“I think…” She pauses, hesitates, and then hardens and says, “I think it’ll be for the best if this is a one-time thing. I just…well, ah…”
“Just say what you wanna say,” I mutter, getting tired of this. Tired and angry. Not that I give a damn. No, not me, not Red, not the man who learnt all about rejection before he became a man. No goddamn way. And yet…No, I swallow, swallow down the anger and the rejection, the budding resentment. “Just say what you wanna say,” I repeat, when she just stares at me.
She swallows, and then nods. “I just think this will be better as a one-time thing. I feel like I’ve—this is going to sound cruel, but I really don’t mean it that way—I feel like I’ve scratched my romance alpha itch, you know?”
I shrug. “Yeah, sure, fine. Sure, sure.”
Then, before she can say anything else, I climb to my feet and leave the office. I go out into the parking lot, into the sun which I hardly feel, past people who I hardly see, and to the club’s pick-up truck I used to drive me and Ryan over here. I get behind the wheel, but I don’t start the engine, not straightaway. For a while I just sit there, hands gripping the steering wheel, cock sore from pounding Christina, and wonderin’ what the fuck happened back there. The best sex ever, and then—the door shut in my face. And then I get even angrier, grip the steering wheel even harder: pissed at myself for even wonderin’ about why any woman did anything. That isn’t my concern. That isn’t who I am. I shouldn’t give a shit about that.
I start the engine and head down to the club-owned gym, a boxing, free-weights place called Clover and owned, oddly, by a Scotsman. I go in, past the faded picture of a four-leaf clover above the door, up the creaky, grimy stairs, and into the gym area. The Scotsman sits against the wall, watching one of his students work a punching bag. He makes to stand when he sees me—sees the patch—but I gesture with my hand for him to stay sitting. I go to the free weights, take off my jacket, and just start lifting like mad. Dumbbell press, bench press, bicep curl, tricep extension, pushups, diamond pushups, sit ups, on and on, trying to work hard enough so that Christina and that perfect body are no longer in my mind, trying to work hard enough so that I stop making the cruel connection between the way Christina rejected me just now and the way Mom rejected me all those years ago.
When I’m done, I sit on the edge of the bench and look at myself in the mirror, wondering what’s happening to me. One woman, a good fuck, sure—maybe the best fuck—but still, one woman. We fucked; I got what I wanted. One woman…I shouldn’t be thinking this much about one woman, especially after we’ve already fucked. And I offered my phone number. I’ve never done that. I massage my temples, thinking that something strange must be going on inside of me—but then I kill that thought. Nothing strange is going on. I just need a distraction. A fight, a drink, a cigarette. Something to take my mind off those perfect bouncing tits, that tight ass, that pale skin, those wide green deer-eyes, that wavy messy chestnut hair.
I stand up from the bench, pull on my jacket, walk down the creaky, grimy stairs, and out onto the street. I breathe in the fresh air, but that does little to clear my head. Instead of heading for the car I walk down the streets, hands in my pocket, gaze down, thinking. I try not to do that too much: think. All thinking does, as far as I can tell, is remind you just how far up shit creek you are. There’s no point thinking about any bad shit that’s happened to you, ’cause all that’s going to do is make you feel like dog shit. Doing something…that’s more like it. But what can I do about Christina? What can I do about Mom, living a new life somewhere with a kid who’s probably around nine or ten right now, a half-brother or half-sister I’ve never met? What can I do if Christina says she’s done with me?
“I don’t give a fuck,” I mutter as I get to the end of the street.
There’s some homeless guy sitting in the doorway of an abandoned takeout place, the tall long windows obscured with cardboard, the gutter pipe twisted in the wrong direction. The homeless man is black, with bright eyes whose color are difficult to determine.
I walk up to him, reaching into my pocket. “Tough day, eh?” I say, handing him a few notes.
He reaches up and takes the money, nodding shortly. “Always is,” he says, tucking it into the folds of his ragged sleeping bag. “Just gotta get on, you know?”
“Yeah,” I say, nodding. “Yeah, man, you’re right. Yeah. Have a good one.”
He laughs sarcastically. “A good one—you too, boss.”
I head back toward the truck, telling myself that I do not care, killing my emotion: stomping it down into the deep dark place inside of me where a heart used to be.
Chapter Twelve
Christina
July turns to August, and then August to early September, and I spend my time much as usual. In the evenings, I read my romance novels, or, too exhausted for that, I collapse into bed after a long day and close my eyes and fall instantly into oblivion. Work takes up most of my time. I work at the shelters, the helplines, and of course my own office, working much more than I usually do. Part of me understands that this is because I need to get Red out of my mind, but I don’t let that part of me have a voice. I am just working; that is all. There is no reason to attach any significance to it.
A big part of my job during this next month is checking on Ryan at the rehab facility. The first time I go there—it’s the kind of neat little building that could be any kind of nursing facility, but has a certain sterility to its appearance that means it will never look like anything else—he is in a state. His strawberry blond hair is twisted and messy, even messier than mine, and his lips are chapped and the bags under his eyes ever deeper than the first time I met him, back at the library. The second time, about a week later, he’s washed and there’s a little more life in his face, and after a few weeks he seems to becoming a proper person again, even offering me a smile. It’s strange to think that this kid, after he’s recovered, is going to fall into a life of bikes and oil and guns and danger, but I try not to think about that.
I interview him a few times, too, to make sure that he’s happy about where he’s headed, and to ensure that he’s recovering in his mind as well as in his body. Getting an addict clean isn’t as difficult as many people might think. It’s only a question of weaning their body away from it so that they no longer need it, and making sure their body stays healthy through that process. The difficult part is changing an addict’s behavior so that they are able to make different choices. Many, many people turn to drugs or alcohol as answers to serious anxiety or incredible depression. Helping them get those things under control is what will help them stay sober for a longer time. Help them stop craving the romanticized version of the drug…a pang hits me as I realize I am not describing Ryan, but myself, and Red. Red is my drug, and my mind and my body calls out for him. Constantly, just as it did before we had sex. No, it’s worse now, because now I know exactly what it’s like to fuck him. Incredible, the best sex I ever had. I can’t even lie to myself anymore; it was amazing. But still…that’s in the past, I have to remind myself. That’s over.
Ryan and I meet in a small office in the facility, a desk and two chairs facing each other, a small water cooler, and a Mona Lisa print hanging from the wall. I sit behind the desk, notepad laid out before me, and Ryan sits opposite me, a shy smile on his face. The office is an interior room so there’s no natural light, only the glow of the electric bulb.
I barely have a chance to ask him how he’s getting along when he blurts out, “Red has been coming to see me.” As he speaks, he grips the edge of the chair on which he sits. He does so with less nervousness than when he was fresh off the drugs, but there’s a remnant there, and now instead of glancing around the room he stares at a fixed point on the desk. But then, for the first time since we’ve been meeting, he drags his gaze up and looks me in the face. “He’s really helping me.”
“I…” Red, here. Nobody mentioned anything. I think about walking into the church on a routine meeting,
and then bumping into Red, literally walking into his stone-hard chest. I think about the wave of pleasure which would come over me as his body imprinted mine once again; the pleasure of remembered orgasms, of relived euphoria. And then I thrust that all down and make my face professional. “Oh, well, that’s awfully nice of him to show an interest,” I say.
Ryan nods. “Yeah, Miss Lee, yeah, it’s pretty nice of him. I don’t want to be dramatic or anything but I really appreciate him coming by because my dad was never very nice to me, you know…he was a bit of a scumbag really, an alcoholic, and he was…well, it’s easier to forget when you’re high, you know? But Red isn’t like that. Sure, he’s an enforcer and yeah he’s tough and all. But I think he’s a decent guy, too.”
I nod, letting him speak. Though he isn’t as closed off as he once was, this is by far the most words he’s ever said in a row during one of our sessions.
Ryan closes his eyes, lets out a long breath. “Did you know I pulled a knife on The Faithless? Their leader, Chains, and some others. Yeah, I pulled a knife on them, but then Red grabbed me and he explained to me why I needed to calm down, and something about it got through to me. I don’t think he’s just some simple violent guy. I really think he can be a nice guy, too.”
I nod again, but now I’m getting the feeling Ryan is saying all this for a reason. I wonder if Red put him up to it, but somehow I doubt that. Surely, if Red wanted to talk to me, he’d just come and talk to me. He knows where I work; he knows I come by the facility every so often. Frankly, Ryan isn’t the first person I’ve helped find a place here, and it’s unlikely he’ll be the last. If he really wants to get ahold of me, he could leave a note with Ryan. No, I’m sure Ryan is doing this on his own. I don’t understand why, though. I wonder if this is a taster of how a divorced parent feels, being convinced by their kid that their ex-spouse isn’t so bad after all, and I almost laugh. Red and I are nowhere even half-close to that.
Ryan squints at me, the skin around his eyes lining, wrinkling. I feel a jolt in my chest as I look at this teenager with the too-old eyes. I don’t normally get emotional like this. I long ago learnt that if you get emotional every time a case has a note of tragedy, you’ll spend your entire life getting emotional. But no, I’m wrong, I realize. It isn’t in my chest. It’s a tightness in my belly. And it isn’t a pang of emotion. It feels like sickness. I swallow it down, keep my face calm, steady.
“Red rescued me from a really shitty situation,” Ryan goes on. “If it wasn’t for him, I would’ve stabbed one of those men, and then where would I be? I’m not an idiot, Miss Lee. People at school used to call me Ryan No-Brain, but I don’t think I’m an idiot. Just because I’m not good at reading or whatever…Look, what I’m trying to say is that Red has mentioned you a couple of times. He tries to make it like he doesn’t care, but I think the main reason he comes by here is to see how you’re doing. I don’t know what happened with you two, Miss Lee, and I know it’s not my business. But—Are you alright, Miss Lee?”
Yes, I am fine, I say, with a professional dignity to my voice, head held high, lofty and worthy of respect.
That is what I wish was happening; what is really happening is that I am charging past Ryan, the sickness in my belly now like the sloshing of waves against the hull of a boat, smashing over and over. I charge to the door, shove it open with my shoulder, and then run down the hallway to the bathroom. I just barely manage to get to the bathroom before I throw up. I shudder over the bowl and vomit painfully, belly contorting, head aching, throat pulsing. I think I’m better and I’m about to stand up when it hits me again. I gasp, finally kneeling down, and push my hair back out of my face as I heave again. I think I’m done a second time when I make the mistake of looking down into the bowl. This time, I dry-heave, and then sit on the floor of the cubicle with my knees pulled up in front of me, panting, trying not to taste the inside of my own mouth. I flush the toilet and try not to smell the wave of sweet-sick.
I sit here for a long time, doing the usual self-checking a person does after spontaneous sickness. Did I eat something bad? I had a chicken salad last night, everything seemed fresh, and this morning I had yogurt for breakfast. Maybe the yogurt was bad? But I bought it on the way to work, it was well within its sell-by date, and it tasted fine. I haven’t drunk alcohol in a long time, since I met with Red, actually. Maybe I’ve caught a bug, but from whom? Nobody at the library is sick, and none of my clients are sick. But that doesn’t mean some floating germ hasn’t landed on me from some unknown person, does it?
I shake my head, unsure, rising unsteadily to my feet. Then I go to the sink and splash water on my face. I stare at myself, at my flushed skin, and my wide startled-looking eyes. Red is right, I reflect, as I stare at my eyes. I do look a little like a deer sometimes, as though there are constantly headlights shining on me. I laugh at the thought, and then splash more water on my face. Red—little deer—little deer—Red. Something’s niggling at me, at the corner of my mind, something which should be obvious but for some reason is not, something which should jump out at me but which is not. I close my eyes, thumb my closed eyelids, rubbing them, as if I can rub through them and rub my brain into action.
But when I open my eyes, I’m none the wiser.
Dabbing my face with a paper towel, I return to Ryan.
“I’m sorry about that,” I mutter, walking to the desk with as much dignity as I can, which is laughable after what just happened. “I don’t know what came over me.”
“Are you okay, Miss Lee?” Ryan asks.
I nod. “Yes, yes, I’m fine. Thank you for asking.”
But I don’t sound fine, and judging by the way Ryan looks at me, I must not look fine, either.
I barely manage to get through the rest of the interview without puking, when Ryan says something that at first seems out of place: “I remember when I was still living at home, before I went to the street, and my older sister got pregnant. She was sick for an entire day way before she started to show. None of us knew what the matter with her was, but…” He raises and eyebrow, and then glances down in embarrassment.
“Ryan, I can assure you—”
I stop, gasping, as I realize that no, I cannot assure him anything.
Because I haven’t had my period this month.
Chapter Thirteen
Christina
I call Triss when I get out of the church, walking to my car through a light end-summer drizzle, the rain welcome and cool on my flushed skin. When I tell Triss I need to go home early, she snaps, “And why’s that?” I make sure not to respond straightaway, because the way I’m feeling I’m afraid I might snap back. I take a breath, and only then do I respond.
“I threw up while visiting a client here at the rehab. I think I might’ve caught a twenty-four-hour bug or something, and I don’t want to infect everyone at the library.”
“Take the afternoon,” Triss says, “and if you’re not at work tomorrow, you better have a note.” She laughs gruffly, and then mutters something I can’t hear before hanging up.
I put my cell away, thinking about my job at the library, how odd and specific it is. It’s not as though there was a social work team there before I joined that can operate without me. It’s more like I am a freelancer without being a freelancer, on their payroll because it looks good to have a social worker at this new multimedia library-esque extravaganza. If I, for some reason, cannot come to work for any elongated period of time, what will happen to that position? I try and ignore this thought as I climb into my car, belly still churning, and drive toward the convenience store nearby my apartment building.
The churning in my stomach is comprised more of nerves than real sickness now, I sense. I don’t feel like I’m going to vomit again, but my belly keeps sloshing anyway, my thoughts propelling my nervousness. I think about my romance novels, about how one of my heroines might react. Would she drive to the store stoically, telling herself over and over that whatever happened, she would be strong? Or would she g
o crazy, become angry? I don’t know. All I know is that I am somewhere in between, numb but nervous, sick but somehow holding it together.
Most of all, I am angry with myself. An entire month passes—just over a month—and I don’t have my period. I don’t go to the store to restock my tampons. No PMS; no moodiness, no cramps. None of that happens, and yet I go about my life as though everything is normal, as though from the age of twelve this hasn’t been a regular occurrence in my life. The only excuse I have is that I’ve been busy at work, but what kind of excuse is that for missing something this glaring? Perhaps I subconsciously thought I was just late. I don’t know…even as I walk into the convenience store, under the fluorescent hospital-like lights, and pick up a box of pregnancy tests (why do these stupid things come in two packs. Aren’t they super accurate or something?) I tell myself I might not be pregnant. I might just be late. Because pregnancy would be impossible for me, completely impossible. My life is on track, and is carefully planned. Pregnancy is not part of the plan, at least not for years.
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