by Paula Cox
I wasn’t independent. I had tied my self-worth to another person and that other person could be kind, prop me up, make me feel better about myself, or they could crush me just as easily. It was all the same to Charley. He didn’t seem to take delight in putting me down. He went about it like it was the normal course of things.
After I dumped him—when he flirted with Tracey right in my face—I underwent a transformation. When I dressed up and looked at myself in the mirror, it was no longer to try and impress somebody else. I was the only person I had to answer to. I was the only critic that mattered. I had finally gained my independence. Mom and Dad could complain that I should want to do something more than working at a coffee place, they could goad and chide, they could play the Disappointed Parents all they wanted. It didn’t matter, because I didn’t have to answer to anybody when it came to my self-worth.
That’s the other half of my uncertainty about Brody. Right now, I’m falling for him, hard. But what about the future? It’s only been a few weeks. What if, lurking somewhere inside Brody, is a Charley just waiting to come out, his tongue ready for caustic criticism, his eyes ready for a disinterested glaze. I don’t believe it, not really, but when you’ve been with a man like Charley, the idea is difficult to dismiss out of hand.
At the end of the week, I walk zombie-like into my apartment. Exhaustion grips every part of me and I can’t help but feel disheartened. One week of searching and still no luck. And still no Brody, I think. Maybe he’s done with me. Maybe that’s a good thing. I get to keep my independence. But what use is independence if you can’t use it to go after something you want? And I want Brody, that’s the truth. I can’t deny that. But is he worth my independence? Yes, yes, yes! No, no, no! Why can’t dating be simple?
These thoughts whirr around in the back of my mind incessantly without resolution.
I shower and as the water caresses me, I think about Brody’s caressing hands. But it’s different now, because I know what his hands feel like. The fantasy is more real. I close my eyes and I can bring to mind all the times we’ve fucked, the way he looks at me with his hard hazel eyes, the passion in his twisted lips. I can feel his hand on my breast, squeezing until the flesh turns red, and hear the guttural grunt he makes as he does it. A dominant, passionate man, a knows-what-he’s-doing-in-bed man. In that way, he’s completely at odds with Charley, who was a clumsy, fumbling lover. Perhaps that was one of the reasons he was so mean.
I step out of the shower and stand in front of the mirror. I stand there for so long that the steam evaporates from the glass and I look myself in the face. Who are you? I ask the reflection. What do you want from life?
My cheeks are flushed and I imagine they’re flushed from being with Brody, beetroot-red from our sex. Over the past couple of weeks, I’ve stood in front of this mirror a few times with a face just as flushed as mine is now, but with Brody standing behind me, hands on my shoulders or belly or ass. “You’re so damn sexy,” he’ll say. Or: “You’re the hottest thing alive, Darla.” Gone are the days when he criticized my looks. His cock—always rock-hard when I’m even half-naked around him—can’t lie.
I dry myself off and get changed into a t-shirt and some pajama bottoms.
Then I sit on the couch, a glass of wine in one hand and my cell in the other. It’s been six days since Brody and I have seen each other and part of me wants to text him, ask him if he wants to come over. But another part of me is aware that I’ll be opening myself up to him, something I already did when I almost dropped the G-bomb.
I’m oscillating between decisions, sipping wine and gazing out of my window. The blinds are open, the window cracked, and the sounds of the street filter up to me. Horns honk and people laugh and footsteps click-click across the sidewalk. I still haven’t decided what to do when I hear a voice, raised in frustration. “What the hell are you doing out here? You worked at the Coffee Joint, didn’t you? Why the fuck are you hanging around Darla’s apartment building?”
Wait a sec . . . that’s Brody’s voice.
I leap up so quickly that wine spills over the rim of my glass and splashes a crimson stain onto my couch. I walk to the window, open it wide, and lean my body out into the street, looking down.
Brody stands with wide shoulders, staring with angry eyes at the man in front of him, fists clenched.
Chapter Eighteen
Brody
Jonny’s words hit me hard. If a man like Jonny, a Pitbull of a man, can say that it’s no mean thing to have a woman, then maybe I can start seeing it differently, too.
But I’m not so easily persuaded that a few words from another man will make me see the whole world differently. It’s more like he triggered something inside of me, made me see circumstances from a different point of view. Maybe I can lay aside my bullshit and make some kind of connection. Or maybe not. I don’t have the answers when it comes to stuff like this. All I know for sure is that I want to see Darla tonight. I don’t need to think any further ahead than that.
I’m almost at her apartment building when I notice a man leaning against the wall a few yards down from the door. He’s thin, almost bald, and wears thick horn-rimmed glasses. His overcoat reaches up to his neck and down to his knees. He reminds me of one of those guys from public safety videos shown to kids about the danger of talking to men you don’t know. He looks creepy. There’s no other way to put it.
As I approach, he heaves away from the wall and walks right up to me.
“You’re Brody,” he says. His eyes seem huge, magnified by the glasses. I think I’ve seen him before, but I can’t pinpoint exactly where.
“I am,” I say, eyeing him. “But I don’t know you.”
“Me?” He brings his hand to his chest in an overdramatic gesture. “Me?” He repeats. He doesn’t make eye contact with me, instead looking at the ground or above my head, anywhere but into my face. “I, good sir, am Darla’s boyfriend.” He opens his mouth and flashes me a gummy smile.
“Darla’s . . .” I chuckle. “Somehow I doubt that, man.”
He takes a step back, shaking his head. “You don’t know me, sir,” he says. He speaks in a mechanical voice. I get the sense that these words are carefully chosen. He speaks them like a man giving a rehearsed speech. “I have been dating Darla for a few weeks now and we’ve really hit it off.” Again, hit it off sounds odd. Like he heard it in a TV show or something and is now parroting it. “We made sweet love.”
I take a step forward, looming over him. I know he’s lying—Darla would never be with a guy like this, she’s far too beautiful and smart and funny—but anger still nips at me. Even the idea of Darla being with someone else angers me, I realize. It’s a shock to discover how much I’ve come to think of Darla as seeing only me. We’ve never discussed being exclusive. As far as either of us knows, we’re out on the town every night with other people. But I haven’t even tried talking to another woman whilst I’ve been with Darla, and somehow I sense the same of her.
“Careful what you say.” My voice low, growling. “Darla is my . . .” What, eh? What is she? Girlfriend? Because you freaked the hell out when she almost called herself that. “Darla is my friend,” I go on. “She doesn’t have a boyfriend. And you’re definitely not her type, anyway.” I glance up at her apartment window, a few stories above. It suddenly occurs to me that all the times I’ve been here, this man could’ve been lurking beneath, listening. “Who are you?” I say.
“Darla’s boyfriend,” he says adamantly.
“You’re not Darla’s boyfriend, pal,” I say. I take another step forward. He shrinks back. I’m not going to fight this man. It wouldn’t be much of a fight. More like picking on a kid half my size. But I can’t deny that I’m angry and getting angrier each time he sticks to his lie. “I recognize you from somewhere, I’m sure of it.”
“You’ve probably seen me with Darla before,” he says. He licks his lips, a quick flickering of the tongue that reminds me of a snake. “Maybe you ran into her one night at a
restaurant and you saw me then. You probably don’t recognize me because I was wearing a suit. I often wear suits when I’m out with Darla because I want her to be proud of me.”
I watch as he talks, searching my mind. After a few moments, it slots into place.
“You worked with her,” I say. Anger bubbles up into my voice. “What the hell are you going out here? You worked at the Coffee Joint, didn’t you?” He flinches back at my raised voice, and I see that I’m right. His eyes go wide with recognition. “Why the fuck are you hanging around Darla’s apartment building?”
“You’re one of the firemen.” He swallows. “Of course you are one of the firemen. I thought you were just a new friend . . . I heard your name . . . but, yes, I remember now. Brody the Fireman. You came into the Coffee Joint before it went ka-boom!” He giggles. It’s like the giggle of a child from a horror movie, the sort of giggle which makes your skin crawl.
“What the hell—”
“Brody! Carl!”
I look up. Darla leans out of her window, staring down at us.
“What’s going on out here?”
“Ask him.” I point at Carl. “I came to see you, Darla, and I found this creep hanging around right outside your door. Says you’re his girlfriend.”
Darla’s gaze snaps to Carl. “I am not your girlfriend!” she cries. “Why would say that, Carl?” Shaking her head, she turns her gaze back to me. “I’m sorry, Brody. Carl’s a bit . . . different, I guess you could say. But he’s harmless enough. Look, I don’t want to keep shouting down like this from my tower. Let’s face it, I’m no Rapunzel. Can you two promise not to fight until I get down there?”
“I don’t hit children,” I grunt.
Carl takes a step back and spreads his hands. “I am an adult, actually,” he says robotically. “I am a fully grown adult and Darla is my friend.”
“Well, we’ll see,” I reply.
Darla withdraws from the window. Carl and I wait in silence. About a minute later, the door opens and Darla walks onto the street. It’s only been a week, but goddamn, seeing her again hits me hard. I look at her body, lithe and tight and perfect, and I wonder why the hell we aren’t up in her apartment right now instead of down here with this weirdo.
“What’s going on?” she demands, looking at Carl.
“He doesn’t believe me,” Carl says.
“Believe you about what?”
“That we’re boyfriend and girlfriend.”
Darla clenches her teeth. She takes a step forward. I’ve never seen her look so outraged, even when I told her she needed to work on her appearance. She walks right up to Carl until she is standing over him. “Listen,” she says, voice trembling, “I am not your girlfriend. I don’t how you got that idea into your head, but you need to get it out just as fast. Okay? I’m not your girlfriend and I never will be.”
“You’re just saying that because he’s here,” Carl says, nodding at me.
I don’t know whether to growl or laugh. It’s so absurd. But beneath the absurdity, there’s a real creepy factor about this guy. His big eyes and his flicking tongue and the way he doesn’t seem to register anything anybody else says. I think of the arson investigation still underway and wonder if they’ve looked into this guy yet.
I watch as Darla takes a long, deep breath. Her cheeks tremble and I get the sense she could explode any second. Perhaps I should intervene, but she’s angry, damn angry, and I don’t want to get in her way. Is she the fieriest woman I’ve ever been with? Is she the most independent? The answer can be neatly slotted into two one-word sentences. Hell. Yes.
“Stop being such a creep!” Darla snaps. “Okay? Can you do that for me? Just stop it! It’s not okay, Carl! You can’t just creep on people all your life! What are you even doing here? Why are you lurking outside my apartment?” Spit flies from her lips. She closes her eyes, turns the rage inward. “Listen,” she goes on, in a calmer voice. “I don’t have anything against you, Carl. I know you’re not dangerous. I know you’re just . . . different, yeah? Let’s call it that. But there are certain things you can’t do, and this is one of them.”
“Damn right,” I mutter, thinking: She says he’s not dangerous but I’m not so sure. I mean, look at him, an oversized insect perpetually licking his lips. He looks like the sort of guy you see being dragged into a police van on TV with the caption: Serial Killer Caught at Long Last.
“I’m . . . I’m . . . your boyfriend.” Carl squints at Darla and it’s like he actually believes what he’s saying, like he genuinely thinks he and Darla are together. I look into his face now—stunned and confused—and I can’t help but see my face, how I must’ve looked when I walked in on Julia and Benjamin. The sensation is strange and I force it away.
“Look,” I say, stepping into the fray. “You’re not her boyfriend. Everybody here knows that. So why don’t we do this. You go on your merry way and Darla and I go upstairs. And if we ever find you outside here again—”
“What, you’ll cave my skull in?”
I laugh. “No, dude, damn. I’m not about to beat up on a skinny kid like you. No, if we find you out here again, we’ll call the police.”
“I fucked her,” Carl whispers, so quickly it’s almost one word. Ifuggeder.
Darla wheels on him, cheeks red. “No you did not—”
Her apartment window explodes in a shower of fire and glass. Glass rains down on us like drops of crystallized rain, razor-sharp. Instinctively, without thinking, I throw myself on Darla, shielding her with my body. Glass cuts into the back of my neck and my head, slicing across my scalp. I hold her close until the glass stops raining down, and then we look up.
Her apartment window is an inferno. Flames lick against the brick work, blackening it, and from inside the sounds of shattering electrical appliances, couches going up in flames, glasses shattering in cupboards rise into the air.
“What the . . .” Darla squints as though she can’t believe what she’s seeing. “What the . . .”
I take out my cell. “This is firefighter Brody Ellison of precinct . . .”
Chapter Nineteen
Darla
Everything happens so fast it’s like being sucker punched in the face.
One second I’m trying to put Carl in his place and the next glass is raining down all around us. I hear the explosion, but it seems unreal, something which couldn’t possibly happen on my street, let alone to my apartment. Despite the madness—or maybe because of it—when Brody lays his body upon mine I can’t help but feel his muscles against my back. Hard pecs and rock sheet of ab muscles pressed firmly against my skin. I savor the feeling and then a voice screams inside my head: Get back to reality! Get back to reality! Now!
Brody stands away from me. The glass has stopped raining down. Now it lies in glittering diamonds on the floor all around us.
Brody talks to somebody on his cellphone, but the words are blurred and difficult to determine. I bring my hands to my ears and that’s when I hear the ringing, a constant noise which resounds around my head. I wonder how long the ringing has been there for. Feeling numb, like I don’t have full control of my arms and legs, I turn around and look up at the window. Flames flicker from my apartment building. Inside, the fire eats everything. I can hear it, dimly, and as I listen I imagine I can see it. All my clothes, all my belongings, all the small bits and pieces which make up my life—destroyed.
I bring my hand to my mouth to stop the sob from escaping.
No, no, no, no, no! I think, horrified. I clamp my hand down so hard on my mouth my face hurts. What is happening? A bomb . . . a bomb in my apartment? How could that happen? Who? Why? Was it an accident? Was it meant for somebody else? What have I ever done that somebody would want to put a bomb in my apartment? It makes no sense!
My apartment doesn’t stand a chance against the fire. As I watch it wreck my life with spitting hands of orange, Brody goes to the apartment buzzer panel and presses all of them one by one, telling them they have to get out of t
he building. Luckily, everybody answers, and after around a minute, the street is filled with the tenants from my building. All of them look confused in the extreme. One man, called Mr. Peppers if I have his name right, rubs his hands together over and over, pacing up and down the street, shaking his head. The ringing in my ears lessens and I hear his muttered words: “How could this happen? What is going on? How could this happen? What is going on?”
One woman holds a baby. But the baby doesn’t cry. She looks up at her mother with big wide blue eyes like a startled deer.
I look down at my hands. Shaking. Shaking too much. The ringing in my ears lessening, but still there. Eyes stung with . . . glass? Is there glass in my eyes? Oh, God, there’s glass in my eyes. I have to get it out. Jesus, glass in my eyes! I have to get it out now! Oh God, glass right inside my eye . . . and what if it burrows into my brain? Then what? Oh God . . .
I reach up for my eyes, meaning to pick the shards of glass out with my fingernails. I’m about to push my fingernails beneath my eyelids when Brody catches my hands.
