
“Shut up. Hey!” Terry snapped his fingers, and the guys at the table hushed. “Guess who this is?” He presented me like Vanna White turning a letter.
“Hi.” My voice cracked.
“What happened?” Adam asked.
“Kayla,” Dad said. “This is—”
“I knew it!” A guy with a goatee slammed his hand down.
“The minute you walked in,” a professor type said as he stood and came toward me. They were all up in the next second, shaking my hand, kissing my cheeks, telling me how pretty I was and being so nice I burst into tears all over again.
They led me to a chair at the head of the table and fussed over me with tissues, cloth hankies, and wine. The crumby platter was reloaded with cookies and put in front of me like a steak dinner. When I could breathe, I took a bright-yellow one but couldn’t find the appetite to bite into it.
“Ice pack,” Terry said, handing me a blue cloth bundle.
“Thank you.”
“Over your eyes, honey.” I pressed the cool pack to my swollen face, shutting out the kind voices as they went back to their conversation. I was grateful for their carefully orchestrated disinterest. By the time I took the pack away, my ducts had closed, and my throat was dry and sore. My cookie was on a clean plate, and my wineglass was full. I took a bite of the soft cookie, and my mouth exploded in a bright sweetness.
“This is good. What is it?”
“Ali calls them Lemon Shits.”
Ali had a wedge of a nose, a thick black beard, and a smile as unexpectedly blinding as a full eclipse.
“They go good with the Chocolate Fucks.”
It wasn’t that funny, but I was raw and vulnerable to suggestion, laughing so hard I almost spit my cookie.
“Kid,” Dad said, crouching down beside me. “Do you want to talk about it? We can go upstairs.”
“No.” I took a gulp of white wine and shook my habits right out of my head. “Yep. Yep I do. Right here.”
Dad went to his seat at the other side of the table. After another gulp, I put my glass down with deliberation.
“Besides Adam and Darren, I don’t even remember all your names, but you’re the nicest people I’ve ever met.”
“You don’t know Boris yet,” Terry joked.
“Neither do you, obviously.”
That must be Boris. Frameless glasses. Professorial. A thick, eastern European accent that made a simple phrase quite funny.
“Well,” I said, draining my glass. “Let me give you some background. What has my father told you about me?”
“Everything,” Terry and Ali said at the same time. “Jinx!”
“Nothing,” Dad said, reaching for the wine bottle so he could pour me another.
“He says you’re brilliant,” a guy in a tie said. I was never going to remember these names. “Talented. Ambitious. Tough. What else?”
“Nothing specific,” my father said with a wink. “If you know what I mean.”
“Oh good. I control the narrative for a change. So. Nutshell version. I was run out of New York on a rail.”
I told the entire story, getting up to pantomime or pace, leaving out nothing except the details of the sex, up until the moment the lady cop gave me a piece of advice and an escort off the 101 instead of a ticket. My wineglass was as bottomless as their attention.
“And that, gentlemen, is why there’s snot on my skirt.”
“Who do we beat up first?” Ali asked.
“Dale DiMineo,” said the guy in the tie, whose name I’d forgotten.
“Steve,” Dad said, his voice low and serious.
Steve ignored him and addressed me.
“I’m the CFO of Butter Birds, and I got you that meeting.”
“It’s going down . . . ,” Darren sang under his breath.
Maybe I shouldn’t have exposed everything. Common sense should have told me Dad’s friend from Butter Birds would be at the table, but common sense had taken a nap.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I wasn’t trying to give you a hard time.”
“No.” He shook his head to underline the denial. “I’m the one who’s sorry. He was supposed to meet with you and assess the likelihood you’d make us money. He wasn’t supposed to try to get access to your relationship. And using what happened to you as a threat? Unacceptable. Absolutely unacceptable.”
In the shift from funny/sad story to the actual consequences of it, the table had gone silent.
Boris started to tip more wine into my glass, but I covered it.
“I’m drunk enough.”
“Chocolate Shit?” Ali held the tray out to me, and I picked out a brown cookie. “What are you going to do about Douchey McDoucherson? You going to wait?”
“She. Is. Not.” Adam threw a napkin at him.
The room swam. My mouth tasted like roofing materials. I put my elbow on the arm of the chair and held up my head with it as the guys argued about whether waiting for Justin’s PR team to give us the go was an option. Or if I could see Justin casually and maintain my self-respect. They didn’t know it wasn’t about self-respect or how it all looked. It wasn’t about getting laid on occasion or anything like that.
It was something else, and I let the thought come into my mind with clarity and volume.
“I’m in love with him,” I heard myself say, then bounced up so hard my stomach flipped.
Dad crouched by my chair in an instant.
“You need to get to bed,” he said. “Come on. I have a guest room.” He stood and helped me up. The act of standing made me trip on my own feet. Dad caught me.
“Good night, all you guys!” I said. “You’re all beautiful people, and I love you.”
They chanted good-nights and blew kisses. Dad put his arm aro
und my waist and helped me up the stairs.
“I have some pajamas,” he said. “They may be big on you.”
“I want to sleep in snot.”
“Not in my house.”
He led me to a neat bedroom with a balcony, grabbing a set of pajamas from the dresser as I went into the private bathroom.
“Fresh toothbrushes are in the drawer,” he said.
“Cool.”
I closed the door behind me and got ready for bed, drinking a quart of water right from the faucet. The cotton seersucker pajamas were huge but comforting. When I left the bathroom, Dad was already sitting in the bedroom chair, poking at his phone.
“That’s a look,” he said when he saw me.
“I hope I don’t puke on them.”
“I have a washing machine.” He turned down the covers. “In you go.”
I slid between the sheets.
“I’m sorry, Dad,” I said. “I ruined your party.”
He sat on the edge of the bed and patted my leg.
“You were a marked improvement.”
“I’m sorry about not speaking to you all those years. I didn’t think of it when I was a kid and when I was grown up . . . and Talia found you? Mom was so upset. It felt like a betrayal, and I didn’t want to do that. I didn’t want to hurt her.”
“Your mother had a way of holding on to her pain.”
“But it was stupid. I hurt you instead of her. I always hurt someone. Even Justin I hurt by risking what he worked for. And Brenda by not saying anything right away.”
“Who’s Brenda?”
Had I missed that part of the story? Or had I just left it out because I didn’t want anyone to know how awful I was?
“Dad?”
“Yeah?”
“I didn’t know you were so nice.”
“Sometimes I am. Are you going to be okay here by yourself?”
“I was wondering something.” I sat up a little and let the room settle before continuing. “You’re a handsome guy. Successful. You have good friends. And I don’t want you to take this the wrong way, but you might.”
“I won’t.”
“Have you been in love since Mom?”
He laughed. “Oh, Kayla. It’s such a long story.”
“Will you tell me sometime? I mean, unless you don’t want to relive the past, then . . .”
“His name was Jacob. He was perfect and I screwed up. I’ll tell you everything when you’re sober.”