by Kyra Davis
It’s disgusting. I’ve totally let this place go to hell. There are old bowls of Top Ramen on the coffee table and on the kitchen counter. There’s mail in a pile by the door. The wastebasket is overflowing with trash.
Almost without thinking I get a garbage bag from underneath the sink and empty the trash, collecting the overflow, and then move to the bowls, dumping the remainder of the hardening noodles in there as well. I place the dirty dishes in the kitchen sink before I turn on the water, letting it warm while I crack a window. I look out at the world for a while, that message still echoing in my head. I open the window a little wider, feel the mild chill of the air. “I think,” I say to the streets in general, “I think I’d actually like to take a shower.”
I look over at my bed. Cuddly Bubbles is there on my pillow, silently trumpeting his approval.
CHAPTER 31
THE NEXT FEW days are a little better. Slowly I begin to integrate my routine back into my life. I ask for one more week off from cage dancing, and to my surprise Matt gives it to me, while assuring me that my job will be there when I’m ready to resume. I do start back with phone sex right away. I need the money so I take the late-night shift, which pays better. I soon find that the horny, lonely insomniacs are a little classier than the horny, lonely dudes who call in the late afternoon. For one thing, most of the insomniacs have jobs. And some of them tell me about them. I coo about my feet to a stressed-out intellectual property attorney and pretend I want to be spanked by a manager of a tanning salon. I even get to sex up a physicist, faking an orgasm in response to his in-depth explanation of the multiverse theory, which I find so interesting I end up asking him to recommend some books on the subject before we hang up.
Oh, and that’s another thing: I start reading. Three days after that message from Brad I go to LA’s central library, which is insane! It’s a cross between a Frank Lloyd Wright–inspired office building and a gorgeous Renaissance castle.
I know this because I’ve been checking out the architecture books. I’ve also been reading books on tattoos that are inspired by the Native American tribes. And everything Ash told me about his tattoos is totally wrong. The phoenix is Greek, not Native American, and it doesn’t bring the thunder. None of the Native American tribes saw the sun as a deity. And those arrows? Okay, yes, one arrow pointing to the west means protection, just like he said. And yes, one pointing to the east is supposed to ward off evil. But both of those arrows together, the way Ash has it? It means war.
Dumbass.
But I don’t really care too much about Ash’s ignorance anymore. I’m just amazed that I was able to find a book on this subject—several of them, in fact! Who knew so many books even existed? Why on earth had I stopped reading? This is what I should have been doing when I was bedridden with depression. But now I don’t have a schedule that accommodates reading all day every day. I have other things I have to do. I have to learn how to live.
And so every day I get up and take a shower, even if I have nowhere to go. I start running again, first four miles, then five, and finally six, even seven or eight if I’m feeling particularly anxious. I start surfing again, too, and hiking around Griffith Park and Runyon. And every day I listen to Brad’s message . . .
And every day I decide not to return his call.
I want to call him back, but I’m absolutely terrified to do so. What if he tells me that I’ve misunderstood his message completely? Or what if I didn’t misunderstand but he’s changed his mind and decided I’m weird in bad ways rather than good ones?
Or it could be worse than that. It could be that he only wants to thank me. He could pick up the phone, tell me how I’ve helped him, and once that’s off his chest he’ll never call me again. We’ll just be done. He could turn that thank-you into a good-bye and that good-bye into a rejection.
That would kill me. That’s not a metaphor or hyperbole. It could actually end my life. I’m feeling better right now, but I’m beginning to understand myself a little better, too, and what I’ve come to understand is that I’m delicate. Or to be more blunt, I’m not okay. It’s not difficult for me to imagine taking another shard of glass to my wrist and pushing it into the vein. No one would be or should be surprised if I were to swim out to sea in order to drown myself.
There’s something inside of me, like . . . like the horrible little worm in that X-Files episode. It’s something dangerously destructive and unpredictable, something that pushes me to do things I absolutely shouldn’t do. I know that. I’ve always known that. But the difference now is that I want to kill the worm. I don’t know what path I need to take in order to heal, but I’m beginning to get a feel for what paths I need to avoid.
Breaking it off with Ash was devastating, but I’m still here. And if he had broken things off with me it would have been the same . . . Well, okay, maybe a little worse, but it still wouldn’t have been fatal. What would have been fatal was staying with him.
But Brad’s a completely different story. Yes, I said good-bye to him. I pushed him away. The memory of that tears me apart, but I can now recognize my actions for what they were, a preemptive strike. Even then, on some level, I knew I would not be able to survive being rejected by Brad Witmer.
TWO MONTHS GO by. I’m back to dancing at Envy twice a month. My hours for 1-900-555-SEXX have decreased as well. But it’s okay, it’s my choice, because I have a new job. I’m the sample chick at Trader Joe’s. I make up little tastes of the various things they sell at the store and give them away to customers. Everyone, practically without exception, likes the person who gives them free food. It almost doesn’t matter what kind of free food I give them. Sometimes I prepare a pasta dish using a special goat cheese, extra-virgin olive oil, and fresh veggies that I’ve meticulously chopped into fine tasty bites. Other times I just toss a few small sugar cookies into paper cups. No matter what, people like it. Sometimes I think that if I took some plutonium, deep-fried it, and put it on a cocktail napkin, people would gobble it up and thank me for it. But rather than test the theory, I put effort into coming up with things people might actually enjoy if they were served it in a restaurant. The customers notice, my bosses notice, everyone’s happy.
And the other workers at TJs are surprisingly cool. The majority of my coworkers have tattoos, alternative lifestyles, and happy dispositions. One of the checkers, Liz, is a guitarist and she and I are talking about starting a band. She already knows a keyboardist and bass player. All we need is a drummer.
A drummer like Brad.
And yes, I still have his message, and yes, I still listen to it a few times a day. And no, I still don’t call.
One of these days I’ll have to talk to my shrink about that.
Oh yeah, that’s another great thing about Trader Joe’s. Great health care. It even covers mental health costs. This is the first time I’ve ever talked to a shrink of my own volition. Her name is Ines Alvarez. I haven’t shared everything with her yet but already she’s helping me see things a little differently. It’s Ines who convinced me to cut back on my drinking. Which is not the same as stopping—something Ines is constantly pointing out to me. But it’s not like alcohol is cocaine. It’s a perfectly legal beverage. In France they serve wine to their kids for, like, their kindergarten graduation. I’ve even heard that a few glasses a day can be good for your heart. Still, Ines won’t let it go and I have to admit that since I’ve cut back I have noticed that my focus is better and it’s easier to sleep through the night.
But I haven’t agreed to her request that I take medication yet, although I know that’s coming. I guess part of me wants to know if I can do without. If maybe I have the power within myself to take care of my own issues. Ines says it doesn’t always work that way. But I don’t know . . . I want to try. I want to figure out what I’m really all about, and I’m afraid that if I take meds I’ll lose a little of who I am.
So yes, things are better. And yet I still think about Ash a lot and the child we lost. I wonder about his pilot and
if he went back to Mindy McSlut—my pet name for her. And I think about Brad All. The. Time. I think about the time he asked the band to play the song he wrote. I think about the first dinner I had with him and June, about sharing bagels at his home and our trip to the LACMA and the tar pits, which was so perfect until I chose to completely screw it up.
And I still have Cuddly Bubbles. I sleep with him every night.
I wonder if Brad still thinks he owes me a thank-you, or if he even thinks about me at all.
I wonder what would have happened with us if I hadn’t rushed out of his home that one night . . . the night I discovered the acceptance letter from Harvard. The night he touched me and kissed me in a way that made everything else disappear.
I wonder if he’s kissed anyone else like that lately.
I’ve been thinking about all those things tonight as I lie here, sprawled out on the couch, wrapping up a call with the guy who pays me to pretend he’s rescuing me from quicksand, which I stumbled into while wearing nothing but a string bikini. That’s how bad it’s gotten; even the revelation of a quicksand fetish isn’t enough to distract me from thoughts of Brad.
I get less than a five-minute respite before the phone rings again. “This is Cherry Pop,” I coo into the phone, “and I’m so lonely. Are you calling to keep me company?”
“No,” says a man in a very familiar baritone. “I’m calling because you never returned my call.”
I bolt upright. “Brad?”
“Cherry?”
“No, no, no, no, you can’t call here!” I insist.
“I disagree. The ad says everyone is welcome at 555-SEXX.”
I press my lips together, unwilling to laugh at his joke.
“Mercy, I just want to talk,” he says with a sigh. “We left things in such an ugly way and . . . I just want a chance to tell you, you were right.”
I squeeze my eyes closed. “Okay,” I whisper. “I hear you, now please . . . you have to get off the phone.”
“I’m applying to UCLA Law.”
I open my eyes immediately. “You are?”
“I am.”
“Because of me?” I squeak.
“Yes,” he says with a warm laugh, “because of you.”
“Oh.” I fall back against the couch cushions. “Oh wow.”
“Yeah, wow,” he agrees. “It’s too late to get in for fall, but that might be a good thing. If I’m accepted, June will already be well into kindergarten by the time I start classes. I’ll be around to help her with the adjustment. And I’ve been playing a lot of poker. I’ve gotten good enough that I’ve been able to go to Vegas and win at a few of the tables . . . I’ve won a lot, Mercy.”
“Wow,” I say again. My eyes go from the coffee mug on my table to the surfboard leaned up against my wall. “Are you going to be, like, the first presidential candidate to fund their campaign with poker winnings?”
“Well,” he says with a laugh, “I haven’t won quite that much. And I still don’t think the president thing is going to work out, but there are other things I can do.”
“Other than being president?” This time it’s my turn to laugh. “Yeah, just a few.”
“I’ve missed that,” he says softly.
“Missed what?”
“Your laughter.”
For a long time I don’t say anything. I just focus on my heart, futilely willing it to slow down. “I miss your laugh, too,” I finally manage. “Look, I may have been right about UCLA and some other stuff, but . . . it’s not like I don’t know I was acting crazy. I did a total 180 on you that day, and I know you felt like it came out of nowhere. I . . . I do know that’s fucked-up and I . . . I do know I owe you an apology, even if you did need a little kick in the ass.”
I can almost hear his smile. “Apology accepted,” he says. “But it’s not necessary. We’ve both done worse things than have a sudden mood shift at a museum. It was still the best afternoon of my life.”
“Of . . . of your life?” I repeat.
“Of my life.”
I pause for a moment; my heart is thrumming in my ears now. “It was the best afternoon of my life, too.”
And again, we share a moment of silence. I wonder what he’s thinking. Where he is. “Brad,” I whisper.
“Yeah?”
“You’re being charged by the minute.”
He laughs and then he says in his beautiful voice, “You’re worth it.”
I feel a slow smile spread across my face. “Well, in that case”—I lean back into the cushions—“why don’t you tell me about these poker games?”
“Not much to tell. At the clubs it’s usually the same players, unless you’re lucky.”
“What do you mean?”
“When someone sits down and says it’s their first time at a poker club, it’s a good day for us regulars because we know we’re about to clean the guy out.”
I run my finger along the fabric of my couch, curling my legs beneath me. “Sounds ruthless.”
“I can be ruthless, Mercy.”
I smile, move my fingers to my calf. “Call me Cherry.”
His laugh is low, sensuous. I glance over at Cuddly Bubbles, who is so valiantly guarding the bed. “I’ve told you this before,” he continues. “If there’s something I want and it’s within my reach, I go after it, with everything I have.”
“Like poker winnings?”
“Like you.”
I press my lips together. I’m beginning to understand what people mean when they say their heart explodes.
“Are you still with Ash?” His voice is even, almost a little menacing.
“No,” I breathe. “That’s over. But . . . but that doesn’t mean I’m yours.”
“No,” he agrees, “it doesn’t. It just means there’s one less thing I’m going to have to kick out of my way to win this.”
“Ash is not a thing,” I say, a little more sharply. “And I am not a trophy.”
“That’s true,” he agrees again. “You are a woman. You are the woman who sees the world in ways no one else sees it. You’re the woman who has empathy for the people others scorn and who speaks truths to people who need to hear them. You’re the woman who is a complete mess and yet in some ways is more together than anyone else I’ve ever met. You’re the woman who has an angelic voice and devilish moves. You’re the woman I’ve fallen in love with.”
“Brad . . .”
“I want you, Mercy, mood swings be damned. And I’m not giving up on you. Not even if you start charging me by the second.”
I smile, bending my neck, letting my hair fall forward. “This is crazy.”
“Maybe,” he agrees. “But right now I’m parked four blocks away from your apartment. And if anyone saw the state that I’m in, just from hearing your voice, they’d have me arrested for being indecent in public.”
“Really?” I say with mock scorn. “Are you really calling a sex line from your parked car? Even the foot fetishists know better than that.”
“Can I come over, Mercy?”
“Yeah,” I whisper. “Yeah, you can come over.” For another second we stay on the phone, not saying anything. And then I gently put the phone back in the cradle.
I count to three and then pick it up again and call the office of 555-SEXX to tell them I won’t be able to take any more calls tonight. Quickly I go to the bathroom and fluff up my hair and apply some lip gloss. I look down at my outfit, pink-and-purple-striped yoga pants and an oversized blue boat-neck sweatshirt that says in white, cursive font, Keep It Surreal. I could lead Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band.
I rush to my closet and sort through my things. What the hell do you wear for a romantic booty call with the future president of the United States? Do I go with a Marilyn Monroe vibe or Jackie O? Although he did call via my 900 line; maybe I should go with cage dancer . . .
The buzzer for the front door goes off. Damn it! I whirl around, try to come up with a strategy, and then decide to just buzz him in. I open the door
to my apartment and try to pose in a seductive manner . . . unfortunately there simply is no sexy posing in pink-and-purple-striped yoga pants. It can’t be done.
But when I see him climbing up the stairs, all concerns about posing just go out the window. It’s Brad. He’s . . . he’s back! And when he gets to the top of the stairs I see him take in the pants and the sweatshirt and he just smiles.
It’s a nice smile.
And now he’s right in front of me. He lifts his hand and gently places his palm against my cheek. “My God, I’ve missed you.” And then slowly he leans in, brushing his mouth against mine before adding just a little more pressure, gently parting my lips with his tongue as he takes me in his arms, right here, in the hallway of my apartment building . . .
. . . he’s holding me.
I lift my arms around his neck and, oh wow, I remember this, this feeling of just being lost in him. Like he’s surrounding me, protecting me, loving me.
He bends his knees and lifts me up, cradling me in his arms, carrying me over the threshold like a groom carrying his bride, his lips never, ever leaving mine. I move one hand to the back of his head, feel the way his hair prickles between my fingers before he gently puts me down on the bed. I can’t stop smiling as he stands over me, now caressing my cheek with the back of his hand. I prop myself up on my forearms, looking up into those deep-set eyes, falling in love with his chiseled features as if I’m seeing them for the very first time. With smooth, almost graceful movements he takes my sweatshirt from me. I’m not wearing a bra underneath and he reaches down, caresses my breast before sitting by my side, with one hand pushing me back while the other winds behind me, supporting me, keeping me from falling. And with my back arched against his palm he leans over, teasing my hardened nipples with his tongue, sending little shivers down my spine as I clutch his shoulders.
He pushes me farther down until my back is flat against the mattress and I’m watching him climb on top of me, feel him as he brings his face to mine and kisses me again, but this time the kiss is passionate right from the start. It’s intimate and beautiful and enticing, and I feel his hands on my waist as his lips move to my neck, my shoulder. I’m running my hands against the blades of his shoulders; he’s too broad for me to wrap him completely in my arms. It’s impossible to touch this man without being aware of his might, and yet he’s so very gentle, so sensitive to the reactions of my body, so skillful at anticipating what I crave.
