by Virna DePaul
Why wouldn't I? she had typed.
I couldn't believe it had been that easy. I sat there in my office at Torch and drummed my fingers on the desk. There’s no way it was that easy.
“Sneaky little minx,” I whispered to myself like a villain in his lair. If I had a mustache I would have twirled it right then and there.
In that moment, I knew exactly what Jenna was doing. She was simply setting herself up to more easily escape my trap. By pretending to be totally down with it from the start, any last-minute excuse she used wouldn't be doubted.
She’d done it before, with that whole spring break fiasco.
And she was going to do it again.
She had done it again.
Now she was coming to dinner, as Jenna, not the blogger, thinking she was safe, but she wasn’t. I couldn’t give either of us that safety anymore.
Twenty minutes later, I hear Jenna’s voice.
“Lee?”
I dip my finger in the sauce for one last taste. Needs just a smidge more orange zest.
“Be right there, Jenna.”
I add the orange zest, then slip out of my apron and head into the dining room.
Jenna stands there, facing away from me, in the glow of the fire in a stunning evening gown that dances in the light. Her hair cascades down her bare back in gorgeous curls. She turns around and smiles, and I forget all about everything.
All I see is her.
“Um, hi,” is the only thing I manage.
“Um, hi,” she laughs, looking down at herself. “I didn't know the dress code.”
I walk over to take her hand. “Jenna, I don't care what it's for: beach party, boondock barbeque, doctor's appointment, yoga class. This dress, the way you look now, is always, always the dress code.”
She gives me an adorable little bow. I lead her to the table, hold out her chair cause, yes, I can be a gentleman, and pour her a healthy glass of wine.
After taking my seat across from her, I raise my glass and say, “To life – which is never predictable, never controllable, but always exciting.”
Our glasses clink.
Jenna looks at me over her wine glass. “You're full of surprises, now aren't you?”
“You have no idea,” I say.
Well, this is it. This crazy game she and I have been playing is going to end in the next couple of minutes. I am surrendering, calling it quits, giving it up. Essentially knocking my own king off the board. But if losing this game means winning something much greater, it will be worth it. Or at least, I hope it will be worth it.
My skin feels sweaty, and it’s not just the heat of the flames. I’m suddenly thirsty, too. And jittery. Very jittery. Before Jenna can start noticing my telltale signs of fear and nervousness, I pass over the leather-bound menus we use at Torch.
“I'm starving,” Jenna says, opening the menu. “Let's see what you got, chef.”
As her eyes skim over the page, I take the opportunity to gulp big mouthfuls of my glass of wine. Jenna flips to the next page, her eyes starting to squint in confusion. I can tell her mind is rapidly trying to figure out what exactly she’s reading. She expected a menu.
What I gave her is not a menu. Jenna looks up at me with daggers in her eyes.
“Lee, what the fuck is this?”
17
Jenna
I have no idea why it takes me so long to make sense of what I’m reading. I graduated from Harvard fucking Law. I may be crazy, but I’m pretty sure a minimum prerequisite for even getting accepted into Harvard is the ability to fucking read. I’m also certain the page inside the menu is typed up in English. It’s not like it’s in Spanish.
Hell, even if it is Spanish, I still shouldn’t have this much difficulty comprehending the words. Maybe some dialect of Arabic or some Scandinavian language, Norwegian or Swedish or something, then maybe my confusion is justified.
But no, it’s sitting there in my lap, clear as day, and I don’t get it. I reread it three times. I flip the page and read that one, too. Then read it again.
“Lee, what the fuck is this?”
As I look up at him, I can’t decide exactly what I’m feeling. It’s all a mixed drink of confusion, hurt, disbelief, and a large dose of serious anger. He seems to be assessing whether I’m going to stab my steak knife into his chest or my fork into his eye.
“Jenna, now listen –”
“How long?”
Oh God. Oh fuck. The implications spin through my mind. Oh fuck.
“Lee, how fucking long?”
“Jenna, please don’t be mad. This is a good thing. I –”
“Don’t say another word, not unless the words out of your mouth are the answer to my question: how long?”
He drags his hand over his face and sighs. “Since the day after, Jenna. I saw it on your computer the morning after we …”
I laugh. Because I don’t know what else to do. I shake my head and avoid his earnest eyes. I can tell he wants to talk, to explain himself, but right now, I really don’t want to hear what he has to say.
The menu came with something else. In my lap, opened and unfolded, is a small stack of letters from editors of major publishing houses. It’s the fulfillment of a dream of anyone with a blog. I should be thrilled. It’s a way out of the life I’ve hated, the job I’ve hated, the me I’ve hated.
Letter after letter indicate these editors are interested in turning the blog into a book. They’re offering major publishing deals. They’re right here in front of me.
All this time! He’s known this entire fucking time. I feel like a fool, worse than a fool. Every time I acted like it wasn’t me, he knew. He let me act like a fool. I reach for my glass of wine and think: why the fuck am I reaching for a glass when there’s a full bottle sitting right there?
Shit, I didn’t even think of all the times we talked online! Well, that’s got to be the greatest betrayal. Sex is sex and, regardless of how much loathing I feel for Lee right now, I’m not regretting the sex. But those emotional, vulnerable moments online …
How stupid. I was weak, I lost control, and this is what I deserve: utter embarrassment, utter humiliation, utter destruction.
“Jenna, can we please talk?”
Lee looks absolutely wretched. His hand is stretched halfway across the white linen, turned up, urging to hold my fingers. Yeah, right. Instead, I cross my arms and stare at him with a mixture of disgust, disappointment, and lots and lots of distrust.
“Well?” I quip, knowing I sound immature as hell. I don’t care. “What do you have to say? Was this all just another joke for you, Lee? Like at my birthday dinner? Another fun time?”
“Jenna, no, please.”
“Did you get a kick out of this? Was that what this was? A kick?”
“Stop.”
“Oh, why, Lee? Why should I stop? Why should I have any reason to believe this was not just a big ole hoot for you?”
He abruptly stands up, his chair clattering behind him. He’s red in the face and breathing heavily. “Because I’m different.”
“What?”
He places his hands on the table and sighs.
“I’m different, Jenna. Over these last few weeks, since, well, since I found out, I’ve been different.”
“Bullshit.”
I’ve never seen him look at me with more anger in his eyes. Sure, I knew he’d be mad when he found out I wrote the blog. But I never imagined this much seething anger in his eyes. And over what? Me calling bullshit?
“You know I’m different,” he says, pointing a finger right at me. “But you’re just afraid to say it, because you know you’re exactly the same. The exact fucking same.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“It means that since reading that fucking blog, I took a hard look at my life and I realized you were right. I’ve started to make changes to get back to who I am, to strip away the mask I put on. And don’t fucking tell me you don’t see the difference, Jenna.”
He’s daring me to speak now. I keep my arms crossed and my frown firmly in place and stay quiet.
“Your drunken blog was crass and vulgar and littered with typos, but it was clear it was written by someone who cares. And I listened. I’m trying to be different.” He breathes deeply before continuing. “But you – you have someone here who cares about you and who wants to help you, and you don’t listen. Me talking to you over the internet chat is no different than you talking to me over your blog. But you’re exactly the same. Hiding. Ducking behind your mask. You’re not mad at me, Jenna. You’re mad at yourself.”
Now it’s my turn to shove back my chair and point my finger at him over the table.
“That is not true.” My hand shakes.
“Is it not?”
“No.”
“Then why didn’t you tell me it was you?”
I remain silent.
“Why didn’t you let me in when we were arm in arm?”
I remain silent.
“Why didn’t you let me love you in person, Jenna?”
We stare at each other, angry and glaring and chests heaving. Suddenly, I throw the menu filled with the editors’ letters. It knocks a wine glass off the table, shattering on the floor. I glare down at the red wine seeping into the cracks between the wood floorboards and following the grooves of the grain.
“It’s fine,” Lee says, tired and sad. “What’s one more broken thing in this mess?”
There is nothing more to say. I step over the cracked glass and the spilled wine and I hope it doesn’t leave a stain. There’s already been too many stains tonight.
I hold up the hem of my gown as I walk across the floor, mindful of every click of my heels against the hardwood floor. Lee must be still standing there by the cracked glass and the scattered letters and the spilled wine. By the fucking mess.
Is he staring at the floor? At the cold food sitting untouched in the middle of the table he set up nicely? Is he staring at the fire fixtures, losing himself in the hypnotic flames, wishing he were somewhere else, anywhere else? Or is he staring at me?
As I walk away, is he staring at me and wishing I’d just burn in hell? Is he hoping he’ll never see me again or my damned blog for the rest of his life? Is he wishing he never touched my computer that fateful morning?
Or as I walk away, is he waiting for me to turn around?
I almost check. I almost look over my shoulder. But I don’t know what I would do if he wasn’t looking. I don’t even know what I would do if he was.
The restaurant front door has never felt heavier or harder to push open than it does now. There must be some strong winds pushing against it, but once I get outside, there’s no wind at all.
For a moment, I pause, waiting on the Manhattan sidewalk just outside of Lee’s restaurant. Couples stroll by me hand in hand, arm in arm, and I watch them go. I guess I should get a cab. Several drive by without passengers, but I'm frozen on the sidewalk. One even pulls over and asks if I need a ride. I numbly shake my head, and the driver gives me a strange look before driving away.
I have no idea how long I stand before deciding to walk off in some random direction. I should find a bar. I just don't want to think about what just happened. I don't want to think about Lee's face. Ugh, his face. I don't want to think about the possibility that maybe he was right.
Not even the constant traffic can drown out my thoughts. Car horns blare around me and the chatter of pedestrians surrounds me, and the loud music of bars and clubs blast again and again. But it feels like I'm walking entirely alone, like the streets are empty and the bars and restaurants and clubs are all empty.
Was I wrong?
Was he right that I'm only mad because I'm stuck in my fear? That I refuse to take off the mask that I hide behind on the internet? That I’ve been refusing to listen to him, even as he started listening to me?
I walk faster, like I can somehow outrun these thoughts that push and crowd my head no matter how hard I try to shove them away.
I originally thought what Lee did was his way of getting back at me for what I’d done. But had he really read what I wrote and seen truth in it?
I remember his furious expression when I told him his alleged feelings for me, and his ability to change as a result, were bullshit … He’d been so angry.
But there had been something else there, too.
Hurt.
A stab of guilt hits my stomach, and I nearly double over right there on the streets of New York City. I called bullshit because I was angry and felt hurt myself. And maybe because I know the truth: Lee’s changed and he hasn’t.
He hasn’t changed in that he was still Lee, my brother’s friend. My brother’s friend. A kind and generous man that would never intentionally hurt me.
But he’d also changed in that he wasn’t just the player letting women and good times and casual sex get in the way of what was really important in life. His cooking and career, yes, but also the chance for something more meaningful. Intimacy. Connection.
Love.
As for his duplicity, I couldn’t forget my own. I lied to Lee because I made a mistake and I became afraid of losing him as a result. What if Lee hadn’t told me he knew I was the blogger because he didn’t want to lose me? What if he hoped to get me to open up to him exactly as I’d done, knowing that was the only way it would happen?
I’m so lost in my thoughts that I'm startled when I find myself back outside my own apartment building. How long have I been walking? I feel the blisters on my feet as I wait for the elevator. I feel the tiredness seeping into my bones as I ride it up to my floor. The tears start as I limp down the hall. I fall into a heap on my bed, and I don't even care that my running mascara will stain my sheets.
I sob into my pillow.
I should just call Lee and tell him that I fucked up but I’m paralyzed. Scared. Confused.
I imagine Lee meeting up with some girl right now. He's wearing a brand-new suit, ridiculously expensive and flashy, and driving an ostentatious, impractical car. She’s a model and she has big tits and long, tan legs and a skintight dress. They’ll pretend to be into each other for the length of time it takes to down three tequila shots, and then they’ll head to her place for some wild sex before he slips away. Tomorrow it will be a different suit, a different car, a different girl. And the same exact thing.
It makes me feel better to imagine that, after this horrible night, he'll slip right back into his old ways. Because then that means that I was right about Lee.
But if Lee is at home, alone by himself, then it's me.
I was wrong.
And I just ruined the best chance I had of being with the man I love.
18
Lee
“All of them?”
“Yes,” I say. “All of them.”
“You can’t mean all of them.”
“Joe.”
“I'm sorry, Lee. It's just this is ... this is, well, sudden.”
“I know.”
“You want to put all your restaurants up for sale?”
“That's what I'm saying.”
Joe, my business manager and long-time friend, shakes his head as he leans back in his chair and whistles. While standing there in his high rise office, I’m absentmindedly staring out the huge windows. I realize too late that I'm staring at Jenna's firm's office building across the street. I turn away and look instead at the sports memorabilia littered across Joe's desk.
“Look, Lee.” Joe leans forward and props his elbows on the desk. “I know you've been different recently. You're trying to keep up those changes and all and that's great. It really is. I'm proud of you, pal. But this is rash as hell.”
“It's what I want.”
With a sigh, he reaches underneath his desk and brings up two glasses and a bottle of whiskey worth more than my first car. I sit down opposite his huge desk.
“Liquoring me up isn't going to change my mind,” I say as I lean forward and take the glass from him.
J
oe laughs. “Worth a try.”
“This is the right decision for me at this point in my life, Joe. You have to see that.”
Joe studies me over the lip of his glass. He sips and studies me some more. “I don't get it, Lee. What happened to you?”
I laugh at the question, because it's the wrong question. I don't tell Joe he should have asked who happened to me. But I don't want to have to think about her. I already see her every time I close my eyes, and that's more than enough.
“Did you find Jesus or something?” Joe asks, punching my shoulder from across the desk.
“Or something,” I say with a smile.
“What if we just have you take a smaller role in the restaurants, huh? We can hire some great chefs and they’ll handle all the new menus and all the hiring of the staff and whatever else happens back there in those kitchens. That way you can focus entirely on the fun part, right? The media and the events and the pictures and the girls.” He raises his glass up to me. “I've seen those girls, Lee. We'll help you just do girls full time. Huh?”
“Joe.”
“Keep all the good parts and get rid of the boring ones.”
I shake my head. He doesn't understand. He doesn't understand how I've changed, how what I want in life has changed. There's only one person I thought did understand all of that and, apparently, I was wrong. She didn't understand, either.
“The fun parts aren't fun anymore, Joe,” I start to explain.
“Fucking hot models isn't fun?” Joe asks, raising his eyebrows in utter disbelief.
I get why he doesn’t believe me. I’ve been living a guy’s dream life for the past couple years. But I think I've been trying to convince myself that it was my dream life, too. It’s been easy to overlook the fact it’s empty and superficial and, above all, lonely.
“You really willing to give all that up?” Joe asks. “Lee, come on. This isn't you. It's been fun and all, but come on.”
“Joe, who writes that paycheck for you?”
“Your accountant, Sheila.”
I roll my eyes. “You know what I mean.”
Joe refills my glass, even though a second glass of whiskey still won’t make me change my mind.
