Did that mean he’d never made her happy?
He refused to believe that. All those times she told him how much she loved him? All those times she said she couldn’t wait to be married either? All those times she said she wanted to spend the rest of her life with him, too? The engagement ring with the little diamond chip that he’d slipped on her finger a few weeks before he drove her to the bus station meant she was bound to him. It made her HIS.
And that roommate of hers. Dina. She was the cause of all of this. That trash-mouth hooker with her short skirts, thigh-high boots, and long, wild hair, running around the room talking all kinds of nonsense about stuff he didn’t care about. She was the one always giving Nat all her expensive clothes and making her put on makeup and telling her how she should wear her hair, spraying her with big bottles of fancy perfume. Had her reading “Eye-talian” fashion magazines and drinking champagne out of paper cups. Nat had even told him that girl liked the herb (he panicked when he thought Nat had gotten mixed up with that mess until she assured him she hadn’t. So that was something anyway). They eyed each other wearily as Dina prepared to head home to Manhattan for the weekend. Yeah, that Dina—she was a bad, bad influence on Nat. He was glad she was gone.
He begged and pleaded with Nat that first night to marry him right then and there.
She refused.
He begged and pleaded with her to make love with him, reasoned that what did waiting matter anymore since they were going to spend the rest of their lives together?
She refused.
Things just got worse and worse all weekend as she dragged him to Boston, making him ride around on smelly trains and walk every-damn-where. And making him try all kinds of crazy foods and “try drinking this, you’ll like it.”
He didn’t like any of it.
When he kissed her goodbye at the train station, he thought he saw relief in her eyes. She thought he hadn’t seen her checking her watch all those times. Was she actually glad he was gone?
He cried the whole way home.
Chapter 39
SHE
She laid in bed, listening to the sound of her own breathing. Waiting.
He’d be coming in soon.
It had been a tortuous day, like being forced to sit in a stuffy classroom, waiting for the toll of the last bell, all so you could break through the doors to sunshine, blue sky, and the few luxurious hours when you could do whatever you wanted.
He sat in the chair at the foot of her bed all day and talked. Endlessly. All about her. All about them. How happy they’d been. How happy they were now.
Natalie cocked her head, looking at him as though she was seeing him for the first time. Had she done this to him? Had she turned him into this monster?
He’d abruptly stopped talking and announced it was lunchtime. He left and brought back a ham sandwich and subjected her yet again to the humiliating act of sucking his finger while he moaned.
When dinnertime (at least she thought it was; for all she knew, he could have been feeding her breakfast for dinner and dinner for breakfast) rolled around, he announced he would cook for her, because food was love and he wanted to shower her with love. He ran out again and she could smell something cooking through the vents, her only clue to his actions, as there was no sound. No clanging of pots and pans, no whir of a kitchen faucet, no chopping of vegetables.
He presented her with a greasy chicken breast luxuriating among lily pads of grease floating across the surface of the plastic plate, which soaked the hapless broccoli florets, boiled to faded brown mush. It seeped into the burnt bottoms of the dinner rolls, turning them into soggy cardboard. It ran into the powdery mashed potatoes. And he fed her every waterlogged bite, watching her chew, swallow, and repeat.
Her lack of an appetite for this monstrosity aside, she was exhausted. Her eyes fluttered and drooped with each passing moment as she struggled to stay awake and feign happiness over how he had slaved away (his words) in the kitchen to prepare this lovely meal for her. The only bright spot was she didn’t have to suck his fingers. She guessed he’d had his fill for the day.
She gripped the comb in her hand hidden under the covers. She let her finger run over the dull point, already feeling the force of it plunging into his skin, of feeling the muscles contract around it as she yanked it out and dunked it into the wound again, deeper this time, with even more fury.
And again. And again.
Her heart flip-flopped and sweat gushed from her underarms. She licked her lips and closed her eyes, her ears trained for the familiar beeping indicating his arrival.
Her eyelids began to droop when the door beeped. She quickly sat up, happy to see he was in a tank top and boxers. That was less clothing to dig through with the comb. She cringed as he slid into bed with her. She didn’t say anything, letting him kiss her neck, the comb sweaty and heavy in her hand.
“I almost forgot. I got something for you,” he said, stopping the kisses and holding his pinky up to her. She crumpled inside, immediately recognizing the little diamond chip atop the simple gold band snug against his knuckle.
She gulped back the bile. “I didn’t think you still had that.”
“Of course I still have it,” he smiled. “Your engagement ring. Remember? That night I gave it to you? It was right after we had Sunday dinner at my house, and we was out on the porch and I asked you—I was so nervous, and just sweating like a pig. I mean, even though I knew you was gonna say yes, but still. I guess a man can’t be too sure until his woman says yes. And then we went in and told my whole family, and they were so happy for us, and my sisters were gonna take you to the fabric store to pick out wedding dress patterns and mama was gonna sew your dress for you. Remember?”
She kneaded her forehead, anxious about when to make her move. “Yes, Joey, I remember.”
“Yeah. Me too. So, anyway, I held onto this because I knew I’d be putting it back on your finger one day, and now I can,” he said as he grabbed her left hand and tried to shove the little gold band onto her ring finger, but it wouldn’t go over her knuckle. “How come it won’t fit? It’s supposed to fit,” he grunted, pushing and pulling her finger and the ring, trying to join the two.
Like putting a square peg in a round hole.
“Joey, you’re hurting me,” she said, trying to extricate her finger from his grip.
“I just have to try harder,” he said as he gave the ring one last shove. It scraped across her skin, nicking her and leaving a drop of blood to wobble atop her knuckle. The ring was like a too-tight rubber band, strangling her circulation.
“There,” he sighed with relief. “Finally got things back the way they should be. Now.” He pulled her down to start kissing her again. She tried to avoid his slobbery, insistent tongue, but he forced his way inside, the rough, pebbly surface like sandpaper against her bottom lip.
“If you don’t start kissing me back, I’m gonna lock you in here with no lights.”
“Okay, Joey.”
He kissed her again and she forced her lips to comply with his.
“Touch me,” he whispered.
She wanted to laugh. It was like an open invitation. She took several deep breaths and slid her hand from underneath the covers, pointing the comb toward his torso.
She squeezed her eyes shut and jammed it into his side.
He screamed and reached for her hand, but she smashed it into him again, her heart leaping when she felt a warm slick of blood against her palm. He grabbed her wrist and they struggled for a few seconds as she tried to wrest her hand away from him. They tumbled off the bed, both of them grunting and sweaty, her legs flailing against him as he banged her wrist against the floor.
The slap he delivered stunned her into dropping the comb, and he grabbed it, heaving over her as she curled into a ball crying.
“What’d you do that for?” he said, his hands on his hips. He winced as his hand fell into his wound and he saw the blood smeared across his palm.
“I hate you, I hate
you, I hate you, I ha—” she was hyperventilating, and he grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her. She banged her fists against his chest before realizing she could get in one last twist of the knife. She shoved her fingernail into his wound, which elicited another yelp from him as he dropped back away from her, cupping his hand over the blood soaking into the white tank top. He pointed at her, like he was going to say something, before he limped out, cursing under his breath.
Natalie slumped against the wall, relieved that he was gone, happy for one night alone.
Chapter 40
HE
A comb. A goddang comb of all things.
He sucked in his breath as he pulled his hand around to examine the splotches of blood in his palm. He couldn’t help but chuckle a little as he remembered that pretty boy bastard doing the same thing just before the end.
Joey doused a cotton ball in peroxide and dabbed at his side, wincing a bit as he did so. He’d expected her to be mad, had even expected she would try to do something to him, though he hadn’t seen this one coming. A comb. Well, she wouldn’t be getting that back.
Worst of all was the way she looked at him, like she didn’t know who he was. Maybe it was all that weight he’d lost. The protruding cheek bones, now-flat nose, and smooth white snowcaps of his teeth. Yeah. That was it. It had to be a shock, of course, and even he had to admit that if it had been the other way around, he’d probably be a little surprised at first. He just had to try a little harder. Start trying to talk proper. She liked that. Pretty boys who talked proper. She just had to get used to the new him and then she’d calm down. She’d look deep into his eyes and remember the boy who used to walk her home from school every day and later would pick her up in his truck. She’d remember all those Sunday dinners at his house, where his mother showered her with platters of chicken, collards, macaroni and cheese, and fat chunks of homemade white cake with pink frosting. She’d remember all of their plans for the future.
He just had to be patient and forgive her once again for betraying him.
When he was ready.
Chapter 41
SHE
Radio silence.
How long had it been? A day? Two days? No, no. It couldn’t have been more than a day. Natalie ran her fingers through her hair, her bare feet sinking into the carpet. She made a mistake by attacking him. Now he was going to starve her. Or worse. Her scar tingled beneath her fingernails as she scratched at it, salty, insistent blood pooling in her mouth from the pain. A pulsating reminder of “the worse.”
Her eyes seemed to follow her across the room as she paced. Natalie looked down, still creeped out by all those photos mocking her. She moved left. The eyes moved left. She moved right. The eyes moved right. Watching her. Always watching her.
She tried to ignore her, this other woman. This happy, laughing, working, living-her-quiet-little-life woman. The pull was too strong. Her eye settled on one of the photos. Last summer. She was having lunch outside with a former co-worker. She had an intense look on her face. What were they talking about? Wait—the girl had quit. That was it. She had jumped to a rival company and was telling Natalie about how everything went down when she quit.
Her gaze flicked to another picture. Walking to work, eyes trained straight ahead, oblivious. Her eyes shifted again. Sitting on a bench at the beach with Brandy. Wait. This was a few days—no, a few weeks ago. Had she really been gone a few weeks? Natalie pounded the wall in frustration. She and Brandy, walking down the beach on a Saturday afternoon, headed to a late lunch. It was one of those cold but sunny March days that depressed you because it was March and the sun was shining, but your breath still plumed out in front of you. And Brandy—wearing flip-flops. Brandy did stupid shit like that all the time. Like wearing flats in the dead of winter and pooh-poohing anyone who asked where her socks were. Natalie always chalked it up to the girl being from Florida, and God knows they were strange. A bad date. They’d been talking about the bad date Brandy had been on the night before. The wedding. Then they’d been talking about the wedding. Brandy wouldn’t be throwing any showers. Natalie laughing that Christine would be pissed if she did. Brandy. Chuckling. She was in charge of bachelorette parties. Natalie. Giggling. She wouldn’t have it any other way.
Natalie shook her head as the well of tears began to fill up. She wanted it back. She wanted her life back. She wanted out of this cage, as far away from Joey as she could get. Farther. He hated her. He’d hated her since she broke up with him. He was making her pay all over again. She couldn’t take it. She couldn’t live like this. She wouldn’t live like this.
That picture of her and Brandy was peeling away from the wall. Natalie tugged at it until it gave way. Methodically, she ripped it to pieces, turning her palm over and watching the slices flutter to the floor. She pulled another photo away and another and another until she was sobbing and shrieking as she attacked the wall, grasping at the glossy strips of paper, jerking them down in huge chunks.
“I hate you,” Natalie whispered to that other woman as she continued to shred the pictures, ignoring the stinging in her hands as she tore at the pictures, squashing what she couldn’t shred. She swept around the room, yanking her likeness from every corner. Sobbing, she collapsed amid the remnants of her destruction. She heard the beeping and Joey swept in bearing a carton of milk and a muffin swathed in plastic.
“What the hell are you doing?” he yelled, staring around the room in disbelief as he dropped the muffin and milk to the floor. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
“What is it, Joey? Are you mad that I’ve ruined your shrine? Huh? What are you going to do about it?”
He snatched her up off the floor, and she writhed against his grip. “You had no right,” he said, shaking her. “Those were mine! You know how long it took me to get those? To get them just the way I wanted?”
“Do you think I care, Joey?” she laughed. “Do you think I give a shit?”
His fingers dug into her arms, rage bubbling in his eyes. “You just ruin everything. You ain’t nothing but a spoiled little bitch. Don’t appreciate anything anybody does for you.”
“Oh, I’m supposed to appreciate this? Being locked up, stalked—I’m supposed to be grateful?”
“You’re damn right, you are! I saved you from that . . . that bastard. From that life, that empty life. I’ve done everything for you, and for what? You just spit on it. Well, how’d you like it if somebody spit on you, huh? Huh?”
And there it was—a hawk and a glob of spit sliding down her face. She gasped as he pushed her down to the floor and stalked out of the room. She sat there for a moment, stunned, before wiping her slimy cheek against her shoulder.
The muffin and milk. Natalie stopped, staring at it and then the door, wondering if he’d come barreling through it to snatch this sliver of sustenance away from her.
She pounced on the muffin, the plastic pouch exploding in her hand. She clawed at it, shoving the dry, crumbly chunks of blueberry into her mouth as fast as she could. She tore open the milk carton, not caring that the cold, creamy liquid was drooling down her chin and soaking her shirt. She wet her finger and dotted the carpet with it, licking the errant crumbs while pulling pink fibers out of her mouth.
Chapter 42
HE
He had to calm down. He had to calm down. He was heaving, taking huge swallows of air. He was angry. He was sad. He couldn’t let her see him cry.
Except there was no stopping them. Those heated, violent tears broke inside of him like a thunderstorm. Sheets of salt soaked his face, dripped from his nose, fell into his mouth. He drove the heels of his hands into his eyes, the sobs racking his body. All his work. All that time. Gone. Just like that.
Now she was just playing games with him. He couldn’t have that. No. This wouldn’t do at all.
He picked up his scissors, gripping the heavy metal handle, not seeing anything but the shards scattered on the floor, the long ribbons hanging from the wall. He let out a scream and charge
d for the wall, stabbing it with the scissors. Over and over and over. Stabbing her face. Hearing her laugh at him.
Okay, so she wanted to play games?
He could do that.
And he would win.
“She had to stand firm or she’d never be free of him.”
She had nightmares about walking into her dorm room to find him hanging from the ceiling, one of her pink cotton-polyester blend twin sheets knotted around his neck. Or of finding him huddled in her bed, rivers of blood dripping from the ragged, self-inflicted rips on his wrists.
Listening to him cry on the phone night after night about how she was breaking his heart and how he wouldn’t be able to go on without her made her tremble with fear that that was exactly what he would do unless she met his demands: drop out of school, return to Arkansas immediately, marry him, and live happily ever after.
That was his happily ever after. Not hers.
She just couldn’t spend her life with him. She’d be miserable, and she’d been miserable enough for most of her eighteen years.
Finally, she was happy. She was home. She was no longer ostracized for her intellect: an outcast because she liked to read, because she was intrigued by culture and art and literature, not who was seen kissing who in the Dairy Queen parking lot. She was no longer the valedictorian, holding the load all on her own. She was surrounded by ambition and wit and brilliance. Her new peers were striving for more than working in a factory for $6.25 an hour or hauling boxes at the Piggly Wiggly for a quarter more. They wanted to be writers, lawyers, humanitarians.
This was where she belonged. This is what she’d always wanted.
He couldn’t have it.
Every Breath You Take Page 14
