by Sansa Rayne
“Hey,” says Chase, setting his hand on my shoulder. “Look, I’m sorry, man. Really.”
There’s fear in his voice, a desperate panic — but also, a hint of regret.
“I mean it, okay?” he continues. “I didn’t mean to fuck up today. And I’m sorry about last night. I am.”
“Yeah?”
“Yes!” Chase rests his hand over his heart. “I swear. It was a dick move. If there’s a way to make it right, I’ll do it.”
I’ve seen such a sudden turnaround from Chase before. When his security is threatened, he’ll play every card he has to.
So let’s play.
“Fine,” I say as I turn the ignition. “Here’s what you’re going to do.”
For the first time since I’ve moved to New York City, my parents opt to come find me at my apartment. It’s easy enough for me to meet them at Port Authority, but today they decide to brave the subway. I’d hate to think it was the photo shoot that inspired them, but what else could it be? They know about the “Dirty Sexy Tragic” show at Galleria Carnale: its success, and its subject matter.
Despite the excellent media coverage and glowing reviews, I can hardly bear to think about it. After the way the night ended with Pierce and Chase, I just want to forget it all. I get too angry, too creeped out. I should have spent Saturday reading the exhibit’s many glowing reviews — instead I watched YouTube for hours, soothing my brain with one cat video after another.
Pierce does send me a text afterward: Sibel, I can’t say enough how sorry I am. Please forgive me. I don’t want to lose what we have.
In truth, I don’t either. I can already feel myself slipping back toward him, as time siphons away my anger. If I take him back, we’d have to establish some new ground rules; in particular, I never want to see Chase, ever.
Yet, I don’t want to forgive Pierce just because it will be the easier choice. In many ways, leaving him will be much harder. I don’t want to imagine what the press will say if I break up with Pierce just a few days after our combined work has made such an impact. Who will the court of public opinion blame? Me, or him? Who will they say used who? The notorious, arrogant pornographer, or the brazen, heartless artist?
How will anyone ever take me seriously again?
So when my parents ask me if I’m free for an impromptu visit, I’m glad to hear from them. I need the distraction. I don’t have the heart to tell them I’m really not in the mood to “celebrate” the exhibition, but when we spend time together, steering the conversation away from my art is de rigueur anyway.
When my door’s buzzer goes off, I’m lying on the couch, trying to read a book but failing to absorb a word of it.
“Hi, honey! We’re here!” my mom practically sings into the intercom, undoubtedly excited to have found the place. I let them in and give them a quick tour of the apartment. After cleaning all day yesterday in preparation for their visit, the place is surprisingly tidy.
I put up a kettle for coffee, and we sit down in my living room to wait.
“When we got the e-mail alert about your show, we were… impressed,” my mom begins. She searches through a beige purse until she pulls out a Times article from the gallery opening.
My dad takes off his baseball cap, wipes back his hair, and puts it back on. “It was a bit surprising though.”
“We were happy for you,” my mom says, trying to strike a balance. “And the money going to charity — we really were very proud.”
Dad nods, and then they go quiet, waiting for me to speak.
I listen to the hush of the stove for a minute and sigh. “I’m sorry I didn’t say anything, okay? I wish I’d invited you. I knew what the photos were like — I didn’t think you’d want to see that.”
“Honey, it’s not about seeing your art,” says Mom. “It’s about supporting you and being there for you. That’s all we really wanted.”
“That’s right, Sibel,” adds Dad.
“Thank you,” I tell them, wiping a tear from my cheek. “It means a lot, really. Thank you.”
They get up and give me a hug, and it feels good. We let go when I hear the kettle whistling. In the kitchen, they stir in their sugar and milk, and we sip from steaming cups.
“You know he was there,” I say at last. “Pierce Williams. You would have had to meet him.” I smile for the first time since that night, thinking about how that would have gone. “It would have been really awkward.”
Dad grunts, shaking his head. “Awkward my butt. I’d have told him exactly where in Lackawanna County I’ll bury his body if he ever hurts you.”
I laugh, picturing the exchange. Pierce would have loved it.
“You wouldn’t have made a scene about him being… you know. What he does.”
Dad blushes and looks away. Mom shakes her head. “No, honey. Of course not! We knew this was real art. It was in a gallery, after all. That’s really something.”
I take a long sip of my coffee; it burns my tongue but I don’t care.
“My past work was in the same gallery. You didn’t think that was art.” I speak calmly, like a detective who knows he’s got the killer trapped in a lie. “How was this any different?”
“Because these were pictures, Sibel,” says Dad. “We couldn’t be in the same room while you… performed. That’s why this was different, honey. This wasn’t really porn.”
I can understand why my folks wouldn’t want to be in the gallery during one of my regular performances. That would be weird, and I didn’t want them there either. Except…
“Those weren’t porn either. They were still art. I could have been performing right here instead of in the gallery, and they still would have been art because I say they are.”
“Sure, honey,” Dad says, staring into his coffee mug.
“That’s not what we meant,” adds Mom.
“Yes it is,” I snort.
They apologize again, and we sit in silence for a minute. I wonder what it would be like if I just got a job selling perfume or makeup in a department store, and not have to have conversations like this with my parents every time they’re in town. It might be worth it.
Mom announces she’s getting hungry, so I take them to A La Pizza for lunch. We get our slices boxed and eat sitting on a bench not far from the restaurant. We people watch until we’re done; my parents get a kick out of the sheer number of pedestrians going by. Our small talk consists of what movies they’ve seen lately and which Scranton businesses have closed in the past year.
After lunch, we take a bus uptown to shop at Bloomingdales. Mom gets herself a new pair of earrings and Dad waits patiently, reading the news on his phone. After a few hours, I walk them to the Lexington Avenue station and put them on an E train back to Port Authority.
“Come back soon, okay?” I tell them as I hug my dad.
“You should come visit us,” Mom says. “You’re welcome anytime.”
“Thanks. I will.”
I watch the train depart, waving to them through the car’s windows. Once they’re gone and I can no longer hear the train, I start to shake. Anger and misery are banging swords against each other inside my chest, and I want to cry, but I don’t want to, not out in public. I don’t want to be recognized, not right now. Especially not until things have been worked out with Pierce.
What am I supposed to do? I want him to meet my Dad, to have that experience. I want to continue our artistic and sexual explorations…
What I need right now is some advice.
I tighten the drawstrings on my hoodie and fish my sunglasses out of my purse. Then I get my phone and text Steph.
Hey, just saw my parents. Didn’t go well. Could use a friend right now. You busy?
It takes a few minutes for her to respond, so I exit the station and wander around a Duane Reade.
Sorry to hear. I have to study. If you want, we can go out after.
I write back, I could help you study. Quiz you, and stuff.
She takes a while to reply, and I g
et the sense that she’s stopping and starting over again.
Sure, okay, she says at last.
I hail a cab and stare out the window during the ride. The driver chats on a headset in some language I can’t even begin to guess.
Steph lets me into her place, textbook still in hand. She’s wearing sweatpants and a tank top that look like they could use a wash. Her kitchen table is strewn with index cards, yellow legal notepads and a stack of thick course books. “Take a seat,” she says. “Make yourself tea if you like. I’ve got a few chapters to read and take notes on.”
“Cool,” I say, setting down my purse. “How can I help?”
Steph shrugs. “Make the tea.”
I do so, pouring us steaming cups. Steph gives me a nod, but doesn’t say anything. I get out my phone to read.
After half an hour, I start to lose my patience.
“Steph, I wanted to tell you, I think I’m breaking up with Pierce.”
She stares at the page for a minute, blinking, then looks up. “That sucks. I’m sorry. Let me finish studying up here, and we’ll talk about it.”
“Sure.”
I realize that just now is the first time I’ve said it out loud: breaking up. I didn’t say it that night, and Pierce’s message… I never wrote him back. What is he thinking right now? Does he think I’m ignoring him, or just too upset to respond? If he’s giving me space to calm down, then that’s nice of him, but what if he’s having second thoughts? He could be letting me go — picking Chase, his long-time friend, over me. I inhale sharply, angered by the idea.
Yes, he’s Pierce’s friend, but he’s such an asshole.
“I don’t know if I want to see him again,” I say, half thinking out loud. When Steph looks, I continue, “It turns out his friend Chase-”
She holds up a hand for me to stop. “Sibel, I need to finish my work. Okay?”
“Sorry,” I mumble.
I get back to my phone and sort through my e-mail. I’m used to a deluge of letters after a show at the gallery, but my inbox is absolutely slammed. It takes me twenty minutes just to scan through everything and weed out the hate mail.
Then the phone rings, and I nearly jump, it’s so loud. I don’t recognize the number, either.
“Hello?” I answer, cupping my hand around my mouth, as if that will help.
“Sibel,” says a scratchy male voice. “Uhh, this is Chase.”
Oh, great.
“What do you want?”
“Hey, Sibel,” says Steph. “Take this outside, okay?”
I nod to Steph apologetically, grab my purse and go, shutting the door to her apartment behind me.
“So, I’m calling to apologize for the other night,” he says. He sounds stilted, as though reading from a cue card. Yet, I find myself clutching my phone in excitement.
I slide down the wall and come to rest on the linoleum-tiled floor. “Okay, I’m listening.”
Chase clears his throat. “Pierce really likes you. And he was also trying to do right by me, because I… like you too.”
“You?” I snort. “You just wanted to fuck me.”
“Potato, po-tah-to. Yeah. He was stuck, you know? Because he thinks he owes me. I should have backed off, but I couldn’t.”
“Yeah,” I mumble. My heart is beating faster, even though bile swirls through my stomach like an eel.
“The truth is, Pierce doesn’t date much. No time. He’s always watching out for me. So for him to go after you like he did… it means he really couldn’t help himself.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. And, you don’t know this, but you wouldn’t be the first girl he’s loved and lost because of me. He told you about the night with… my dad, right? At the time, Pierce had a thing for one of our girls — but after that night, she left. Pierce never saw her again. Since then, he hasn’t been able to get serious with anyone. They see his work or his past, and they leave. But you don’t scare so easily. I’d hate to be what drove you away.”
I clap my hand over my mouth to keep him from hearing my breath catch, choked with emotion. Sniffing, I wipe tears away from my eyes.
“So, what now?” I say, forcing my voice not to warble.
“It’s up to you, isn’t it?” says Chase. “If you forgive Pierce, and you two still… then I won’t get in the way, all right? I’ll leave you alone.”
Wow.
“Good,” I mutter.
“And I’m sorry for scaring you. That was…” He snickers. “I mean it was funny, but it was a dick move. Immature, I guess.”
“Yeah,” I say, rolling my eyes. “Thank you, Chase. I appreciate you calling.”
“Sure thing. Bye, Sibel.”
I continue to sit on the floor for a while after he hangs up, still processing the call. Pierce had to have given Chase my number, and probably put him up to calling, but if all of what Chase said was true… If he’s going to stay away, and if Pierce really feels for me… maybe I can forgive him. He still needs to apologize too, but I’d be shocked if that wasn’t coming next.
“Steph!” I shout, barging back into her apartment. I feel energized, like I could win a marathon or wrestle down a charging bull. “That was Chase. He just apologized for what happened the other night.”
“That’s great,” she says, not looking up from her book. “Why don’t you tell-”
“He said that Pierce doesn’t usually go out and that this must be-”
“Sibel!”
Steph’s sudden roar hits me like a slap.
“Look, I know this is big, but I’ve got to study, okay?”
“I’m sorry, I know, you’re right, but this is really huge! We had this massive fight after the exhibition on Friday, and now-”
Steph slams a fist against her kitchen table, causing the books and glasses to shake. “Sibel, enough! I told you, not now! I’m sorry you’ve been on a fucking roller coaster the last couple days, okay? If I’d known how self-centered you were going to be, I’d have told you not to come over. I’m supposed to be concentrating!”
For a second, I want to be angry and indignant, but she’s totally right.
“Sorry,” I mumble.
“This just isn’t going to work,” she says. “You should go.”
“Yeah,” I say, getting my purse.
Steph barely waits for me to go before slamming the door behind me.
I hide the bouquet behind my back, so Sibel doesn’t see it until she opens the door. She grins when I reveal the fifteen yellow roses, shaking her head.
“What?” I say, stepping into her apartment.
“It’s just funny. The notorious Pierce Williams buying flowers for the salacious Sibel Isaacs, like we’re some regular couple…”
“That had a quarrel over the in-laws coming to visit,” I finish, hugging her close.
“Something like that,” she says, squeezing me tight and feeling the line of buttons on my shirt. “It’s a little absurd.”
I let go of her, then lean in to kiss her. Her breath tastes minty, and though she’s just wearing leggings and a tight t-shirt, she’s got on perfume. “I thought it would be nice,” I say, shrugging.
She takes the bouquet and smells one of the roses. “It is nice. I just didn’t think of you as the flowers type. Have you ever bought a woman flowers before?”
I was hoping she’d ask that. Without hesitation, I tell her, “My mother, every year, for Mother’s Day.”
Sibel’s lips rise in a happy frown. “That’s so sweet!” She laughs, and adds, “But it doesn’t count.”
I drop my jaw in mock outrage. “That’s bullshit. It totally counts.”
She looks at me a moment, then nudges the door closed behind me. “It’s good to see you.”
I follow her into the living room, where I see she’s cleaned up a ton since I was last here. Maybe that was her way of coping with all the hurt I put her through over the weekend. While getting us bottles of Saranac pale ale, she tells me about her parents coming to visit, as wel
l as her trouble with Steph.
“It sounds like she spoke a bit harshly, but I can understand her being mad,” I say. “I’ve dealt with a lot of lawyers, and they love to talk about what a pain in the ass the bar was. Steph’s under a lot of stress. It might be best to give her a little time.”
“Yeah,” she says, nodding. “That’s fair. I know I should be more supportive. Just, after the weekend I was having, I really needed someone to talk to. Lately, it had been you, and I really missed it.”
I smile, reaching for her hand. “I wanted to be there for you.”
She curls her fingers around mine. “I believe you.”
“You’ll be there for Steph when she’s ready. You’re a great friend, and she knows no one’s perfect.”
“Thanks,” says Sibel.
I sip my beer and finally let myself relax a little. Waiting to see Sibel again had me wound up; not much makes me nervous, but I’ve felt it pretty hard until now. There’s still one more thing I have to do.
No sense procrastinating, is there?
“Sibel, I have a couple things for you,” I say, reaching into the pocket of my khakis. I hold out two small cards for her to take.
“What’s this?” she asks, holding up the first: a memory card.
“That’s the video I took in the subway. I wasn’t sure if you had it, and if not, that you might want to watch it sometime.”
Sibel bites her lip. “Hell yeah, I want to watch it.” She looks at the other card. It’s plain, glossy black, with just a name written in small, white letters. “Bennett Consulting? What’s this?”
“It’s a private investigation firm. Small outfit, but trustworthy and very thorough,” I explain.
Confused, Sibel looks up at me. “What for?”
“I want you to trust me, Sibel,” I say, getting up. I take a knee in front of her and hold her hand in mine. “So this company will gladly dig around my past and tell you everything there is to know about me. I’ll give them access to all my properties, and electronics. I won’t have much left to hide.”
