* * *
The sex, wine and reruns cause me to sleep in way later than I had planned. I haven’t checked anything off my weekend to-do list yet, unless you count the few boxes I unpacked yesterday before Michael showed up. After eating a breakfast bar, I set to the task of unpacking the rest of the boxes. When I am done, the only ones remaining are those from Michael—which I shove to the back of my closet and try to forget—and the ones containing the kitchen stuff that I can’t unpack until David is finished.
I spend the rest of my Sunday doing the mundane. Since I can now walk on the kitchen floor, I make a quick trip to the grocery store for some food, beer and more wine, and make myself a late lunch as soon as I return. Part of me was hoping to run into David while I was out, but then I recalled his note saying that he had plans for the day. When I finish washing my lunch dishes, my phone buzzes. It’s him.
Hi.
Hi back.
What r u doing?
Getting my shit together.
Shit?
Unpacking and grocery store. Going to hang pictures now.
Need my tool belt?
He is flirting again. I want to be coy, but...
U left it here yesterday. I’m wearing it right now.
Is that so?
Yep. And it looks damn fine on me, too.
I’ll bet it does.
Where r u?
Boating with the boys.
Any girls?
Do I really want to know the answer to that?
None wearing a tool belt.
So what r they wearing then?
Nothing that matters to me.
What the hell does that mean? That he isn’t looking at what they are wearing because he doesn’t give a damn, or that they aren’t wearing anything at all?
Define nothing.
It means that it doesn’t matter what they r wearing, or not wearing, as the case may b.
Because...?
Because whatever it is, it isn’t u in those blue panties.
U aren’t going to let any of those girls sit on your lap r u?
No, Emma. I am not.
Because I will kick your fucking ass if u do.
I know.
I slide my phone closed and put it back in my pocket. I can’t believe it, but the thought of David on some boat with a bunch of barely dressed women makes my skin sear. Why? I don’t understand how I can be so jealous when we only spent one night together. And shit, it wasn’t even a night. It was barely an hour. But then I remember our conversation about me meeting his friends. He was jealous, too, wasn’t he? Possessive, even. I’m beginning to wonder where this is all going.
I spend the rest of the afternoon clumsily hanging pictures on the walls, ironing my work clothes for the week, and mapping out the bus route for my morning commute. I am excited and nervous about starting my new job tomorrow. As the evening rolls in, I check my cell phone occasionally to see if David texted. There is nothing, and I am highly disappointed in myself for caring so much. I feel like a damn stooge every time I look at my phone.
I make myself some pasta for dinner and finish the employment paperwork that’s due at the office tomorrow. I hate myself for it, but I’ve been listening for noise on the stairs the entire evening. What the fuck is he doing? He can’t still be on a boat; it’s pitch-dark outside. I don’t want to care about where the hell he is, and honestly, it’s none of my damn business. But I do care...and it’s driving me fucking crazy.
I walk back to my bedroom and pull my pepper spray out of my purse. I carry it back to the living room and put it on top of his tool box. Then I get a piece of paper and place the following message under the spray canister:
David—
Next time you are going to be out late with a bunch of half-naked whores, please take this with you. Feel free to use it liberally. I know where to get more.
Emma
PS. Please tell me I don’t have to kick your fucking ass...
It’s midnight now, and I go to bed.
Chapter Nine
I am up and out of the apartment by 7:05 because I suspect it will take me a good forty five minutes to get to work. I’ll have to make at least one bus transfer, and until I know the route better, I want to give myself plenty of time. Turns out it takes me a little over fifty minutes to get downtown, and by the time I walk into the office building, I only have a few minutes to spare. I like to be early, though, so I decide to be out the door by 6:50 from here on out.
My new office is just as excellent as I suspected it would be. I’m not overly enthused about sitting in a cubicle all day, but the work I’ll be doing is precisely what I was hoping for. Everyone else working here seems to be very nice—and very normal. I discovered in college that engineering is full of quiet, thoughtful men, which means that I don’t exactly fit in, but their ordinary and orderly nature always felt right to me. Plus, the logicality of the work is therapeutic. Even when I was working on a project in my college classes, my temper never got the best of me. Calculations and design and organization are predictable, which is precisely why I know I am going to be happy here.
After a morning filled with personnel introductions and discussions involving various H.R. formalities, I am assigned my first project. And my first project partner. His name is Matt, and he’s been working here for a little over two years. I have my suspicions that his job is really to keep tabs on me. I’m sure they want to make sure the new girl isn’t a complete fuck-up. But I won’t fuck up on this, or any other project, for that matter, because this...this, I am good at. This I know.
* * *
Soon enough, my first day at work has passed, and I am walking back to the bus stop. The sun is starting to sink behind some of the taller office buildings, and I’m enjoying watching the city move. It’s invigorating, really, to see all the life happening here. I love it.
On the bus ride home my iPod keeps me company. I have managed to escape thoughts of David for most of the day today, and I’m pleased with myself for it. But now I am wondering if he ever made it home last night and if he made it to my kitchen today. I wonder if he read my note.
The bus drops me at the corner, and I walk into the building and up to my apartment. The first thing I notice is the absence of the gigantic boxes in my living room. So he was here. The second thing I notice is that someone has used the vacuum cleaner. My visual of David running the sweeper while wearing his tool belt nearly makes me laugh out loud. Then I walk around the corner and into the kitchen. Oh...seriously?
I slide open my phone, touch the text messaging icon, then David’s name.
What the fuck, David.
His reply comes almost immediately.
What the fuck, what?
Seriously?
Quite.
This is crazy. Carl is going to kill u.
No he won’t.
What is this?
It’s your fine-ass kitchen, Emma.
It’s too fine for this shitty apartment.
I know.
I don’t understand. How did he do all of this in one day? He must have had help. The cabinets are hung and the countertops placed, the walls have been painted a beautiful blue, and a lovely blue-and-white backsplash of hand-painted tiles lines all the counters. And...all the appliances have been replaced. A shiny new stainless steel fridge, dishwasher, and gas range are all staring back at me. Not to mention the new light fixture and the ceramic tiles on the floor. It is indeed a fine-ass kitchen.
Are you going to come down here and teach me how to use it?
Less than a second after I press Send, there’s a knock at the door, and I know it’s him. I take a quick look out the peephole just to be sure, and then open the door.
“Emma,” he says, standing in my doorway. He looks at me carefully from head to toe. His expression is both flustered and surprised. “You look...really great.” Before I can respond, his phone buzzes in his hand. He glances at it quickly and smirks at me. “I don’t think I’m the best
person to show you how to use your new kitchen. I just make them. I don’t actually use them.”
“Well, you can come in anyway,” I say. “Did you eat yet?”
“No.”
“Me neither, and I’m starving.” I close the door behind him and walk towards my new kitchen. “I just got some chops at the store yesterday—that is, as long as they were moved to my new fridge. Do you want to stay and have dinner with me?”
“Yeah. That’d be great. But you should know that I’m carrying my pepper spray, and I know how to use it.” He’s flirting again. But I am not in the mood for flirting. I’m itching to know about where he was last night. I only briefly consider my words before I speak.
“Yes, but I’m no half-naked whore, David, so you have nothing to worry about.” It comes out sounding way angrier than I intended. “And, you can rest assured that I will never sit on your lap again. At least not until I know you’re not fucking any of the half-naked whores. I don’t share.” And here I go turning a nice conversation into something else yet again. I have no reason to be, but I’m angry at him for doing whatever it is he did yesterday. But, hell, I don’t even know what exactly he did. And maybe that’s why I’m so pissed. I don’t know anything about this man, and I have already laid my cards on the table. He could be playing me so much more than I already think he is. It makes me feel vulnerable...and there’s nothing I hate more than being vulnerable.
“You’re pissed off that I did something with my friends yesterday? Jesus, do you know how wrong that sounds? We’ve known each other for four days, Emma. Four days.” He’s right and I know it.
“This from a man who wouldn’t even introduce me to his friends because they’d want—and I quote—’a crack at that’.” My skin is getting hot, and I feel a lump of rage growing in my throat. And he is standing there so calm and reasonable. It is making me want to scream.
He stares at me for a minute, and I can see that he is thinking carefully about what to say next. I suddenly realize what a clever man he is. After knowing me only four days, he has figured out that he has a choice. Either he can play his little game and say something that is going to send me over the edge, or he can say something that pulls me back from the brink. My cards really are on the table.
He catches me off guard though, because instead of making one of those choices, he walks away. He sits on the couch, facing away from me. He leans back, clasps his hands behind his head, and crosses his ankles out in front of him. What is this? Because I don’t know what to do, I decide to mimic his actions. I turn my back to him, walk into the kitchen, and start to cook.
Ten minutes later, I have the chops in the grill pan and I’m cutting up some veggies for a salad. I’m bewildered about what happened and why he is still here, sitting on my couch. Not saying a word.
Then he walks into the kitchen.
“I think maybe we’d better just run with this,” he says quietly. “I don’t want to think so much about it.” What the fuck does that mean? “I know why I don’t want to introduce you to my friends, and I know why you don’t want me around any half-naked women. Because we are two of the same, Emma. Because neither one of us likes to share. We shouldn’t have to think about it—the jealousy, I mean. We shouldn’t have to put energy into all that bullshit.”
In my mind, my jaw hits the floor. In reality, I am standing in my fine-ass kitchen holding a pair of tongs, trying to fathom what he has just said. Do I want to do this? I take exactly three seconds to decide if his words mesh with my own feelings.
I drop the tongs, grab his face, and kiss him.
He kisses me back, his hands at the back of my head, pushing my mouth to his. I hear the chops sizzling behind me, and when I smell them starting to char, I pull away and switch off the burner.
David looks at me before turning to walk out of the kitchen. With his back to me, I hear him say, “There isn’t going to be anyone else.”
Chapter Ten
Emma—Age 16
Tonight at my Sweet 16 party, I am going to have sex with Bobby Sarson. I’ve already done it with a couple of other boys, but I think it’s going to be different this time because I really like him, and I’ll bet he’s probably pretty good at it. I know he’s already had sex with Jenny Thomas because her best friend, Susan, told me. I’m on the volleyball team with Susan, and she tells me everything about the two of them. They aren’t together anymore, though, so I’m pretty sure he’ll be into me. He’s a senior and I’m a sophomore, and my brothers always told me that senior boys like sophomore girls the best. They never told me why, but I really don’t care. I can’t wait for tonight.
My mom somehow convinced Michael to let me have a party with both boys and girls for my birthday, and they actually rented a room at a fancy country club for it. All my girlfriends bought new dresses, and the boys have to wear ties and everything. There’s even going to be a DJ. Most of the kids at my school have big Sweet 16 parties, and I just cannot believe I am going to have one, too. I have no idea what my mom had to do to get Michael to agree to this.
At five o’clock, we drive over to the country club and put up some decorations. Then, at six, everyone starts to arrive. I look pretty great in my new dress. I hope Bobby likes it as much as I do. After dinner, the DJ starts, and everyone gets up to dance. I am grateful that my mom and Michael are being cool and have pretty much left us alone. Instead of chaperoning the party, they are sitting in the lobby bar drinking, which somehow doesn’t surprise me at all. Hell, I’ve been living without a chaperone since Carol stopped coming five years ago. Why do I need one now?
Now that I’m in high school, my mom and Michael are gone nearly all the time. They go all over the place on these crazy trips for Michael’s job. I’m still not sure exactly what he does, but it is totally awesome having that huge house to myself all the time. Even my brothers are gone. Evan is living out of state, so he’s completely out of the picture, and the other asshole is living with his friend downtown—he’s working in some restaurant as a waiter or something lame like that. Evan is a real fuck-up now. He makes me look like a freggin’ angel. It’s a shame, really, because he used to be such a nice guy. He moved away when Ricky decided not to pay attention to him anymore. Evan said he had better things to do than hang out with his brother anyway. Turns out those “better things” were drugs. He got busted for possession again last year, and Michael refused to bail him out. Evan was really pissed, and Mom and Michael got in a huge fight about it. Michael said two nights in jail was an appropriate punishment for Evan’s actions. I wish my punishments were two nights in jail. That would be way better than the punishments I get. When Michael is around to bust me for some bullshit thing I did wrong, my punishments are way worse. I remember when I was nine and Michael caught me stealing two dollars from my mom’s purse, he locked me up in the attic for a whole Saturday. I wasn’t allowed to have food or water the whole time. He wouldn’t even let me turn on the lights when night came. It was summer, and it was really fucking hot up there. Then there was the time I got in a fight at school with Sadie Wilkinson. She said I was looking at her boyfriend—which I was not, because her boyfriend is Ted Yingst, and he’s not even worth looking at, let alone fighting over. She got up in my face and slapped me. And I was not about to let her get away with that. When the principal called Michael about it, he came down to the school, dragged my ass to the mall, and made me stand at the entrance holding a huge sign that said “I am a terrible daughter” until it was dark outside. I have never been so humiliated in my life. Michael is a cocksucker. I hate him.
The DJ has turned down the house lights and pumped up his colored stage lights. For an older guy, he’s playing pretty good music. I am dancing with some of the girls on the volleyball team, and Susan is prodding me to go talk to Bobby. Every time I look over at him, he’s looking straight at me. And the greatest part is that he doesn’t look away when I glance over at him. He keeps looking at me, which means, of course, that he wants to have sex with me tonig
ht. I knew he would.
By ten o’clock, the room is full of swirling lights, twisted bodies and loud music. Crazy Ava Zimmerman stole some whisky out of her dad’s stash and brought two full bottles with her. Ava is totally rowdy, and I love her. She hid the booze in the trash can in the women’s bathroom. We’ve all been taking turns dashing in there to pour some into our sodas, and I for one am pretty damned buzzed.
The party is supposed to end at eleven o’clock, so I figure if I’m going to make it with Bobby, I’d better get to it. He is sitting with some of his friends, and I walk straight over to him, grab his hand, and pull him out of the room. I have to be careful not to walk through the lobby because my mom and Michael are probably still at the bar. Instead, I drag Bobby down the back hallway and into one of the locker rooms.
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