The Baddest Girl on the Planet

by Heather Frese

  “I just feel comfortable with you, Evie,” he says. We’re sitting on a blanket watching the sun set over the Pamlico, the sky swirled pink and tangerine. I’m not one to wax poetic over sunsets, but this one is pretty freaking amazing.

  “Comfortable is good,” I say. Then I wonder if I’m giving away too much ground, opening too much. “My ex-husband is moving home,” I say.

  Daniel picks up a handful of sand and sifts it through his fingers. “Is that a good or a bad thing?” he asks. He sits there in the sunset, his face a perfect straight-nosed profile.

  “Good for Austin,” I say. “And Stephen seems to be acting like a grown-up this time.” I think about the phone conversations we’ve had while I found Stephen a rental on the island, how we joked about him living in an RV like I did with my aunt one summer, or camping out in the back room of the hardware store.

  Daniel dusts off his hands and reaches into his backpack for a bottle of wine. “Exes are tricky things,” he says. I wonder about his exes, but I don’t ask yet.

  We share some wine. He’s forgotten to bring glasses, so we pass the bottle back and forth. “I love how classy we are,” I say.

  He wipes a little drip from the side of my mouth. Daniel leans over and kisses me then, his lips soft against mine, warm from the wine.

  “Classy with a K,” Daniel says. He raises the bottle in a miniature toast.

  I grab the wine and take a sip. “Klass-tastic.”

  I pull out the scrapbook from my first and only semester at college. The first page is comprised of a picture of Stephen and me, faces pressed together, grins wide. It’s pasted on a red heart. Then me and Stephen at an ECU football game, his arm around my shoulder, my hands waving purple pom-poms. Me and Stephen in pajamas, eating waffles in the dining hall during finals. A long shot of me and Stephen sitting under a pine tree with a tall, skinny trunk, his fingers in my hair as I lean against his propped-up knees.

  Do you remember the pine on ECU’s quad? I text Stephen.

  Stephen writes back, I remember you under the pine. How soft your hair was.

  And how I found a pine needle in my boxers that night. But mostly you.

  A warmth courses through me, something soft and familiar, sparkly and new. I remember you, too, I write.

  And I do.

  And I also remember last night, when Daniel brought me a copy of Pablo Neruda’s book of sonnets, which I’ve been wanting to read and don’t even remember mentioning to him. I remember the way he stabbed a bite of scallop off of my plate without thinking, then apologized, then looked relieved when I wasn’t angry. I remember him shortening his stride so I could keep up as we walked along the beach.

  I remember all that, too.

  Stephen keeps his word and moves back within the month. He gets onto the island during my lunch hour, so I meet him at a barbecue place in the Food Lion plaza in Avon. Stephen looks good despite the fact that he’s resurrected his mustache. He’s trim and muscular, and he’s still got his sandy blond hair. His face is all angles, with cheekbones so high and sharp you’d think they’d slice your finger if you ran it across them. Attraction was never the issue between us. I still want to jump him.

  “How does it feel to be home?” I ask him. I wipe my mouth carefully. I don’t want to get sauce on my realtor costume.

  Stephen takes a bite out of a rib. “Delicious,” he says. He grins, and he looks like he did when we were kids. He’s got sauce on the side of his face.

  “I bet you missed Hatteras barbecue,” I say. I reach over and wipe off his cheek. It feels spontaneous and natural to touch him. “I missed you,” he says. He grabs my sauce-wiping finger and holds my hand. Before I can react, he takes a big, messy bite of rib and kisses my palm with his sauce-lips.

  I shriek and wriggle. Stephen places my hand back on my side of the table as if he’s presenting me with a gift. “If we eat fast, I can drive with you to the office to get your rental keys,” I say. I make a big show of cleaning my hand with a wet wipe.

  “I’m excited to see it,” Stephen says. “I’m excited to be home.”

  I’m excited, too.

  Nate and I deliver the scones our dad makes to the Dancing Turtle, a coffee shop in Hatteras. After we’re finished, we sit and eat one as a reward. He carries Lara in a front pack, her fuzzy head the only thing visible.

  “Stephen’s all settled in,” I say. I tell Nate about how Austin and I helped him unpack, how we all took a walk on the beach and built a campfire and roasted hot dogs.

  Nate raises his eyebrows. “You seem awfully positive about his return,” he says.

  I fiddle with my scone, picking out a raspberry. “It makes sense,” I say. “He’s Austin’s father. And we’re friends now.”

  Lara fusses, and Nate pats her back. He shifts her around and leans forward, looking me in the eyes. “He never treated you right,” he says.

  “We’re older now,” I say. “He’s changed.” An old resentment rises in my chest, a feeling that I could never do anything right. “You want Lara to have a family, don’t you? If you and Jennie ever split up, wouldn’t you consider getting back together for her sake? Just consider it?”

  Nate sighs. But then he nods. He’s not being stoic; it’s a nod like he’s thinking. “You’re a smart woman, Evie,” he says.

  “I know,” I say. I steal the last bite of his scone.

  Nate doesn’t play along by slapping my hand or yelling at me like when we were kids. “You do what you have to do,” he says. “You do what you have to do for your family.”

  Stephen’s often at the house when I get home from work. It feels right to pull in and see his car. He’s there today, having picked up Austin from school. It smells like they’ve ordered pizza. “Who the hell is Daniel?” he asks me as I walk in the door.

  “I sold his brother a motel,” I say. I kick off my shoes and drop my briefcase by the door. Walter thuds his head against a chair leg, and I pick him up and take him outside, barefoot.

  Stephen follows us. “Are you dating him?” he asks. He crosses his arms.

  “Aren’t we too old to date?” I ask.

  The door slams, and Austin runs outside. “Dad,” he says. “I beat the level.” He and Stephen have been engaged in some epic video game on the Xbox that Stephen brought back from Raleigh.

  “Good job, buddy,” Stephen says, rumpling Austin’s hair. Austin hugs him, and for a second I think of him at three years old, hanging on to Stephen’s leg as Stephen clumped around the house pretending to be a dinosaur.

  “Are you staying for dinner?” I ask Stephen.

  “Stay, Dad,” Austin says. “Please. Did you tell Mom we got pizza with olives for her?”

  Stephen nods. “Sure, I’ll stay,” he says. He stands with his arm around Austin in the deepening October twilight. I scoop up Walter, and we all go inside for pizza with olives.

  It’s a strange feeling, me and Stephen and Austin around the dinner table with me not having to wipe SpaghettiOs off Austin’s face and Stephen and me talking instead of screaming. It’s good. Austin is animated and loud, telling Stephen about school and football and Fiona and building a model volcano. We eat, and then he and Stephen play video games until it’s Austin’s bedtime. I actually have a chance to clean up the living room and take a bath and read a magazine.

  I’m reclined on the big plaid sofa learning about easy chicken recipes when Stephen walks out from Austin’s bedroom and sits beside me. “He’s so great,” he says. “I’ve missed him.”

  I put down my magazine. “I can’t imagine being away from him,” I say. For the first time, I actually consider how hard the divorce was on Stephen. How it must have changed him.

  Stephen puts his hand on my leg. “We made an amazing kid,” he says. He pats my leg, pat pat pat, pat pat pat.

  I like this version of Stephen, the one who brings dinner and appreciates my contribution to his gene pool. “I’m glad you moved back,” I say.

  Walter wanders over and runs in
to my leg. He paws up at me. He’s tired, and he wants to go to bed. “How is that thing still alive?” Stephen asks. He looks at Walter suspiciously.

  I lift Walter to the sofa. He circles around and then settles down and licks my arm. His breath smells like rotten tuna, but I let him lick because this is his bedtime routine. “He’s a tough old bird,” I say. I imagine Walter with feathery wings, flying around the living room smacking into walls, and giggle.

  “What?” Stephen asks. He rubs my leg in little circles.

  “I was just thinking of Walter as a bird,” I say.

  Stephen shakes his head. “You make no sense.” Then he shifts around so he’s facing me. He turns my shoulders toward him. “Listen, Evie,” he says. “Forget Daniel. Why don’t we give this another try?”

  I tug at Walter’s grizzled muzzle. I’m not surprised Stephen would ask this. I don’t speak for a moment.

  Stephen takes my hand and links my fingers through his. We fit together. “We were so young and stupid, and too alike for our own good,” Stephen says. “We’re smarter now. I want Austin to have a family. I want to have a family. I want you.”

  I think about coming home to Stephen’s car in the driveway. I think about dinners together, talking around the table about volcanoes. I think about Christmases, about getting pictures made in matching garish sweaters.

  Walter stands up. He falls off my leg and lands on Stephen’s, settling down to lick him. Stephen pushes him back onto my lap. “Gross,” he says.

  “Don’t yell at him,” I say. I pick up Walter and snuggle him to my chest.

  “Think about how much it would mean to Austin,” Stephen says.

  I think about Austin’s face as he told Stephen about Fiona. I think about Austin’s first date, his first prom, his first everything. “I know what it’d mean to Austin,” I say. “I’m not sure what it would mean to me.” I look at Walter. “Or him.”

  Stephen nods, but he doesn’t respond.

  “I just have to think,” I say.

  I invite Daniel over for dinner. I make lasagna and garlic bread, thinking I’ll be less likely to kiss him if I smell garlicky. Daniel brings wine for us and a toy rhinoceros for Austin.

  “I don’t play with toys anymore,” Austin says. He sits down with his plate of lasagna and straightens his shoulders. He totally plays with toys. “My dad and I play on the Xbox, but that’s it.”

  Daniel gives Austin a half smile. “Maybe your mom will want it, then,” he says.

  “I do love a good rhino,” I say.

  Daniel tells us about the time he went to Africa on a mission trip. Walter stands in the kitchen and barks until I pick him up and put him in front of his water dish. He slurps noisily. I talk about the rich people who stopped by the office today looking to buy property. Austin picks at his food. He doesn’t talk, and as soon as he’s eaten enough that he knows I won’t yell at him, he clumps back to his bedroom. He doesn’t slam the door, but he doesn’t shut it quietly either.

  I lean back and push away my plate. “That was interesting,” I say.

  Daniel rests his hand on mine, and it feels so right I have to bite my lip. “He’s just adjusting to Stephen being back,” he says.

  I gather up our plates and carry them to the kitchen. Daniel follows with the glasses and napkins. We load the dishwasher in an easy tandem. “What would you like to do tonight?” he asks.

  I scrub at a patch of tomato sauce before I load a plate. My dishwasher isn’t too powerful. “I think I’d better check on Austin,” I say.

  Daniel nods. He kisses me on the cheek and takes the plate from my hands. I walk down the hall and knock on Austin’s door. “I’m busy,” he says.

  I open the door anyway. Pings and bangs and zaps emanate from the video game he’s playing. “What’s up, kid?” I ask.

  Austin bites his lip, focused on the game. I step in front of him so he can’t see the screen, and Austin yells at the whooshing electronic sound of doom that follows. He throws down the controller. “Dad should be here for dinner,” Austin says. He crosses his arms and refuses to look at me.

  “Your dad has his own life, and I have mine,” I say.

  Austin kicks his heels against the bed frame. “We should have a life together. It’s not fair.”

  He’s right, it’s not fair. I put my hand on his shoulder, but he jerks away. “I know it makes sense that we should be a family,” I say. I think about how right it felt when the three of us ate dinner together. “We can talk about this more later. When you’re done with your game, there’s ice cream for dessert,” I tell him.

  I stand out in the hall for a second. Daniel has music playing, something soft and classical. I take a breath. I need to do the right thing. I should be a grown-up. I should think about my family.

  When I walk out to the living room, Daniel is squatted down wiping at the floor with a paper towel. Walter lies with his paws stretched out in front of him, methodically licking Daniel’s left ankle. Daniel looks up. “Walter had an accident,” he says.

  “You don’t have to do that,” I say, bending down to take the towel from him. Our hands brush. “Sorry,” I say. I move Walter, midlick, away from Daniel’s ankle.

  “It’s okay. It’s good karma,” Daniel says. He stands and stretches and then holds out his hand to me. “Hopefully someone will take care of me when I’m an old man peeing on the floor.”

  I take his hand and stand up. I look at him, his deep eyes and long lashes and crooked smile. I imagine him old and gray. I imagine myself beside him, my hair a wild white bird’s nest like my Aunt Fay’s. “At least we have laminate floorboards,” I say. When Daniel holds me, my head rests on his clavicle, our bodies fitting together like puzzle pieces, curve here, hollow there. Click. Snap. Fit.

  Twelve

  Into the Neon

  — 2016 —

  Mike Tyson got into his first fight because someone tore the head off his pet pigeon. The television behind the desk at the Bellagio blares this fact, and everything in my body tenses at Mike Tyson’s name. The TV shows him peacefully raising pigeons in Harlem, rows of cooing, head-twitching birds on a brownstone rooftop. Then Iron Mike lifts his hands as if in joyful prayer, setting a pigeon free. Who even has pigeons as pets, anyway? It’s eight o’clock in the evening, and I’m waiting to see if I can leave my broken old amoeba-paisley luggage behind the desk for the night at the Bellagio, the prettiest hotel I’ve seen since I arrived in Vegas three days ago. I have until eight o’clock in the morning to play in Las Vegas, twelve glorious hours alone with no idiot man dragging me down, no responsibilities pulling at me like a 1950s cherub-faced kid tugging at his perfectly coiffed mother’s apron strings. My own cherub-faced kid is home with my mom, twenty-five hundred miles away. I’m by myself in this crazy neon Strip that reminds me of an overgrown college campus, the casinos thinly veiled frat house theme parties, the cornhole replaced with high-stakes poker.

  Pigeons. He’s raising pigeons.

  “May I help you?” The woman behind the desk is impeccably styled, narrow-waisted, ruby-lipped. I imagine her gently vacuuming her plush living room carpet in four-inch, peep-toed Manolo Blahniks, her crimson nail polish bright against the sleek handle of her Dyson.

  I ask if I can stow my bag for the night. I tell her I’ve just left a giant jerk of a man across the street at the Flamingo and have nowhere to go, and that I want to play the Bellagio’s slot machines and watch the fountains until it’s time to leave for my flight. And even though this maven of virtuous femininity must be so good she’d certainly never get herself into such a situation as mine, she softens, the fake smile easing into an expression of pity, and she says she’ll see what she can do. She turns to talk with a manager, and I imagine her hair disheveled, the peep-toed Blahniks strewn across the floor, her naked feet propped on a coffee table as she licks her fingers after devouring a bag of chocolate cream bonbons. Or is it crème? I never know.

  The television comes back from commercial, and Tyson is
back again. His tattooed face fills the screen, little-boy lisp voice talking about how he’s going to raise pigeons until he dies, talking about Birmingham Rollers and how they spin with such velocity they don’t notice they’re rotating right into the spattered silver grate of a Mack truck. Bam. Feathers everywhere. Iron Mike talks about how pigeons are spiritual, how he comes up on the roof to watch them and drink Kool-Aid.

  He probably only raises pigeons so he can teach them how to rape other birds.

  The attendant says they’ll keep my bag. CLAIRE, her nametag says. Claire has me fill out a form, and I scribble while listening to Mike Tyson talk about pigeons’ automatic cooling system and how at peace he is when he’s with them. The show cuts to a local newscaster who says that Mike Tyson is in Las Vegas for the week, promoting his new documentary and filming a cameo in a movie.

  “Dick.”

  Claire looks up. “Excuse me?” she says.

  I push the form across the shiny desk. “Mike Tyson,” I say. I roll my bag around to the opening in the counter, back where people work serving tourists. Back where I usually stand. “I met him once, and it ruined my life.”

  Claire’s eyes widen. “What happened?” she asks.

  She takes my bag, and I tell her about being a kid, visiting Ohio, how he watched me do cartwheels, and how, even years later, Mike Tyson’s reputation got all tangled up with mine.

  Claire tucks my bag under the counter. “That’s terrible,” she says. She leans in closer. In a whisper, she says, “I heard he’s staying at New York New York.”

  He would be staying at my least favorite hotel. Who wants to stay at a dirty old fake city like New York when there’s fake Paris or fake Venice right down the street? An ear-biting rapist, that’s who. “Thank you,” I say to Claire. And I mean it. In spite of her coiffed perfection, I think Claire and I could be friends. And she’s just given me my plan for the night. I’m going to find Mike Tyson, and I’m going to make him pay.