by Kent, Julia
She was somewhere around floor eight when the old man gave up. “See you!” he shouted, waving from five or six flights up. Waving back, she sped up, eager for sunshine and a flat walking surface. The balls of her feet were scraped up from the no-skid surface at the edge of each stair, and her hamstrings and IT bands were screaming. Tomorrow, she’d pay for this.
Today she just needed to get to Josie. If she fixated on that, she’d be OK. Falling apart at Josie’s apartment would be the best possible solution here. Fear that Mike or Dylan— or Mike and Dylan—would get to her first drove her. Dylan was likely on his way to her office to explain. Explain, explain, explain. She huffed as she hurried around floor five. Of course he had an explanation. She could just guess.
“Um, well, it’s complicated.” His tone of voice, the little sidelong look with a half-smile, Mr. Charm turning it on to cozy up and sweet-talk his way out of discomfort.
Well, Dylan, have fun snuggling up to those complications, because that’s what you’ll be fucking. Not me.
And you, too, Mike.
Anger seeped in, like an old friend who was a lousy house guest, but you forget every time he leaves how much you wish him gone, and welcome him heartily when he reappears. Anger was so much easier than hurt, or heartache, or regret, so anger it was. Welcome my old friend.
Bursting through the street-level door, the morning greeted her with hot, sultry air and a brightness that made her squint and cringe. She balanced herself on one foot to put on one shoe, then the other, and took a moment to rebalance herself. Ouch. Her feet felt like raw ground beef right now, but that was fine. Anger would keep her going, dull the pain, make it alllll better until she could collapse at Josie’s.
Hailing a cab was easier than usual; maybe she looked as pissed off as she felt. She knew it would be a quick, cheap ride, and as the cabbie raced to deliver her she massaged her feet and ignored the increasingly-active smart phone in her purse. If she looked she knew she’d find a ton of messages.
Ring! Ring! A quick peek showed Dylan calling. Nope. She turned off the phone; five minutes from Josie’s meant she didn’t need to worry about missing a call from her. The cab was stinky but clean, carrying the residue of countless cigarettes, the stale odor of nicotine and coconut air freshener giving her something to gag on. Something other than sheer anxiety and panic. A quick nudge of the window button and she gave herself an inch of fresh air. The cabby shot her a look and turned up the air conditioner, then looked again. Sorry, Bud. Whatever he saw in her return look made him shift his eyes down and keep his mouth shut.
Within minutes he screeched to the front of Josie’s building, a triple-decker that she’d lived in for years, a dingy grey that melted into the neighborhood, a gentrifying section of Cambridge that was always on the verge of “up and coming” but, thankfully, stayed under the radar and kept reasonable rents. They’d toyed with rooming together and renting a big place, but neither could give up their neighborhoods, Laura enjoying Somerville more than she really ought to.
She threw some cash at the cabbie and ran to Josie’s first floor apartment. Her friend was already on the porch, a look of crumpled compassion on her face, and she embraced Laura without words, holding her and stroking her hair as the tears returned.
Pulling back, Josie put her arm around Laura’s waist and guided her into the sunny apartment. “Let me make coffee for you this time,” she said, sighing hard. “It’s the least I can do.”
If Laura’s apartment looked like a Scandinavian designer with a pink fetish had decorated it, Josie’s was pure ‘60s hippie Buddhist funk. It looked like Carole King and the Dalai Lama shared the place. Decorated in thrift shop finds and Tibetan boutique splurges, the perpetual scent of sandalwood and lavender was comforting, though it generally covered up other odors that were finally legal in Massachusetts, as long as one kept it under an ounce and in the privacy of home.
Laura slumped down on an overstuffed monk-red recliner covered in a funky silk throw, vibrant mustard yellow and rich steel blue competing with little reflector things. She could see Josie in the kitchen, the apartment a converted single-family home. Doorways were random and seemed to have no meaning, just plunked here and there. Aside from the bedroom and bath, it was open concept but with walls and thresholds, making the fairly-large place seem smaller.
Josie used a Keurig, and shouted, “Glazed donut or Breakfast blend?”
“Scotch!”
“I have Bailey’s.” Her voice said she didn’t have scotch, though.
“Good enough! Breakfast blend and Bailey’s!” It wasn’t even nine yet. Who cared? It’s not like she was really into following social conventions lately, anyhow. If a girl couldn’t get drunk the day both of her threesome boyfriends was outed as a secret billionaire on local television, when could she?
“How did you hear about them?” she called out to Josie. A hiss and gurgle told her the first cup was brewing.
“That stupid morning TV Show. I had it on and heard Dylan’s name and, well—I texted you right away. I’m guessing they did, too?”
Bzzz. Her phone hummed in her pocket and she pulled it out. Squinting, she read the screen. “Jesus.” Low whistle. Josie wandered into the room and handed her a steaming cup of coffee, tinted tan by the Bailey’s.
“Let me guess. Dylan’s texted you seventy-six times?”
“And Mike’s a close second.” Sip. The alcohol hit her taste buds like a tsunami of flavor. It felt weird to drink this early. Weird was becoming her default waaaay too fast for comfort, but if that was her reality, she’d embrace it. Especially if it tasted like Irish crème.
“Fuck ’em. I can’t believe they—man, Laura. Billionaires? I mean, they aren’t gorgeous enough, but they have to be secret billionaires, too? Your life is like a cross between General Hospital and Desperate Housewives with a touch of Fifty Shades.”
She knew it was funny. She should laugh, right? Instead, though, she swallowed too much scalding liquid too fast, making her nearly scream from the burning pain. If she coughed, she’d scald her throat and mouth even more. The alcohol tasted weird, anyhow—a little too...something. As she gagged and choked, poor Josie ran between the living room and the kitchen, shouting, “Are you OK?”
“Ice,” Laura hissed. Josie returned with ice water, which Laura eagerly sucked into her mouth, keeping her lips closed and pooching out her cheeks to retain the cold balm against her torn, raw mouth. Great. Just great. She couldn’t even manage to drink a fucking cup of coffee without something going wrong. Don’t try to walk and chew gum at the same time. Might break a leg.
Finally, she swallowed, refilling her mouth with the ice water and feeling the sting abate somewhat, little ridges on the roof of her mouth throbbing horribly. That raw, scratchy feeling that comes from a good scalding started to sink in, and she knew she was in for a good two to three days of this. The universe could stop shitting on her. Seriously. Cut it out, God, she thought. My middle name isn’t Job.
“...well, now, he can bring his fire hose to my garage any time...” a voice said, wafting into the living room.
“Fuck!” Josie shouted, sprinting for her bedroom. The sound cut out fast. Laura’s eyes filled, less from mouth pain and more from life pain. This hurt. This was going to hurt for a good, long time. And the hurt was like Ryan times a thousand.
No.
Times two billion.
Laura nursed her ice water, Josie drank her coffee, and the two said nothing, comfortable the way old friends could be, knowing that friendship meant that silence was sometimes the best form of support. She needed someone there, someone to witness her pain but not to comment on it, or judge it. A few years ago she would have needed Josie to join her in spewing rage about her being betrayed and lied to, but that wasn’t what she needed today. Instead, Josie’s calm, steady presence gave her the room to let reality fill in the cracks of her heart and to come to her own ready place for processing it all.
One of Josie’s cats, an old cali
co named Dotty she’d adopted from a local rescue shelter a few years back, settled on the couch next to Laura. Her own cats weren’t nearly as social, hiding away and largely independent, three puffs of fur who had come to her the same way, two of them Persians that had been owned by an elderly woman who had to go into a nursing home. No one had wanted cats the ages of teenagers, so Laura had taken in Miss Daisy and Frumpy. Snuggles had come to her from an abused animals rescue network, her ears clipped in jagged wrecks and part of her tail mangled. Snuggles liked patches of sunshine and to be left alone. Somehow, Miss Daisy and Frumpy respected that, and all three coexisted nicely.
Too bad other threesomes couldn’t be so smooth.
“How’s Snuggles doing lately?” Josie asked. “I never see her when I come over.”
Laura laughed, petting Dotty, who tipped her chin up as if granting permission. “I never see her, either. I only know she’s real because I see a tail under the bed and she eats her food.”
Josie nodded and finished off her mug. “Like a teenage boy. Needs sleep and food.” The joke fell flat. Laura was done talking.
“More coffee?”
“God, no.”
Josie winced. “Sorry. More ice water?”
“Yes, please.” She was starting to sound like Mike. Two word sentences weren’t her style but right now, it was all she could manage. Maybe this “woman of few words” schtick was something she should try on, see how the other half lives in a world of low verbal output. Was there something to not spilling every thought out of your mouth? Could Mike be on to something, being the quiet but steady type who was a deep presence without contributing to the non-stop flow of words that filled modern life?
Why was she even thinking about this? Her open mouth called out to her hands to fan cool air inside her, her tongue drying out quickly. She couldn’t even drink a cup of coffee correctly. Why mull over esoteric ideas?
Because it was easier than facing the fact that they had destroyed this burgeoning relationship yet again. And, most likely, once and for all.
“So,” she and Josie said in unison. Startled, both laughed at the other, the nervous tension that filled the room making Laura’s stomach turn again. She’d been queasy all day, her stomach bearing the brunt of the stress.
“You first,” Josie deferred.
“So, it looks like I managed not only to find two amazingly hot, wonderful guys who happen to be in a secret, complicated—” Josie snorted as Laura emphasized that word “—relationship and we turned it into a great threesome. Oh. Yeah. And they happen to be billionaires and never bothered to tell me because—because—” She faltered there. Why in the hell hadn’t they told her about their money?
Josie seemed to have the same thought, scrunching her face in a weird expression. “Huh. What a supremely odd thing to hide from you. I mean, their whole knowing each other and double-teaming you secret was strange, but I can at least understand it. It’s really out there, and they didn’t know how to approach it, and in typical clueless man style they butchered it.”
Laura’s turn to snort.
“But this? I mean, wouldn’t most guys consider being a fucking billionaire something to gloat about?”
Laura swallowed. Hard. “Maybe they’re embarrassed?”
“Why?”
“Because it’s Jill’s money?”
Josie considered that, tipping her head from one side to the other. “Mmmmm, maybe.” Skepticism filled her voice. “You think they were ashamed of coming into the money because she died and left it to them?”
Laura shrugged. “I’m as stumped as you are.” As she shifted, Dotty sniffed the air, stood, and transferred her loyalties and attentions to Josie, who absent-mindedly stroked her multi-colored head.
Josie sighed. “Wouldn’t you share that kind of thing pretty soon in a relationship? I’ve never had that kind of money—any guy who dates me gets Taco Bell, not trips to private islands in Mexico—but I’d think it would be something you throw out there to clear the air right away.”
The two sat in silence for a minute, thinking this through. Laura’s rage was suddenly tempered by thoughtfulness and pensive considerations on the money issue. Dylan and Mike weren’t flashy about it—though this explained Mike’s amazing cabin. They both drove new cars, but they still shared a sleek apartment. It wasn’t a billionaire’s life, by any means. Dylan even kept his old job. He must wipe his ass with his paychecks.
Exchanging confused glances with Josie, the puzzle became more intriguing as she thought about it. If the news channels were covering this, it meant it was all recent. So perhaps it was too recent—they just didn’t know how to explain it?
Too much benefit of the doubt. She yelled at herself mentally. They still should have told you! Of course they should have, and they damn well knew it. She’d given them every opportunity over the past few weeks, and she was most hurt not that they were billionaires—which she actually found to be pretty damn awesome—but that they hid it from her.
Why?
Josie stood, dumping Dotty unceremoniously from her lap, the cat landing gracefully on the small, shag carpet and surveying the room, eyeing her options. Laura, a throw pillow, the carpet. She chose to leave, clearly displeased with her sudden displacement.
“This calls for some breakfast. You hungry?” Without waiting for the answer, Josie went into the kitchen and started the Keurig up again. The sounds of rummaging floated toward Laura, and in two minutes Josie returned with a box of frozen donut holes and her new cup of coffee.
“Martha Stewart,” Laura sighed, hand over her heart.
“I’m more a trashy version of Rachel Ray. But these are yummy pumpkin donuts.”
“Already? Isn’t that a fall flavor?”
“It’s August.”
“August isn’t fall.”
“In retail it is.” Josie threw up her hands and grabbed one of the dough balls, carefully biting into it. Laura did the same, surprised by how hard and soft the donut hole was. It was a cakey consistency and dense. The half she managed to bite was absolutely delicious. Without being asked, Josie grabbed Laura’s glass and returned with it full. A girl could get used to this. She was the one who tended to cater to Josie; it felt nice to be taken care of like this, even in the smallest of ways.
Dotty returned to the room at the entrance of the donut holes, sniffing the box until Josie shoved her off. Offended, she strutted into Josie’s room and out of Laura’s sight. Although the pastry tasted great, her stomach just didn’t want anything.
Why? Why hadn’t they told her?
“Maybe they’re just assholes,” Josie said slowly, answering Laura’s internal question. “Maybe they thought you were a gold digger.”
“How could I be a gold digger if I didn’t know they had so much money?” Her phone buzzed again. Turning it off completely seemed like a perfect solution, her finger holding down the off button with so much force it left a red imprint in her fingertip. Too bad you couldn’t slam a phone down in the cradle like you could when she was a kid. That satisfaction was one area where smart phones just didn’t measure up.
“They keep calling?”
“They keep something-ing. Calls. Texts. Hell, they may have resorted to email.”
“Not email! Only our parents use email.” An old joke between them.
“I expect Dylan will find a passenger pigeon’s corpse and resurrect it.”
“Or worse—use MySpace.”
Bzzzz. Confused, Laura looked at her phone. It was definitely off. “That’s me,” Josie explained. Leaping across the room, she foraged in her giant purse and found her phone. Slide, tap, tap. Her face! The look on her face made Laura want to administer oxygen and call 911.
“Josie?”
“Dylan!” She shouted his name like she was screaming the word “fuck!” Flailing her phone to and fro, she added, “How in the hell did he get my number?”
“I never gave it to him or Mike. I swear!” Laura answered. He was this desperate
? Really?
“At Laura’s work. She’s not here. Is she with you? Is she safe? We’ll keep searching.” Josie laughed, a barking horsey sound that registered extraordinary disgust. “Is that a promise or a threat?”
Sigh. “He’s persistent.”
“He’s a whackadoo.”
“Well...” That he would somehow track down Josie’s cell phone number meant he was serious about finding her. She had zero desire to see either of them right now. Zero. They really had shredded her life, and what she wanted most was to turn the earth backwards, like in that old Superman movie, and make all of this go away.
No. What she really wanted was two men who could be honest and open and tell the truth about themselves so they could all live happily ever after. Was that too much to ask? Jill had died and turned out to have gobs of money that she passed on to the guys. They hid that information from her because—
Her blood ran cold, stomach twisting.
Because they didn’t trust her.
“Oh, God,” she muttered. “Josie.” Her friend sensed the shift in her voice and came closer, curling her legs under herself on a small, faded, orange velvet chair.
“Yeah? What is it.”
“They—they,” she stammered, her chin quivering now, eyes filling with hot tears and throat salty and thick. “They never trusted me. They wanted the money and a woman but couldn’t tell me because they didn’t trust me. They just— I don’t know!” she wailed, her volume increasing as her pulse raced and her mind raced even faster.
“Oh, Honey,” Josie replied, reaching for Laura’s hand. “You are so trustworthy and so not into money.”
“I know, right?” Laura screeched. “It’s laughable.” Maniacal laugh. “They couldn’t have picked a worse thing to be worried about, right? I’m the girl who shops as much as possible at vintage and thrift shops to save money. I drive an older car and I put money in my stupid 401K every paycheck and I pay my student loans on time and I follow all the rules.” Her voice rose. “All the fucking rules, right? I do everything right. Everything! And this is how the universe repays me? Seriously. I feel like I got a galactic shit dumped on my head this morning.”
