[The Turning 01.0] Taking Turns

by JA Huss

  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, an
d 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.

  I’ve had a lot of fun here. But Bric is right. I had a lot of fun with many girls here. Most of them don’t last very long. Six months. A year. And then they have what they came for and they leave.

  But I cannot recall a single time that I felt this… sad about it.

  “Rochelle,” I say. “God, I miss you. Two weeks was way too long. What were you doing? Were you planning your escape? Why did I ever agree to the sabbaticals?”

  Even though I hate to admit it, Smith was right. That time off, it was a symptom of something else. A disease eating away at her, or me, or us. Whichever. Does it matter?

  No, I don’t think it does.

  I get up and walk around the apartment. Picking things up. Touching them. The whole place smells like her. That earthy scent that reminded me of the river or the lake. The time we spent together last summer.

  Outside the day is gray and dim. The snow is still coming down, but just a light dusting of flakes. A threat, I realize. Or something else. Something bigger coming over the mountains.

  “Where would you hide a clue?” I ask the empty apartment. I check all the drawers. Nothing. I check the coat closet. Nothing. I walk into the bedroom and repeat the process. The bedside tables. Under the bed. Our closet. And then her closet.

  Her closet is huge, almost twice the size of ours, and ours is big enough to hold suits, and ties, and shoes, and everything else three men need two days a week.

  She took nothing, from what I can tell. I check every purse. I take them out of those soft bags she keeps them in and check each one. And each one is empty. I check every pocket. Every shirt, every jacket, every coat. Nothing.

  I check all her books, taking each one off the shelf, flipping through the pages, hoping for a note. Or a clue. Nothing.

  I check the jewelry cabinet last. I think a little part of me was hoping she’d take all those gifts with her. Even if it was just to sell.

  But she didn’t. The ring I gave her last year at Christmas is in there, even though she wore it—never took it off—since the moment I put it on. All the earrings, all the necklaces, all the bracelets… still here. There has to be a hundred thousand dollars’ worth of jewelry in this cabinet.

  And she took nothing.

  What kind of a mindset was she in? When she made the decision to leave it all behind?

  Does she hate me so much that even a small piece of precious metal is too much to keep close?

  I let out a long, sad sigh as I walk over to the bedroom window. Stare out at the snow. The capitol building. The busy streets downtown. The cars, and cabs, and pedestrians. Everyone going about their day like usual.

  My phone buzzes in my front pocket. I reach for it out of habit, check the caller ID—work—and tab accept. “Hello,” I say.

  “Mr. Foster.” It’s Jayne, my assistant at the office.

  “Yes,” I say, still looking out at the snow. The deadness of everything, even though it’s so alive.

  “You have four meetings this afternoon and it’s almost lunchtime. I just wanted to see if you’d like me to cancel them?”

  “No,” I say. “I’ll be in soon.” I end the call and put my phone back in my pocket.

  Turn around and take it all in. Say goodbye to it.

  No more fun in that bed. The last fuck I had under that amazing canopy draped with velvet curtains was with a stranger.

  “Thanks for that, you bitch,” I say.

  For a second I’m not sure if I’m talking to the interloper, or to Rochelle.

  But when I walk out of the apartment, take the elevator downstairs, exit Turning Point Club, and get into my waiting car—I know who I’m talking to.

  I know exactly who I’m talking to. Because I walked out of that apartment with nothing.

  I left it all behind.

  And now it’s time to leave her behind too.

  I’m talking to you, Rochelle.

  I’m talking to you.

  Chapter Six - Chella

  Matisse is late. Two. Hours. Late. Oh, all his packages arrive at ten AM, right on time. The whole truck full of art valued at more than fifty million dollars is in the back docking bay. Idle.

  Because we are not allowed to unload until he gets here.

  I try to remain calm, but I’m picturing just how late we’ll have to stay to get it all out and into the basement where we pre-stage it before transporting it upstairs on the freight elevator.

  Usually we do this in one day. But I can’t see it happening.

  I sigh.

  Unless we all stay here until midnight, pushing through.

  Maybe it’s a good thing. Tomorrow is my day off. I will get home, drop from exhaustion, and then if I’m lucky, I can sleep away half the day.

  The building rumbles and I get to my feet, straighten my jacket and jump down the stairs that lead to the showroom down below, heels in hand.

  The rumbling is the freight elevator being called downstairs. When I’m at the bottom of the stairs I stop, hopping as I try to slip each foot in each shoe, and then take a deep breath and collect myself.

  I whoosh throughout the door that leads to the back office and smack right into the hard body of a man. He catches me before I fall, holding on to my upper arms with a steadying grip, and laughs.

  “What the f—” It’s Smith Baldwin. I look around nervously, but my staff is too busy with the delivery—and Matisse, who has finally showed up—to be paying any attention to me. I take my attention back to Smith and whisper through clenched teeth. “What the hell are you doing here? You need to leave. This is my job.”

  Smith smiles a smile that says he has all the answers, trust him. He’s wearing a char
coal-gray suit with a crisp white shirt and a light gray tie. His broad shoulders make the line of the suit taper down to his hips.

  I don’t know very much about Smith Baldwin, but I do know he’s weird. I think everyone can agree on that. The man never went to school, and yet he has honorary degrees from seven institutions. Not just colleges, either. Elementary schools gave him a diploma. Do elementary schools have diplomas? I guess in the world of elite boarding schools, this might be the case. His high-school diploma is the same way. Never earned, only honorary. And just from the casual research I did on him at Rochelle’s insistence, I know he has three graduate degrees. One of them is from the Wharton School of Business.

  Does he even have a job? Smith was not the reason I agreed to Rochelle’s plan. I barely looked into his past at all. So, I don’t know. But I think he ticks the box with the word unemployed on his census surveys.

  He is rich. But he is also beyond rich. I’m rich. My father is rich. Elias Bricman and Quin Foster are also loaded with more money than they can probably ever spend.

  But Smith Baldwin is disgustingly, excessively wealthy.

  “I’m with here with Matisse,” Smith says. He waves a hand over his shoulder to indicate the internationally famous recluse of an artist. “We’re practically best friends.”

  I can only blink. Three times in quick succession.

  Is he fucking with me?

  No, apparently not. Because Matisse is calling his name from across the office. He’s at the gallery’s professional version of a coffee machine, trying to make it work. “Help me with this, Smith,” Matisse calls.

  I realize Smith is still gripping my upper arms, so I break away and walk over to the artist, who is concentrating very hard on trying to make the machine spit him out some coffee. “Hi,” I say, startling him.

  He whirls around and backs up. Except he can’t back up, there’s a granite countertop there. So instead he is forced to lean back at the waist, like I’m some kind of disease he needs to be as far away from as possible.

  “Sorry,” I say in a calm voice. “I’m Marcella Walcott. I’m the Benton Gallery manager. I’m here to make sure everything goes off without a hitch.” He says nothing, so I keep going. “We’re going to unload in the basement, map everything out while it’s still in crates, and then we’ll unpack and deliver each piece up here, in the gallery, using the freight elevator. We’ll do that last part tomorrow.”