by Denise Wells
Two hours later, I’ve read the entire thing and it’s brilliant. I want this role. It’s perfect for me. I call Angela instead of messaging to let her know. She confirms the logistics. The mini-series is shooting on one of the islands off Seattle, so I don’t even have to travel far for the role. We get the contract and everything else out of the way and I settle in to read the book that it’s based on.
Morning turns to afternoon and it isn’t until early evening that I’ve finished most of the book. I’d silenced my phone while I was reading so I wouldn’t be interrupted and could get through it as fast as possible. In the meantime, I missed one call from Crystal, two calls from Liza, and six calls from Hunter. I call Hunter back first.
“Tabatha, where in the hell have you been?” he answers.
“Here. Home. I sent you a text to tell you I was silencing my phone while I worked.”
“Well, I didn’t get it. And what could you have been working on that required you to silence your phone?”
“I was reading a script that Angela sent over. Well, not just the script, but the book that it was based on as well.”
“Why would Angela send you a script? You aren’t acting any longer.”
“She thought I would want to reconsider once I saw this role.”
“You’re not taking the role though, right?”
Why wouldn’t he want me taking the role?
“Actually, I am. Why?”
“Need I remind you we are getting married in a few weeks.”
“I know that, it’s not going to interfere. It’s only a six-week shoot, so I’ll be finished a week before the wedding, just in time for everything.”
He sighs heavily.
“Tabatha, I need your help with the planning.”
“Well, you haven’t really so far. No offense, Hunter, but you and Liza have taken care of everything on your own without needing much from me at all.”
“How can you say that? Of course I’ve needed you. You’re my bride, not Liza.”
“Okay, I’m sorry.”
“So, you’ll drop the role?”
“No, I can’t do that, I’ve already committed.”
“Surely you can’t be that tied to it if you just agreed to it today. Unless you’re lying about when you accepted.”
“Why would you say that? Why would I lie about something like this?”
“Never mind.”
“I promise the role will not interfere with planning the wedding.”
“I don’t see how you can promise that.”
“I’ll make certain the director knows before filming begins. I’m sure it won’t be a problem.” I already know I can’t promise him that. And the director probably won’t do anything about it, but I don’t want him to worry further. What’s that saying? Ask for forgiveness later, instead of permission now? Plus, I really don’t think he and Liza will need me for anything anyway.
“Fine. I won’t be home for dinner, I’m working late.”
“That’s . . . fine. I don’t want you to be angry. Are you?”
“No. I’m not angry.”
“Okay, if you’re sure. I’ll see you later then. I love you.”
“See you later.”
He doesn’t say he loves me back. He doesn’t call me “my queen.” He’s definitely upset and just not willing to admit it. This is our first fight. I mean, it’s not really a fight. More like a disagreement, but still, it makes me uncomfortable. My stomach rolls, acid burning as it flares up. I take an antacid pill and drink a large glass of water, then make a salad for dinner and settle in with a glass of wine to finish the book. To say that I’m excited about this role would be an understatement. It’s a game changer for me and my career. I text Angela once I’m through with the book reiterating how thrilled I am with the opportunity.
My phone dings a short time later with a text.
But instead of Angela, it’s from Pax.
PAX: Hey, sorry if it’s inappropriate for me to text you. I just wanted to make sure everything was okay from yesterday. With you and your guy.
My heart warms at that. It’s easy to forget sometimes just how kind and caring Pax can be. Because we are divorced, my thoughts of him aren’t always fond. There’s something about the act of divorce that makes you automatically remember only bad times. Or at least it’s that way with me.
ME: I think he’s still a little upset . . .
I erase that and start again.
ME: No problems at all . . .
I delete that too.
ME: Thank you. He was caught off guard is all. But it’s fine now.
That one I send. Along with:
ME: Sorry you lost the job.
PAX: Ex’s weddings aren’t my bag, baby.
I can’t tell if he’s calling me baby or just quoting Austin Powers. Deciding it’s Austin Powers, I say:
ME: That why you pissed in my Prada? :-)
I’m not asking him seriously. He said bag, I thought Prada, and it reminded me of the past, our epic fight just prior to the divorce. And on TV, no less.
PAX: And just when we were getting along. . .
ME: I wasn’t being mean. Didn’t you see my smiley emoticon?
PAX: With you, Tabs, that could mean about anything.
ME: True. LOL.
PAX: As long as I’m being inappropriate in texting you, I’m going one step further—
ME: I would expect nothing less.
PAX: And say you are going to make a helluva beautiful bride, babe.
ME: Thank you, Pax. That means a lot.
PAX: Also, G expects me to be his plus-one at your wedding, unless he finds someone prettier. Which won’t happen. So just a heads-up, I’ll be there.
ME: You okay with that?
The three dots appear, then go away. Appear and go away two more times before he responds.
PAX: There’s a part of me that will never be okay seeing you with someone else. I’m not going to lie. But all I’ve ever wanted is for you to be happy. If he makes you happy, I’m good with that.
That stops me. It’s the closest he’s ever come to admitting he might still have feelings for me. Not that we’ve spoken much over the years or anything. I know that there’s a part of me that will always love Pax, I can’t help it. The feelings will always be there. And to know that he just wants me to be happy is huge. Like we’ve reached that point where we don’t just want to hurt one another. Where we actually want there to be good where the other is concerned. That’s a big step. Because, of course, I only want what’s best for him as well.
PAX: The minute that’s not the case, he’ll have to answer to me. Deal?
ME: Deal.
PAX: Take care, Tabs.
ME: You too, Pax.
I set my phone aside and reflect on our conversation just now as well as what happened during the filming of Keeping Tabs. I’m not stupid, there’s a part of me that knows we completely allowed the producers to interfere with and manipulate our reactions to one another. And I’m sure that’s a big part of what led to the divorce. Was I really that upset about a fictitious zombie fight? Probably not.
But if there is one thing that was always consistent in my relationship with Pax, it was my inability to control my emotions. I couldn’t hold anything in. If I felt it, I expressed it. In some ways, that’s incredibly freeing. And in other ways, it’s self-destructive. That flailing feeling that happens when you aren’t able to keep a tight lid on yourself and your emotions. Do I feel more in control of my life and myself with Hunter? Absolutely.
I wonder what it will be like to have Pax in attendance when Hunter and I marry. Will I feel weird? Self-conscious? Will we dance at the reception? If so, will it remind me that he and I never had a reception dance of our own? It’s hard when feelings from the past start to mess with your head in the present. Part of you knows that they have no bearing on your life now—that’s the intellectual part. But the emotional part gets confused, because feelings are just that.
&n
bsp; My phone dings again and I wonder if it’s Pax.
But it’s Angela, letting me know that everything is set and she’s excited too.
And see, there goes the emotional part, getting confused. I have no right or reason to wonder if it’s Pax texting me. He has no reason to text me, I have no reason to expect it. No good can come of it. It’s destructive, to both myself and my relationship with Hunter. It’s just because we are fighting today and I feel insecure about it. There’s no other reason to feel comforted by Pax’s words.
No other reason at all.
18
Pax
“All I’m saying is, you got me roped into attending this wedding, which is what got me roped into going to this bachelor party tonight. So, you are going with me to both. Unless I find a nice date to the wedding. Then I’ll gladly dump your ass for someone prettier.”
“Dude, I do not want to go to Nipplecock’s bachelor party. Can you imagine how completely dull it’s going to be? And then, if it’s not dull and he does something disrespectful toward Tabatha, it’s going to piss me off. I can’t win, man.”
Gregor shrugs in response.
We approach the second hole beer table and get our glasses filled, drinking it while we wait for the guys in front of us to finish. I’m doing some sort of charity golf game with him and each hole has a different craft beer with a beautiful girl serving it. It’s my kind of golfing because if I play shitty—which I will—I can blame it on the beer. I golf about as well as a I bowl. Unfortunately, so does Gregor. In fact, come to think of it, I don’t know of a sport that he’s not good at.
“Hey.” I hit him on his big-ass bicep to get his attention. He turns to me, and I continue, “Is there a sport you can’t play?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, not football, obviously you’re great at that. You can bowl, you can golf, I’ve seen your swing at softball games. So, what can’t you play?”
He thinks on it for a minute. “Hoop.”
That makes me happy. I’m a decent hoop player, so maybe I could beat him. I make a mental note to have that be our next sport outing.
We drink our beer in silence, still waiting for the guys ahead of us to clear out. There aren’t very many golfers taking this game seriously. Most of us are, however, taking the beer drinking seriously. There are a lot of past and present Seabirds Players here as well as muckety-mucks that paid a shit-ton of money to play with them. We are supposed to have two such muckety-mucks with us, but they are late.
“Gregor, my man.” I hear from a distance, the voice sounding vaguely familiar. I turn to see who is approaching.
No fucking way.
None other than Wimpycock is climbing out of the golf cart and walking toward us. Awesome, now I get to see him all day today and then again tonight. I can tell the moment he sees it’s me.
“Oh.” Dimplecock stops suddenly, his friend trailing behind almost bumping into him. “I knew this was a charity event. I just didn’t realize the actual charities would be here.” He looks at me when he says it.
Is he dissing me?
“That motherfucker is dissing me,” I mumble to Gregor.
“Stay calm, brother. This is a nice shindig, can’t have you causing trouble,” he says.
“I’m not the trouble,” I say back.
Hunter, as I’ve decided to refer to him as from here on out today, in hopes of seeing him in a more civilized manner, reaches out to shake Gregor’s hand. He does not do the same with me. He then introduces his friend. “This is Andrew Freeman, CEO of . . .” He blabs on about how important his friend is, but I tune him out. I don’t care who his friend is or what he does. I’ll be doing well if I remember his name and address him appropriately, so disillusioned with my day of fun and sun and beer with Gregor am I.
Andrew turns to shake my hand. His grip is limp and clammy. I repress the urge to shudder.
How does Tabatha put up with this life?
They’ve already taken their tee shot from the first hole and are now caught up with us. I chug the remainder of my beer—barely registering what it tastes like—and put my commemorative pint glass in my cup holder of the golf cart, then wait my turn. Because this is the first hole that we are playing together, we randomly pick the order. It’s a 163-yard par-3, that shouldn’t be too bad to start. I think.
Andrew leads off, choosing a 6-iron. His shot is straight and the ball flies about 160 yards onto the green, seeming to land close to the pin since he’s smiling and Gregor is patting him on the back. Next up is Gregor, then Hunter, and finally, me.
I do not want to embarrass myself in front of Hunter, but I fear that is exactly what I will do. My pride is at stake. My manhood. Every fiber of my masculinity is on display to be judged and found not worthy.
I step up to the tee box and tee my ball up. I try to do it one-handed like Gregor does, but the first time the ball rolls off, so I’m forced to use two hands to get it to stay on the tee.
My first swing misses the ball entirely. I whiff.
“Practice swing,” I call out.
“You were at the tee,” Hunter says.
I turn to him. “Does that mean I can’t take a practice shot?”
“Yes.”
Dick.
I step up to the tee, do a little forward press to release some tension, setup and take another swing. There’s a rewarding feeling in my body when the club connects with the ball. My mid-section arcing in just the right way, my feet turning, the club stopping before it hits me in the back. I feel like Tiger-freaking-Woods.
Take that, Hunter!
My ball soars into the air. Victory is mine! I don’t even wait for the ball to drop before turning and smirking at Hunter. He chin-bobs toward the green. I swivel back to watch my ball, devastated to see it’s traveled about thirty yards over the green. I’ve completely overshot the hole. In fact, I’ll probably have to re-tee my ball, the idea of which is mortifying. Gregor pats me on the shoulder and mutters in my ear, “Don’t worry, it happens to the best of us. Next time, try hitting a six iron instead of a driver.”
I wait until we are in the cart and heading down the hill before saying anything. “Can you just take the remainder of my turns for me, man?”
“No can do. Don’t worry about it. You’re doing fine. It’s just a charity event, no biggie. We aren’t even keeping score.”
“Hunter is keeping score.”
“Pimplecock? Nah, he’s good. Just ignore him.”
Easier said than done. In fact, I know that Gregor knows there’s no way I can ignore him. For whatever reason, I view him as my competition. As the man I need to put down. I can’t have him be better than me at anything. He’s the second choice. The second husband. The backup plan. Not the better man.
I sigh and run my hand over my face roughly.
“Look”—Gregor turns to me—“we’ll get to the third tee, we’ll get another beer from another hot chick, and everything will seem better. Plus, you’ll get to go first since your shot was the worst.”
I nod in response to Gregor, even though I know he’s wrong. I’m not going to feel better until Hunter is eating my golf swing dust.
By the time we reach the thirteenth hole, I’m drunk. Legitimately drunk. Most holes since the third, I’ve had two beers instead of one. The girls are generous pourers and never say no to a refill. I’m borderline sloppy and I don’t even care. It’s actually good since I no longer give a fuck what Hunter thinks about me. I may whiff the ball more times than I hit it, but now I get to play from the forward tees, so I’m that much closer to the hole and it’s not even considered cheating.
Take that too, Hunter.
The other guys definitely have a decent buzz, but they aren’t as drunk as me. There’s something amplifying about drinking beer in the sun. I know it will hit me hard later and I can’t find it in myself to care. I spend most of my time flirting with the beer girls and sitting in the cart. Hunter and Andrew ignore me. As usual, Gregor is my only
friend.
“I love you, man.” I slap him on the shoulder as I talk. Luckily, he’s the one driving the golf cart. I’m going to hate myself in the morning.
“And they say you don’t know how to express your emotions,” Gregor deadpans back to me.
“How many more times do we have to do this?” I ask.
“Five, including this next one,” Gregor says. “Then we can get you all tucked into a Lyft to get you home, where you can pass the fuck out until it’s time to go out tonight.”
“I gotta tell you, that sounds awesome, man. Not the part about tonight, the part about passing the fuck out.”
“I figured it would.” Gregor stops the cart and we pile out. “You’re up,” he says to me, handing me the club he thinks I should use. Because I’m the worst player, I have to go first—every time. Some sort of fucked-up golf etiquette. Shouldn’t I be punished for sucking? Really, they should make me go last. Or not let me go at all. The only good thing about having had this much to drink is my eye-hand coordination seems to have gotten better. There are even times where I hit the ball on the first swing and others where it travels far. Hashtag winning!
I place my club back in the bag and grab a bottled water from the cooler, draining it quickly. Andrew moves to take his turn, and Gregor turns to talk to Hunter.
“So, tell me about this bachelor party you’ve got planned?” he asks.
“Mostly low-key. Golf today, of course, then a nice dinner this evening, followed by scotch and cigars, after which I guess we’ll see where the night takes us,” Hunter answers. I have to admit, outside of the golf, it sounds like a good celebration.
“And what’s the little lady doing for her bachelorette?”
I grab another water bottle and lean a little closer, wanting to hear what Tabatha has planned.
“She’s shooting a movie right now—”
She is? That’s great!
“Even though I specifically asked her not to. Which has not gone over well. It’s already exceeded the expected shooting schedule, she was supposed to be finished this last week, leaving her the week of the wedding free. My thought is, she won’t have time for one. Which I told her would happen. But she didn’t listen. So typical. I honestly don’t know what’s come over her lately.”