by Paula Cox
“Fucking, you mean,” Tracey says.
“Yes, that’s what I mean. But last night was different. We didn’t even have sex. I felt close to him. But then this morning I almost called myself his girlfriend.” I wince at the memory, cringing hard.
“Oh, sister, that’s turning the heat up before the water’s even in the pan.” She does a little dance with her eyebrows. She’s incessantly bubbly. “Anyway—and I don’t mean to offend you, baby doll, I would never dream of doing that—I’m surprised he’s even attracted to you.”
Don’t mean to offend me . . . I feel like I’ve just been slapped across the face. But not by a hand. A honey-coated bat, a thousand bees buzzing over its surface, has just been smashed across my jaw. A thousand stings puncture my skin. I remember the way Tracey and Charley flirted in front of me. The pain of it. But this sting is even worse.
“But you were the one who told him where I lived,” I say, failing to keep the anger out of my voice. I place my orange juice back on the table before I shatter the glass with my tightening fist. “Surely you must’ve known he had some interest in me.”
“I just thought he was coming to check up on you,” Tracey says, squinting at me as though I’m missing something obvious. “You know, doing his job. Being a good fireman. I didn’t think he’d . . . well . . . no offence, hon.”
“What do you mean, check up on me? Why would he be the one to check up on me? I was at the hospital, wasn’t I?”
Tracey’s squint grows narrower. “You don’t know?” she says. “You really don’t know?”
“Don’t know what?”
“Brody was the one who saved you from the fire, Darla. Didn’t he mention it?”
If I looked outraged or bemused before, I must look positively stunned now. I feel my mouth opening in an idiot’s O of surprise, my hands grip my knees, and a slow, long, “Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh,” leave my lips. I watch Tracey for a few moments, trying to figure out if she’s lying. I have no clue why she would lie about something like this, but it’s Tracey, pixie-like, playful, infuriating Tracey. But she looks back at me plainly, nodding.
“It was him,” she goes on. “You’re clearly besties now. Didn’t he mention anything?”
“No,” I mutter. “No, he didn’t. I was going to ask, but I got . . .” Distracted, I think. Distracted by Brody’s body and the passion and his strong hands and the way he dominates me during sex. And his softer side. His softer side I’m only now starting to see. “Brody saved my life,” I say, voice numb.
“Yeah, we all saw him. Wow, that’s crazy. I mean—and I would never intend any offence, not on my life—what I mean to say is, if I had been saved by some mysterious man, I’d make it my business to find out who it was. You know? No offence, hon.”
“No offence taken,” I whisper.
I think of the strong hands of the armor-clad man, comparing them with Brody’s hands. Yes, I realize. They’re the same. When he caught me on the street outside the restaurant, it was that which I recognized.
Brody, I think. Why didn’t you tell me?
Chapter Sixteen
Brody
I remember the moment I caught Julia cheating on me. I remember it so well sometimes I think it will stay etched on my mind forever, an imprint of past pain and rage, a mark which will never be erased, the driving force behind most of my adult life.
I remember when, as a nineteen-year old man, I approached our apartment with a bunch of flowers in my hand. I was training to be a fireman and she was in college, studying literature or some other highbrow subject which, when she talked about it, often made me feel slow. I remember how the December air was unusually crisp, my breath fogging around me. I remember the feeling of my knuckles, nipped at by the icy air, as I held the flowers in one hand and rooted around in my pants pocket for the keys with the other. I remember thinking: She’ll love these. And I felt soft. And weak. I felt like the sort of man I’d come to hate. But I didn’t know it then.
Julia had been getting more involved with her college culture. I encouraged her to do it, dumb asshole that I was. She’d sometimes spend four nights a week at the campus, studying, having coffee with friends and talking about books, generally consuming everything college had to offer. But I saw myself as her rock, timeless and secure, always waiting for her when she returned.
This was one of her in-nights and I’d bought the flowers on a whim on the way home. I couldn’t wait to see her face light up when I presented them to her. Me being only a trainee firefighter and her being a student, we were piss-poor back then and I rarely bought her flowers. But screw it, I thought. I’d treat her. I’d show my appreciation. Later, the image that would make me cringe most is of me walking up the stairs of our apartment building, a slack-jawed grin on my face, looking like the biggest moron I ever saw. Pointlessly optimistic. Unbelievably trusting. Barely more than a boy. Even the guys at the fire station called me Kid back then. After the mess with Julia, they never called me Kid again.
I opened the door. I’ll surprise her, I thought. I was meant to be staying late that night and Julia had told me that morning how much she wished I could be with her tonight. She perched up on my chest, kissed me on the nose, and said in a cute and sweet voice: “Oh, I’d love if you could come home, baby. I miss you so much.” This from the woman I’d been dating since my fifteenth birthday. A real, true, proper, genuine, sincere High School Sweetheart. Did I really ever think like that? I often ask myself. Was I really so naïve?
I unlocked the door and I walked in.
I dropped the flowers.
I stepped back and tears—tears! I cried for this woman!—began streaming down my face in twin rivers.
I never dreamed the guy would be a threat. His name was Benjamin Schmidt and he was a bookworm. He was such a bookworm that he even looked like an actual worm. His arms and legs and even his neck were thin, wriggling and wormlike. He wore thick glasses and his fingers were ten wriggling worms. Only now they were ten wriggling worms which were sliding over Julia’s naked body.
Back in those days, I had a favorite chair. It was an old beat-up thing my father gave me when I moved house. A large, kingly armchair, the green fabric flaking away like pieces of leaf crisping to brown in the autumn time, but the cushions still plush. I had sat in that chair my entire childhood and when I sat in it at nineteen years old, I felt as comfortable as I did back then.
Julia was bent over my childhood chair, completely naked, sweaty breasts rubbing against the cushion. For a moment, it looked as though she had four hands. And then I looked closer and saw that the illusion was created by Benjamin reaching underneath her and cupping her breasts. He stood behind her, deep inside of her, grinning like a madman. Julia bounced on him a couple of times and let out a moan before both of them turned to me.
“Brody!” Julia screamed.
She immediately got up, tried to approach me. That killed me. She jumped up and walked across the room, still naked, still covered with sweat and saliva—it looked like eager Benjamin had spit in her hair—and looked at me with her old, loving expression. “I—I thought you were going to be gone until late.”
“No,” I said, voice sounding distant. “No, I was going to surprise you. I got you flowers.”
I spoke coldly. My eyes looked over Julia and Benjamin, who rushed around scooping up his clothes. Now, if I caught a man with my woman, there would be blood and spitting and fighting and pain. But I was a boy then and I didn’t have the heart to fight. I hadn’t even fought any real fires. I was green. I was barely out of high school. And my heart was breaking.
“No,” I repeated.
I took a step back when she tried to touch me, turned around, and left the apartment.
I crashed at Marco’s place for six months and I didn’t talk to Julia ever again. She tried at first, but after about a week I heard through a friend that she’d invited Benjamin to move in with her. I had sent for my clothes and some of my belongings, but not my furniture. I knew that one ni
ght their passion would probably take them to my childhood armchair again. But, strangely, I didn’t feel much at this. I swallowed down any feeling, pushed it away. She wasn’t worth my feeling.
When I heard that she’d transferred with Benjamin to the east coast, I was happy.
“You tripping or something, man?” Marco says, punching me in the leg.
I snap out of the memories and give him the finger. “Go to hell,” I grunt.
“I second that,” Jonny says, walking into the breakroom. He goes to the refrigerator and takes out an energy drink. “I reckon hell is exactly where Marco belongs. There isn’t no place better for him. He should be on all fours, getting Satan’s poker right up the ass.”
“Since when did the new kid think he could talk shit?” Marco grins. He leaps across the room, grabs Jonny in a headlock, and begins rubbing his tuft of ginger hair with his knuckles. “Come on, new kid,” he laughs, when Jonny drops his drink and starts squirming. “Where’s that new-kid fight, eh? Come on, new kid!”
“Asshole!” Jonny breathes, trying to dislodge himself. But he can’t.
Finally, Marco lets go and dances to the other side of the room before the Jonny can retaliate.
“Asshole!” he wheezes, rubbing his neck. He bends down and picks up his drink.
I laugh along with it, but in the back of the mind, I’m thinking of Darla. Darla’s what prompted me to lose myself in memories of Julia, I’m sure. It’s the same all week. We’ll be working out or giving community speeches or demonstrations, even putting out fires, and Darla is always lurking at the back of my mind, watching, waiting. I don’t consciously take a break from seeing her, but all the same, I don’t call her and I only text her to tell her I’m busy.
She was going to say girlfriend, I think, all throughout the week. She was going to call herself my girlfriend.
I’m not usually an emotional sort of man. I see emotional men, crying men and unsure men, and I don’t envy them one bit. Why should I? Where they umm and ahh about what they’re going to do with a woman, I just do it. I never hesitate. I’m never unsure. But now . . .
It’s like there are two camps inside of me. One is manned by my old self, the man I’ve been since I walked in on Julia being railed by the wormlike kid from her college course. This man wants nothing more than to distance himself from the closeness, than to get the hell out of dodge before things start to get really complicated, to sprout goddamn wings and fly out of the state if that’s what it takes. This man wants nothing to do with love, affection; he’s all about the passion of pressing his naked body against a woman’s, hearing her moans of pleasure, losing himself in her in the act—and then leaving.
But there’s another camp and the man in this camp is more conflicted. This man remembers the solace he found with Darla after the hellish day at the veterinary clinic. This man remembers how good it felt to have a woman take care of him for the night. This man remembers the closeness fondly. And for this man, the idea of Darla calling herself my girlfriend isn’t such a big deal. So what if she’s my girlfriend? We’re close enough, aren’t we? Why shouldn’t she be?
I am neither of these men, not completely, and that’s where the complications arise. I can’t decide if I want to remain cold or if I want to open myself up to Darla, if only a little bit.
I’m in the gym room six days after I last saw Darla when Jonny walks in. He sits down on a leg machine and looks across at me. I’m leaning up on the bench, massaging my muscles after a heavy lift.
“Brody,” he nods.
“Jonny,” I nod back.
He glances at the door, angles his head so he can see into the hallway. “You know,” he says, voice low, “I don’t think it’s such a bad thing to be close to a woman. I know the guys give you a hard time about spending time with the woman from the coffee place.”
“You do, too,” I note.
Jonny winces, then grins. “Yeah, I guess I do. But that’s just ribbing. What I’m trying to say is, I don’t think you should worry too much about what we think. We might make fun of you, we might all make fun of each other, but when the fire is lashing at us and the roof is crumbling, we’ve all got each other’s backs. You know what I mean?” He pauses, thinking. And then adds: “Anyway, it’s not such a bad thing to have a woman.”
Jonny starts his exercise.
I lie down on the bench and start mine.
But Jonny’s got me thinking and by the time my shift is over, all I can think about is seeing Darla again.
Chapter Seventeen
Darla
Over the next week, I double my efforts to find a new job.
My meagre savings are dwindling and rent looms on the horizon like a storm. Sooner or later, I’ll be out of cash and I’ll need extra income. So I go to the local library, use their printer to make another fifty résumés, and I roam the streets.
I leave the apartment at nine o’clock in the morning and return just after five. I make a job of finding a job. But it seems that every place I enter already has a stack of résumés knee-high and I know it’ll be some time before they get around to mine, if they ever do. But I’m confident. I have the experience and the enthusiasm and I like to think I make a good first impression.
Brody is too busy with work to see me this week, or so he says. I would be superhuman if I could somehow believe that this had nothing to do with my almost accidently calling myself his girlfriend. I read it on his face. He was terrified. He looked at me as though I’d just produced an engagement ring, claimed he’d given it to me, and slipped it onto my own finger. He looked at me like I was insane. He looked at me like I was pushing him way too far and he didn’t know how much longer he could take it. Every time it comes to my mine, I cringe so hard I gouge crevices into my stack of résumés with my fingernails.
Why did I say that? I ask myself. Why?
I search for an answer to this question and I come up with nothing. It wasn’t a premeditated mistake. I didn’t plan on saying it. It just almost came out. Word-vomit of the highest caliber.
I don’t text him for a couple of days, wanting to keep my distance. I don’t want to scare him. That’s one reason. But there’s another reason that has very little to do with him and everything to do with me.
I’m shocked by how quickly I’m starting to fall for him. Above all, I value my independence. That’s why, instead of running to Mom and Dad and asking for a handout, I search doggedly for a new job. That’s why I won’t admit defeat in the face of the fire. That’s why I won’t slink away with my tail between my legs. Independence; that’s the thing.
And if I let myself fall for Brody, I will lose my independence. It can’t help but happen. It was the same with Charley. But Brody isn’t Charley, Brody is different.
That’s true, but it doesn’t do much to stop my internal war. If I fall for Brody, I will stop being a free, independent woman and I’ll become one half of a couple. I remember what being one half of a couple is all too well.
I remember one evening when Charley and I were going out on a date to a local restaurant. It was a fancy place—the fanciest place he’d ever taken me—and so I wanted to make an effort. We were at his apartment and I went into my bag and took out a dress I’d packed especially. It was similar to the dress I wore on my date with Brody, green and sparkling to match my eyes. I was grinning with excitement as I slipped into it, grinning even wider as I stood in front of the mirror and applied my makeup, and by the time it came to strap up my green high heels, I was grinning so widely the corners of mouth almost touched my ears.
Charley was in the living room, drinking a beer and watching TV.
I danced into the room, feeling like an angel, feeling more attractive than I had in weeks. Thinking back, it was foolish of me to expect any kind of reaction from Charley than the one he gave. But at the time I was full of hope. I danced in, strutted into the middle of the room (blocking the TV) and did a twirl.
“So,” I said, “how do I look?”
He took a swig from his beer and grunted. “You look like a prostitute,” he said absentmindedly, moving along the couch to try and see the TV. When I didn’t move, he snapped, “What the hell do you want from me? You come out here looking like a woman who should be standing on a street corner and now you’re blocking the goddamn TV. Can you move?”
He didn’t say any of this viciously. That was the worst part. He spoke in a matter-of-fact voice and I truly believed, as he said it, that I looked like a prostitute. It was strange to me, because moments ago I had truly believed I looked glamorous and beautiful.
I marched back into the bedroom and changed. I actually changed for that piece of shit. I came out a few minutes later with less makeup on my face, wearing stylish jeans and a top with frilly bits around the edges. He glanced at me, shrugged, and muttered: “You’re a bit underdressed, aren’t you? We’re going to a fancy place.”
It wasn’t until I broke it off with him that I realized what the problem was.
