by JD Hawkins
21
Jessie
Nate stands in the middle of the room, his eyes focused on me. I glance up at him, but it’s like looking at the sun – almost painful – and I quickly look down again at the spot where my coffee is.
“Um…” Lorelei mumbles awkwardly. “I’ll…I should go do a thing…that I have to do. I’ll leave you two alone.”
She leaves without either of us acknowledging her, and I keep my stare fixed on the coffee table. “So I guess you’re still mad at me,” Nate says, moving to the center of the room.
I raise my eyes to his, almost in a challenge.
“Give me a reason I shouldn’t be.”
Nate smiles.
“How about because I’m here to say I’m sorry.”
I shake my head, almost amazed at how easy Nate thinks this is.
“Sorries don’t change the past, Nate,” I say, standing abruptly and moving toward the window. “And they don’t change who we are.”
I turn back to find him staring at me with a frown on his face.
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
“It means there’s nothing to be sorry about. It means that I’m not angry, not confused, not frustrated. Not anymore. I’m just disappointed.”
Nate clenches his jaw before talking.
“Jessie, I came to try and fix things between us. To admit that I fucked up. To tell you that I know I was wrong and that I—”
“To ‘confess’?” I interrupt, studying Nate’s face for his reaction. When he barely flinches at the word, I smile – he’s one hell of a poker player. “About being a ‘bad boy’?” I say, driving the point home.
This time I watch the tiny changes in his expression, so subtle even I wouldn’t spot them if I hadn’t spent so much time looking into those eyes. I can almost see his thoughts play out, the instinctual desire to call my bluff, to try and talk his way out of it, the realization that it’s hopeless, the calculation of his best defense. It only takes a few seconds, but I see everything that’s there, and at the end of it all Nate laughs gently and looks at the floor like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar.
“So?” Nate says, his eyes unrepentant. “I make videos. That part of my life doesn’t have anything to do with this – with us. I don’t see the problem.”
“Fucking hell, Nate,” I say, with as much awe as frustration, starting to pace in front of the window. “You really don’t get it.”
“Get what? That you want me to feel ashamed? That you keep trying to fit me into some perfect little boyfriend role? That you don’t like the life I led before we got together? You know exactly who I am, Jessie, who I was.”
“I do, that’s the problem. Regardless of the videos you make, and whether or not you chose to hide them from me, I know that you’re never going to be the guy I need you to be.”
He flinches back as if I’ve struck him. “And who exactly is ‘that guy’? The guy who cheated on you? The guy whose car you wrecked? Or is it the one who bailed you out of jail at a moment’s notice? The one you’ve known since you were a little girl? The one who fucks you the way you want? Which guy do you really need?”
“Ugh,” I groan. “It’s always about sex with you.”
“What else is there?” Nate shouts, raising his arms wide as if imploring some third party. “We fuck well, and we’re good friends. This could work as a relationship, it doesn’t have to get more complicated than that. What else do you even want?”
I feel the pain and humiliation and anger rising in my chest, and I narrow my eyes and try to keep from yelling in his face. “A little fucking honesty, for a start.”
Nate sighs, laughs, and puts his hands on his head. “Shit, Jessie. If that’s what this is all about, those fucking videos, I can just stop making them. You don’t have to be this fucking melodramatic.”
I stop and stare at him, half-shocked, half-insulted.
“You think I’m being melodramatic?”
“Yeah. And I’m a talent agent, so you know that means something.”
He says it with a smile, a controlled joke, meant to break me down, meant to release the tension, meant to make everything we’re arguing about feel irrelevant. But I don’t laugh, and his attempt at humor hangs there like a bad taste.
“Look,” Nate says, his voice low and soothing, as he steps toward me and puts his hands on my shoulders, “I get it. I understand how you can be mad at me. I’m a little slow on the uptake when it comes to relationships – you know that. It just took me a little time to get to where you are, that’s all.”
“Uh-huh,” I say, looking up at him, holding on to my resistance despite the seductiveness of his eyes. He still thinks this situation is so simple. When in reality, it couldn’t be further from that, now that this baby is on the way. And how can I tell him?
“And the video thing…I should have told you. I would have told you. It’s not that big a deal to me, so it shouldn’t be for you. Shit, we’d probably have laughed about it if I got to tell you myself. I never meant for it to be some kind of secret.”
He holds me in his eyes, and despite my warring emotions I can’t help feeling the effects of the controlled desire in them.
“Actually…” I start, as his hands brush down to my waist, “I’ve got a secret of my own.”
“Oh yeah?” Nate says, and I see the smolder in his eyes that always ends with us naked.
“Yeah.” I take a deep breath, my heart about to pound right out of my chest. This is it. Now or never. “I’m pregnant.”
Nate stops breathing. I feel his hands stiffen at my sides, and his face turn to stone. He steps back, away from me, and brings his hands to his mouth, turning away, then turning back toward me.
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah.” My pulse is still skyrocketing, and I cross my arms and try to just breathe.
He paces a little more.
“How did that happen?”
This time I’m the one who smiles with controlled aggression. “I thought you were an expert?”
“It’s mine?”
I try – and fail – to hold back an insulted snort.
“No, it’s Lorelei’s - of course it’s yours. And I’m keeping it, so don’t even think about suggesting otherwise.”
Nate paces a little, breathing into his palms. He stops and looks at me.
“Okay. So what happens now?” he says, suddenly defiant and confrontational again. “Do you expect me to just…change into someone else?”
“No,” I say, shaking my head. “I don’t expect you to change at all. That’s the problem.”
Nate stands there glaring at me, tense and angry, as if I’ve cornered him. I guess I have.
“I need some time to think,” he says, already moving towards the door.
“I won’t hold my breath,” I reply, but he’s already gone.
22
Nate
I’m driving to meet Kyle at a taco place in Malibu, right off PCH. It’s a sunny Saturday, not too hot, and there’s the glorious kind of mid-day light over L.A. that almost makes you forgive living in a city of smog. But I’m gripping the wheel so tightly that my knuckles feel like they’re locked, and even the a/c can’t stop the uncomfortable prickliness running down my spine.
I park the BMW and get out, too lost in my own thoughts to even acknowledge the flirty comment from a girl in yoga pants walking past. Striding toward the stand purposefully, the rest of the world out of focus, I eventually see Kyle notice me and grin.
“Hey buddy!” he says, as we grab hands.
“Hey man, good to have you back,” I say, falling into our habitual way of talking, but still locked in an internal wrestling match.
“Believe me,” he says, already turning towards the stand, “not as good as I feel being back. Shit!”
“How was London this time?”
“Better the second time around. I never had to kiss so much ass in my life – not outside a bedroom anyway.”
&nb
sp; “But you got the contract back?” I say, as we line up.
“Eventually. But having to go over there again means I’m way behind on my work for everyone else. I’m at the limit, dude. And this jet lag! How about you?”
“I’m good, same old,” I say, before turning to order, glad to be cut off from making small talk.
We grab our food and make our way to some benches, the beach off to one side, L.A. traffic on the other. I tear into my food like I’m really hungry, even though my stomach’s turning so much I can barely chew.
I’ve been visualizing this moment for days. Turning it over in my mind as if looking for the key. Short and sweet, no. That’s an invitation for a reaction. Take my time, let him know I’m serious. He probably wouldn’t let me get that far. I’ll do what I always do, try and go with the flow. Or maybe not.
“What’s up?” Kyle says, licking his teeth and wiping his fingers already.
“You finished that quick,” I say, nodding at his plate. “Maybe they think you can do more than one person’s work because you eat enough for a whole group.”
“Ha! Sure. Well, if you work like you eat,” he says, nodding at the taco I’ve been holding in my hand for a full fifteen minutes, “I’m surprised they even pay you.”
I try to laugh, and immediately realize how difficult it is. I suddenly have a whole new appreciation for people who fake emotions.
“Hey, I gotta tell you about this British chick I met. Jesus H. Christ!”
I raise an eyebrow and pretend to carry on chewing so I don’t have to answer.
“She was working in the hotel I was staying at. They made them wear these dorky uniforms, but even in those clothes this girl was enough to make your eyes water. I’m talking grade-A ass, dude. I seriously didn’t think the Brits made them like that. Anyway, so I call for room service one day, right? And…”
Kyle draws out the story and I make as if listening, familiar enough with his tone that I can nod and smile at all the right parts, but inside I’m tightening up like somebody’s got me in a chokehold. I look down at my half-eaten plate and suddenly feel disgusted, the noise of cars and people talking around us suddenly filtered through a fog. I put my taco down and wipe my fingers, concentrating on it so that Kyle doesn’t notice how seasick I’m feeling. I push every bit of strength in my body to the surface, bracing myself, tightening my focus to the job at hand. It only works when I think about why I’m doing this.
Jessie.
Her face. Her voice. Just thinking of them makes me feel a burst of adrenaline, a surge of strength. I imagine her smile, and it’s like a tonic for all the queasy shakiness in my gut. I haven’t even told her what I’ve decided yet, but if I can get through to her brother, maybe he can help me win her back. Because I think I’m finally ready to step up. Am I one hundred percent sure? Truthfully, no. But I’m willing to try. That’s what you do when you care about someone as much as I care about Jessie. And as for the pregnancy – even if she hates me, I hope she’ll at least let me be there for her. Help out however I can. Support her and…it.
A fresh wave of nausea washes over me, and I take a long drink of my beer. It doesn’t help. Meanwhile Kyle’s still talking, oblivious to my inner turmoil.
“…I was hoping for a repeat on the last night, but she texts me that she had to swap a shift. Dude, I was so fucking gutted. I’ll tell you one thing, though, she’s almost better over text than in bed. Shit, I never liked that ‘sexting’ crap, but this girl can say things that’d make porn stars blush. Plus, it’s the only action I’m gonna get now that I’ll be stuck to my desk twenty-four seven again. You think I should ask her to fly to L.A. for a weekend?”
“You spoken to Jessie?” I interrupt, trying to sound casual instead of strangled. I fail.
Kyle’s enthusiastic demeanor drops the second I mention her name, the thrill in his eyes when talking about the ‘British chick’ suddenly replaced by the concerned frown he usually wears when talking about his little sister.
“I tried to,” he says, his voice now tinged with indignant exasperation, “she says she wants to talk to me, but…well, you know how it is. I work a lot, she works a lot.”
“Yeah.”
“I get the impression she’s avoiding me, though. I know you’ll say that’s bullshit, but I tell you, dude, something’s going on. You know anything about it?”
This is it. There won’t be a better opportunity than this. I look up at Kyle, who notices that I don’t respond quickly, that I’m not jumping in with my usual ‘I’m sure she’s fine’ or ‘let her live her own life.’ His glare turns from casual annoyance to severe worry, and I think of her face once again to draw strength.
“Actually, yeah. It’s something I wanted to talk to you about.”
Kyle doesn’t say anything, just twists his lips as if preparing to get angry. I take a few deep breaths as I figure out where best to start.
“That day you came to her house, back early from your trip, and I told you I was there because Jessie had broken up with her ex. Do you remember?”
“Of course I remember, I spent the next three nights waiting for that asshole to come by again.”
“Right. Well, the truth is that I wasn’t there because of that. It wasn’t that she’d broken up with her ex.”
“What?” Kyle says, his frustration growing. “They didn’t break up? You mean she was still seeing him?”
“Not him. But…she was seeing someone.”
Kyle shakes his head as if it’ll remove his confusion.
“Who? Fucking hell, Nate. Just tell me who.”
Her face. Focus. Don’t back down.
“Me.”
Kyle’s face has never been the most expressive, but in the few seconds following my answer it goes through pretty much the entire range. Amusement, shock, intense rage, concentrated scrutiny, tortured uncertainty, and back to rage again.
“The fuck? Hold up…I don’t get it. What are you saying?”
“Jessie and I were…seeing each other. For a while.”
Kyle slams the bench so hard the metal rivets holding it to the ground probably loosen. In a smooth gesture of animalistic power he leaps up from it and moves backwards, pacing away from it, hand clutching his scalp like he’s trying to contain the ferocity of his thoughts. I get up as well and step to the side. Kyle turns around and starts stalking toward me, finger pointed, his stride sideways and low, like he’s already prepared to start throwing punches.
“This is one hell of a sick fucking joke, Nate,” he says, his face flickering between a humorous smile and gritted anger maniacally. “I’m under a lot of pressure right now, dude. Last thing I need is to be getting wound up like his.”
“I’m not joking,” I say, backing away, holding my palm up like I’m taming a lion without a whip. “I’m coming clean.”
Kyle doesn’t think about his next move, his arm is pulled back before I even get the last word out. He swings, hard and straight. He’s fast, but I’m faster. I duck it and sidestep, but only because Kyle’s too angry to read me, and I know how he throws first punches.
Shouts rise from the people seated at the benches around us, a few of them getting up quickly and moving away.
“Did you fuck her?!” Kyle screams, as I back away again. “Did you fuck my sister?!”
I back up into a bench, with no more room behind me, and Kyle bearing down on me still.
“Yes, but—”
There’s no time for me to get another word out as Kyle throws himself forward. I sweep myself aside once again, this time barely escaping, his fist catching my side a little. A little being enough to knock most of the wind out of me.
“But it’s more than that!” I call out now, partly because Kyle seems to be getting angrier, and partly because there’s a crowd being drawn around us now. “I care about her!”
“You’re my best fucking friend!” Kyle cries out, as I move around and put a bench of scared taco-eaters between us. “You’re supposed to fucking
protect her – not use her!”
“I didn’t use her!” I reply, shimmying around to keep the table in between us. “I swear, it just happened.”
“Agh!” Kyle says, stopping to wince a little. “Don’t act like I don’t know you, asshole. You make fucking videos, dude! I bet you made videos when you were fucking her!”
There’s no time for a response as Kyle leaps up onto the table, half-eaten tacos shooting everywhere as his boots send them flying. I back up just in time to avoid having him drop the full force of his weight on top of me. It’s a close call, but it doesn’t leave me with anywhere else to go. The crowd closes behind him, and there’s nothing but a parking lot fence behind me. Kyle knows it, and he moves slow now as he squeezes me into the corner.
“You’re the one fucking guy I expect to understand, Nate. The one fucking guy I trust. You can have any fucking girl you want, and you do this? Why? Why do this to her? To me? To all of us?”
Kyle’s three steps away. He only needs two to throw a punch. I know it’s coming, and I know this time he won’t miss.
“Because I love her.”
Then everything goes black.
23
Nate
They say in tough times you realize who your friends are. What they don’t say is that losing your friends is the toughest time of all. I take Robinson’s advice for once and spend the next few days working from home. Partly because the only task I can muster up enough energy to do is order pizza, and partly because I don’t feel like coming up with a story to explain my black eye.
The throbbing, swollen bruise is nothing compared to the searing sense of dejection. I sit in my apartment, wearing nothing but boxer-briefs, and wallow in the miserable realization that if I never left the house again, the only two people who’d give a fuck are the two people I’ve just destroyed my relationships with. I check my phone for what could be the thousandth time since I got up three hours ago, and sift through the messages looking for their names. I don’t see them.
