by Liora Blake
“What does that mean?” There is an edge to my voice, which Kate doesn’t overlook.
“Whoa. Relax. The guy’s like a walking AXE body spray ad, so even if he isn’t playing along, women seem to scent him like bloodhounds. He’s absolutely behaving, if that’s your question. It’s actually a little unnerving to see Simon staring at the ceiling looking morose when there’s a half-naked girl giggling and making moony eyes at him from across the room.”
I let out a relieved sigh. “This sucks. I’m acting like, I don’t know, a crazy chick.”
“Ah, yes. The inherent insanity that accompanies getting smacked by a boy’s magical love stick.” Kate realizes the double entendre immediately. “Oh God, scratch that. So weird. I was trying to reference falling in love, but it came out sounding dirty. Whatever. You know what I meant.”
She pauses and then tells me to hold on, and I can hear her talking to Trevor in the background. “. . . talking to Devon . . . about Simon smacking her with his love stick. . . . Christ, yes, I know it sounds gross; I didn’t even mean it like that. . . . Don’t you have somewhere to be, Trax? Like signing your name on some girl’s ass . . . ?”
When she returns to the line, she tells me to hurry up and figure something out, because she needs help getting Trevor in line and someone to make her feel sane again.
I’m not sure if Kate hangs up the phone and immediately tracks down Simon to discuss his magical love stick or what. But that night, instead of a phone call, I get a text.
I just e-mailed you a ticket to Vegas on Friday. It’s not up for discussion. Just get your ass on that plane and wear something I can get up under quickly. The mattresses in Vegas are notoriously shitty, so make sure you’re nice and limber. I’m tired of missing you.
There isn’t one moment of hesitation. When I get there, it’s just us again. We’re clawing and panting in the back of the taxi, halfway undressed in the elevator, and against the wall once the hotel room door closes. More than that, though, he’s simply there. Making me laugh until my stomach hurts, kissing my shoulder to wake me up, telling me I’m the only thing that matters, and asking me to say I love him like I did on the phone.
And I do. I tell him when he is hovering over me, lying beside me in the dark, and walking away from me at the airport three days later.
24
Scully is a demanding little fish. We never had pets growing up, since it was hard enough to keep us all fed and alive, so bringing another living being into the mix wasn’t an option. When I offered to feed Scully and check on Simon’s place while he was gone, I assumed a goldfish ate, like, once a week. Apparently, I was wrong, or maybe Scully is an overindulged, spoiled fish-child, but he eats at least once a day.
A few weeks into the feeding routine I have an epiphany: it’s stupid to go over there once a day because of a damn fish, when Scully could stay at my house. If Scully is sitting on my countertop, I only need to drop by a couple of times a week to grab the mail. Plus, the stupid fish is growing on me, I guess. Because I absolutely catch myself talking to him when I go over there. Conversations where I ask Scully how his night was or inquire as to whether he’s hooked up with any slutty betta fish lately. Followed by proclaiming aloud how much I miss Simon, how I know Scully does, too, but I call dibs on Simon when he gets home.
All of this and more. To. A. Fish.
Why I wasted all that time traveling back and forth, I don’t know. I’m sure if I dig deep enough, there is a subconscious message about nesting at Simon’s house or some shit. Regardless, today, Scully is going on an adventure to casa de Devon. I tracked down a cardboard box just big enough to nestle his bowl in while cushioning it with towels to lessen the jostling. I’m imagining us having a grand time, me talking to a fish like a crazy woman and wondering how I ended up this way in the first place.
With Simon away, I won’t lie, there have been a few of those sloppy-girl days. The ones where you don’t shower, wear the same yoga pants you did yesterday, and try to convince yourself that the bandana wrapped around your head makes the rat’s-nest bun your hair is in look boho chic, when really, you’re just being a slob because no one’s going to see you naked. That’s how I look when I drive over to Simon’s place, windows rolled down and the radio blaring crappy yet infectious country music that Trevor would disown me for listening to.
After I grab the mail and wander inside to gather up Scully, there is a knock at the door. I freeze, hoping I can’t be seen from any of the windows. Mr. Minivan’s wife, Laura, has gone from waving, to calling out, “Hello,” to wandering into the yard for conversation. It feels like I’m about three days away from her insisting I come over and check out her awesome crafting room. Since crafts of any sort give me hives, I need to dial back my appearances in the ’hood as quickly as possible.
I scuttle over to a side window and see it isn’t Laura; instead it’s a tall, painfully thin woman dressed like a Junior Leaguer. With dark mahogany hair that falls just to her shoulders in a sleek bob, she’s sporting sunglasses so huge they border on foolish. Her dress is royal purple, knee-length but fitted. Over the top, she has on a gray boucle jacket that is hideous but obviously expensive. When she steps back from the door to peer around, her face scrunches up in obvious disgust. I let the window shade snap down a moment too late and she sees the movement. The knocking sounds again, a bit more demanding this time.
When I reluctantly open the door, I’m fully prepared to give this woman directions back to the Hamptons, because she is clearly lost. She slowly removes her goofy sunglasses and looks me over. Again, my clothing choices today were dictated by the fact that no one is going to see me naked. Compared to this chick, with her huge handbag resting delicately in the crook of one arm and her impeccably manicured hand hanging there limply like I should curtsy and kiss it, I probably look like a homeless person.
“Hey.” No need to put on appearances for this one; even if I wowed her with a pseudo-British accent like Madonna has acquired, she wouldn’t fall for it.
“May I please speak with Mr. Cole? Could you fetch him for me?”
Oh, hell. Fetch him? Mr. Cole?
I actually laugh because it’s absurd. She is absurd. I can see her shiny black sedan looming at the curb and I want to tell her that she should just get in it and set her GPS back to the correct zip code. Wherever that is.
“Ahem, um, Mr. Cole isn’t available.”
She narrows her eyes at me and wrinkles her nose. “Where is he?”
“Probably sleeping off a long night of banging groupies somewhere. Or trying to find his pants. I think they’re in Chicago tonight.”
God, it’s wrong on so many levels, but I think I want her to blow a gasket at my uncouth behavior. She looks like too easy of a target. Figure I might as well have a little fun if I have to smell the cloying perfume she’s drenched in.
Recoiling for a moment, she regains her composure before righting her shoulders with a huff. “While I’m glad to see that Simon finally broke down and hired some help, your attitude is unacceptable. As a general rule, the best help is seen and not heard.”
Shit. I wasn’t expecting that—she thinks I’m his goddam maid or something. And, fuck me, it stings. She sees it, too. There is a glimmer in her eyes when she recognizes that she’s gotten to me, put my white-trash ass in its place.
That’s when I see everything clearly. Right here is the kind of woman Simon was supposed to be with. She has the pedigree and the money to keep up, the sophistication to hang at foundation meetings and charity events. If I’m honest with myself, she is also stunning. Coolly beautiful and elegant. Is she a complete and utter bitch? Yup. But that probably doesn’t matter much in their world. It’s almost expected, isn’t it? If you can buy your way out of anything, you never have to earn your way in.
I can’t even say anything back because all I can see is Simon, standing at Trevor’s door the night he came back from San Francisco in his three-piece suit that is probably worth more than all the clot
hes I own. In front of me stands his proper other half, a woman in an outfit that would pair perfectly with that suit. Her dainty little arm would fit so well through his when they strolled into some fancy-schmancy shindig, looking like they owned the world and everyone in it. I try to imagine myself in the picture instead. When I’m able to conjure it, nothing fits. In my mind’s eye, he still looks sexy as hell, while I’m nothing but an indigent little mess next to him.
She snaps her fingers in front of my face. “Pay attention. Tell Simon that Alyssa Kennett was here. I suggest that you remember the name. We have a long history and a bright future. Be careful how you speak to the woman who will sign your paychecks someday.”
Sliding her sunglasses back on, she turns on her heel and clicks down the sidewalk before unlocking her car. I swear she smirks in my direction before pulling away, her engine purring so quietly it barely registers in the air.
This would be a moment when the old Devon would have gone off her rocker. I would have slammed the door on her, right after I clawed her eyes out. Instead, there is nothing but pain. Deep, cutting pain at the illusion of fitting in Simon’s world. Even on my best day, I wouldn’t pass for one of them—no matter that I’m Trax’s sister. An expensive dress won’t be enough, a luxury sedan won’t do it, a pair of designer sunglasses can’t cover who I am enough to trick the likes of Alyssa. Simon might slum it with me for now, but a woman like Alyssa is his future, just the way I imagined the first night I stood in his living room and pictured the kind of girl he would marry. The way she talked, I wouldn’t be surprised if those two were already part of some weird rich-kid arranged-marriage plot.
I stand in the open doorway until I can think straight again. Then I gather up Scully, tucking him into the passenger seat, and drive home through the blur of tears trying to escape. I refuse to blink for a good while, thinking I can ward them off that way. Eventually, they break through, quiet but steady. There isn’t any sobbing or wailing; they simply keep on until I pull in my driveway. Then I close my eyes tightly and will them to stop.
The sky darkens and clouds sweep in so fast it feels surreal. When those same clouds open up into a warm evening thunderstorm, I let the smell of rain drift into my bedroom. As I lie there unable to sleep, at two in the morning, I make a decision. At the very least, I need time away. Simon will be home in two weeks, and even though we talked in earnest about my moving into his place, something doesn’t feel right now.
Alyssa and her cutting words are clearly fucking with my head, and instead of trying to refuse it away, I decide to let it pull me under.
25
Going black ops probably isn’t the best way to deal with the situation, but as I let every phone call and text from Simon go unanswered, it gets easier. In my head, I know it’s childish, but still, it’s easier. Kate calls to check on me a few times. She doesn’t needle or say anything specific, but in her tone, I know she knows.
When she calls tonight, I want to hear her voice. I’m lonely for all of them—Trevor, Kate, Simon. I miss them all in the same and different ways.
“Hey, Kate.”
There is long moment of silence on the line. “Well, fuck me. You are screening my calls.”
Simon. Using cellular trickery to smoke me out. I don’t respond.
“What the hell, Devon? You better tell me exactly what’s going on. No more silent treatment. I can’t read your goddam mind, but I’m guessing I somehow managed to fuck up from two thousand miles away.”
I flop over onto my couch and pull a pillow over my head. If I just don’t say anything, I can sit here and listen to him breathing until he gives up. After that, I can take stock again. Yesterday, my fingers were twitching to call him and beg him to come back early. The day before, I drafted a We can’t do this anymore e-mail. Then I deleted it. Today, I’m mostly numb, trying to focus on remembering how it feels to be alone again.
“Sunshine. Please.”
Cracks rise to the surface under the sound of his voice lowering, breaking a little and abandoning the anger he opened the call with. I clear my throat quietly.
“Why are you calling me from Kate’s phone¸ Simon?”
“Are you insane? Because you wouldn’t answer me from my phone, that’s why. I’ve called you five times in the last three days. You didn’t answer a single one, or any of my texts, and I was starting to feel like a creeper. That’s why the fuck I’m using Kate’s phone. Now you go. Tell me why I had to resort to this for you to talk to me.”
“I need to think.”
Simon exhales loudly into the phone. “About what? About how you miss me? How much I love you? Where we’re going to put all of your goddam flour and baking supplies when you move into my place? What it’s going to be like when you’re officially Scully’s stepmom? It better be shit like that. Because that’s all I’m thinking about.”
“No.” I look over the back of my couch and see the little fishbowl, where Scully is swimming about, perched on my countertop. “I’m not Alyssa. That’s what I’m thinking about.”
“Alyssa who? What are you talking about?”
Anger is starting to bubble up now. I need to think, without him stalking and scamming me into answering the phone. I need him to back off so this will be easier.
“Alyssa Kennett. The future Mrs. Cole. The woman who stood on your front porch and told me she would be signing my paychecks someday. That Alyssa Kennett.”
“Why the hell was Alyssa Kennett at my house? How does that nutcase even know where I live?”
Excellent. I can feel it really brewing now. The pissed-off, need-to-let-it-out, cover-your-children’s-ears Devon, who I had tamped down when Simon made me fall in love with him.
“No clue, dumbass. You guys have such a long history and bright future together, I figured you would know all about her. You two will have beautiful, rich, smart kids together. I’m sure your dad loves her. Not a tattoo in sight; no crazysauce, either. Just pure stuck-up bitch. She’ll fit right in at your next charity ball.”
“Christ, I do not understand anything you’re talking about right now. Alyssa went to Carlton with me, and my trust fund is bigger than hers is, so I’m on her hit list of guys to marry and divorce before she’s thirty. I hadn’t seen her in years, until she showed up at a fund-raiser last month and wouldn’t leave me alone. My dad’s never met her, but I’m sure he’d think she was as idiotic as I do. So if this freeze-out is over Alyssa, you just wasted precious time pouting about shit that doesn’t matter, sweetheart.”
“I wasn’t fucking pouting. I was thinking.” Unfortunately, when I say this, I sound exactly like I’m pouting. “Why would she stand there and call me your maid, then basically say you two are destined to rule the world together?”
“She called you my maid?” Simon mutters under his breath before sighing into the phone. “I don’t know why, Dev. Other than the fact she’s a lunatic socialite who takes the goal of marrying well to extremes. Ever since we were homecoming king and queen at Carlton, she’s acted—”
“Wait, did you just say you were homecoming king? This shit keeps getting worse and worse.”
“Oh yeah, absolutely. You’ve been getting shtupped by the homecoming king this whole time. I’m pretty sure you loved it, too. How do you like them apples?”
Groaning, I curl sideways on the couch and close my eyes. I want to drop it all right now, toss away the hurt of Alyssa and her manicured nails and talk dirty to Simon again. That would make it manageable, if I could bury it, even just for a while.
“Devon, baby, please. You shouldn’t waste any time on worrying about Alyssa Kennett.” Simon’s voice goes soft. “She’s no one. Never has been, never will be.”
I sigh into the phone and start to chew on my thumbnail. His breathing is slow and easy through the phone line, and I can easily imagine him with his head rolled back, eyes closed but tension creasing his forehead. Even more, I can hear his breath as it sounds when he is sleeping next to me, the way it putters out and over m
y skin until I fall asleep in the solace of it.
He whispers something then, nothing that forms a sentence, just the rasp of him saying my name and other pleas. I open my mouth a few times, ready to say something, but nothing makes sense.
All I want to say, what I should say, is that I’m sorry; then ask him nicely to forget this week ever happened. And if he agrees to that particular amnesia, take that opportunity to see if he would help me dispose of the body when I strangle Alyssa Kennett. If he truly loves me, he won’t hesitate before asking if he needs to bring a shovel.
Another plea from Simon. I lick my lips and start to find the right words.
“Simon, I’ll never be the kind of—”
Before I can finish, there is the sound of him dropping the phone, then the line fills with squealing, combined with Simon yelling. Drunken women’s voices laughing and hollering, but despite the cacophony, I hear the things that matter.
“. . . Simon! We’ve been looking for you, you dirty boy. . . . He said we could do it again. . . . Don’t be mad. . . . Oops, sorry! . . . Quiet, we don’t want anyone to hear. . . . Shhh. . . .”
My hand shaking, I look at the phone for a few long moments, listening to the chaos on the other end. Simon shouting. Girls who won’t stop giggling. Another man’s voice hollering back at Simon. The clatter of the phone moving. The sound of him saying my name just before I hang up.
After that, I don’t answer another call from anyone. I let the damn things go to voice mail every time. Even when Trevor calls, rambling that what I heard was some threesome Phil was trying to lock down, that Simon was minding his own business when they came stumbling out of a dressing room, that Simon was worried about me.
By that point, I don’t even care. I take everything that’s happened as a sign. Alyssa. Groupies. My inner voice, the one that makes being alone sound like the best option. All of them become guideposts to move on and go back to how things used to be, when I was tough enough to handle losing a boy, my world, my heart.
