Fourteeners

by Sarah Latchaw

  In small-town Colorado, heels and dresses that skirted the edge of fashion were not a necessity. Still, there was one woman who oozed into my mind and, even three years later, filled my belly with jealousy. I stared myself down in the mirror.

  “Do you think she’ll be there?”

  “Who is this ‘she’ that warrants such foreboding emphasis?”

  “She. Caroline.”

  “I can’t think of anyone who demands less worry, Kaye.” He winked in such a superfluous way, I realized I should be worried.

  “Mother cliffhucker, she is going to be there. How on earth did she get an invite?”

  “Caroline knows people. Nat says she attended last year’s premiere as well.” He shrugged, but anger burned in his blue eyes as he adjusted the cuff of his sleeve. “She doesn’t matter. Togsy doesn’t matter, and when we’re back home in Colorado, none of this will matter. Ten minutes?”

  As I grabbed my make-up bag, I wondered how much this did matter to Samuel.

  The Chinese Theater was across the street from the Roosevelt Hotel, but for appearance’s sake, we’d toured around in a limo with Patrick and Nat before ‘arriving.’ I hadn’t been to the Roosevelt since Samuel’s manic episode three years ago, and bad memories beat the door like cranky neighbors.

  Journalists lined the red carpet leading into the Theater, followed by a klöosterföocken of fans in Nixie gear (yes, they warranted a ‘klöosterföocken’), leaning into the metal barricade with a barely-contained madness. White label cards were placed at the feet of each media outlet and camera team. We’d known the premiere would be a big deal. Instead of shrinking in popularity, Samuel Cabral’s Water Sirens series had gained a legion of new readers with each movie blockbuster that broke box office records, clamoring for more, more, more.

  “Ready Mrs. Cabral? Or does that remind you too much of my mother?”

  “Pssh. Sofia’s got nothing on these guns.” I flexed my toned arms and steeled my spine.

  As the car door opened and Patrick handed me out, I took a moment to enjoy the balmy air on my skin. The mild November sun was a welcome relief from the biting cold winds of the Front Range. Then the shrieks of super-fans hit our eardrums with the violence of agitated howler monkeys because “OMG Samuel CABRAL is here!!!”, and poof went my moment.

  I scanned the cards along the red carpet. New York Times. USA Today. Huffpost. The Hollywood Reporter. Samuel bantered with the outlets who’d been tactful in their coverage of his spectacular fall from grace three years prior, but politely side-stepped those who were dogged little cockroaches. Why make it easy?

  There was a host of celebs in attendance. Most looked younger/older, taller/shorter, thicker/thinner, paler/tanner than they did on the big screen. All were accompanied by their entourages and were relatively off-limits. Samuel spent the majority of his red carpet walk greeting his fans, signing books and smiling for pictures. I stood quietly at his side, flanked by Patrick and Nat.

  “Admiring your stilettos?” Nat asked.

  “Is that what these spiky things are?” I grinned at her confounded expression. “Relax, I’m not that backwards, though at star-studded events like this, sometimes I feel it. Good grief, is that Johnny Madrid?”

  “You’re fine. Just keep your eyes off your shoes and a smile on your face.”

  I realized any photographs taken of us had a lovely shot of the sunburnt crown of my head and I kicked myself, because I’d warned my own clients about this very thing. Doing my best June Allyson, I turned to Sam and the fan with whom he currently spoke. A blow-up doll gaped back at me, blonde wig obscuring her face. I leapt back.

  “Oh. Wow!”

  “Whaddya think?” asked a keen young man in fedora and tee shirt that depicted the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man sandwiched between graham crackers. The doll was suspiciously familiar.

  “Is she your…date?”

  “I was just telling Mr. Cabral here, I’ve already sold a dozen Neelie Nixies—well, ‘Nellie Nymphos,’ don’t need a lawsuit—on the NixieNet.net forums.” NixieNet.net (members pronounced it “nixie-net-net”) was Alan Murphy’s fan site, which he’d expanded to include the wildly popular Cabral’s Hometown Haunts, his “Baedeker Guide” for stalkers. I wouldn’t put it past that monkey rump to have a Nellie Nympho stuffed in a suitcase under his bed.

  Samuel grimaced. “Very entrepreneurial of you, though I don’t think Kaye likes it, nor do I. Not exactly respectful.”

  “Not at all!” I agreed, but I’d become background noise to the perv once his idol author acknowledged him.

  The guy blatantly leered at my chest. “I’d try to sell you one, but you’ve got the real thing. A bit smaller in person.”

  “Oh no you didn’t! That’s it.” My oh-so-cool husband grabbed my elbow and steered me away, just as I prepared to launch myself at my sex-toy doppelganger and stab out her beady eyes with my stiletto.

  “Not here, firecracker. Let the lawyers crack down on him.” I opened my mouth to demand he march back there and deflate that affront to Fiction Me, but remembered his hazardous position. If Samuel so much as lifted a hostile pinky, the tabloids would question his sanity. Talk about grinning and bearing it.

  He turned to Patrick. “Contact the fan sites. Pressure them to shut him down internally before we’re forced to take legal action.”

  “Why give him more attention? You know he just showed up here to plug his blow-up doll.” I nearly choked on my breath mint.

  “Just a minute.” Samuel couldn’t lift a pinky, but I could. In a spur-of-the-moment decision, I removed one of my chandelier earrings and made a beeline for the perv. I pointed to the guy and crooked my finger.

  “Excuse me, can I please see your lady friend?” Palming the earring, I gave the confused man a dazzling smile as he handed over the doll. Then, like a lion cub pouncing on its prey, I drove the lethal post of my earring between Neelie/Nellie’s ample bosoms and ripped, and the piece of plastic grievously deflated in my murderous hands.

  “One-star rating for durability.” I tossed the wilted thing back to the guy, ignored his string of stunned obscenities, and acknowledged the scattered applause from Samuel’s more decent fans. The earring glittered like a gilded dagger as I refastened it into my earlobe.

  Samuel shook his head as I returned. “Was that necessary?”

  “I think so, yes.”

  Patrick ran a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. “You certainly know how to make friends with Mr. Cabral’s fan base, don’t you?”

  “Hollywood Days and goodness knows who else got the entire exchange on camera,” Nat chimed in as she jogged to our sides.

  “So did a dozen fans,” I admitted, the high of the kill wearing off. “Ah well, at least Samuel didn’t slug anyone.”

  “This time,” he muttered.

  “His fans probably would have eaten it up if he had,” said Nat. “Defending his woman, going all caveman. Ladies love it.”

  “So do personal injury lawyers,” Samuel deadpanned.

  “You always were the chivalrous sort…usually,” said a voice, still as sultry as North Carolina in July.

  The hairs on the back of my neck pricked.

  “Kaye, on the other hand, is a PR disaster.” She squeezed out a tight smile. “Look on the bright side, Samuel. If the pervert sues, that kind of seedy story will keep your movie in the news for weeks.”

  She looked much the same: lithe and stylish, one of few women who could make a pants suit cutting edge. Her black bob was so glossy, I saw my reflection. This time, though, she had a different man on her arm.

  Samuel’s face was a blank page. “Caroline. Always ready to find the gold in garbage.”

  An awkward silence settled as Nat steered us through the theater entrance. “Perhaps we should move this conversation off the red carpet? Don’t want Page Six drumming up a feud.”

  Which was exactly what Caroline would have liked. Disappointment flitted over her features before she slipped into her usual bored a
ir.

  I studied her date, tried to place him. Bullish frame, heavy eyebrows, waves of dishwater hair and beard. He could have emerged from the alley if not for the pressed tux and an aloofness that was more Tribeca than Skid Row. I gasped. Sam’s old “college buddy” from the brownstone. Togsy. He was older, of course, still well-heeled. But there were the same telltale nuances I once saw in Samuel: hollowed cheeks, dark circles, mottled and sallow skin. The hand that didn’t rest on Caroline’s shoulder drummed a discordant, restless rhythm on his hip. So he hadn’t kicked the drug habit after all. Poor Ms. Ortega. Her brittle eyes caught mine and I glanced away, too late.

  Sam saw it, too. “Lyle.”

  “Samuel.”

  Caroline cleared her throat. “I apologize, where are my manners? Lyle, this is Samuel’s wife, Kaye Cabral. Lyle is my…” She looked lost.

  “She’s my publicist,” Lyle finished. Hmmm, I thought she was a lot more than that, Mr. Togsender. Caroline’s cheeks reddened. Well, she did make her bed when she screwed over Samuel for this walking wedgie. Still, I pitied her.

  “Considering Ms. Ortega quit a lucrative book series to risk her career with your mediocre tell-all, I’d think she at least deserves a ‘Caroline makes the sun rise.’” I sweetly smiled at the ego-on-legs.

  Samuel’s hand pressed into my back, warning me. Caroline gaped, a bit like the blow-up doll I’d just stood down. Lyle’s eyes darkened. A nasty memory nearly bowled me over, one of a sneering frat-boy who’d taken pleasure in exhibiting Samuel’s demons to his nineteen-year-old wife and then laughed at her heartbreak.

  “Still a sniveling little drama queen, I see.” He turned to my husband. “How are the mental wards in the Rockies?”

  Oh, he did not. Harsh words bristled on my tongue, but Sam gripped my waist. “Kaye, he’s a bitter and unhappy man. And we’ve had enough drama tonight.”

  I wanted to rail at Samuel to flipping stand up for himself. But then I saw his lips were thinned in repressed rage and his fist was so tightly clinched, his knuckles were white. He was trying to take the high road, not cause a scene…which was what Togsy and Caroline wanted.

  My fingers weaved between his. “You’re right. My apologies.” I nodded to Samuel’s former friend. “Sorry for your disappointment, Caroline.”

  Later, at the after-party, Caroline sought me out. Samuel was deep in conversation with a Water Sirens producer, and as I made my way to the restroom, she pounced.

  “I truly am happy for you and Sam, you know. He needs someone in his corner. I tried to be that for him, especially after the scandal in Tamaulipas with that woman. He was devastated. But in the end, I couldn’t give him what he needed.”

  “What woman?” I racked my brain for some past conversation about a woman in Tamaulipas but came up empty.

  Caroline looked down her perfect nose. “Ah, I see he still doesn’t tell you everything. Sorry to disappoint you with the truth, Kaye.”

  After that, we only saw Caroline and Togsy from afar, and I assumed they’d moved on to greener pastures.

  The movie itself was fantastically over-the-top and Samuel’s script was perfection. No surprise. We put in a brief appearance at the after-party, long enough to witness A-lister Indigo Kingsley and her hunky Latin lover, Marco Caldo, demonstrate their dental-polishing techniques.

  We promised the O’Malleys we’d see them after Christmas, shook a few spa-softened hands, and beat feet for the Roosevelt.

  Sometime around one a.m., after we shed our costumes and “got reacquainted,” Samuel pulled my feet into his lap.

  “Mmmm. That is amazing. I love writers.” Every last ounce of stress seeped from my muscles and into a cloud of comforter and pillows.

  “Thank you for not attacking Caroline and Togsy with your earring. I’ve seen the damage you render to over-inflated poseurs and their ‘heroine’ addicts.”

  “Ha ha. That’s me, The Blinged Perforator: ridding the world of perverts, one blowup doll at a time.” I grew serious as I remembered Togsy’s drooping eyes and skin. He looked like he’d aged thirty years since I saw him in that New York brownstone. “Is that what he’s on? Heroin?”

  “Some sort of opiate. Maybe cocaine, too.”

  “I feel bad for Caroline.” I reached behind me and bunched up a pillow. I may have imagined it was Togsy’s face. “Why do you think she hasn’t left him yet?”

  “She did leave him, last April. They only have a working relationship now.”

  I paused. “How do you…have you talked to her?”

  He kneaded my foot a little harder. “I called her last summer after I saw a photo of Togsy on social media. It was pretty obvious he was using again…if he ever stopped. I told her, as an old friend, I was concerned. She told me, very matter-of-factly, not to worry and that they no longer shared personal space.” Samuel watched me closely. This was the part where we trusted each other, and that included our dealings with our exes.

  “I’m sure it was more heartbreaking than that.”

  His grip on my foot relaxed. “You know Caroline.”

  “Not really, but I don’t think anyone does. She said something odd tonight.”

  “Hmm?”

  “Something about a scandal in Tamaulipas involving you and a woman?”

  His fingers froze. “It’s nothing to worry about,” he said rigidly. “Our interactions were completely blown out of proportion by my Cabral familia. I…I haven’t spoken to the woman in five years.”

  “Oh.” I scooted into bed, irritated that I’d once again been suckered by Caroline’s drama. But if it was only mindless drama, why was Samuel squirming?

  The television flickered light and shadow over our posh hideaway. An infomercial played, some sort of food processor that baby food-ized vegetables. I shivered. Samuel tucked the blanket around my legs, but I hadn’t shivered from the cold. This room at the Roosevelt was much too similar to the one I’d stayed in when I first became aware of Samuel’s bipolar disorder. “Samuel?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Do you ever…After seeing Togsy again…do you ever think about …”

  “Do I ever want to take a hit of coke? Sure, especially if I’ve had a rough day.” Clear blue eyes met mine. “But then I remind myself how it nearly cost me my life and everything in it. For me, it’s all or nothing. No flirting with boundaries.” Yes, this was Sam.

  He didn’t flirt with commitments, either. Commitment to his mental health. Rehab. Writing. Charities. Marriage. If he made a commitment, you could be darned certain he’d follow through because the last thing he wanted was to be a burden. Sometimes I worried he didn’t allow himself the grace of humanity.

  “That’s why you don’t drink, too.”

  “The main reason I don’t drink is because it’s a trigger, and if I have several shots I start to think ‘man, I remember this feeling, and I remember something even better.’ It’s healthier if I just abstain from the whole line-up, you know? Booze, cigarettes, weed, porn. Carbs,” he teased.

  “No Debbie Does Sourdough? Pity.”

  I remembered something Caroline once said: ‘He’s never actually been an alcoholic. Just cocaine. But he would have become one if I hadn’t intervened.’ At the time, it seemed as though she’d known him better than anybody. But she’d never acknowledged how hard Samuel had fought. It had only ever been about her and what she’d done.

  “Samuel,” I hedged, “why didn’t you tell me you kept in touch with Caroline? It wouldn’t have upset me.”

  “I didn’t want to trouble you. You have enough on your plate.” There was that nervous kneading again. I swapped feet.

  “Really?” Keep it calm, Kaye. “Are there other things you’ve kept from me because you don’t want to ‘burden’ me?”

  “Sure, but nothing of importance. Every person needs to retain some shred of privacy, don’t you agree?”

  I nodded. That was fair.

  “And what about you? Do you keep anything of importance from me because you’re a
fraid you’ll send me into a downward spiral?”

  Faint baby powder perfumed the air, and I felt a tickle of downy hair across my cheek.

  “No. Nothing of importance.” I brushed my toes along his ribs. He flinched and grasped my foot. Samuel was ticklish.

  “You’re really good about going to meetings, too,” I said, taking the focus off of me.

  “If I stop going, I’m setting myself up for a relapse. Too easy to convince myself I can control it, next time.”

  “Hey.” I pulled my foot from his lap and sat across from him, hands on his thighs. “There is no next time.”

  Determination hardened in the creases around his eyes, his mouth. He gently cupped my face. “There is no next time.” And then he pressed his mouth to mine, my skin to his, love tempering the harsh edge of lust, and showed me precisely why he would never take a hit again.

  He made love to me, and I’d lied to him.

  I told myself it hadn’t been a selfish lie, that I’d hidden my desire to be a mother because I didn’t want to stress him out. But wasn’t it selfish to cut him out of decisions we were supposed to make together? Isn’t this what he’d done to me a decade ago?

  The kicker was, I expected him to trust me with the sensitive details of his drug addiction, yet I hadn’t trusted him with one of my deepest secrets. So deep, I wouldn’t acknowledge it, even when it left me with aching, empty arms. Not it. Him. Because the truth was, I did want to have a baby. Wanted it so badly, I dreamed about an infant boy whose father was obviously Samuel.

  ‘A soul mate isn’t fate…it’s a choice. And they don’t become your soul mate until you bare your soul to them.’ These were the words I’d spoken to Samuel three years ago, on our wedding day. What happened to that wise woman? Who was this little coward who’d taken her place?

  As he trembled over me, and as my body reacted to the skilled attention of the man I adored (but lied to), my head mourned the biological fact that this child whom I loved—yes, loved—could never be.