by S. L. Naeole
I tried to enjoy my lunch with Mal. I really tried. But it was impossible when I knew how I felt and only how I felt. Mal had chosen to eat lunch sitting on the large cream rug facing the window behind his desk. For a while, it was nice looking out over the skyline and enjoying the lemony bucatini with shrimp that Ralph had brought up.
Mal and I talked, mostly about his friendship with Ralph since that was the only topic he seemed willing to explore. He explained that they’d been friends since they were both little boys, going to the same uptight private schools and sports clubs. Ralph’s and Mal’s parents were friends, and while Ralph’s family was wealthy, they disowned their son after he refused to fall in line and work at the family-owned company. With a loan from Mal for culinary school, Ralph pursued his dream of becoming a world-renowned chef and owning his own restaurant by the time he was thirty. He had done that several times over and then some. Hannah on Twenty was his newest and his favorite, according to Mal, because it had a built-in customer base and allowed him to visit his wife whenever he wanted. His voice took on a tinge of irritation when he mentioned that last part.
I knew that the mention of Hannah was an opening for me to ask questions about her, about their relationship, but I couldn’t do it. Even when she started to interrupt us almost every ten minutes, I just couldn’t get the words out of my mouth. He’d said that I needed to talk to him so that he wouldn’t hurt me, but what if what I talked to him about resulted in getting me hurt? What if I asked him about her and what he told me was something I just couldn’t accept?
Another knock on the glass drug out a sigh from me as he apologized again and stood, padding to the doors to have a muffled conversation with his friend’s wife. That’s what I kept referring to her as in my head to keep from accidentally thinking of her as something else, something that could slip out of my mouth and give away my thoughts. I dropped my fork into the aluminum container that held my pasta and grabbed the plastic lid, my appetite long since ruined.
“Sweetheart, I’ve gotta go down to the fortieth floor and deal with an issue. I’ll be gone ten minutes, twenty max. Will you wait up here for me?” Mal was already putting his socks on, the decision already made in his head regardless of my answer.
“Sure,” I said as I stood, painting my face with what I knew was my work smile, the one I wore whenever I had to speak to people I didn’t work with. The one that gave away nothing of me, including my hurt.
“Great,” he replied, his smile genuine, oblivious.
I watched him slip his feet into his shoes and grab his jacket from the chair he’d tossed it on and then watched his back as headed to a waiting Hannah who held the door open for him. The glass allowed me to see them as they left, allowed me to see how her hands moved over his jacket to help him adjust it. Then they stopped walking and he turned to her. Her hands moved to straighten his tie and I almost kicked myself for not thinking about doing that first.
Everything they did could be construed as platonic, and when they started walking again her hands were pinned to her side even as they continued to talk. She was his secretary. Or assistant. Or sex buddy.
FUCK. Stop it!
Turning back to our makeshift picnic, I realized that it didn’t matter if he took ten minutes or ten-thousand; we weren’t going to be finishing this any time soon. I cleaned everything up, put the tins back into the basket and recorked the bottle of white wine that Ralph had included. I downed my glass and then Mal’s, grunting at the sharp hit of the alcohol and the warmth that bloomed within me almost immediately.
The need to use the bathroom hurried my movements, and when everything in the office looked as it had when I’d first arrived I left and walked down the hallway, looking for someone who could point out where the restroom was. Thankfully a woman in one of the offices a few doors down who’d seen me walk by with Mal pointed to the closest one and I hurried in, my bladder screaming at me in complaint.
After I’d finished up and washed my hands, I checked my appearance and fixed my hair. I never wore makeup, never styled myself to garner attention, and as I stared at the plain freckled face staring back at me, at the flat brown eyes and the lifeless hair, I could understand why the receptionists weren’t so thrilled to see me. They probably spent hours in front of the mirror to look perfect, hours in the gym to feel perfect, and hours in the mall to be perfect. I screamed “no effort attempted”. My presence was an insult to their efforts and we all knew it.
“Just wait until I get this cast off and start working on restores again,” I told my reflection with a smirk. “Then I’ll be covered in paint and smelling of varnish. I bet they’ll love me even more then.”
Realizing that there was no point in looking at myself anymore, I left the bathroom and made my way back to Mal’s office. The sound of low, angry voices slowed me down and before I realized it, I’d stopped moving entirely. Out of sight, I could hear Ralph and Hannah arguing. I turned to my right and could see in Mal’s office, but he wasn’t there, which meant Hannah must have escorted him down and then returned.
“I don’t understand why he had to bring her here. Flaunting her in front of my face is fucked up, Ralph, and you know it.”
It took no mental gymnastics to figure out who the “her” was.
“Flaunting? She’s his girlfriend, Hannah. Why is it fucked up if he brings her here to show her off?”
“You know why.”
“No, I don’t. Do you still have feelings for him, Hannah? Do you still want to fuck him? Because if you do then why the hell did you marry me?” The pain in his words hit me like a sledgehammer. The question I hadn’t voiced had just received its answer.
“You know I do. You knew it when we met, you knew it when we were dating, and you knew it when we got married. It wasn’t a problem before. Why is it a problem now?”
Ralph’s voice sounded almost menacing as he spoke, the gravel of it its own warning. “It’s always been a problem, but I trusted you and Mal to not fuck things up.”
“And now you don’t?”
“No. I don’t.”
The food in my stomach lurched. Three words had never left me feeling so nauseous and void of hope. If even Ralph suspected Mal was sleeping with his wife, then what possessed me to think that they weren’t involved?
You don’t name a restaurant after someone you don’t have a deep, personal relationship with. That’s romance novel plot device 101.
I shook my head and turned around, walking toward the elevators with a single-minded purpose. The receptionists both looked at me with smug expressions on their faces, knowing that their boss had left long before me and I was now leaving alone despite having arrived with him. I pressed the down button and waited quietly, staring at my feet the entire time. As the elevator dinged its arrival and a crowd of people rushed out, I caught glimpses of peep-toed shoes revealing perfect pedicures that only reiterated just how out of place I was. I’d worn open-toed sandals, something I never really did, and my toes showed it.
Forget what Mal had told Ralph about his reasons for not wanting me working here with him. All I could hear now was his laughter after telling me that no one was asking me to work here. I should have trusted my gut and its translation of his words. He didn’t want me to work here because I didn’t fit in. Perhaps that’s why he invited me here for lunch, to press home the point without actually having to say it out loud that our worlds were too different, and that women with perfectly pedicured toes, perfectly tailored red pantsuits, and perfectly willing bodies would always be a hurdle no one like me could ever cross.
The last person in the elevator walked out and I hurried into the empty car, slamming my finger on the lobby button and giving one last look at the receptionists before the doors slid shut. They both waved with wide, knowing grins spreading on their perfectly glossed lips. They’d won. Whatever little battle had been silently fought between us was over and they’d emerged victorious.
The ride down took an eternity as the car made s
top after stop, and it didn’t take long before I realized what a mistake I’d made as the car filled rapidly and I was nudged further and further back, bodies pushing and pressing on me until I was crushed into a corner. My eyes flicked up to the digital display, focusing on the number and willing it to lower quickly.
Unfortunately, the elevator continued to come to a stop on almost every floor. Someone near the doors made a vocal complaint about the elevators always being full when it was quitting time, while another person grumbled about spending more time on the elevators than they did in their office.
When the elevator dinged on the fortieth floor, my chest felt like it had been caught in a vise and someone was wildly turning the handle to tighten it around me. My body was drenched with sweat, and my breaths were coming out in shallow pants. Knowing that I was about to have a panic attack, I slammed my eyes shut and pressed my fingers against my lids.
Instant darkness worked wonders on me to soothe my galloping heart, but my breaths were still too shallow and I knew that if I didn’t get a grip on myself, I was going to pass out or scream bloody murder. With the inevitable threatening me, I resorted to the one thing that I knew worked, the one thing that had always worked: I started humming. I couldn’t see the reaction of the other passengers in the elevator car, but I knew as soon as the first few notes left my throat that their mood shifted. Their chatter quieted and a few people chuckled, but as I got through one bar and then the next I knew that something was happening.
The passengers started listening. Even as the car jerked to a stop at the next floor and more people tried to squeeze on, people listened. If someone tried to speak, someone else hushed them. My humming grew louder as I became more confident, my body more relaxed.
And then someone hidden amongst the bodies started humming, too. That was followed by another hummer. Finally, someone started to sing along. As we got to the chorus, others joined in, their voices singing about being hooked on a feeling and their whoops telling me that they definitely were. One guy started chanting “ooga chaga” as the others continued to sing, my humming getting lost in the elevator choir that was unknowingly helping to stave off the mother of a panic attack.
They were still singing when we reached the lobby, everyone filing out to the song. I found myself completely stable as I stepped out onto the marble floor and drew in a deep breath. My dress was soaked with sweat, and my hands were shaking almost violently, but I had survived a ride in a crowded elevator for eighty floors without completely freaking out. I’d done it and I’d done it completely on my own. Proud of myself, I walked forward toward the glass doors and pushed through them onto the crowded sidewalk.
Cabs were pulling in and away like yellow flies from the curb, and it took all of forty seconds for me to flag one and climb in. When I gave the driver my address he balked at the idea of driving for the next forty minutes, but when he turned around and saw my shaking hands and pale skin he nodded and told me to pick a radio station.
Instead, I told him to choose before I leaned into the seat and stared out of the window, wondering if Mal had returned to the office yet and was looking for me, or if he was counting his losses and laughing with his receptionists at just how ridiculous I’d looked compared to everyone else there. And that was all it took for my heart to completely fracture. People passed by in a blur, whether they were moving or not, my tears thick and sticky as they took their time to slip out.
The cab driver, who kindly told me to call him Uncle Al, filled up the silence with stories about his kids and grandkids. By the time he pulled into the parking lot of my apartment building, I knew more about his family than I knew about Mal’s, and I hated that. I hated the fact that I had fallen in love with someone I barely knew but who knew every single weakness of mine, every single sin, every single flaw.
“Thank you, Uncle Al,” I told the cabbie as he returned my debit card after swiping it. “You’ve helped me in a way I don’t think you intended.”
“You’re welcome, you sweet girl. Do not cry anymore, okay?” he said before he left, and I nodded as I waved. I climbed up the stairs and pulled out my apartment key, slipping it into the lock and turned. Inside the television was on, a group of garishly dressed women screaming at each other over a dimly lit dinner table. Vonne was laying back on the couch, a basket of unfolded laundry at her side. I peeked over and saw that she was asleep.
A strong urge to wake her, to talk to her about my feelings for Mal came over me, but I’d never done it before and didn’t know how to start. So I left her to sleep to the music of bitchy rich ladies and headed back to my room. Closing the door quietly, I pulled off my dress and tossed it into the empty hamper before heading to the bathroom. I wrapped my arm in the plastic bag and sealed it and then climbed into the shower.
There’s something brilliant about taking a shower when your heart is broken. You can cry and cry and cry and the water will hide all the evidence. Even the sound the water makes as it hits the floor can mask sniffles and weepy sobs. I let the water run and I sat down on the floor to cry without Uncle Al’s eyes on me, without giggling, sneering receptionists cheering my heartache on, or an elevator full of people singing me into a broken heart.
I stayed there until the water ran cold and my fingertips on my left hand resembled mini brains. When I finally stood and turned off the water, I realized that I hadn’t washed a single inch of my body and I just didn’t care. I pulled back the shower curtain, grabbed my towel, and dried myself off before walking into my room and searching my drawers for something to wear.
As I dug in one drawer my hand crossed over a shirt that was far softer than anything I owned. My heart plunged in my chest upon recognizing that the shirt wasn’t mine. It was Mal’s. While waiting for him to send Lyle to come and get me, I’d put his clothes away, setting aside space in my dresser for them while still blissfully drunk on my feelings for him.
I should have gone through my drawers and removed everything that belonged to him. I should have tossed them into his overnight bag and then thrown the bag out the window. I should have fed them to the garbage disposal or set them on fire a la Bernadine Harris from Terry McMillan’s “Waiting to Exhale”.
Instead, I slipped the soft garment on and crawled into my bed that still smelled like him.
And then I dreamt about being chained to a sofa bed as woman after woman in tailored clothes and perfectly manicured nails pointed at me and laughed while Mal kissed each of them and called them sweetheart.
Waking up after crying an ocean feels almost like having a concussion. And I know what that’s like so I think my description is pretty accurate. But waking up in someone’s arms after crying an ocean is something completely different. Kind of like being punched in the gut and then having the impact sight rubbed in gentle circles.
“You’re wearing my shirt,” that velvety, gravelly voice whispered into my ear.
“I thought it was a fair trade,” I told him bitterly as I pulled his arm away from my waist and pushed myself into a sitting position.
“For what, sweetheart?”
The room was dark, but I knew my room better in the dark than I did completely lit. I stalked over to the bathroom and sat on the toilet, blushing upon the realization that, once again, I’d opted to not put on any panties. I finished my business and then padded back to my bed, searching for my phone on the nightstand and finding it missing.
Remembering that it was still in my dress pocket, I walked to where I’d left my dress on the floor and searched it until I felt the familiar shape in my hand. Thankfully the battery hadn’t died yet and as the screen lit up brightly in my face, I ignored the dozens of missed calls and messages and instead focused on the clock and saw that it was just after five in the morning. I’d been asleep for almost twelve hours.
“Why did you leave, Victoria?”
I turned off my phone and headed back to the nightstand. I plugged my phone in and then laid it flat on the wooden surface before laying back down on m
y bed, my back turned to him.
“Ignoring me isn’t going to make me go away. Running is your thing, sweetheart. I stick around and fight.”
It was a personal jab and it hit where he’d intended. The hurt was palpable. “You always say the sweetest things,” I deadpanned, squeezing my eyes shut.
The bed shifted beneath me, and I half expected him to move over me, grab me, do something to force me to look at him. But as my body sank even deeper into the bed, I knew that wasn’t going to happen.
“I told you if this is going to work you have to talk to me. You can’t shut me out, you can’t run away.” He sounded so far away, as if he’d already left, and just when I thought I couldn’t eke out another tear, one slipped out of my eye and traveled across the bridge of my nose to drip onto my pillow.
“Sweetheart, don’t cry.”
My eyes flew open to see him crouched in front of me. There was visible pain marked across his face, even in the dark. His fingers came to gently sweep away the moisture from my tear, that single act only encouraging more to follow. “Oh, baby,” he breathed before scooping me up into his arms and pulling me down onto the floor with him.
“Talk to me. Tell me what happened to make you run,” he pleaded against my hair, his voice dripping with worry, with concern that tugged at every band holding my heart within my chest.
Suddenly every concern, every question, every fear, every accusation came barreling out of me, and hearing them spoken out loud dug at me, tore at my self-esteem with sharp, poisoned claws. When I was done, I readied myself for the rejection of my fears, for the laughter, for the ridicule.
“Sweetheart, I’m going to turn the light on right now, because I want you to look at me, see me when I tell you this so that you know I’m telling you the truth.” He waited until I nodded before he reached up with one long arm to tug at my lamp’s switch, soft white light splashing over us and revealing my naked thighs and…his.
