I type for Melanda: You there? Sweetie I’m sorry just frazzled lol you ok?
More silence. You’re in the salon, in the chair, exactly 1,058 feet away from me. You have nothing to do but write back to your friend and are you suspicious? Do you have a sixth sense? Did you run out of the salon? Are you pounding on Melanda’s front door? So help me God if a selfie that isn’t even mine brings me down and I can’t take this silence from you. I need to know that you’re not on a paranoid mission to find your friend. I need to know that you’re not at the police station, where they’re not used to this kinda thing and I have to find you because it’s not like you to drop off. I walk toward Firefly and I loiter by the gazebo—I miss lingering with you—and then the door to the salon opens.
It’s you. And you didn’t get bangs.
You wave at me and I wave at you and I’m holding Melanda’s phone but you don’t know that. Thank God I took off the FEMALE FIRST case—Smart Joe!—and you put your hands in your pockets and you’re heading my way and you’re Closer every second and now you’re here. You touch your hair. “It’s a little much, right?”
“Well, Mary Kay, you did just step out of a salon.”
You laugh and I’m safe. We’re safe. You don’t suspect anything—I can tell because if you did, you’d be holding your phone as if it contains evidence—and you don’t think it’s weird that I’m here because this is Cedar Fucking Cove. We live here. “Well,” you say. “It’s good to see you, but I should probably get home…”
Liar. You just told Melanda you want to drink. “Oh come on. How about a drink?” I took a blow to my ribs for you and I hold your eyes. “Hitchcock?”
You nod. “Hitchcock.”
Your hair bounces when you walk—we are in motion—and I tell you I need a haircut and you say that Firefly takes walk-ins and I open the door for you and you thank me and we sit up front by the window. You bring your hands together.
“Okay,” you say. “I feel bad that things have been so weird.”
I take a sip of my water. “Don’t be ridiculous, Mary Kay. I get it.”
You pick up the menu and act like I meant what I said and you don’t know if you want wine or coffee and this is new for us. This is a first for us. You’re ordering a glass of Chablis—last time we drank the hard stuff—and pulling your turtleneck over your chin. You just said you felt bad that things were weird but look at you now, such deliberately tiny sips as you run your hands through your hair, as if I’m blind, as if you’re hungry for a compliment, as if I’m in a position to tell you that you look good.
You’re a fox. Foxes know they look good. I stare at you. “Hey, are you all right?”
“Yeah,” you say. “Just tired.” Bullshit. “I woke up on the wrong side of the bed.” More bullshit and that’s a lazy answer, a child’s answer, a stranger’s answer. “And I’m a little weirded out. Melanda says she’s headed to Minneapolis today.”
I’m tired and spent and now I long for you to go back to your bullshit because YOUR BEST FRIEND IS IN MY FUCKING BASEMENT and why didn’t I just let you go home? I nod. “Vacation?”
“She says she’s going on a job interview.”
Red flags abound. If you believed Melanda’s story, you would have said that she’s leaving town, not that she says she’s leaving. I sip my water. You rub your forehead. “Maybe it’s just me…” Yes. Let’s go with that theory. “She’s always talked about moving there one day… but the timing feels off. Or maybe I’m off.”
“Maybe we should get something to eat.”
You ignore my suggestion. “Last week, we took one of those quizzes to find out which Succession character you are…” I know. I already read the texts and I was surprised that Shortus got Roman. “Anyway,” you say. “Melanda got Ken Doll as you call him…” God, I love you. You remember everything. “And I got the evil ogre dad.”
“I don’t think Logan’s an ogre.”
“Ah, so you watched it.”
“Yes I did and Logan Roy is a good man. His spoiled kids are the evil ogres.”
“No,” you say. “Logan Roy is a monster. His kids have issues because of him.”
“That’s a cheat,” I say. “You can’t go through life blaming your childhood for the way you are as an adult.”
You shut down on me and maybe you and your husband belong in my Whisper Room with your friend Melanda because maybe you’re all broken birds, busted beyond repair. You rub your eyes and your hands are trembling and it’s just a stupid TV show. I have empathy for you. I want to take care of you. “Hey,” I say. “I think we should get you something to eat.”
“Joe, I’m married.” A beat. “Seriously.”
You did it. You told me the truth. And now you won’t look at me, only at the table, and I should be relieved—we’re in a new place—but if we go deep right now, you’re gonna want to hash it all out with Melanda. I pray for a kitchen fire but it’s no use.
We’re here. Melanda is in my basement. And you’re staring at me. Waiting.
I do what anyone would do at a time like this. I stay silent. I don’t acknowledge the waiter when he drops the check as if he’s pushing us out the door and I stare at the table. I remember the Titanic ferry.
You sigh. “Well?”
“Well what?”
“Well, say something.”
“What do you want me to say? I know.”
“You know?”
“Mary Kay, come on. You can’t be all that surprised…”
You sip your water. “How long have you known?”
I don’t want you to think I’m a liar like you and I don’t want you to feel worse than you already do and you are part fox. You want to feel clever. You like to feel clever. So I lie to you. “Only for a couple days.”
You snort a little. It’s not becoming. It’s not you. “Wow. I guess I’m a really good liar.”
“I wanted to be in the dark.”
You want to have all the power and this is why Melanda resents you, because you think being in a shitty marriage makes you superior. “Joe, let’s not fight.”
“We’re not fighting.” We are fighting.
My heart isn’t in my body. It’s on the table. Right in front of you. Bloody. Raw. Beating. “Joe,” you say, and you say it the wrong way. “I didn’t come here to tell you I’m leaving him. This isn’t a date.”
Yes you are and yes it is. “I know that.”
“And I’m not a cheater.”
Yes you are, but things will be different with me. “Of course you’re not.”
“My daughter… if she knew about that night…”
You loved that night and I did too. “I mean it, Mary Kay. I didn’t say a word.”
“And I didn’t come clean because I’m about to make any changes in my life. And if that were to happen… which isn’t to say that it will happen…” Yes it will! “Well… that’s why I can’t do this with you on any level. You cannot be the man who wrecked my marriage.”
Everyone knows that the people in the marriage are the ones responsible for the marriage, everyone except married people, and I sip my water. “Agree.”
“And I am sorry. I should have told you that night at the pub. Hell, when ‘Italian Restaurant’ came on… I mean why didn’t I just say it then? What’s wrong with me?”
I tell you there is nothing wrong with you and you tell the waiter that we want another round—yes!—and you stand—be right back—and I take out Melanda’s phone and sure enough, there you are.
I’m a horrible person aren’t I?
Melanda ignores you because you need to think for yourself. I put her phone back in my pocket and a minute later, you come back. Your hair is flatter and you take a deep breath like you were using one of her meditation apps. “Okay,” you say. “What do you want to know?”
“It’s none of my business. We’re okay. I’m glad you told me and I know it wasn’t easy.”
You clench your napkin. “Please stop defending me. You’ve alway
s been up-front with me. You told me everything about your past…” Everything that matters. “And I let you think that I’m alone. Remember that first day, when you said Gilmore Girls…”
I remember everything about you. “I remember.”
“I should have said it right then. But I admit it. I wanted to pretend. You were so… new.”
You want me to say nice things to you but I can’t say nice things or you’ll call me a marriage wrecker. I nod.
“My husband’s name is Phil. He’s a musician. You might even know who he is…”
You say it like he’s George Fucking Harrison. “I mean it, you don’t have to do this.”
“Phil DiMarco… He was the lead singer of Sacriphil.”
It’s fun to tell you that I don’t know Sacriphil and you wish I did—foxes like attention—and you tell me he’s not just your husband. “He’s Nomi’s dad.”
I nod as in I fucking knew that and you hiss at me. “Well? Aren’t you gonna tell me I’m horrible? I don’t wear a ring and I ran around with you… flirting with you…”
“Well, all we can do is take it from here.”
“But see, that’s the thing. I’m not here, Joe.” Yes you fucking are. “I can’t be here.” Yes you fucking can. “Joe, I lied to you, stringing you along, letting you adopt all those kittens.”
“I wanted those kittens.”
You pull an ice cube out of your drink with your fingers. You hide it in your palm. “Look, no marriage is perfect…” According to all the people who should have gotten divorced ten fucking years ago. “But part of the reason I never even thought about making any change is…” You open your palm. The ice cube glistens. “Joe,” you say. “I didn’t think someone like you existed.”
I want to kiss you. This is our moment but you bulldoze over it with your words, telling me how selfish you think you’ve been, as if you wish I would walk out on you and make it easier for you to stay in your rut. You don’t owe me an explanation but you want to explain. You love talking to me because you can be honest with me. You don’t come out and say it, but it’s true. Look at you, relaxing and thinking out loud. I’m the only one you can talk to. Me.
“See,” you say. “It sounds trite and Melanda would be horrified…” You say her name so casually. You can’t hear the alarms going off in my head because WHAT THE FUCK DO I DO WITH HER, MARY KAY?
I can’t think about that right now so I breathe. Be here now. “How so?”
“Well,” you say. “I got married so young. I’ve never been through anything like this… meeting an available man, spending time with him, getting to know you slowly… And Melanda’s stories about being out there are always so grim. But you… I built my life around the idea that I wasn’t gonna meet anybody like you.”
But you did. “Really, Mary Kay, it’s okay. Nothing has changed. We can wait.”
You shake your head no and you fight my collective plural with your collective plural—We’re a family, Joe, it’s not that simple—and I let you win this battle. There’s no point in arguing with you right now. Melanda’s only been “gone” for a few hours, and already you’re changing. Growing. You’re not there yet, I know. Your maternal instincts have overwhelmed your basic need for love, for self-preservation, and soon your phone buzzes and it’s him.
We both know it’s time to go.
On the sidewalk, we don’t embrace. You say you should probably go and bells are ringing on the shop doors as they open and close. The holidays are all around us. You thank me for being such a grown-up about all this and I tell you the truth, that I just want you to be happy. You think this is goodbye. You think this is the end. But I walk away with a smile on my face.
I didn’t think someone like you existed.
Oh, Mary Kay, yes I fucking do exist and deep down you know there is no going back.
14
I trot downstairs and I’m basking in a cloud of smug. Melanda tried to turn you against me and she failed and even though I should kill her for putting me in this position, I admit it, Mary Kay.
I want to fucking gloat. I want the teacher to know she failed.
She greets me and the donut holes in my hand with a blank stare. “Melanda, there are handcuffs in the drawer of the end table. Cuff yourself to the bedpost and I’ll bring you a snack.”
She bickers as if I’m not the one in hell right now and my sugar high is fading. She’s here, she really is—am I fucked?—and she finds the handcuffs—the cops should have locked her up, not me—but life is a shark that moves forward—even Phil knows that—and my time away was productive. I saw you—you love me—and things are different in here too now. Melanda is slower. She’s slouching, almost apologizing for her inability to get the cuffs on. She’d never admit it but she gets it now: I’m the fucking boss. And she cuffs up because she works in a school system. She’s conditioned to respect authoritative ranks so I enter the room like the professor, like the principal. “Okay, Melanda. What have we learned today?”
She eyeballs me. “Well, you’re in a good mood. I suppose you saw MK, huh?”
That’s none of your fucking business, Melanda. “I thought we’d start with a deep dive into friendship narratives.”
“If you’re so obsessed with Mary Kay why didn’t you kidnap her?”
“I didn’t ‘kidnap’ you. You’re not a child. Now come on. Friendship movies. Romy and Michele Beaches. Let’s dive in.”
I don’t want to be Melanda’s Dr. Fucking Nicky but you know what, Mary Kay? I do want your friend to cop to her sins. It’s only now that I realize just how much she hurt us. If you had a real best friend, you would have told me about your husband several weeks ago and her phone buzzes. It’s you: I did it. I told him. Calling you now ahahahha
You are a woman of your word and Melanda’s phone is ringing and I send you to voicemail—what fucking choice do I have?—and now Melanda’s gloating, smoothing the wrinkles in her sweatpants. “Uh-oh,” she says. “I’d say someone has a big problem.”
“Yeah, you own a library of movies about female friendship but you’re not a friend.”
“Oh please,” she says. “Most women our age love Beaches and Romy and Michele. But I’ll tell you what is unusual. Me sending MK to voicemail. Gimme the phone.”
“No.”
“Suit yourself. And FYI…” Is she this patronizing with her students? “My movies are just bedtime stories I turn on after I pop a Xanax, sweetie.”
Her phone buzzes. It’s you: Can you talk? I promise I’ll be fast! Or set a time for later?
I know you don’t mean to hurt me, Mary Kay, but for fuck’s sake TAKE A FUCKING HINT. I write back: Sorry I am insane busy lol will call you later!
You don’t write back—you’re mad—and Melanda says that I’m playing with fire and I hate her, Mary Kay. I hate her for being right. I pop a hole in my mouth—so help me God if this woman makes me get love handles—and I ask her if she’s the Hillary Whitney or the C. C. Bloom—and she sighs. “I know you work the ‘loner’ angle pretty hard, but here’s a heads-up about friends. When I go out of town, MK waters my plants. We talk, Joe. We talk a lot.”
FUCK MY LIFE. “Are you the Hillary Whitney or the C. C. Bloom?”
“When I need to talk, she picks up. And when she needs to talk, I pick up.”
You text again, as if you’re on her side, not mine—You okay? Can I do anything?—and I wish you weren’t so kind but I know you have an ulterior motive—you want to talk about me—and Melanda snaps her fingers at me. “Just let me talk to her.”
“You know that’s not an option.”
“Be real, sweetie. I’m a single woman. MK is a mom. She checks up on me. One time, my phone died when I was out with this guy… She has the code to my place. She was at my condo that night.”
Why do you have to be such a good damn friend, Mary Kay? “Let’s focus on you, Melanda.”
My voice is shaky—how could it not be?—and there’s a crack in my cloud of smug.
&
nbsp; Melanda eyes me. “Do you want to go to prison.”
I may not know what to do about Melanda, but I am not going to prison and you are not going to Melanda’s fucking condo and you text again—Sorry to be a stage nine clinger but I really need to talk—and I know, Mary Kay. I get it. But Melanda is FUCKING BUSY RIGHT NOW and she sprawls out on the futon and lectures me in her singsong tone about how all women are C. C. Bloom and Hillary Whitney and all women are Romy and Michele and I need you to not want to talk to her so I have no choice, Mary Kay. I have to be mean. Well, Melanda has to be mean.
Sweetie I am so happy you told him but I’m one person trying to take care of myself and I just… lol you can tell me about your side-piece boyfriend when I get settled into my hotel okay?
You’re so mad that you don’t respond for a full minute and you’re so benevolent that when you do respond you’re kind: I get it. I will water your plants tonight. Is the code the same?
I prefer keys to codes and you’re antsy. You don’t really care about her plants but you want to hide out in her condo and think about me and pretend that you’re single and Melanda grins. “Even for her, this is a lot of texting.” She sits up on the futon. “What’s your plan, Joe?”
I DON’T FUCKING KNOW and you text her again—Let me know if the code changed, love you—and I love you so I nip this in the fucking bud: Lol same code but no need to worry about the plants. I tossed them a couple days ago. Would LOVE if you could scoop up mail next week tho xoxo.
You give Melanda a thumbs-up but I know you, Mary Kay. You won’t wait a week and what the fuck am I gonna do about her?
“It’s not as easy as you thought, is it, sweetie?”
“Do you cry when Hillary Whitney dies in Beaches?”
“You didn’t realize that real best friends talk every day. And I do not mean text. I mean talk. As in out loud.”
“You’re happy for C. C. Bloom when she gets custody of that little girl, aren’t you? You always wanted something like that to happen to you, so that you could have Nomi all to yourself.”
You Love Me Page 12
