Make Me Sin

by J. T. Geissinger

  Everyone turns to stare at him, even Kat. Grace looks him up and down as if he’s just arrived from outer space.

  “Israel. But their production will be finished in August, so we’ll get the peonies for the wedding from my grower in Amsterdam.”

  “Man,” he says with awe, staring at the arrangement, “I don’t know what you’re paying for this Nico, but it’s worth every damn cent.”

  Grace glances at me. We’re thinking the same thing, because she asks, “Are you a big flower fan?”

  He turns to look at her. He’s what I think of as the “cute” member of Bad Habit. He’s got a boyishly handsome face and a killer smile, with flashing dimples partially hidden by scruff. He’s also got great hair, thick and brown, and an even greater sense of style. Today, for instance, he’s wearing a pale blue button-down shirt rolled up his forearms, a smart navy vest, a pair of trendy jeans that fit so perfectly they look tailored, and black leather shoes I recognize as Ferragamo, because my father owns a pair. He’s tall, but unlike Nico or A.J., who are both bulky, he’s on the slender side. I think he looks more like an Abercrombie & Fitch model than a rock musician. A.J. calls him the fashionista.

  With a hint of heat in his voice, Brody says to Grace, “I like all beautiful things.”

  Grace ignores his obvious come-on and turns away. I guess musicians aren’t her style . . . though I actually thought all men with working genitals were her style.

  Meanwhile, Kenji is bored, which is what happens when he’s not the center of attention.

  “Lovey, do you have anything to drink around here? I’m so dry I’m practically Mormon.”

  “Now that you mention it, I do.”

  I yell for Trina to bring out the bottles of champagne I’ve bought for this occasion, hoping it would be a success. Now that I know Kat and Nico like the flowers, I feel like celebrating.

  So does Trina; grinning like a madwoman, she bursts from the back room with two bottles of Perrier-Jouët held aloft. “Woot! We nailed it! Par-tay!” My other designer Renee follows with a sleeve of plastic champagne glasses. They were obviously eavesdropping.

  Kenji curls his lip. “Oh, lovey, you know Kenji doesn’t drink from petroleum-based glassware.”

  “You will today, Divalicious,” I answer, “because I don’t have anything else.”

  Kenji points to the table. “What do you call those?”

  I look at the rented crystal champagne flutes beside each place setting on the table, and start to laugh. “I call those a giant oversight on my part. Trina, trash the plastic. We’re drinking in style.”

  She snorts. “I bet I know who’s going to be washing these suckers, too,” she mutters good-naturedly.

  Kenji looks appalled. “Well I’m certainly not!”

  Which is a given.

  Once the champagne is poured and we’ve raised our glasses in a toast, the coordinator pulls me aside to go over some details, while Kat and Nico neck around the side of the flower cooler. Kenji, Trina, and Renee squeal and launch into an impromptu zombie dance-off when Michael Jackson’s “Thriller” plays over the radio, and, most interestingly, Brody follows Grace as she drifts away from the sample floral arrangements and starts to peruse the display of glass and ceramic vases along the wall.

  Musicians might not be her thing, but it certainly looks to me as if redheads are his thing. I try to remember if they’ve met before . . . maybe at the House of Blues party last year? Or on Memorial Day? I make a mental note to ask her about it later.

  Jennifer and I finish our talk, and rejoin the rest of the group.

  “So where’s A.J., Lo?” asks Kat. “I thought he’d be here.”

  “Me, too. He said he would. I’m not sure what happened.”

  She and Nico share a look that scares me. It’s an “uh-oh” look, one that has my heart beating a little faster as soon as I see it.

  “I think I’ll leave a little early to go check on him,” I say, trying to keep my voice light.

  “He still doesn’t have a phone?” asks Nico, his arm around Kat’s shoulders.

  I try to make my shrug look nonchalant. “He’s got a burner so I can call him in case of an emergency . . . you know, because of Eric. But I don’t want to use it unless it’s a real emergency.”

  “Chloe, he’s not going to be mad at you if you call him and the shop isn’t on fire,” says Kat, exasperated.

  “I know. It’s just that phones aren’t his thing. He doesn’t like the idea of people being able to bother him whenever they want. So . . . I’m respecting that.”

  Nico smiles at me. “He’s a lucky son of a bitch to have you, Chloe.”

  “Yes, he is,” agrees Kat firmly. “If Nico refused to talk to me on the phone—”

  “He hasn’t refused, there just hasn’t been an emergency. If there was, I’d call him.” My voice comes out louder than I intended because I’m feeling defensive all of a sudden. When Kat blinks at me in surprise, I look away, embarrassed.

  Then she’s hugging me. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you feel bad. It’s none of my business.”

  I release a pent-up breath and hug her back. “Don’t be sorry, I’m acting like a weirdo. I think I’m more worried than I realized about him not being here. Is that stupid of me?”

  She pulls away and squeezes my arm. “Of course not. I know exactly how you feel. If I don’t know where Nico is every minute of the day, I can hardly breathe.”

  That makes me feel a little better. We smile at each other. Grace interrupts us by saying, “So, Vegas for the bachelorette? Or is that too much of a cliché?”

  Kat wrinkles her nose. “Do we have to do a bachelorette party? Aren’t we a little old for that kind of thing? I’ll just spend the entire time pining away for my hubby-to-be, anyway. I doubt if I’d be any fun.”

  Grace looks at her as if she’s off her rocker. “The bachelorette party isn’t for you, silly; it’s for the bridesmaids, as a reward for all their hard work toward the wedding.”

  “I’m pretty sure that’s not the case,” I say.

  Grace waves a hand in the air, dismissing the subject. “Anyway, Vegas is on the table. If either one of you girls,” she nods at Kenji and me, “has a better idea, let me know.”

  I say, “Where’s Nico going on his bachelor party? Maybe we should go to the same city and stay in adjacent hotels.”

  Grace and Kenji look like they might throw up. Kat, on the other hand, squeals in delight. “Yes! What a great idea!” She turns to Nico. “What do you think, honey?”

  He smiles down at her, and brushes a lock of hair from her forehead. “I think I’m up for anything that makes you so happy, darlin’.”

  She claps. I can tell from the glare Grace shoots me she is less than thrilled with my suggestion, but I blow her a kiss and she rolls her eyes, and I know I’m forgiven. She’ll have fun no matter where we end up going.

  “Anything else you need from me, Chloe?” asks Jennifer, packing away her notes, schedules, and timelines into a shoulder bag.

  “Nope. We’re good.”

  She nods. “I’ll be in touch next week, then. Call me if anything comes up in the meantime.” She blows me an air kiss, hugs Kat and Nico, waves good-bye to everyone else, and leaves.

  “I think I’m on my way, too, guys. I’ve gotta go find out what happened to my man.”

  Everyone hugs, we say our good-byes, and after they’re gone, I get in my car and head home, trying to not worry.

  The first thing I notice that’s wrong is the chain-link fence on the dirt road leading to the hotel is open. Wide open, not just unlocked.

  I pull to a stop several yards away, staring at it. I’ve never seen it unlocked before. In fact, I lock it behind me every morning when I go to work.

  I swallow, assuring myself it’s nothing. I drive past it, unsure whether to leave it open or lock it behind me, but there’s this strange feeling in the pit of my stomach and I don’t want to dally, so I drive on. At the top of the hill when t
he hotel comes into view, I see the second wrong thing.

  A car, parked next to the fountain in the driveway. It’s a beauty, too, a brand new Rolls-Royce Ghost, black on black, sleek and shiny. For a moment, I’m confused.

  Did A.J.’s manager come here?

  The strange feeling gets stronger. I park my car next to the Ghost. I try to look inside, but the windows are blacked-out limo tint; no luck. I hurry inside, take the staircase two steps at a time, and run down the hallway toward room twenty-seven, my handbag bouncing at my side.

  Calm down! I tell myself. But it doesn’t work. I’m panicking. I know, on a deep gut level, that something is very, very wrong.

  When I open the door to the room I’ve been living in for the past two months, it only gets worse.

  A.J. is in bed. He’s lying on his back with his hands beneath his head, staring at the ceiling. He’s bare chested, the lower half of his body under a sheet, but I can tell he’s naked. Though it’s midafternoon and still light outside, all the candles are lit. It’s warm in the room, too warm, and it smells like . . . perfume?

  I step inside. He turns his head and looks at me. What I see in his eyes—the deadness, the total lack of light—stops me short.

  “A.J.? Are you all right, sweetie? You missed the meeting.”

  Before he can answer, I hear a sound that stops my heart cold in my chest.

  The toilet flushes.

  Someone is in the bathroom.

  A.J. is naked in bed, in our bed, and someone is in the bathroom.

  Then the bathroom door opens and my world comes to an end.

  Heavenly steps out, brushing her long, wet hair with a brush I instantly recognize as mine. My grandmother gave it to me for my fifteenth birthday; it’s a sterling silver boar’s hair brush with my initials inscribed on the back. She looks up, sees me standing in the doorway, and freezes.

  She’s nude. She’s beautiful. She’s just taken a shower.

  She’s just fucked the man I love.

  A noise comes out of me, an ugly, choked groan from deep within my chest. It sounds like an animal in agony.

  Heavenly drops her arms to her sides. She makes no move to cover herself. She doesn’t even look surprised to see me. “I’m sorry,” she says quietly, looking away.

  Sorry for what? Killing me? Because that’s exactly what she’s done. She’s just stabbed me a thousand times in the heart with a dagger. She’s just shot me in the gut with a shotgun. I can’t breathe. I can’t move. Everything is suddenly too bright, too loud, too close. I feel like I’m suffocating, drowning, like I’ve jumped off a building and am falling at top speed toward the ground. My heart pounds and my hands shake and my throat is closing up.

  For the final blow, Bella ambles from the bathroom, sits at Heavenly’s feet, looks up at her, and barks.

  I know that bark. It’s her “feed me” bark. It’s a bark she’d only make with someone she’s comfortable with.

  With someone she loves.

  Oh God. They’ve been doing this all along. I’ve been going to work every day like a stupid, naïve little girl, and my man and his whore have been fucking in the bed that we share. If I hadn’t come home early, I’d never have caught them. I would have let A.J. put his hands and mouth on me tonight, I would have believed every murmured word of worship and love that passed his lips.

  I feel the exact moment when my face crumples. I back up a step, clutching my stomach, tasting bile in the back of my throat. I look over at A.J., but he’s gone back to staring at the ceiling.

  In a voice devoid of any shred of emotion, he says, “I’ll pack up your things and have them sent to the shop.”

  I’ve been dismissed. Just like that, I’m no longer needed.

  I’m no longer wanted.

  It’s all been a lie.

  There’s nothing left to say or do, so I simply turn and run.

  After Chloe’s gone, Heavenly stares at me for a long time from her place near the bathroom door, while I lie flat on my back with tears leaking from the corners of my eyes.

  “You should tell her, A.J.”

  I sit up and rest my elbows on my knees. I don’t know if I can answer; the crushing weight on my chest is almost too much to bear. But finally I manage it. “I know what I’m doing. It’s better this way.”

  “She loves you. She’ll stay with you if you tell her the truth.”

  I bow my head and close my eyes. “That’s exactly what I’m afraid of.”

  I hear Heavenly cross the room. Fabric rustles; she’s pulling on her dress. Then she kneels beside me on the mattress and rests her hand on my arm.

  When I look up at her, I can’t stand the pity in her eyes, so I look away.

  In Russian, she says, “You can still be happy, old friend. It’s not too late.”

  “It is too late,” I whisper, my voice breaking. “I knew this was coming, and I took it way too far with her. I should have ended it sooner. I should have never started it in the first place.”

  She sighs. She knows it’s useless to argue with me, and we’ve been over this before. This is the way it has to be. This is the only thing I can offer after how selfish I’ve been. It’s easier to leave in anger than in sadness, and now Chloe will hate my guts forever. That, at least, will give her some strength.

  I know from personal experience how motivating hatred can be.

  Heavenly stands and stares down at me. “You’re a fool. If I had a chance at real happiness like you do, there’s nothing on earth that could stop me from taking it. And you’re just throwing it away.”

  The laugh that tears from my throat is more like a moan of despair. “Don’t be stupid. There are no happily-ever-afters for people like you and me.”

  “Maybe you’re right,” she softly agrees, “but if I had what you have, it wouldn’t stop me from trying.”

  She turns and walks to the door, picking up her clutch from the sofa on the way. She steps into her heels, then pauses for a moment before looking back at me one last time.

  “And it’s never too late, A.J. As long as you’re still breathing, it’s not too late.”

  She lets herself out, gently closing the door behind her.

  I don’t remember the drive to my apartment. I don’t remember parking the car, or taking the elevator, or unlocking the door. I move like a sleepwalker, blind and deaf, only coming to consciousness when hot water pours over my head.

  I take a shower fully clothed, shivering violently, my teeth chattering though the water is almost scalding. I can’t get warm. Everything inside me feels frozen. Beneath my skin lies nothing but a vast, deserted tundra of ice.

  A lie. It was all a lie. He never loved me at all.

  Finally, the full force of the pain hits me, and I bawl. My body is wracked with the strength of my sobs. I can’t stand up anymore, so I slide to the floor and lean against the shower wall, crying hard, snot running down my face, my arms wrapped around my knees as the water pounds over me.

  I don’t know how long I stay under the spray. Long after the water turns cold, I sit in the corner of the stall with my arms around my knees, shaking. Somehow I eventually find the strength to stand, turn off the water, and strip out of my clothes. I leave them in a sodden pile on the bathroom floor. I don’t bother to dry off. I make it to my bed before my strength gives out, and I curl into a ball with the covers pulled over my head.

  For hours uncounted I lie there in silent misery, rising only once to lean over the toilet and puke.

  That day passes. I don’t eat. I don’t drink. I don’t answer the house phone or my cell phone when they ring. I know I’m in some kind of shock, and that this isn’t healthy, but I can’t find the strength to care. I have nothing left. I’ve been hollowed out, scraped clean.

  I sleep.

  I cry.

  I die a thousand deaths, each time I remember it.

  Another day passes. I wonder how my heart keeps beating.

  I wish it wouldn’t.

  After another day
or two or ten later, a loud pounding noise wakes me.

  The clock on my nightstand reads four p.m. I have no sense of how long I’ve been in bed, of how much time has passed. When I lift my head and look around, I’m dizzy.

  I can’t remember when I last ate.

  The pounding comes from my front door; someone is furiously knocking.

  Go away. I’m not here. Send flowers to my funeral and go the hell away.

  “Chloe! Are you in there? It’s Kat! Honey, please, if you’re in there, open the door!”

  Her voice is muffled, but the frantic tone is clear enough. I can’t muster the energy to feel sorry that I’ve worried my friend. I can barely muster the energy to sit up in bed, but I do because she won’t stop her insistent hammering. I run a hand through my hair, shuffle to the bathroom and get my robe, and shrug it on while moving like a zombie through my apartment.

  When I open the door and she gets a good look at me, Kat cries out in shock.

  “Chloe,” she says, her eyes huge, “my God, honey! What’s happened? Where’ve you been?”

  “I’ve been here. I’m fine. Don’t worry. I need to go back to bed now.”

  My voice is strangely flat. I try to close the door, but Kat slams her hand against it and pushes it wide open. She takes me by the shoulders, steers me to the couch, makes me sit, then goes back and shuts the front door. She returns and kneels on the floor in front of me, taking my hands in hers.

  “Chloe, you’ve been missing for four days. No one knows where you’ve been. You haven’t been answering your phone. You haven’t showed up for work. You haven’t called anyone.”

  She speaks to me slowly and with very clear enunciation, as if to someone with a shaky grip on the English language.

  “Your parents are freaking out. They thought Eric . . . well, you can imagine what they thought. They filed a missing person’s report. When the police came by, all your neighbors said you hadn’t been here in months, but the building manager was going to check on the apartment later today to make sure there wasn’t a dead body in here.”