Matt closes his mouth and swallows. His eyes narrow, and he leans over and quietly says, “My point, Emma, is simply to make conversation. There is no underlying motive. I’m not trying to make the moves on you. I’m not trying to be your best friend. I’m just here to do my job, to make sure things go smoothly, and to make you feel welcome here. And, for most people, conversations are a part of the work day. If you don’t want to talk, that’s fine with me. But say so. Don’t dole out the attitude without giving me some sort of warning first.” Now it is me who is standing here with my eyes wide and my mouth open. I didn’t think he had it in him. Shit.
“Look, Matt, I’m a pretty private person. I don’t like chitchat. I’m not patient. I’m not understanding. And I’m not a very good listener. It’s not that I don’t care about you—as a person, I mean—it’s just that I don’t get the point of it all.”
“The point of it all,” he says with irritation, “is to get through an eight-hour work day in a civil way. And to get to know the person you are spending those eight hours with. But, like I said, if you don’t want to talk, that’s fine with me. I don’t want you to start referring to me as the-dude-at-work-who-never-shuts-up.”
I can’t help but laugh. Thankfully he is smiling, too, and the pair of us share a self-deprecating chuckle—I think we both know that I already consider him the-dude-at-work-who-never-shuts-up. I want to tell him it’s too late for that, but I’m afraid that would be taking it too far.
So instead I say, “Yeah, well, I don’t want you to start referring to me as the-bitch-at-work, so let’s meet somewhere in the middle.” I don’t even know what that means. Except, perhaps, that I am no longer going to consider choking him just to get him to shut the fuck up.
“Agreed,” he says. And then he is silent, and we return to the plans spread out across the conference table. Over the course of the rest of the afternoon, with the exception of a brief conversation about what to get for lunch, Matt and I talk only about the project. No posturing. No chattering. Nothing. It is workplace bliss. I wonder how long it will last.
For the first time since I started working here, I’m not watching the clock. I’m not waiting for six to arrive so I can walk out of the building, sink my earbuds into my head, and shuffle out of Matt’s world and into my own. Instead, when six comes, I am still sitting in my cubicle with Matt next to me, typing specs into the keyboard and talking about how we can synchronize five different conference rooms on five different floors. He acknowledges the time first by silently tapping on the clock at the top of my computer screen with his index finger. I turn to look at him, and he’s already up and out of his seat. I quickly hit “save,” tell Matt I will see him tomorrow, and write a sticky note to myself to remind me where we need to pick up the project in the morning. I gather up my stuff and walk out to the elevator.
Matt is standing there, too. While we wait for the elevator to arrive I decide to meet him in the middle.
“So, yeah, I guess you are kind of right. David is sort of intense,” I say, looking up at the digital numbers above the elevator doors.
“What?” I look over at him briefly, and I see confusion.
“My kind-of boyfriend. His name is David.”
“Oh,” he says. Then after a few seconds, he adds, “I didn’t mean to sound judgmental when I mentioned it before. I just thought he seemed pretty intense. About you, I mean.”
“We haven’t been together very long. So I think the intensity you noticed wasn’t necessarily about me.”
“Ah, I see,” he says, the sound dragging out of him, slow and full of sarcasm. “Then I guess he must have just had a bad burger or something.” He looks back over at me and smiles. “In fact, now that I think about it, he did look more like a man with food poisoning than a man in love,” he continues. “It’s kind of hard to tell them apart sometimes, what with both being such intense feelings and all....” He laughs a little bit. I am smiling, too, realizing that maybe he does have a sense of humor somewhere in there.
“It was definitely food poisoning,” I say, nodding in jest. “Trust me.” Because there’s no way in hell it was love.
When the elevator arrives, we get in and ride to the lobby in silence. Matt nods at me as he steps off the elevator, and I say a quick goodbye. I walk through the lobby a few steps behind him, but he holds the door open for me, and we walk out of the building together. And then he splits off without a word, walking toward the parking garage while I turn toward the bus stop. I take a dozen steps and then stop to get out my cell phone. As I am about to flip it open, it pings.
Hi.
It’s David.
Hi back.
Have a good day at work?
Yes. What r u doing?
Feeling covetous.
Why’s that?
Because you came out with the douche bag.
What? David is here? I scan the courtyard. He is sitting on a bench under an island of trees, looking down at his phone.
What r u doing here?
Giving u a ride.
Where to?
Wherever u want to go.
Anywhere?
Anywhere.
Take me to a burger joint.
Done.
I watch him stand up and slide his phone into his back pocket. He is wearing jeans and an untucked, short-sleeved button-down with black chucks. As he is walking toward me his face is turned as if he is waiting for someone to come out of the building. When he’s a couple dozen steps from me, he turns his face to mine and smirks. I put my phone back into my purse. I want to have two free hands. When he steps up to me, I move forward and slide my hands around his waist. He grasps the back of my neck and kisses me. It is fucking amazing.
I don’t know why, but as we are kissing, I think about something Matt said: “He seems pretty intense. About you, I mean.” This is how David kissed me on Wednesday. This is the same kiss that Matt saw. Apparently, this is the kind of kiss that screams “food poisoning.” And that is some scary shit.
* * *
David takes me to a place called Quarter-Pound Love. They must make a mean burger because the place is full. Really full. And it’s a Monday. We decide to sit at the bar in hopes that we’ll get served faster. As we look at the menus and wait for the bartender to come take our order, we are both silent. David’s hand is on my bare knee. It feels light and sweet and still. He brushes his fingertips across the top of my knee, barely making contact. It is enough to make me want to leave. But I don’t say a word. I don’t flinch. I don’t move. I don’t look up at him. I just read my menu and pretend I don’t notice his fingers sweeping under the hem of my skirt, pushing it up just a little higher.
The bartender comes over to take our order, and David stills his hand, laying it flat on my thigh. When the menus and the bartender are gone, he looks up at the TVs above the bar.
“Are you mad that I came to pick you up?” he asks, watching a baseball game. “You haven’t said very much.”
“Mad? No. I love that you came to pick me up. And that you brought me here. What I’m confused about is why you didn’t tell me you were coming.” It’s true, I am confused about that. I sort of feel like maybe he is trying to catch me doing something I shouldn’t be doing. But that isn’t going to happen because everything I shouldn’t be doing I’m doing with him.
“I didn’t tell you I was coming because I didn’t know that I was,” he says, turning toward me with his hand still on my knee. “Until right before, I mean.” He pauses for a minute, but I can tell he wants to say more. Then he adds, “I was worried about you.”
“Worried about me? Why on earth would you be worried about me? This isn’t about Matt, is it? Because he’s just...he isn’t worth worrying about.” Now I’m really confused. David takes his hand off my knee and skims it through his hair, over his ear to the back of his head. He looks nervous.
“It isn’t about Matt. Don’t be mad at me, okay? For looking. But, a package came for you today. It was sitting
outside on the stoop, and I picked it up to take it inside for you and I saw the return address. It’s from your stepdad. And it fucking freaked me out.”
“Jesus,” I say, “what the hell.” Now I’m fucking freaked out, too. Why can Michael not leave me the hell alone? “What kind of package is it?” I ask, my heart in my throat. I think he can tell I am completely wigged out about this because his hand is now out of his hair and resting on the side of my arm. Just like when someone is trying to comfort a friend at a funeral. It feels awkward.
“It’s like a cubic foot. Not big at all. And really light,” he says, rubbing my arm. “Look, I didn’t mean to freak you out about it, but I didn’t want you to come home after work and find it by yourself. Plus, I’m worried that he’s gonna show up here again and do whatever it is that he does.” I can hear in his voice that he has moved into his protective mode, and once again, I feel the pull of it. I feel my own thirst for his protection. I feel a selfish need to be sheltered. To let him be my shield against whatever bullshit Michael is throwing at me this time.
“No. No. I’m glad that you came. I’m glad that you told me about the package rather than me going home to find it. Because if I had found the package myself, I would have thrown it right into the damned Dumpster. But I’m opening it when we get back. We are opening it when we get back,” I say, not giving him a choice.
“Whatever you want, Emma. I just need you to know that I meant what I said to him. He needs to stay the fuck away from you. And I will make sure that happens—even if I have to sit in your cubicle with you all day.” I smile softly at the thought of David sitting on the floor of my cubicle watching Matt and me work together. He grins back at me, and after a brief pause, with mock disparagement he says, “Jesus, I hope I don’t have to do that.” And then he is really grinning at me, obviously tickled at the same mental image of us in a cubicle together. Except in his vision I’m sure we are doing something very different....and Matt is sure as hell not there.
“I would like to think that Michael wouldn’t be stupid enough to show up here again,” I say, “but I thought that before, and clearly I was wrong. He’s just a sick asshole who trips on making me feel like I’m still a child. He likes keeping people under his thumb, and frankly, he’s really good at it. He’s really good at manipulation and intimidation. I spent the better part of my childhood being degraded and humiliated by that man. And I am mortified at the thought of him still having any sort of control over me. But he does, in a way, because here I am, a twenty-two-year-old woman, still talking about him. Still making him part of my life. Still wondering what the fuck he is going to do next. I am sitting in a bar with you, and what are we doing? We are talking about him. It makes me sick.” I am angry now, and I can feel the flush in my skin. There is a lump of rage in my chest. And I would very much like to rip it out and throw it across the room.
David is sitting next to me, looking pensive. He stands and scoots his hips in between my parted knees. His arms wrap around my shoulders, and my cheek presses into his chest. He is wrapped around me like this for a long time, right here in this burger joint. Part of me wants to cry, but I won’t. Because that would make Michael very, very happy. So instead, I wrap my arms around David and squeeze back.
When we finish eating and go back to the apartment building, the package is sitting there, outside my door. David was right; it isn’t very big. But I don’t stop at my door. I walk right past it, straight up the stairs. Two floors up, right above mine. David is a few steps behind me, and I can hear his feet pause at the bottom of the steps as if he’s confused about what to do. When I get to his apartment door, I stop to wait for him. I think his door is usually open, but I don’t want to walk in without his permission. The irony, after all, would not be lost on him. When he gets to the top of the stairs, I open the door.
I go in first, and David follows, tossing his keys and phone on to the coffee table as he passes it on his way to the kitchen. I go sit on the couch. He comes out of the kitchen a few minutes later, holding a pair of beers. He hands one to me and takes a long drink out of the other.
“I changed my mind about opening that damned box,” I say to him. “I don’t want to. At least for now.”
“Okay,” he says, “do you want me to do something with it? Like run it over with the car or take an axe to it or something?”
I laugh out loud. “No. But thanks for the offer. I think I’ll just put it in the closet with all the other boxes he sent me and try to forget about it. But, if you want, you could run Michael over with the car. Or take an axe to him.”
“If I could, I would,” he says with more seriousness than I expect. “In fact, part of me wishes he would show up here again so I can pummel the crap out of him.”
I take a sip from my beer and look up at him. He is very serious. There is no doubt in my mind that he would take Michael down if given the chance. I don’t know what to say next, so I put down my beer and reach for him. His lips are warm and soft, and his tongue is slippery and cold. He tastes like beer. He tastes like a man. David holds me against him for a long time, kissing me softly and running his fingers up and down my spine. His touch strengthens me in a crazy, bizarre sort of way. It makes me feel less needy. More confident.
When he pulls away, he touches my hair and my cheek and asks me if I just want to go to sleep. If I just want to stay at his place for the night.
“No,” I say. “Fuck it. I want to open the box.”
Chapter Twenty
Emma—Age 16
Michael and my mom just got back from Singapore. I only know that’s where they were because I saw the baggage tags, not because they told me. They were gone for six weeks. I had six weeks of paradise. Six weeks of respite. But now they are back—and all hell has broken loose. And once again, hell is in the form of Bobby Sarson.
Bobby and I are together now, even though I was pissed off at him for not standing up for me in the locker room at my Sweet 16 party. He apologized to me at school the Monday after and said that he left because he was scared Michael was going to kill him. I told him half-jokingly that Michael was only interested in killing me and that he had nothing to worry about. And so for the past five months, Bobby and I have been going out. At first, I tried to hide Bobby from Michael and my mom. He would climb into my window at night when I was supposed to be doing my homework, or we would meet somewhere after school, or hang out at one of his friends’ houses. But after a few weeks, I started thinking it was bullshit. I am sixteen years old. Why should I have to hide my boyfriend from my parents? But even more than that, I wanted to tell them because I knew it would piss Michael off.
It sounds weird, but I have discovered that I like pissing Michael off. I like watching him go off the deep end. It probably makes me a sicko, but I get a very real sense of satisfaction in watching Michael burn. If he is going to punish me, then I’m going to make it worth my while. It is a game now, between Michael and me. I come up with some crazy-ass stunt to piss Michael off, and he comes up with some crazy-ass punishment to make me pay for it. Yes, it is twisted, but truthfully, I finally feel like I am exacting some sort of revenge. Like I am somehow getting even simply by driving him to the brink over and over again.
Our little game started the night they found out I was screwing Bobby. My mom and Michael were sitting in the kitchen together when I waltzed in and told my mother I needed her to take me to the crotch doctor. I needed her to put me on the pill because I didn’t want to wind up having Bobby Sarson’s love child. They both sat there, staring at me. My mother’s mouth and eyes open wide, Michael’s nostrils flaring like some animal ready to charge. When neither of them answered, I added that Bobby and I were tired of stealing the condoms from the drawer next to their bed. Plus, I said, it was kind of creepy to see all the lotions and shit they have in that drawer. “I mean, you are my parents, for Christ’s sake,” I said.
Michael jumped up from the table and smacked me hard across the face. Despite the sting of the slap,
I smiled. A sense of fulfillment came over me. A realization that maybe I had passed on to them a small bit of my own humiliation. Michael screamed at me to go to my room. He said he would deal with me later. My mother dropped her face into her hands. I turned on my heels and walked down the hallway, knowing that the slap was not going to be the most painful part of my punishment.
And so, every day for the next two weeks, I had to go to the drugstore after school. Michael waited in the car while I went in and bought him and my mom a pack of condoms from the pimply clerk. Then he took me to church, where I would spend an hour listening to my Sunday-school teacher—who probably never even had sex—talk about the dangers of premarital relations. At the end of the two weeks, I had to give a special presentation to the entire youth congregation and all of their parents, professing how I chose to compromise my own chastity by screwing around with lots of boys, and how God has now shown me the right way to live my life. It made me want to gag.
The good thing was that, a week after my church declaration, my mom did end up taking me to the crotch doctor and putting me on the pill. I don’t think she ever told Michael about it, though.
* * *
So here we are, four and a half months later. Bobby Sarson is in my house, and he is the reason that Michael is yelling at me. Again. When my mom opened the front door to let the taxi driver unload their suitcases, I was standing by the television, fiddling with the DVD player, and Bobby was sitting on the couch. They never tell me when they are coming home. I mean, sometimes they’ll say two weeks or four weeks or whatever, but this time I got nothing. I write the checks out for a lot more money than I used to, so I don’t really worry about it. They don’t seem to either. And so it is Saturday, and Bobby and I were just about to watch a movie and order a pizza. I know that I am not supposed to have boys at the house when they are gone but, really? If they are on the other side of the fucking world, how will they ever know? This is not the first time I have done it, but it is the first time I have ever been caught. And it is with Bobby Sarson. The one whose dick my mother saw me sucking in a men’s locker room. The one that I was screwing with their condoms. The one that I am taking the pill for. The one that started this game between Michael and me.
Push Page 14
