The Social Affair: A Psychological Thriller

by Britney King

  I don’t respond. It’s better that way.

  Eventually, I succeed at getting one sandwich down and half of the other before I literally cannot eat anymore.

  He sighs. “If you don’t eat the rest of that, there will be severe consequences, Josie.” He’s growing more impatient. “Do you understand what I mean?”

  I take another bite, but I can’t make myself chew. I close my eyes. You can do this.

  He kicks the back of one knee, causing it to buckle. It’s not a hard blow, not so much that it hurts, anyway; it’s just hard enough to make my leg give out. Just enough to make me rely on him for balance. It’s what he’s best at. I’m twisting and turning, trying to steady myself, when I feel the sharp, cool metal against my back.

  “Eat it, I said!”

  I do as he says. I hear him place the knife or scalpel or whatever he has on the table. Then I manage to stuff the rest of the sandwich down as well as a fistful of chips, before my gag reflex kicks in. With one hand he lifts my head up and with the other he takes a fistful of chips and forces them into my mouth. I manage, but when he tries to force more in, I vomit all over him and the table. I’m not used to consuming that much food. My stomach can’t handle it. Tears stream down my cheeks.

  “Now look what you’ve done.”

  I’m sobbing, and I’m choking, and things have never looked this hopeless. There’s no coming back from this.

  “Hmmm,” he says, taking his phone from his pocket. He selects his angle, twisting me by my hair, forcing my face toward the vomit, and he snaps a picture. “Why don’t you post that on the internet?”

  I feel dizzy.

  He laughs. Vomit burns my nostrils.

  The smell is horrific.

  “Now—take a bite, say you’re sorry, and this can all be over…”

  I refuse without words. He shoves my head down until my face rests against the vomit. It’s chunky, warm and wet.

  He pushes on my cheek forcing my head to turn. “DO IT.”

  I’m sobbing, but eventually I open my mouth and suck in the smallest amount possible. Still enough that I know it will satisfy him.

  He exhales loudly and lets go of my hair. “That a girl.”

  I try to stand then. I intend to run and keep running. Maybe I’ll never come back. He holds me down. “Are you going to lie to me again?”

  “No,” I promise. But even I don’t believe myself.

  I feel the cold, sharp edge rest against my skin. I squeeze my eyes shut. I feel warm liquid running down my back.

  “Jesus, Josie. Look at you—” he says, mockingly. “Always adding more work for me.”

  My eyes burn, my throat is raw. I feel nothing.

  He raises the scalpel to my face at eye level. “Tell me—” he scoffs. “What am I supposed to do with something I can’t fix?”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Izzy

  I don’t ask, but the next night after work Grant Dunn is there in the parking lot waiting to drive me home. I watch him under the soft glow of the street lamps. He looks tired. “You don’t have to do this,” I say, leaning against the passenger door, thinking it shouldn’t be this easy. “I can take the bus.”

  “It’s cold out.”

  I roll my eyes playfully. “You’re the one out here with your windows down.”

  “I like the cold. But you. Well, you don’t even have a proper jacket.” I glance down at my outfit. The one I copied from @fashionistaforver777. It arrived yesterday, and I wore it today. Just in case. He’s right. A cool front blew in this afternoon, and I hadn’t factored that in. I hadn’t thought to bring a jacket.

  “This is Texas. Not Alaska. I’ll survive.”

  He holds his hands up as though I need to say no more. “I was on my way home from rounds. It’s no biggie.”

  He shifts his gaze and stares straight ahead for a moment before looking over at me once again. Then he raises his brow. “Plus, if something were to happen, how else am I supposed to get an Americano in this town?”

  I laugh and let his dark sense of humor fill my soul.

  “Come on,” he ushers me. “It shouldn’t be this hard to give a lady a ride. Get in.”

  I do as he says. Then I thank him and tell him I appreciate how considerate he is.

  “Like I said. It’s nothing.”

  This must be how his wife feels. Cared for. Grateful.

  I buckle my seatbelt. He turns to me and hands me his phone. When I glance down I see that he has his contacts pulled up. My name is typed in. I look up at him. His expression is unreadable. I take a deep breath. I tell myself to play it cool. Still, I feel the blood rushing to my cheeks, and I know I’m busted. I curse myself for being as transparent as they come. I will myself to calm down, to relax, but it’s not as easy as it seems.

  It feels amazing—on another level— to see my name on Grant Dunn’s phone. I have to admit, something shifted when he reached for my hand. I was disappointed. I thought he and his wife were happy.

  Don’t get me wrong—it wasn’t that a small part of me didn’t want it to happen. I did. What I don’t understand, and what I am determined to find out, is why. Why would he go and mess up a good thing?

  Surely, he wouldn’t hurt Josie that way. I feel so conflicted. It’s like my heart and my mind are duking it out. All day they’ve played tug-o-war with each other to see which one will come out victorious. Now, we’re down to the final round.

  I frown at the thought of either winning, and he takes notice. I’m an open book.

  “What’s wrong?”

  I didn’t think you were the type to be unfaithful. “Do you think true love exists?”

  He glances at me furtively, and I can see that he’s not thrown off by my question. He’s giving it careful consideration. “Well,” he answers finally, eyes straight ahead. “I think that depends on one’s definition of true love.”

  Maybe Tyler is right. Maybe it doesn’t exist. I don’t say anything.

  “So, let’s hear it. What do you think it is?”

  I laugh. “I have no idea.”

  “Sure you do.”

  I stare out the passenger window, and I don’t say anything for a few moments. “I thought, when I saw you and your wife that day you came into Lucky’s,” I confess. “I thought, now there’s true love.”

  “I do love my wife. So—you weren’t wrong.”

  “No,” I tell him half-grateful, half-irritated. “I didn’t think I was.”

  It didn’t take long for me to fall from my high horse. Josie posted a picture last night on Instalook of Grant with their daughter, together, lying on the sofa, his hand on hers. Hashtag #greatestthingever. Then I remembered how childish I am. I remembered what he does for a living. Touching people, making them feel beautiful, making them feel seen—that’s his job. His hand on mine meant nothing more.

  This was soothing and hurtful, all the same. I’m not special, and Josie Dunn is who she says she is on the internet. They do have true love.

  I know because I scoured Josie’s page from beginning to end. Twelve hundred and ninety-two posts. I read and studied them all. Every minor detail. I had to know for sure I don’t have a shot. I had to know I’m right. I had to know, before I go any further, before I get in too deep. I had to know I’m not missing anything. I had to know she really is every bit as perfect as she seems.

  In the end, I didn’t find anything to the contrary. Just yesterday, she posted a photo of herself volunteering at an old folks home, and I realized she is the real deal. I know for sure if I had her life, I wouldn’t be spending my time with crusty old people in places that smell like stale piss. Not me. I’d be hitting up the mall. I’d be traveling. Josie Dunn is something else. She’s on another level. Not only is she more attractive than the rest of us, she’s selfless, too, and this makes me despise her even more. But it also makes me like her, and that’s the scary part. I remember what happened the last time I got too close.

  “Thanks for your number,” Grant
says jarring me, bringing me back to the here and now where I belong. I nod, and then he turns on some melancholic song I’ve never heard before, and I wonder if he’s playing it for me. I wonder if it’s a message. He gets me. This can never work, he’s telling me. You are not her, and I could never love you.

  Eventually, he pulls up to the apartment complex across the street from the one I actually inhabit. It’s only slightly nicer. When he puts the car in park, I hand him his phone. His hand brushes mine, and it hits me in the pit of my stomach. I look away. He never does. “This way,” he says, tilting it in my direction, “If I need a quick fix I can just text, and you can have my coffee ready. Or— if you’re in need of a ride, well— now you have a direct line.”

  “Thanks,” I say. My mouth twists, and I don’t mean for it to happen. It’s just that when he speaks, it’s so slow and deep. The tone of his voice combined with the smooth bravado I hear as words drip from his lips make the simplest of niceties sound so sexual. So inviting.

  But maybe that’s just wishful thinking.

  I frown. I don’t want to want Grant Dunn. I want him, and I hate myself for it. That’s what they don’t tell you. It’s painful to want something you can’t have.

  My expression doesn’t go unnoticed.

  “Iz—” he says, shortening my name the way Josh used to. He tilts his head and I look up at him. “Can I call you that?”

  I shake my head slowly.

  “You frown like you’re an imposition. But you’re not. You’re my friend.”

  I don’t say anything in response, because I don’t know what to say. I don’t know why someone like Grant Dunn would want to be friends with someone like me. I don’t know why I always have to want things I can never have.

  Thankfully, I get my answer, because in addition to being handsome and successful, kind and perfect, apparently he’s telepathic, too.

  “From the first moment I heard the passion in your voice when you mentioned Josh’s name, I knew I had to know more. I knew instantly that you were the kind of friend I needed in my life. Loyalty is hard to come by, Izzy,” he says. His eyes are sad when he says it, and this makes me sad too. “But then, I’m sure you know that.”

  “Yes,” I reply, and I think I do know.

  He shifts in his seat and positions his body in my direction. “Speaking of which, you never told me about Josh. Nothing— other than he was your husband— I would like to hear more sometime.”

  “I—”

  “Not now,” he says. “Sometime when we have more time together.”

  I swallow hard, and I’m glad he says that because I wasn’t prepared to hear Josh’s name, much less speak it myself.

  “That would be good,” I say, and for the first time I realize Grant Dunn is the perfect confidant. He seems like someone I might want to tell about Josh.

  Three nights later I’m walking home again. It’s the week before finals, and the teenagers pretend to be studying at Lucky’s, or at least that’s what they tell their parents, when really they’re just fucking off.

  It’s cold out, but not frigid. Lucky’s was slammed today, and my back aches from being on my feet all day.

  Originally, I typed out a text to Grant to ask if he might give me a ride. But then I thought better of it and deleted the text. I don’t want to be the kind of person that asks people for rides, much less someone like Grant Dunn.

  We might be friends, but even I know there’s a limit to friendship. I’m aware that he has more important things to do. In the end, I’m glad I deleted the text, because when I open up Instalook, I quickly learn he isn’t on his way home from rounds. He and Josie are at some fancy party, and what a fool I would have felt like had I sent that text.

  I study the photo carefully. I stop just so I can have another look. Josie is wearing a deep burgundy dress. It’s backless and as usual she looks radiant. Grant dons a tuxedo, and in the photo she’s looking up at him. She’s blushing, and in her eyes there’s complete admiration. I feel a sharp pain in the pit of my stomach. I don’t know what it would be like to know happiness like that. But I think I used to, once upon a time.

  I go home, and I feed Josh’s damned cat, and I plop down on the bed. I don’t even bother to change out of my work clothes. I’m too exhausted to take another step. But I don’t sleep. I lay there and try to imagine all of the times I might have felt the way Josie felt in that Instalook photo.

  Eventually, when nothing comes to mind, I reach for my phone and stare at the photo of the two of them. I trace my finger around the edges of their faces as though I might feel that level of desire. And for the first time in a long time, I think I do.

  I feel it on the nights I sit next to Grant Dunn in his car. I feel it as I watch his hands on the wheel, and I feel it when he says my name. At some point I drift off. Thoughts of the Dunns fill my dreams.

  I wake abruptly with a dry mouth and a stiff neck. It’s still dark out. In my dream, I was at a party with Grant. Josie had followed us there, and no matter how many times we told her to go, she stayed. I don’t recall what occurred after that—I only know I awoke to the sound of a scream lodged deep in my throat.

  Three nights later, I’m walking home. I’m not walking because I’ve missed the bus. I’m walking to punish myself. I swore I wouldn’t get on Instalook, and I’ve been on Josie’s page fifty-two times today. After the nineteenth time, I made myself start marking it down just so I know how severe the punishment needs to be. At this point, I’ll be walking home all week.

  The problem is, the reason I can’t stop, is Josie hasn’t posted, and it’s killing me. The holidays are coming, and this time of the year is the worst. The days are shorter, and the nights are endless. Needless to say, I’m about as low as one can get and desperate for a plan— something, anything— to ease the loneliness of going home to an empty apartment.

  Also, three days is an eternity. I think of all the reasons she wouldn’t have posted. Maybe she’s sick. Maybe Grant has died. Maybe she has died. The latter wouldn’t be as bad as the former. But still.

  More likely though, it’s something slightly more plausible…like she’s busy or her phone broke.

  I’ve considered all the ways I could go about finding out how to fix this. I’ve run through all the ways I can insert myself into their life. I need answers. I need more. I did a search to find their address. It wasn’t hard to find them.

  Trouble is, I don’t have a working car, so I can’t drive by. I consider Ubering it or calling a cab, but those things leave records. And I know better.

  But all bets are off if there’s nothing on Instalook by tomorrow. Then maybe I’ll ask Tyler if I can borrow his.

  I pull my coat tighter around me, and I pick up my pace. It’s colder out than I thought. I consider scheduling an appointment for a nose job or breast implants—something just to see his face again. Of course, there is the issue with how I’ll pay for it all. Maybe I’ll use Stacey’s social and open one of those medical credit accounts. Or maybe Grant will stop with the ghosting he’s doing, or maybe his wife will post to Instalook and then I won’t have to do any of that.

  In the meantime, I walk on into the night. Obviously, I’m secretly hoping Grant will drive by and offer me a ride, and I figure walking is my silent call. As luck would have it, it works. I almost can’t believe it when I spot the familiar headlights. It’s astounding how one can go from such a low to such a high in a matter of seconds. Astounding.

  He doesn’t ask me to get in this time. I just do.

  “Jesus. Izzy. Why are you walking on a night like this?” He turns up the heat. “Do you not have any family?”

  I shake my head and wonder why he’s asking such obvious questions. His expression is fixed, and his tone isn’t soft and smooth. It’s hurried.

  “Things have been hectic,” he says with a heavy sigh. He leaves it at that. I do, too.

  I’m sad when we pull up to the apartment complex that isn’t mine.

  “Thank you fo
r the ride.”

  He rests his hand on my knee. Briefly. “Anytime.”

  I reach for the door handle. The door is locked, so I look over at him. “Why didn’t you text tonight?”

  I shrug.

  He purses his lips and sadness sweeps across his face. “I was hoping you would…”

  Suddenly, I’m screaming on the inside. I could burst with happiness. It’s dark outside but I swear I see all the colors of the rainbow. I press my lips to one another. “I didn’t want to bother you.”

  “Are you kidding?” he says. “This time with you, this is one of the highlights of my day.”

  “Thank you,” I reply, and then hurriedly and stupidly, I add, “Me, too.”

  I exit his car, and that’s when I see we have a problem. Tyler is standing at the bottom of my stairs. He’s watching me, and when our eyes meet, he comes jogging across the street.

  “What are you doing?” I seethe.

  He slings his arm around my neck. “Looking for you,” he tells me. I smell the pot on his breath.

  I tell him I’m tired, which I am. Trouble is, I can’t very well walk to my apartment with Grant watching. So, I stand there making small talk until eventually Grant drives away.

  Exactly three minutes later my phone chimes. Friend of yours?

  Something like that. I text back.

  Just making sure, he writes and then radio silence.

  I don’t hear from Grant Dunn again for six days.

  I shouldn’t have been so stupid. I contemplate all possible scenarios where I went wrong. He probably realized I stalk his wife online. He isn’t stupid. He makes a living fixing people’s flaws. I shouldn’t have said ‘me too.’ I should have told him how I really feel. I should have been more imaginative. It didn’t even make sense in the context of things. Now he thinks not only am I illiterate but I have a thing for losers, as well.

  For six days I scan Josie’s page. Thankfully, this time she posts updates. He buys her a new book, and flowers, lots of flowers. He brings her breakfast in bed. She posts about spin class and book club and brunch with her friends. That’s the kind of woman who deserves a man like Grant Dunn. Not a girl who can’t speak, not someone who has sex with men she doesn’t even like. Not someone like me. I want to change this, but where do I begin? And then it hits me. I’ve taken my eye off what really matters. Her.