by Sarina Bowen
I’m trying to see something. An image. I’m not quite sure what yet, so I wait a few moments until it becomes clear. I picture Brynn asleep in her bed in that little Victorian house she rents, her foot kicked out from the covers to balance out her body heat, and that’s the image I carry back inside with me. That bare foot. The curve of her sleeping form.
I step into the kitchen again. “Well, hello,” I say to Chandra. “Fancy meeting you here.”
She blinks. Then she blinks again. Or maybe it’s her fake eyelashes. They are so enormous that it looks like she’s blinking twice. Clearly, though, I’ve taken her by surprise. She obviously assumed I wouldn’t do exactly what the producer said. “Hi,” she finally manages. “…Tom.” She adds my name too late, and it makes her sound like an imbecile. “How’ve you been?”
“Terrific!” I boom, because it’s finally true. The first months after Chandra dumped me were awful. But since I stopped brooding, I’ve been pretty happy. Brynn made life more fun.
“That’s good.” She swallows hard, and I see her straighten her spine and try to pull herself together. “Nice lodge, right? I’ve been thinking about a lavender color scheme.”
Here’s where, according to the script that we’ve followed in every episode, I agree with her. She’s the decorating genius, the one with all the brains, and I’m just the brawn.
“I think that sounds perfectly awful!” I say, giving camera number three a big smile. “If I were the designer, I’d pick a medium ochre. Something that’s actually warm and inviting. But if you want to make the place look like a bedroom from the Pottery Barn Teen catalogue, you go right ahead and amuse yourself.”
Across the room, Burt doubles over with laughter. I must be doing something right.
Two steps forward brings me to Chandra. I lean in and kiss her on her emaciated cheek. “Good chat, honey!” I walk off, toward Burt. And I can feel the cameras zooming in on Chandra’s stunned face.
God, I’m over her. And I’m over the rest of this too. But in less than forty-eight hours it won’t matter. I’ll be on my way home.
38 Fierce
Brynn
My phone rings, and I actually dance across the room to pick it up.
But the caller isn’t Tom.
My heart deflates like a whoopee cushion—suddenly and with great force, but without the noise. Thankfully. It’s been half a day since I texted Tom. I told Tom I missed him, and he didn’t respond.
I’m trying not to be crushed, because New Brynn is the kind of girl who’s getting her shit together.
“I’m a strong woman, living my life the way I want!” I chant to the ceiling fan.
The ceiling fan has no reply.
Meanwhile, the caller tries again. Bracken and Smith, the caller ID says. That sounds a little familiar so I answer it.
“Hello?”
“Good day.” The voice on the other end is clipped, and I’m instantly wary. “We represent Mr. Steven Masters in the matter of his divorce.”
Oh, lovely. Steven’s divorce lawyer. Just what a girl needs. “How can I help you?” I ask slowly. Like, really slowly. Howwww cannn I hellllp yoooooooou? Divorce lawyers charge in six-minute increments. I always made a point of taking up as much of Steven’s lawyers’ time as I could.
A girl has to have her fun where she can find it.
“Mr. Masters is filing a motion to renegotiate his alimony payment.”
“Reallllllyyyy?” The lawyer probably thinks I have a speech impediment. “Why would he dooooooo that?” Steven barely pays me anything, since we’re both employable adults with no kids. But he kept our house, so he owes me for that.
“Your remarriage,” he says icily. “It will change the terms of your divorce.”
“That’s ridiculous,” I say, forgetting to speak slowly. “I’m not remarried.”
“According to the news media—”
“Really? Your investigator quit, huh? My marital status is single until further notice. And Steven owes me for half the house, no matter what.”
“It doesn’t even matter,” the dickwad on the other end of this call says. “If you were sexually intimate with your new fiancé prior to the official separation, he can still sue you.”
“But I wasn’t!”
“We can analyze the phone records from the time before your divorce—”
“Do it!” I shriek. “Please. Take all the time you need. I’ll fax you our Verizon bills, going back a couple of years. Would five years be enough? Also, you may want to talk to your client and see who he was involved with before we ended our relationship.” I’m shaking, but not because I’m scared. I did nothing wrong. Not one thing. And if my ex thinks so little of me, then I hope he spends a thousand billable hours trying to shame me. I don’t actually know for sure that he was involved with someone, but if he wants to play hardball, I will.
“A lawsuit could be very costly,” the voice reminds me. “It might be easier for everyone if I just send over a document of agreement, changing the terms of your alimony.”
“Fuck. Right. Off,” I say immediately. “Steven will pay every penny he owes. On time. And then I might not sue his family for wrongful termination at the college. If I’m feeling generous.” There’s a pause. Even though he’s quiet, I can tell he’s struggling with what to say. Because I’m absolutely right.
Ash has already urged me to sue—to hold Steven’s asshole father accountable for my pink slip. I’m pretty sure I was the only one in my department to get one. I hate the idea of suing anybody. But suddenly I hate it a little less.
There’s a click on the line.
“Hello?” I ask.
The lawyer actually hung up on me.
I sit there a minute, stunned. Then I reach for the landline I never use and dial Steven’s cell phone from memory. He probably doesn’t know this number, and he might just answer.
It works.
“Hello?” he asks in his stupid, quavery voice.
“This is Brynn,” I say, trying to keep the growl out of my voice. “I never cheated. Not once. Even though you ignored me for years.”
“Oh. Uh…” I’ve caught him off guard. Clearly he didn’t expect to have to deal with me, even over the phone. “Well…”
“Your father fired me. He took my job. I have no income except for the money you rightfully owe me from our house. If you come after that, I will sue your father. Very publicly. Very painfully. And if the West Michigan Press asks me for a statement, I will be sure to add that your penis resembles an alien noodle. And that you don’t have the first clue how to use it.”
He gasps. “There’s no need to be cruel.”
“Oh really? Well it’s cruel to treat your wife like the house elf, Steven! If my rage bubbles over, just remember that it comes from someplace very real. I was a competent, optimistic human being until you wore me down.”
He is silent for a moment. “You didn’t cheat? That video was pretty, er… Revealing.”
My heart gallops as I picture Steven watching the video. Then hitting play again and again. I almost giggle, but rein it in at the last second. It sounds like a burp, but whatever. “You watched the video?”
“Well, er… My father…”
Another half giggle escapes into my throat, and I swallow it down. “Your father enjoyed it too, huh?”
“Um…” Steven makes an embarrassed noise. “The tabloids say you met Tom Spanner in the spring.”
“That’s your issue? Daddy read the tabloids, and now you think I’m a cheater? The tabloids also say that Chris Hemsworth is from the planet Uranus!” I’d read it last week in the grocery store checkout.
Uranus is a funny word.
Also, holy crap, let this day go down in history. For the first time in way too long, I actually spat out a witty rejoinder instead of stewing over it six hours later, lying sleepless and angry in my bed. This is a turning point! I need wine to celebrate.
Furthermore, I’m going to have to frame that issue of The Su
n featuring Chris Hemsworth and his spacecraft. For posterity.
“Look, I’m not supposed to be talking to you,” Steven says abruptly, as if he’s just realized he’s been beaten. “We can communicate through our lawyers.”
“Great idea! Have yours call me directly.” I am on fire, bitches. “I had so much fun chatting with him earlier. I hope he charges you a hundred grand to prove that I never cheated on your wimpy, pale white ass.”
Then? I hang up. On Steven. For the first time in my life, I’m not waiting for his approval. Old Brynn would actually be worried right now about his prying and his stupid lawyer’s phone call. But New Brynn does not have time for that kind of bullshit.
I pump my fist in the air for the first time since… Well, ever.
Then I actually find “Eye of the Tiger” on YouTube, play it, and pump my fist again.
It’s just that kind of a moment.
39 A Blur, A Bikini, And A Moment Of Truth
Tom
The continuous shoot becomes a blur. I’m exhausted, running on coffee and instinct. This must be how marathon runners feel.
Like a good boy, I stand where they tell me to. We demolish the living room and then a whole team comes in to start rebuilding. But it’s not really rebuilding. This is a spit and polish job. We get the fucking hot tub fully operational. I’ve at least convinced them to do a rustic-looking cedar wrap-around, and so I start cutting the staves.
It’s very satisfying splitting wood with a power tool.
Chandra comes out wearing a tiny orange bikini, her breasts threatening to leap out of the top at any second. The camera pans to me to get my reaction. I say, “Hey, Chandra, can you hand me that two-by-four?” I don’t even look at her.
She huffs and says, “But I’m ready for us to…get wet.”
“Shower still works inside,” I offer.
The camera pans away. Nothing to see here.
On break, there are donuts and piles of fruit, but there’s nothing to dip it in. If there was a dip here, everything would be better.
Naturally, my thoughts turn to Brynn again. If she were here, I’d be neck deep in that hot tub in a hot second. She’d probably wear some kind of one-piece suit with strings that I could slowly undo. There’s something appealing about that. How she’s covered up but all I need to do is reach over and, with a few careful motions of my fingers, she can unfurl before me.
And I’m glad the camera isn’t on me now because my face is hot and my dick is hard.
About time, my dick says. I thought you forgot about me.
I tell him to relax. I have plenty of time for him, but it needs to be around the right person.
And that person is in Michigan right now.
Twenty-four hours to go.
The producers are frustrated because there’s not enough drama. Not enough conflict. Director Kid says, “Look, we’re half through this and all we’ve got is you working on the house. This is a snoozefest. You’ve got to give us something.”
“My contract didn’t mention anything about giving you ‘something.’ It just mentioned refurbishing this house. And that’s what I’m doing.”
I take a nap on the cot while the crew lays down cool marble for the floors. They’re taking out all the warm earth tones, the stuff that made this place feel rustic and inviting, and they’re making everything gray with accents of lilac. Every change they make sucks out the life of this place a little more.
The nap doesn’t help. I keep waking up.
And then there’s a tap on my shoulder. A sharp tap with a manicured nail. Those things are fucking sharp. Maybe they’re a survival mechanism. She could open cans with them. I open my eyes, but I didn’t need to. I can smell Chandra’s perfume even before she enters the room.
“Hey,” she says.
I sit up, and she lowers herself down next to me.
“I didn’t want to come here, you know.”
“Okay,” I say warily.
“But…” She shrugs. “I can’t seem to get my own show, and this offer was…”
“Too good to pass up,” I finish for her.
“Yeah.”
We’re quiet. It’s not as awkward as it should be. I can sense she needs to tell me something, so I just wait it out.
“I’m sorry,” she says. It’s a surprise to hear her say it. I’m not sure what she’s sorry for exactly, so I wait some more. “Maybe I should’ve said yes on camera, when you asked me to marry you. The producers wanted me to say yes. I was going to do it. We worked so well together on set. We look great together. We’d have attractive kids. But…”
“But what?” I ask it softly. Well, as softly as I can. I’m not mad anymore. I’m not anything really, except maybe mildly curious.
“But then we went live, and something stopped me. You were perfectly nice and we had fun together, but I just always felt like something was missing, between us. And when you asked me to marry you, I just sort of blanked out. They want us back together, you know. That’s why I’m here. I’ll get a big bonus if I can seduce you.”
Wait, what?
That’s when I start to sputter. “You can’t! No way! I’m…” I almost say “in love with someone” and that surprises me a little. But she doesn’t let me finish.
“It’s okay. The thing is, as much as I’d like the bonus, I’d rather have something that’s…real.”
I look at her then, and I smile. She reaches for my hand, and I take it. We’re just sitting there next to each other. It’s sort of awkward, but it’s maybe the first genuine moment we’ve ever shared. I give her hand a squeeze, and then I let go. We let go.
Then she says something that really does surprise me. “And to tell you the truth, I fucking hate lilac.”
I’ll be on my way back to Michigan by the time I find out that they were filming us.
40 Top Ten. Again. Because Lists are Satisfying.
Brynn: Top Ten Best Things in Life This Week
1. The new Chris Hemsworth photo on my wall. I colored the spaceship purple before I took it to the framing shop.
2. Walking through a giant vagina to buy coffee. It’s like re-experiencing my own birth every time I need caffeine.
3. Dips and balls. Because even though I am now properly employed, those never go out of style.
4. Food on sticks. Because I’m expanding my horizons.
5. Feeling competent.
6. Actually being competent. (Since #5 seems to apply to men, regardless.)
7. The afterglow of telling Steven to fuck off. I’m still glowing. I don’t even need to turn on lamps after dark.
8—10. Being too busy having a life to finish this list.
41 Puzzle Pieces & Ramen Noodles
Brynn
There’s a certain satisfaction that happens when you’re doing something you’re good at. It’s that satisfying “snick” of a puzzle piece sliding into place. When I walk through the giant, comforting vagina and into my classroom on Tuesdays and Thursdays, I feel that snick. I’m where I need to be. And I am good at this.
There’s twenty hungry students. I mean that literally. I think they’re all existing on art, sex, and ramen noodles, and I want to make them all some homemade ravioli. I’ll save that for later in the semester. First, though, I want to get them thinking about words. How they work. What they can do. How they can change your life.
This week I’m not flighty or unfocused or boring, or any of the things I felt like I was when I was with Steven.
When I go over the syllabus, and I give out the first assignment, I’m confident. Controlled. Trembling a little with excitement. Great things will happen in this place, because I’m where I need to be.
By Thursday night, I’ve finished teaching for the week, so I can relax. And by relax, I mean I text Sadie and Ash to come over so we can watch Mr. Fixit Quick Does Quebec. I’m cooking up some snacks, and Sadie has convinced her husband to watch the babies for the night so she can have a moment to recharge. I haven’t heard from
Ash yet, but she’s always up for a party.
While making a béchamel sauce for the new dip I’m creating, I think about Tom. I am a little sad that I haven’t heard from him for two days, but he warned me that continuous shooting wouldn’t leave him time to check his phone. And he wasn’t sure about cell reception in the woods.
But I miss him, damn it. The moonstone on the ring glimmers. I’m going to be really sad to give it up. And I’m still curious about its origins. I’m wearing an old story on my finger. I just know it.
There’s a knock at the door and then a string of curses. So I know Ash has arrived.
“What’s wrong this time?” I ask as I let her in.
“There’s no more media hounding your doorstep? Those fuckers. How are we going to keep your cookbook sales up if you’re not newsworthy?”
I’m definitely excited that the vultures are gone, but I keep that to myself. “The cookbook sales were always going to be a temporary phenomenon. I’m just happy to have the one-time boost, you know? If you still want to go to Florida at New Years, I can totally say yes now.”
“We’re going, bitch.” She waves around the pink leather planner that she carries everywhere. “I inked it in and used one of my favorite travel stickers.”
“Oh. Well. I wouldn’t want to fuck with your planner pages.”
“You really wouldn’t,” she says, missing my irony. She gives me the once-over. “Put a dress on. You can’t go out drinking in that.”
I look down at my comfy jeans. “I don’t need a dress to watch the show with you guys. I made food on sticks. That’s a party right there.”
She stalks past me into the kitchen and grabs a skewer of yakitori chicken off a platter. She nibbles on it. “These are awesome. Now go put on a dress. There’s a cool party we’re going to crash.”
