by JA Huss
I have a lot to do today and calling in sick would’ve been a bad idea. But Rochelle showed up yesterday afternoon and said it was time. This was my chance. Did I want it?
Yes.
Yes, very badly.
I will never see her again, I know this. So she will never know that her plan failed.
I am happy to be going to work.
But I don’t work tomorrow. Or the day after, or the day after that. We are only open Thursday through Saturday. It’s Monday today, but Mondays are not open to the public. It’s just a meeting day.
How will I get through the rest of my empty days knowing that I have nothing to look forward to?
I call my father on my way into my three-car garage. I have a reserved parking space in the parking garage near the gallery, so I’m driving today. It’s damn cold outside and it’s going to snow this afternoon.
“Chella,” he says, neither happy, nor sad. “What are your plans today?”
“Oh, you know,” I say in my fake-cheerful voice. “Just gonna meet Matisse today.” I even smile into the phone as I start my C-class Mercedes. That is kind of a big deal.
“The artist,” he deadpans. “That’s nice. Are you seeing the doctor today as well?”
“No,” I say, starting my car. It’s so cold in here, a puff of thick steam exits my mouth when I talk. “I was there just there yesterday.”
“On Sunday?” I can practically hear his eyebrow lifting up. “Don’t bother lying to me, Marcella. I’m not your keeper. I’m just asking.”
“I’m checking in to say hi, that’s all.”
“Well, I’m very busy today. I have meetings all morning. And I’m sure you’re busy too, so we’ll talk another time.”
“OK, Dad.” I fake a laugh. Like his dismissal is so typical and doesn’t bother me at all. “I will. We’re still on for Christmas?”
My heart thumps several times before he answers. “No,” he says. “I’m sorry, but I won’t be able to make it home.”
“OK,” I say. “I understand. But soon, though, right?”
“Sure, Chella. Soon.” The call ends and I drop my phone into my purse, telling myself that call doesn’t matter. Not one bit. That nothing he says can hurt me. That I make my days good—or bad—not anyone else.
The drive to work is so short it makes me feel guilty for not walking. But it is cold today. My bones are chilled. And I had to leave my shearling boots at the Turning Point Club last night.
I did leave there with thousands—probably tens of thousands—of dollars in jewelry though. So I can’t really complain about the exchange rate.
The Charles Benton Gallery takes up an entire corner on the 16th Street Mall, which is a pedestrian street, so buses run up and down the length of it, and horse carriages at night, but that’s it as far as vehicles go. The people, however, are a whole other matter.
Hundreds of people are on the mall, even at nine AM when most of the shops are not open. This is the central business district and everyone comes for coffee and food.
Matisse’s artwork is being delivered at ten today, so I have an hour to get things ready. I make my way through the crowds, searching through my purse for the keys to the front door, when I see him.
Smith Baldwin is standing in front of the Charles Benton Gallery, and he’s staring right at me.
I stop walking for a moment and some lady curses at me for almost making her spill her coffee.
I hold my breath and count to three. Then I start walking again.
“Hello,” I say, putting my key in the lock. “We’re not open today.”
“I know when you’re open, Marcella Walcott.”
He uses my full name. And he even pronounces it right. With a hard ch, and not an s sound for the c. Mar-chella. Emphasis on the chella.
“I thought you didn’t want my name?” I ask, unlocking the door as I shift the coffee in my hand.
Smith takes the coffee for me.
“Thank you,” I say.
He says nothing.
When I wrangle the door open, propping it with my hip so I don’t inadvertently invite him in—Charles might be here already and I do not need him seeing me with Smith Baldwin—I say, “Can I help you with something?”
“I’m going to need to know where she went,” Smith says.
“Who?” I ask, trying to buy myself a moment to collect my thoughts. Rochelle and I talked about the lie for months. Building it up, making it perfect, making it believable.
“You know who,” Smith says. “I don’t really fucking care, Marcella. I have no feelings for Rochelle either way. But if she’s in trouble, I’d need to know that. If she’s hurt,” he says. “Or there is something going on.”
He stops talking and sighs. Like this is hard for him. “I don’t care, OK? I really don’t care. But Quin does. And he’s upset. So if you know where she is, if you have a number, or an address, you can give it to me and I’ll keep him away. I’ll contact her myself and get the details. And then we’ll be gone. Out of her life forever. But leaving like that, Marcella. You’d have to know—she had to know—it would hurt him.”
“Maybe she wanted to hurt him?” I say. I don’t know why I say it, it just comes out. I have pictured them all together. The way she described Smith was dead-on accurate. And I think she was right about Quin too. I didn’t see enough of Bric to come to a conclusion.
Smith is silent. Just stares at me.
“And for the record,” I say. “You sure don’t sound like someone who doesn’t care.”
I step inside, close the door behind me, and lock it. Looking Smith Baldwin straight in the eyes as I do it.
I turn away and walk to the back of the gallery where the stairs are that lead up to my second-story loft office. And when I get to the top and look over my shoulder, he’s gone.
Chapter Five - Quin
“I want her name, I want her address, and I want to go upstairs.” I’m looking at Bric, but it’s really Smith I’m talking to. Bric will give in on the request to go upstairs, but Smith… Smith is another matter. Why did I let him take that girl home last night? Why didn’t I do it myself?
I was in shock, I think. That Rochelle would do this to me. To them, sure. Yeah, I can see it. But to me?
I just don’t buy it. I will never buy into the fact that Rochelle just walked out because… what? She was bored? I have to suck down the incredulous laugh that threatens to escape. Because she and I were not bored. She loved me. I know she loved me. She told me just a few months ago.
It was hot that night even though it was already September. We were at one of Bric’s rooftop garden parties here at Turning Point Club. She was wearing this long, strapless white dress. Tight at the top, but fluttery and flowing from her waist down. Rochelle is tall and she was wearing heels, so we were almost the same height. She looked me straight in the eyes as we slow-danced under the many strings of white lights that Bric has strung up every summer.
Her face was tanned from months in the sun. We went boating a lot last summer. Up in Granby and Grand Lake. Spent our two days a week up there just hanging out like normal people. So the lights—God, she looked so fucking beautiful as we danced under those lights.
“I love you,” she said. Almost absently. Like the words just came out. She got embarrassed then. Hid her face by laying a cheek on my chest.
I didn’t know what to say.
I liked her then. Hell, I’ve liked her this whole damn time. But love… love wasn’t part of the game. We can’t play the game if we fall in love, and I like the game. I was picturing Bric and Smith hearing about her confession. Picturing what they’d say. Picturing them throwing her out. Dissolving the contract. And maybe that’s what she wanted? Why she said it.
But it wasn’t what I wanted.
I love her, I do. I realize it now. But I love her with them, too. It’s a weird arrangement but it works for us. It was working for us.
Wasn’t it?
I had no idea Smith wasn’t even
coming to see her on his nights. If he wasn’t with her, then what the fuck did she do every weekend?
“I don’t think it’s a good idea,” Bric says.
“I don’t fucking care,” I say back. We’re sitting in the White Room having breakfast. There are a ton of people here, like always. All the Club members who work downtown make it a habit to have breakfast here. But we have a table in the far corner, up on a riser so we have a good view of everyone. “I want to know how they made that arrangement. I think, at the very least, we can all agree that there was an arrangement.”
“Yeah.” Smith sighs. He’s looking out at all the people in the restaurant, absently holding his cup of coffee in both hands, like he’s trying to warm them up. “It was definitely arranged.”
“Did she say anything?” I ask him, leaning forward over the table. I need information. I am desperate for more information.
“No,” Smith says. “But…”
Both Bric and I wait him out for several seconds, but I can’t control myself. “But what?” I snap. Smith looks at me and smiles. It’s a small smile. A sad smile. Like he feels sorry for me. “What?” I demand again.
“I went to her work this morning.”
“You what?” Bric growls. “Why the fuck did you do that?”
“I just wanted to help.” Smith is looking at me now. “I was trying to get you answers.”
“Did you?” I prod.
He shakes his head. “It didn’t go well. Was Rochelle angry with you, Quin? Did you guys… fight?”
“Fight?” I ask, almost bewildered. “No. We don’t fucking fight. Do you fight with her?”
“No,” Smith says. “You know how I am.”
Yeah, I know exactly how he is. Doesn’t give enough fucks about anyone to bother fighting with them. “Did you?” I ask Bric.
“No,” Bric says. “We went out a few weeks ago. To a party. She was fine, I guess. Didn’t talk much, that was about the only thing I noticed. Didn’t eat much either. Just picked at her food. Which is a little strange.”
We all smile at that. Rochelle is willowy thin, but she will out-eat any of us when it comes to food. Sometimes she’s vegan. She’s gone through a few of those phases. But she can scarf a cheeseburger like a champ when she’s not shunning meat. She doesn’t take anything too seriously. She goes with the flow. That’s why we all liked her so much.
Or we did. Like her so much. At one time.
“Why weren’t you going to see her?” I ask Smith.
He shrugs and takes a sip of his coffee. “I was done, I guess.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?” Bric asks.
Smith looks at me now. “Because Quin likes her a lot.” He switches to Bric. “And you like her well enough. So why rock the boat?”
“But what was she doing every weekend?” Bric pushes. “Did you ever ask her?”
“I told you,” he says. “I hadn’t seen her for months. I have no idea what she was doing.”
“Well, that’s irresponsible,” Bric says, anger coming through in his tone. “We trusted you to take care of her on the weekends.”
“Yeah, so you two could go downstairs and have your fun. If you gave a fuck what she was doing, then why didn’t you ask her?”
“Because we thought you were with her, Smith,” Bric says. “She could be in trouble. She could’ve gotten herself in trouble.”
“Don’t start with me,” Smith says. “She’s had a lot of time to herself this past year. And you know what? Maybe the two of you should’ve asked her what was up when she asked for those two-week sabbaticals last summer. One week with us, then two weeks without? What the fuck kind of arrangement is that? That was never part of the game before.”
“She wanted space,” Bric says.
“Yeah,” Smith answers. “Space. Like stay-the-fuck-away-from-me space.”
“No,” I say. “No, she didn’t want me to stay away. We had a lot of fun last summer.”
“You can tell yourself that all you want, Quin. But the fact is, she left you.”
“Smith,” Bric warns. “She didn’t leave him. She left us.”
But Smith is undeterred. He stands up, gets his wallet out, throws some money down on the table and looks me dead in the eyes. “She left you, brother. I left her a long time ago. And Bric was just using her as a convenient date to corporate functions. She left you. And the sooner you come to terms with that, the easier it will be to move on.”
And then he flicks something at Bric. A business card he must’ve gotten out of his wallet with the money. “That’s her. I wouldn’t let him go over there,” he says, nodding his head at me. “But you can do whatever you want. I got shit to do today. I’ve done my part. I’ll be around this weekend if you guys want to start looking for someone new. If not, whatever. I’m cool with that too.”
Both Bric and I stare at Smith’s back as he walks out. And then I take a deep breath and reach for the card.
Bric snatches it up from the table before I can get a hold of it. “Not a good idea, Quin. I’m just telling you, we need to let Rochelle go and leave it at that. She walked out, fine. We’re fine with it.”
I’m not fine with it. Not one bit.
“Go upstairs if you want,” Bric continues. “Take what’s yours. Keep what you want to keep. And then let it go. I’ve already got my assistant calling around for packers. I’m gonna clear the whole place out and we’ll start again.” He stops. Stares at me for a few seconds. “Do you want to start again?”
I let out a long sigh.
“Because I think Smith just said he did.”
“And you do too?” I ask.
“Yeah,” Bric says. “I’m still in. We’ve been at this longer than Rochelle has been around. I’m not ready to settle down yet. Are you?”
I shrug. “I don’t know what the fuck is happening.”
Bric reaches for my shoulder, squeezes it like a brother to a brother. Someone who understands. “Rochelle was just that kind of girl, you know? These girls… they’re not all there, Quin. No girl with her shit together says yes to this kind of offer. You know this. We’ve had plenty of games end. But we still have many more to play. Just take this week to do what you gotta do and then be here on Friday night. OK?”
I don’t say anything. I can still see Smith through the window. He’s standing out front talking on his phone. “What do you think he’s doing? He’s got shit to do? He never has shit to do. He doesn’t do anything except spend money and brood like an asshole.”
“Never mind Smith,” Bric says. “Did you hear what I just said?”
“I heard.”
“So you’re gonna come this weekend?”
“I can’t even think about this weekend. It’s Monday. I’m supposed to be with Rochelle tonight.”
“Quin,” Bric says, his voice stern. “Go fuck a whore if you—”
“Fuck you,” I say.
“You know what I mean. Get this out of your system. Then come back here on Friday and we’ll figure out a way to fill your two nights. OK?”
I don’t answer.
“Go upstairs. Take what you want. And then I’ll make it all go away. It will be fine. Do you need something to do tonight? For real. Because I have an event and I’ll bring you along.”
“No,” I say, smiling. “I’m not tagging along to one of your stupid events.”
He’s quiet for a few seconds and when I look up at him, he’s staring at me.
“What?”
“Don’t let her fuck with your head, OK? And don't take anything Smith says seriously. She didn’t leave you. She left us.”
“I know,” I say. But it doesn’t feel that way at all. Maybe if I didn’t know that Smith left her a long time ago, and that Bric was indifferent, then maybe I could talk myself into that. He’s right. We’ve had other girls leave. Girls I wasn’t too attached to, but Bric was. Smith doesn’t get attached to anyone. And I never thought the others left because of Bric. They left us. Just like Rochelle.
God. I wish I could believe that.
I just know it’s not true. She left because of me. She left because she said she loved me and I shrugged it off. Ignored it. Pretended it never happened. And I know if I explained that to Bric, he’d get it. He’d understand. But what’s the point? Why bother?
Rochelle is gone.
“OK,” I say, standing up. “I am gonna go upstairs. Check it out. See if she left anything behind.”
“Quin—”
“But then,” I say, interrupting him. “But then, either way, I’ll let her go. By Friday I’ll have let her go.” I’m looking at the card as I say all this. “It would help if I could just talk to her though.” I’m nodding at the woman’s business card.
“No,” Bric says. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. But if you want, I’ll go talk to her. I’m sure Smith was just his usual asshole self. No one wants to talk to him, right?”
“OK,” I say, giving in. “Fine. See what you can find out and then call me later.”
“Will do, brother.”
I walk out of the restaurant and head toward the stairs at the back of the lobby. There’s no black rope today. Club members have private rooms upstairs and they are free to use them during the week. But there are guards, all dressed up in thousand-dollar suits, standing sentry. They nod at me as I pass. “Mr. Foster,” they both say.
I nod back, but keep silent as I make my way up to the elevator. When the doors open, I step in, insert my cardkey and unlock the floor to our forbidden world.
When I get up there it doesn’t feel any different. I sit in Smith’s chair, the one in front of the window, and then get up and turn it around so I can take in the only view I’m interested in. The couches. The art on the walls. The rugs, and throw pillows, and the heavy drapes.
When Rochelle moved in, it was empty. Just like it will be again when the new girl moves in. All these things, all these memories, all these feelings will be put away with the rest of her stuff. Into storage, or taken to the Goodwill store. Wherever Bric puts their stuff when they leave.
