by S. Walden
“I’ll pay for your tan,” I said, hanging my head.
Courtney waved it off. “I’m sooo not one of those biatches,” she said.
I learned in that moment that Courtney was either still in high school or a freshman in college.
“But she ruined your tan!” I said.
That’s what touch-ups are for, right?” Courtney asked. “And your dog is so freakin’ adorable.”
“You’re the coolest,” I whispered, then felt like a dumbass.
“Erica, can you fit me in tomorrow?” she said, turning to my best friend who was about to yell at me in approximately thirty seconds. Or thirty-one. Let’s make it thirty-one since that’s my bad luck number.
“You know I will,” Erica replied.
“Then no harm done,” Courtney squeaked. “Call me, bitch,” she said, holding her hand up to her ear like a phone.
I stifled a giggle.
Courtney bounced out, and Erica closed the door.
“Really, Bailey? For freakin’ real right now?! That girl drives me insane, and now I have to see her again tomorrow!”
“So that’s why you’re handing her over to me, huh?” Taylor asked. She laughed.
“And just prepare yourself,” Erica said. “She gets sprayed every seven days.”
“Dear Lord,” Taylor muttered.
Erica whipped her head in my direction. “Thanks a lot,” she griped.
“I’m sorry!” I laughed.
“Your dog is a nuisance.” She looked around the living room. “And where are my children? You’re, like, the worst sitter ever.”
“They’re in the playroom. Jeez. Take it easy,” I replied. “Now where’s my dinner?”
“Fuck your dinner, Bailey,” she hissed. “You’re not getting any fucking dinner.”
Taylor erupted with laughter.
“I watched your kids!” I argued.
“Really? ‘Cause I don’t see them. And anyway, your dog ruined my Saturday. No dinner for you.” Erica rubbed her face. “I can’t believe I have to see that chick again. ‘Call me, bitch,’” she mimicked, and I cracked up.
“I’m so saying that every time we say goodbye,” I said.
“Bitch, you better not,” Erica replied, and we all three stood in the foyer laughing. It wasn’t even that funny, but sometimes life’s inconveniences wound up that way. If you let go and let them.
“That’s pretty good, girl!” Christopher called down the shore.
I ran to him, huffing and puffing.
“Thanks! Gosh, I’m beat,” I panted. “Those waves . . .” I paused, trying to catch my breath. “You’d think another hurricane was coming!”
“In July?”
“Well, whatever.”
“Aren’t you glad I called you?” he asked.
“Totally,” I replied.
We walked up the bank and plopped our boards in the sizzling sand. Then we sat down, side by side, watching the surfers dance along the waves. Up and down and up and down—riding the high of a perfect surfing day.
“How’s Reece?” I ventured, twirling my forefinger in the sand.
Christopher didn’t look at me.
“He’s all right. Been workin’ really hard on a perfume campaign. The commercial airs tonight.”
“Oh, really?” I was intrigued. And, of course, I’d watch it!
“Smack dab in the middle of your little vampire show,” Christopher replied.
I smiled. I would definitely watch it. “He’s really good at what he does.”
“Yep.”
I continued tracing hearts in the sand.
“How’s his social life?” I asked. I could feel Christopher’s grin.
“You mean, is he dating anyone?” he asked.
I nodded. I wasn’t sure I wanted to know the answer. I hated when I did that: asking questions when I really didn’t want answers.
“He’s not seeing anyone.”
I exhaled a little too loudly.
“He misses you,” Christopher added. “I think he keeps hoping you’ll call.”
I shook my head. “I messed it all up. I let him go. He wouldn’t want to hear from me.”
“How do you know that unless you call him?”
“I’m embarrassed. It’s been, like, four months since we’ve talked. I wouldn’t even know what to say to him.”
“Seriously, Bailey? How about that you love him.”
I grunted.
“You obviously still love him, or else you wouldn’t ask me about him every time I see you,” Christopher pointed out.
“I do love him,” I said softly. “Very much. But it’s not fair for me to ask him to be with me, Chris. I’m fucked up. No one should have to deal with that.”
“Bailey, we’re all fucked up to a certain extent. Okay? You act like you some lunatic.”
“I am!”
“No, you’re not. You’re a girl who likes to put her shit in order. I can think of a lot worse things. And anyway, weren’t you the one telling me a month ago how much better you’re getting?”
“Yeah, until another disaster strikes,” I muttered.
“That’s life, girl! It’s gonna happen! You can’t control everything, Bailey. You gonna hurt again. You gonna go through another bad time. That’s inevitable. Doesn’t mean you’re not worth loving. And you found a man who was willing to help you through those bad times. Why’d you push him away?”
“I don’t know.”
“You can’t play victim here when you ordered him out.”
“I was trying to save him a lifetime of heartache,” I argued.
“You let him decide what he wants to do with his life, Bailey. You don’t get to make that decision. If the man wanna love you, let him love you!”
I buried my face in my hands. There were no tears, just a healthy dose of embarrassment. And regret.
“I really fucked up.”
“Yeah, you did.”
“I don’t know how to fix it.”
Christopher was quiet for a second.
“Well, go find your answer, B. She’s out there waiting,” he said, pointing to the water.
I hadn’t let go all morning. Not really. I was too concerned with beating Christopher for most waves ridden. I was focused on the competition instead of nurturing my heart. Finding answers. Discovering how to apologize and handle the rejection if it came. I had to consider it, though it made my stomach churn. Apologies are not automatic fresh starts. Reece could very well accept my apology and then close the door gently in my face.
“Go on,” Christopher urged.
“You’ll wait for me?” I asked.
“I’ll wait for you.”
I stood up and hugged my board tight to my side. I walked to the shore and studied the waves while bubbly surf water lapped my feet.
“You’re bigger. You’re stronger. And I give you mad props,” I said softly. “And . . .”
There had never been an “and” in the history of my surfing. I made three statements. That’s what I did. That was the routine. But now I knew everything had to change, to shift just a little, if I wanted the happiness returned to my life. If I wanted Reece returned to me.
“And I need your help,” I whispered.
I walked in waist deep and hopped on my board. I pumped my arms hard, searching for the meaning to my inheritance—a condition that left me alone for so many years because compulsion always superseded love. I wanted to really challenge it this time. When I first began my relationship with Reece, I gave up the urges because he distracted me. He acted as the emollient to my anxiety. The problem was that I never tried to battle it on my own. I just used him, and when he stopped working after my father died, I hated him for it.
I paddled farther out to sea and waited. The wave was building hard and high. She’d be a perfect one to ride.
Wait for it. Wait . . . for . . . it . . .
I caught her. The Atlantic wanted me to. She had something important to tell me, and I leaned into
her, listening closely to her waves of wisdom.
“You decide,” she whispered over the hissing swirl. “You decide.”
“Decide what?!” I cried.
“You decide,” she repeated, pushing me closer and closer to shore. I wasn’t ready to leave her. I needed to hear the rest of the message.
“Don’t go!” I called as I fell off my board into the surf.
I got up and paddled back out. I caught another wave. She whispered the next part, and I could barely hear it over the rush of water.
“It’s not up to them,” she said. “It’s up to you.”
I knew she meant the managing of my OCD. I knew because Dr. Gordon had been drilling it into my skull for the past six months. I knew now that I had power over my urges—real power—and I realized it on the morning I awoke and the battling voices had vanished from my head. It wasn’t overnight, but it happened. No more voices. Just the quiet stillness of maybe. Maybe I didn’t have to be alone. Maybe there was a future.
If I had the power to finally overcome my OCD—to manage it in healthy ways—then surely that meant I had the power to put other pieces of my life back together. Reece. Getting Reece back. It wasn’t up to him, she whispered in my ear. It was up to me. I had to stop sitting around feeling sorry for myself. I had to stop living in the fear that he would reject me. I had to try. To really try!
I walked back to Christopher, and he pointed out my silly grin.
“Well, someone must have received a pretty awesome revelation,” he said as we headed for our cars.
“I did,” I replied.
“And can you share?”
“If you promise not to tell,” I said.
“My lips are sealed,” he promised.
I stopped short and turned to him.
“I’m gonna ask Reece to marry me.”
***
I thought if I watched Reece’s commercial, it would act as a pre-game energizer—pump up my adrenaline for the big show. Perhaps the most important show of my life. I planned to go to him tomorrow and ask for forgiveness. Ask him to be mine.
I pulled Poppy onto my lap and snuggled her against her wishes. She’d softened only a little over the last few months when she realized holding a grudge would be futile. It wouldn’t bring back her daddy. So then the grudge turned into a depression, and she was only just now getting better. Still, I knew as I cuddled her and kissed her snowy head that she’d rather have her daddy. I picked her out, but Reece became her favorite.
“You wanna watch some TV?” I asked her.
She turned her face.
“I love you even though you hate my guts,” I said, lips pressed to her cotton ear. “I’m gonna make it right. I promise.”
I pressed POWER on the remote and settled in for a night of vampires, blood, broken promises, and Reece’s perfume campaign. Every time the show went to commercial, my heart leapt into my throat. And after several commercial breaks, I was on edge. I felt like the girl who hadn’t seen her boyfriend in months—the one who went away to college—and she was nervous to see him during fall break, just like she’d felt on their first date. Excited. Hopeful. I’d gone months with no Reece, and the thought of seeing his commercial—that creative part of him—well, it was simply that: The thought of him. The very thought of him.
Poppy wriggled out of my arms. She had enough of my racing pulse and the nervous heat emitting from my body. She jumped off the couch and stretched out on the floor, panting lightly. I tested my underarm.
“Dear Lord,” I whispered, fingering my moist pit. “That’s disgusting.”
And then I fell silent as I appeared on the TV screen. I rubbed my eyes and looked again. I was there, dressed in red pants and a little blouse with cherries all over. My dark hair whipped about in the breeze as I ran, looking behind me every so often. Smiling and laughing.
“Catch me!” I squealed and raced ahead, weaving in and out of pedestrians on the crowded sidewalk. Busy. Loud. Smoky grayscale city. The only color was my pants and the cherries on my shirt. They disappeared then reappeared. In and out. Left to right and back again. A flash of red. Muted color. And another flash. Legs moving faster.
“Catch me!” I cried.
I giggled and ran on, turning my head, surprise in my eyes as he narrowed the gap, coming faster, camera bobbing with the messy nature of a documentary film. Like I was meant to see it through his eyes. The man trying to keep up. The man who loved me and wouldn’t let me slip away.
“Catch me!” I called, rounding the corner.
The camera turned, jolted and froze—a freeze frame on my serious face. Up close. Too intimate. Freckles and laugh lines and strands of hair in my eyes.
“Catch me. Keep me,” I whispered, and the camera panned back, revealing my pursuer. He looked like Reece, and he set his mouth on mine. A flag in the ground. A claim. The camera zoomed in. Just our mouths. Teeth sinking into soft, fleshy lips.
I barely heard the ending: “‘Catch,’ the new fragrance from Pop Art Perfume.”
The tears in my eyes distorted the screen, and a blaring potato chip commercial threatened to distract me. I needed to think. To think to think to think. I turned off the TV and sat in stunned silence. It was too easy to convince myself I’d made it up. Many girls are short. Many girls have long brown hair. Many girls wear red pants and blouses with cherries on them. Many girls . . .
The doorbell rang. I jumped. Poppy hopped up and barked her brains out. I assumed it was Soledad. She came over at night sometimes just to check on me. I couldn’t make her understand that ringing my doorbell at ten at night was not comforting. It didn’t make me feel safe. It scared the shit out of me.
The front door was solid. I could only peer out the living room window, and even then, I knew I wouldn’t be able to see who stood on my stoop.
“Honey, I’ll be right back!” I called, and then added reluctantly through the door, “Who is it?”
“It . . . It’s Reece,” he said. I could hear the shock underlying his words. He thought there was another man in my house! I ripped open the door.
“Reece!”
“I . . . I thought . . .” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Is this a bad time? You sounded like you’re busy.”
“No no! I’m not!” I cried. I grabbed his forearm and pulled him inside.
“You were talking to someone,” he said, confused.
“No. I just said that because I didn’t know who was at the door. I didn’t want them to think I was alone,” I explained.
“Oh,” he replied, relieved. “That’s smart.”
Only then did he notice Poppy howling and jumping at his feet, begging to be touched and picked up and taken out of this awful house.
“Hey, sweet girl,” Reece said, bending down and scooping her up.
Her tail wagged so hard that it shook her entire body. She doused him with kisses, and I swallowed the urge to blurt out, “Don’t leave her! Don’t leave me!”
I watched him snuggle the dog we purchased together then set her on her feet. She tore around the room, grabbing the first toy in her path, and raced to Reece—her play partner for the rest of the night. He dropped to his knees and wrestled the toy from her mouth, throwing it down the hall where she retrieved it and brought it back. Over and over and over again, like the faithful dog she was, and they played for what seemed like hours while I looked on. An outsider.
When she was sufficiently worn out, she trotted to her water bowl, and Reece took the opportunity to address me.
“This is weird, isn’t it?” he asked. “Coming over like this?”
“No!” I tried again, softer this time. “No, Reece. It’s not weird.”
“I—” We both said it simultaneously and smiled.
“You first,” Reece said.
“I saw your perfume commercial tonight,” I said.
He pulled himself off the floor and onto the couch. Beside me. If I wasn’t already hopeful because he was the one at my front door, I was now, sitting
so close to him.
“What did you think?” he asked softly. He played with his fingers in his lap—something I’d never seen him do.
“I thought it was beautiful and sweet and sexy,” I replied.
“I was going for all three of those things,” he said. “So that’s good.”
We fell silent. It made no sense when I was bursting to the gills with words, and I knew he must be too, or else why would he have knocked on my door?
“Was it me?” I whispered.
He didn’t look at my face.
“You know it was you, Bailey.”
“Why did you do it?” I asked. “I mean, after everything I put you through. Surely you can’t want to be with me anymore. I don’t deserve you.”
He looked at me then.
“This isn’t about deserving. This is about wanting. And I want to know. I can’t wait any longer for you to come to me. I want to know right now. That’s why I came to you. Is there a chance to make things right? Is there a chance you may still love me?”
I didn’t know what to say first. I thought it terribly unfair that he came to me. He shouldn’t have! I should have gone, and I’d planned to. Tomorrow. But that’s the thing about tomorrow. Tomorrow is sometimes too late. And then what do you do?
“I was going to see you tomorrow!” I said. “I planned to go to your house.”
“Don’t,” Reece said.
“It’s true!” I replied, clasping his hands. “It’s true, Reece. You didn’t give me time—”
“Six months, Bailey! Six!” he shouted. “You don’t go from having what we had to six months of nothing!”
He ripped his hands from mine and jumped up from the couch. I readied myself for the words—the ones he never got to say when I broke it off. I was both confused and not. I deserved his harsh words, but I was confused by the ad campaign. Did he want me, or did he want to teach me a lesson? If he wrote the campaign as a cruel joke, I would never recover from it. My fragile heart couldn’t take one more beating. His angry words? Yes. As long as he loved me after he said them.
“You made me feel like I was nothing!” he went on. “Discarded and used. Like a goddamn foster kid!”
I wept openly. I knew these were all the things he wished he could shout at me the moment I threw him out. But a stunning blow doesn’t allow you to process anything but confusion. Pride and anger come along afterward, and for most, it’s too late to say the things we wished we could. Too late and not worth the effort.
