Jonathan Tropper

by Everything Changes (v5)

“How are you doing?”

  “I’m a little drunker than I meant to be,” I say, closing the door behind me.

  “I know why I’m drinking,” she says. “This is the first time I’ve been out in almost two years, and I’m scared of everybody. What’s your excuse?”

  “Did you happen to catch Norm’s little toast?”

  “Enough said.”

  “Hey, I meant to call you. Turns out I don’t have cancer.”

  “You got your biopsy back?”

  “Yeah. Funny story, actually . . .”

  But I won’t get to tell it, because the force and speed with which she throws her arms around me knocks all the breath out of me, her tears wet against my neck as she whispers, “I knew you’d be okay.”

  Once, as a kid in summer camp, I broke curfew to sneak into the boathouse with Beth Wallen, where we made out in the deep blackness of the country night and held whispered conversations about everything that mattered in the hushed silence of the sleeping camp, the intimacy enhanced by the covert nature of our rendezvous, the palpable risk of discovery. Finding Tamara in the darkened study feels a little bit like that, and I hold on to her, my lips resting on her head, unwilling to let go. After a while, she leans back, resting her forehead against mine. “Okay,” she says wryly, sniffling slightly, “I guess I was a little worried.”

  I take her head in my hands, softly wiping the tears from her cheeks with my thumbs even as I can feel my own coming, and she wipes mine away in the same manner. We stand like that for a few moments, cradling each other’s head in our hands, a closed circuit of sad affection.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask her after a bit.

  “Thinking.”

  “About what?”

  “About all the things we never talk about.”

  “What things?”

  The room is dark, but I don’t need light to reveal the impatient expression with which she’s regarding me. She steps out of our embrace and leans against the desk. “Okay,” I say, walking over and leaning against the desk beside her. “I know what you mean.”

  She considers me briefly, over the rim of her martini glass. “I’m sure it won’t come as a shock to you if I tell you that I almost didn’t come tonight.”

  “I can imagine.”

  She nods. “But you’re my favorite person in the world, and I love you, and whatever other things may or may not be happening between us, the fact is that you’ve been my lifeline for the last two years, and there was no way I couldn’t be here for you, one way or the other. You saved my life, Zack. You really did. I don’t know what I would have done without you. And I want you to know that no matter what happens, I will never stop loving you for that.”

  I lean over and kiss her cheek. “Thanks,” I say. “That means a lot to me.”

  “So, as long as I took the trouble to be here for you,” she says, taking a dramatically deep breath, “I might as well tell you that I don’t think you should marry Hope.”

  “What?”

  She looks away from me. “If you had any idea how hard it was for me to say that, you would never ask me to repeat it.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I meant, why do you think that?”

  She turns back to me, frowning uncertainly. “I’ve been struggling for months with whether to say something or not. It’s so hard to tell if saying something is the right thing to do, and you have to believe me, I only want to do what’s right for you. If you think I’m wrong, please disregard everything, but just don’t hate me for saying it. Okay? Because I don’t think I could stand that.”

  I place my hand on hers, and it’s impossible to tell where the trembling is coming from, her hand or mine. “That will never happen,” I say.

  “Okay,” she says. “Here’s the thing. I don’t think you’re in love with her, not all the way. If you were, I think you would seem more certain about it. More jazzed. You wouldn’t hug me the way we hug, and say the things you say to me. You definitely wouldn’t have kissed me the other day the way you did. I’m not saying you’re in love with me. I’m just saying that whatever this thing is you feel toward me, this thing we’re both too scared to mention, I don’t think it could exist if you were head over heels in love with Hope. And if that’s the case, if you’re not head over heels in love with her, you shouldn’t marry her.”

  I nod slowly, my chest fluttering with nervous excitement. There are many ways to respond to this, truthfully even, without getting into the thorny undergrowth of my feelings for Tamara. But it’s dark, and I’m drunk at my own engagement party, and there’s a potency to Tamara’s directness, a hidden power lurking behind her words, and if I can match it with some directness of my own, who knows what cosmic forces might be unleashed? “So what do you think it is, this thing between us?”

  “That’s not what matters,” she says, removing her hand from under mine. “We’re not talking about me. What we’re talking about here is whether you belong with Hope or not.”

  “I understand that,” I say. “But as long as we’re doing this, let’s do it completely. I need to know—do you think you might have stronger feelings for me than just friendship?”

  “No way, Zack,” she says, launching herself off the desk and stepping away from me. “I’m not going to let you do that to me. I’m not going to bear this responsibility for you. I’ve got my own problems, and besides, I need you too much to trust anything else I might feel. Either you believe, in your heart, that you belong with Hope, or you don’t. I’m not a factor.”

  “But you are,” I say miserably. “Because I love you, and I can’t stop thinking about you, and it’s fucking me up like you wouldn’t believe. When I kissed you that day, it took every last bit of my willpower to stop. And that’s how it is whenever I’m with you. I’m constantly holding myself back from letting you see how I really feel.”

  “Stop it,” she snaps at me, and while I can’t see them yet, I can hear the tears in her voice. “Just stop it. You can’t say that to me.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t want this. I was all set to get married and be happy. But when I’m with you, I feel like I could never be happy with anyone else. And I know it’s wrong, I know you’re in no position to return those feelings, and I’m certainly in no position to be having these feelings, but between you and me, that’s how I really feel.”

  She stares at me, her eyes wide, tears streaming down her face. “I shouldn’t have said anything,” she says. “This was a mistake.” She picks up her glass and heads for the door.

  “Wait,” I say. “You can’t leave. Please. We’re finally talking about it.”

  She turns around at the door. “I have to leave, Zack—don’t you see that? You need to work this out for yourself, and I can’t be a part of it.”

  “Just stay there,” I plead, moving toward her in the dark. “Just wait a minute, please.” I find her near the door and put my hands on her shoulders. “Please don’t leave me here.”

  Her hands come up to rest on mine, and somehow, despite the darkness, we’re able to see each other’s face, and we stand there like that, looking into each other’s eyes, and we’re vibrating like electricity, and then she says, “Just one,” and when our lips touch, hers open almost instantly, granting me entry as she steps into my embrace, pressing her body into mine like I’ve been molded to take her shape, and her fingers are like roots in my scalp, pressing into my head as she pulls me closer, our tongues pulling and probing with naked desperation. “I love you,” I gasp, panting slightly, my lips still grazing hers.

  “I know,” she whispers back.

  “No, I mean, I really love you.”

  She nods. “I know.” And then we’re kissing again, fiercely and recklessly, and her hand finds its way under my shirt, her fingers urgently pressing and stroking at my chest, and I’ve pulled her dress up above her waist to feel the hot skin of her lower back, and the Viagra has kicked in like gangbusters, but she doesn’t shy away from it, pressing up against m
e with a low moan, her leg coming up to wrap around my thigh, her tongue like candy on my lips.

  This is what happens. You’re in the dark, kissing a woman you’ve been dying to kiss for as long as you can remember, and it feels just as you always imagined it would; her taste is exactly what you’ve extrapolated from your past, minimal contact. And maybe it’s the ecstasy of discovery, the immense relief of the release of the hot torrent of feelings and yearnings that have been building up in you for so long, or maybe it’s the booze and drugs still dancing like twin demons through your blood, but for the first time in memory you’re not fearing the consequences, not thinking about the inevitable complications, and you’re floating, suspended in this perfect, translucent moment where nothing else exists. So it’s not surprising, really, that you don’t hear the door open, don’t sense your future father-in-law’s arrival as he steps into the room, don’t react immediately when the lights come on. After all, your eyes are closed, your universe reduced to the sweet vortex of your conjoined mouths, your diminished senses focused only on the wet sphere of her soft, open lips. And by the time you stumble back, eyes blinking in the harsh chaos of the light as, too late, you pull down your bunched-up shirt, he’s already on top of you.

  Jack moves fast for an older guy, barreling into me before I can get my bearings. “You scumbag!” he roars as he propels us across the floor. “I’ll kill you!” We crash into his desk, then fall on top of it, Jack peppering me with glancing punches to my chest and face as papers and desk accessories scatter in our wake. The desk lamp goes over, landing without breaking, bathing the room in a skewed green glow. “Wait!” I gasp, but Jack’s having none of it, his fist knocking my jaw as I speak, and now I can taste the metallic tang of blood on my tongue. “I’ll kill you!” he screams again. Somewhere in the chaos, I register Tamara’s panicked screams as she flees the room. Jack continues to swing away at me, but in his ardor he pays no attention to leverage, and I manage to roll onto my side, dumping him off me and onto the floor. I make a mad dash for the door, and then rush through the kitchen, stopping for a second to comb my hair with my hands and tuck in my shirt before stepping back into the main hall.

  Fuck, fuck, fuck.

  The party is still in full swing, and rejoining it is like stepping into a dream, all of the guests oblivious to the imminent shitstorm. Everything seems to be happening in slow motion, except for the spasms in my churning stomach as I make my way desperately through the crowd. Fuck, fuck, fuck. I figure I have anywhere from thirty to sixty seconds to find Hope and disappear with her, to explain things on my own terms and avoid a major public spectacle. As I make my way across the floor, I see that Matt’s commandeered the band and drawn a crowd as he furiously abuses a borrowed guitar, cranking up the distortion as he leads the musicians through “Blitzkrieg Bop.” Hey! Ho! Let’s go! Hey! Ho! Let’s go! The steady throbbing of the bass line pulsates up and down along my nervous system, keeping pace with my frantic heartbeat. Fuck, fuck, fuck. I spin around as my panic builds to a crescendo, scanning the room fruitlessly for Hope. My chest feels primed to explode like a bomb, spewing blood and tissue across the room onto the unsuspecting revelers.

  And then, finally, I find her standing beside the bar, chatting breezily with a girlfriend. And I know it isn’t actually happening like this, but it feels as if the crowd is parting on cue to give me a clear path to her. And as I approach, she becomes aware of me, and I can see her expression as it changes, from distraction to consternation, and then outright alarm, and I realize that I must be more of a mess than I thought. The noise of the party retreats like I’ve gone deaf, and all I can hear is the blood rushing in my ears as I reach out to her. And there’s time to register the growing awareness of the people around me, and the horrified look in her girlfriend’s eyes as she fades into the background. Hope takes a step toward me, and she really is so beautiful—even at this moment I can see that—and I feel a pang, like a hand closing around my heart, a lightning-fast preview of the pain to come. “Zack,” she says, and before I can answer her, a fist hits the side of my head and I go down hard onto the bar, scattering glasses and bottles as I crumple to the floor.

  “I’ll kill you, you bastard!” Jack screams, sinking his knees into my stomach as he lands on top of me, knocking the wind out of me as he pummels from above. The sound has come back, but now there’s nothing to hear other than the breaking glasses and Jack’s incensed shouts. And then he’s got a large champagne bottle in his fist, seemingly snatched from the air itself like in a cartoon, and he’s wielding it by its foiled neck like a club, and I know instantly that it will crack my skull if he makes contact. I manage to free one of my pinned arms to desperately deflect his swing, and the bottle hits the floor with a heavy thud. I try to sit up, but he’s got position on me, and I catch a forearm in the face as he lifts the bottle for a second swing. This time timing and momentum are on his side, and I know the bottle will hit dead center, shattering my teeth as it goes, the crazed look in his eye confirming that he will bludgeon me to death if he’s able. Death by Moët & Chandon, a fitting end for the man found kissing the wrong woman at his own engagement party. Jack raises the bottle above his head and has just started his downward swing when another arm grabs his, stopping its descent. And then, impossibly, Jack is off me, thrown across the room like a laundry sack, where he collides noisily with a buffet table, sending breads and sauces flying through the air.

  “Zack!” Jed says, pulling me to my feet. “You okay?”

  “I didn’t think you were coming,” I mutter, trying to catch my breath.

  “I’ll bet you’re glad I did, though,” he says with a grin, straightening out my shirt and jacket. “Who is that guy?”

  “Hope’s father.”

  Jed stares as Hope and Vivian kneel on the floor beside Jack. “You’re shitting me.”

  Four of the larger men in the crowd, corporate underlings of Jack’s, start closing in on us in a small circle, not quite sure what’s called for, but ready to go to battle if their CEO demands it, and at first we appear to be outnumbered, but then Matt pushes through the crowd, brandishing the guitar like a battering ram, the Elton John wig wildly askew on his head. “Everyone just back off!” he commands, planting himself in a defensive position in front of me, guitar poised on his shoulder like a baseball bat. “You okay, Zack?”

  “I’m fine,” I say.

  “What the hell is wrong with you!” comes Norm’s ragged, booming voice as he bursts out of the onlookers, charging at Jack with his fists raised. The men converge on Norm, grabbing his arms and hustling him roughly away from Jack as he writhes madly in their grasp, his face knotted with rage. “Don’t you touch my son, you fucking animal. I’ll bury you—you hear me? I’ll bury you!”

  Hope and Vivian help a dazed Jack to his feet and usher him gingerly toward the kitchen. “He was kissing that girl,” he mutters dazedly to no one in particular. “Right in my study.” Just before they disappear, Hope turns to look at me, and her eyes are like lasers, cutting through flesh and bone to pierce me at my core, her expression of bewildered devastation branding itself into my brain as it burns through my eyes. I stagger slightly, and start to fall as the room spins, but then I feel myself righted as a soft hand slips into mine, squeezing my fingers. “Okay, then,” says Lela, her voice loud and authoritative. “Matt?”

  “What, Mom?”

  “It’s time to go.”

  And so, with Matt leading the way, and Norm and Pete bringing up the rear, and a swath of angry destruction in our wake, the Fighting Kings make good their exit.

  Chapter 35

  Something happens to me in the elevator, some final synthesis of the drinks, the Viagra, and the trauma of the last few minutes, and I leave my body to hover above us as we descend, taking in everyone else’s shifting postures as their combined adrenaline dissipates in the air like smoke: Norm leaning against the back wall, red faced and disheveled, still catching his breath; Matt rubbing his neck thoughtfully; Jed
tucking his shirt in—it came undone when he hurled Jack across the room—Pete humming nervously as he studies my own blank expression, worried about me; and Lela still firmly clutching my hand protectively. Her expression, an amalgam of concern and grim determination, would certainly move me to tears if I were in there to cry them.

  We step out into the chilly night, and arrangements are made, logistics confirmed, but I’m still floating, so it all happens beneath me. The sky is clear, but the glow of Manhattan makes it hard to see any stars, and I want to float higher until I can see them, but I seem limited to this lower level of flight, just a few feet above my own bowed head. Jed gives me a pat on the back and tells me he’ll talk to me tomorrow, and I feel a rush of gratitude and want to hug him, but by the time I think of it, he’s gone, and then I’m in the backseat of Lela’s Honda with Pete and Matt, Norm riding shotgun as she pilots her way toward the Harlem River Drive. We head north toward home, exactly how we might have done a lifetime ago, before we had any concept of how far we would all drift. I lean my head against the window, the vibrations from the glass rattling my teeth, and this sensation proves to be the lone thread that pulls me back into my body, where a bone-deep exhaustion mercifully takes the bite out of what little awareness is there to begin with.

  Lela takes charge when we get home, making tea for everyone as we sit, shell-shocked, in the living room, an ice pack pressed firmly to my temple, which is swollen from Jack’s assault. Norm and Matt engage in the inevitable play-by-play, reconstructing the events from their separate perspectives, until, finally, Norm asks me, “What the hell happened back there?”

  And so I tell them, and they nod, not terribly surprised, and somehow, talking about it makes it seem more pedestrian, less calamitous, so I find myself describing the scene in detail, my own editorialized version of my encounter with Jack. It’s understood that we will not tackle the hairier issue of why, exactly, I was kissing Tamara to begin with, but keep the focus squarely on the violence, breaking it down, establishing an exact chronol-ogy, like athletes reliving a recent victory on the field. Pete sits next to me, his head on my shoulder, tired and confused, but not willing to miss out on this rare family time. And there is an undeniable warmth permeating the room as the five of us sit sipping at our teas, a tangible intimacy in which we’re all reveling, and it occurs to me that it’s something we’ve all been missing for some time now. We’ll all sleep in the beds of our youth tonight, except for Norm, who refuses an offer to bunk with me, choosing instead to sleep on the sofa bed in the basement, and I intuit from the way he avoids looking at the stairs leading up that he’s unwilling to get that close to the epicenter of his former life, the scene of the crime that led to our dissolution.