Sin With Me (Bad Habit)

by J. T. Geissinger

  She laughs loudly, her head thrown back, causing several people at tables nearby to turn their heads and stare.

  “I just asked her to move in with me,” I explain to the fat guy in a purple velour tracksuit at the next table. He looks like an eggplant wearing a blond wig.

  He says, “Well, if she says no, I’m available.” He smiles and blows me a kiss.

  God, I love this town.

  “Thanks, man.”

  I turn my attention back to Grace, who’s hiding her face in her hand. Her shoulders are shaking she’s laughing so hard, trying to hold it in.

  “You see, Grace, I have options. But I choose you.”

  “So feel special?” she asks between gasps of air.

  “Exactly.”

  “Well, you’re not boring, I’ll give you that.”

  She peeks at me from behind her hand, and I grin. Big.

  “The Thomas Crown Affair,” I say. “One of my all-time, personal favorites. Now you have to say yes.”

  She picks up a dinner roll from the basket in the middle of the table and throws it at me. I catch it before it smacks me in the middle of my chest and take a bite out of it, tearing into it with a wolfish growl.

  From the corner of my eye I see the fat guy at the next table make a silent O with his lips.

  “Okay, seriously. Let’s talk, Brody.” Grace sits back in her chair, smooths her hand over her hair, and then folds her hands in her lap.

  “Uh-oh. Is this what you look like in session with your patients? Because you’re really intimidating right now.” I take a sip from my water glass to moisten my dry throat.

  Her smile is mysterious. “Tell me about your family.”

  I cough, almost spitting water all over the table, but catch myself before it can spray out my nose.

  Grace looks at me with raised brows. “Touchy subject? As I recall you said you were close with them.”

  Suddenly I feel like there’s a spotlight glaring down into my face and I’m tied to a chair in a bare room, looking at a wall of blacked-out windows that’s actually a two-way mirror a row of CIA agents are standing behind. It’s a good thing I’m not wearing a tie, because I’d involuntarily loosen it, which I’m sure Grace would take as a sign of something bad.

  Which of course it would be.

  I set my water glass carefully back on the tabletop and meet her direct gaze. This is a test, one I’m not going to fail. No matter how many hurdles I have to jump over, she will be mine.

  “I am close with them. My mom, Margaux, still lives in the house I grew up in—”

  “Wait. Your mother’s name is Margaux Scott? Like the children’s book author?”

  “That’s her. Why, do you like me better now?” I tease.

  Grace smiles. “Actually, yes. Your mother lends you a distinct touch of respectability.”

  “Thank you. Now are you moving in with me?”

  Her response is a heavy sigh and rolled eyes.

  “I’ll take that as a maybe. May I proceed?”

  Grace waves a hand in the air, a queenly gesture.

  “Thank you, your highness. As I was saying. Mother, Margaux. Younger brother, Branson. Older sister, Bronwyn. Branson still lives at home even though he’s twenty-five because he is the favorite, is utterly spoiled, and has no reason to move out. Bronwyn lives in Connecticut with her husband and four kids.”

  When I see the expression on Grace’s face, I ask, “What?”

  “Your parents named their children Brody, Branson, and Bronwyn?”

  “I know. It’s awful. We would’ve been mercilessly bullied when we were young, but we were in prep school and everyone else had equally terrible names. My best friend growing up was named Fenton Farnsworth the third.”

  Grace laughs. “Was not!”

  “Hand to God.”

  “I can’t believe they even have prep schools in Topeka, Kansas! Isn’t that farm country?”

  “Excuse me, but Topeka is the capital of the state, Slick, and very upscale. We even had running water and indoor bathrooms.”

  Grace smirks. “And here I was picturing you riding bulls and eating deep-fried Twinkies at the county fair.”

  “Snob.”

  “Hick.”

  “As I was saying,” I continue, trying not to laugh, “I went to prep school. Then I was accepted to UCLA’s music program as a freshman, so I moved to L.A. when I was eighteen.”

  “With Magda,” prompts Grace when I pause to take another swallow of water.

  “Yep. My mom was concerned I’d become a male prostitute or a junkie of some sort because she’d seen too many daytime TV movies about runaways in Hollywood, so she sent along a spy.”

  “What about your dad? What does he do?”

  I try, very carefully, to keep my expression neutral. “He was a senator.”

  Grace watches me, waiting, as it hangs in the air between us.

  Was.

  After a moment, I say quietly, “He died a few years ago from cirrhosis. We weren’t . . .” I look down and notice my left hand trembling. I pull it into my lap and make a fist. “We weren’t on the best of terms. In fact, we hadn’t spoken for years before he passed.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Grace murmurs.

  “Don’t be. He wasn’t a good person.”

  It’s out before I can take it back, an uncensored confession filled with emotion, my voice as harsh as nails scraping down a chalkboard. To stop myself from adding anything else, I clench my jaw.

  After a tense moment, Grace says, “Brody.”

  I inhale a slow breath and look at her. She’s staring at me, her expression as calm as a buddha’s.

  She says, “We’ll leave that for another date. Or never, if you prefer. I’m a firm believer that the past is just that: past. And the dead should be left to rest in the ground where we put them. We don’t have to share the details of our sad stories. It’s enough that we’re trying to build better ones.”

  I don’t know why, but that moves me so much my throat closes and my chest goes tight. “Thank you.”

  The waitress arrives with our appetizers, giving me a much-needed break from having to speak. My vocal cords feel raw, like I’ve been screaming. We eat for a while in silence, alone with our thoughts, until Grace asks, “What’s that tattoo you have, the symbols above the angel’s wings on your chest? It looks like some kind of language.”

  My heart skips a beat. I say quietly, “Kind of . . . part of that past-is-past thing.”

  I’d have told her if she pushed me for more, but she just moves on to her next question without missing a beat.

  “And the necklace you always wear?”

  I swallow a bite of my Caesar salad, and absently rub my thumb over the small silver disc resting in the hollow of my throat, suspended from a leather cord. “It’s Saint Jude.”

  If Grace recognizes Saint Jude as the patron saint of lost causes, she doesn’t comment. I’m relieved, for a million different reasons, none of them good.

  I should’ve known I wouldn’t be let off the hook that easily.

  “Where were you right before you came to the hospital the day Abigail was born?”

  Jesus Christ. This woman is as sharp as a samurai sword.

  Panic slams into my gut, making it roll. Sweat breaks out on my forehead. I keep my gaze on my plate, and try to answer with a steady voice.

  “Church.”

  “Oh,” she says with a small laugh. “You were surfing! And here I thought it was something sketchy.”

  The rolling in my stomach worsens. If I ask her why, it could open up a can of worms. But if I don’t ask her why, it would be suspicious. So I’m left with no choice.

  “Why would you think that?”

  With a shrug she says, “Because you acted so weird when Nico asked you what held you up. Like you were embarrassed, or maybe felt . . . guilty.”

  Her tone and expression are nonchalant, but her gray eyes are soul piercing.

  She knows. She
set the trap, added the bait, and I took it.

  Feeling sick, dreading where this conversation is headed, I set my fork and knife on my plate and sit back in my chair. “I wasn’t surfing, Grace,” I say, my voice low. “I was at church. Real church.”

  Mirroring my actions, she puts down her silverware and sits back. To anyone else looking, Grace appears serene, mildly interested, just another woman listening to her dinner companion talk about nothing of particular importance.

  But I see how brittle this veneer of tranquility is. That vein in her temple is going gangbusters, and her eyes have turned the color of steel.

  She says calmly, “Here’s the part where you explain why you, a man who said he and God had their differences and that he hadn’t been to church since he was a kid, made a stop at a church between an afternoon barbeque and the birth of your best friend’s child. Because, radical honesty time, that strikes me as very strange.”

  I was so close. I was so fucking close to having her, and now I’m gonna open my mouth and it’s all gonna come out and she’ll hate me. It’s ruined. It’s over. I’ve lost.

  I can’t lie to her. A sin of omission is one thing, but an outright lie, right to her face, is something completely different. I can’t do it.

  My pulse pounding, I close my eyes and confess.

  “Because of the accident.”

  There’s silence on the other side of the table. When I open my eyes, Grace is staring at me in confusion.

  “I’m sorry, but I have no idea what that means.”

  I’m struggling to breathe. The air doesn’t want to come into my lungs. The air hates me as much as Grace is going to any second now. “Because after I came back from the bathroom at Nico’s, Chloe and Kat told me about your accident, and I . . . I . . .”

  Grace’s hand flies up to cover her mouth. Her eyes go wide. “You were reminded of your accident?”

  Time stops. My heart stops. The blood stops flowing through my veins. Wordlessly, dying inside because I know she’s going to ask me for details, I nod.

  Grace breathes, “Oh, sweetie. I’m so sorry.” She stands, crosses the few feet that separate us, and winds her arms around my shoulders.

  I’m so stunned I can’t speak, or move, or do anything but sit frozen as Grace kisses my cheek. She takes my face in her hands. From my chair I stare up at her, shell-shocked.

  In a fierce whisper, she says, “They didn’t mean to upset you! They didn’t know you’d been in an accident, too!”

  Dazed, not understanding what’s happening, I manage to rasp, “What?”

  “I know we haven’t talked about what happened to you, and it can be another one of those things on the don’t-ask-don’t-tell list as far as I’m concerned, okay? I hate talking about my accident. I’m sure you feel the same way, right?”

  I swallow, and then answer truthfully. “Yes.”

  “Then we won’t talk about it. Not ever, not if you don’t want to. I meant what I said earlier, Brody. We don’t have to tell each other our sad stories. Fuck the past. Life is in front of us, not behind.”

  The kiss she presses to my lips is so gentle it brings tears to my eyes. A strange noise leaves my throat. My vision is swimming. And inside my chest, my heart is starting to break.

  Because I understand that to Grace, the accident I was in and the thing I told her I did when I was young that I have so much guilt over, that I called myself a coward over, are two different things.

  Which, of course, they’re not.

  GRACE

  For the next three hours, we talk. About everything and anything, sharing stories, asking questions, getting to know each other better. It’s by far the most time I’ve ever spent talking to one man outside of bed.

  We’re so engrossed in our conversation we end up closing the restaurant. Still, it’s not so much the food or the ambiance that stays with me, but the expression on Brody’s face when I told him we didn’t have to talk about his accident. He looked so grateful I thought he might cry.

  Of course I’m curious about what happened to him. Anyone would be. But I’m in the unique position of understanding exactly why he’d like to avoid discussing it. Talking about your demons can make them very angry.

  Better to let them sleep undisturbed than shake them out of their nests.

  Before we leave, he asks me one final time over dessert to move in with him, and I tell him I’ll think about it. But he’s persistent, and promises to ask again in the morning. I try to convince him I’m not going anywhere, so he should relax and enjoy the courting phase of our relationship, a new experience for both of us. His reply gives Kat a run for her Dramarama title.

  “If you haven’t made up your mind in a week, I’ll die of a broken heart.”

  I tell him it’s too bad he’s such a terrible actor, because his sense of theatrics is Shakespearean.

  When we get back to Malibu and pull into the long driveway that leads to his house, I have to smile.

  “This doesn’t look like the guest house, Brody.”

  He turns to me, his eyes shining in the dark interior of the car. “You’re so perceptive. Besides your enormous feet that are two different sizes, that’s my favorite thing about you.”

  “My feet aren’t enormous!”

  His smile widens. “Sweetheart, you make Ronald McDonald’s feet look dainty. I think Shaquille O’Neal has smaller hoofs than yours. It’s like you’re walking around on two life rafts.”

  I smack him on the arm, and he breaks out into laughter.

  Brody laughing is one of my favorite sounds in the world.

  I spend the night with him, and the night after, and the night after that. On Monday I go back to work, wearing long sleeves to cover the faint red marks on my wrists where they’re chafed from Brody’s lovely sand-colored rope.

  I can’t remember ever feeling so happy.

  Or so convinced that things that seem too good to be true inevitably are.

  A week goes by, and then another. I work and diligently look for places to live, but still go home to Brody every night. The clothes I keep buying are all in the guest house, but the majority of my time is spent in the main house, with him.

  And Magda, my new fairy godmother, who spoils me to within an inch of my life.

  “Eat more,” she urges in Spanish, hovering over me with a platter of enchiladas poblanas. Just looking at the delicious chicken, tortilla, cheese, and green chile dish could add five pounds to each of my thighs. And I’ve already had two helpings. Another few weeks in this house and I’ll be researching liposuction.

  “You’re killing me, Magda,” I groan, rubbing my stomach. “Save it for later, when everyone gets here!”

  “I have more food for later.” She pokes me in the shoulder with her finger. “You’re too skinny. A stiff breeze could blow you over!”

  It’s little things like this that make me adore her so much. I have no memory of my own mother, but I imagine her like this. Scolding, spoiling, letting me know in a million different ways that I’m her favorite person in the world.

  Magda has told me I’m the daughter she never had. I’ve told her she’s my second mother. Brody told both of us he can move to the guest house if she and I would like to continue our love fest undisturbed, to which Magda responded, “I thought you’d never ask.”

  Which I translated to, “Don’t be silly.”

  Brody only smiled.

  The swell is up now, so Brody’s out on the waves for the second time today. Truth be told, I’m glad to have the alone time, because it’s the dreaded St. Patrick’s Day, and I’m in a shit mood.

  The enchiladas are helping, but from experience I know that comfort food will only get me so far. As soon as the sun goes down I’m hitting the hard stuff.

  Before that even, if the gang ever gets here. Drinking alone always makes me feel like I’ve failed at life.

  I push my chair back and rise from the table. “Thank you, Magda, but I can’t eat another bite.”

  Sh
e pouts. On Magda a pout looks exactly like a scowl, which her smiles also look similar to. She has one default expression, and that’s general disappointment in the human race.

  I kiss her cheek and head toward Brody’s bedroom, where I flop on my back on the bed and stare at the ceiling, willing myself not to dwell on the significance of the day. Instead I think about the appointment Brody made with his doctor friend for next week.

  I don’t want to get my hopes up that he can help me with my memory any more than the other doctors I’ve seen, but I admit I’m excited. When I read about some of his case studies and his background, I couldn’t help but be impressed.

  I’m still thinking about the good doctor when Brody walks through the door.

  He’s dripping wet, still in his wetsuit. His eyes are red. His jaw is set.

  Surprised by his expression, I sit up in bed. “What’s wrong?”

  He swallows and rakes a hand through his wet hair. “Nothing. Why?”

  I stare at him, taking in his face and the tension in his body, wondering at the frog in his voice. “Because you look like you’ve been crying.”

  “It’s just the salt water, Grace,” he mutters, stalking across the room. He disappears into the bathroom and closes the door behind him.

  I see two of us are in a shit mood today.

  I debate following him into the bathroom but decide to give him some space, and his privacy. I hear the shower go on, and wait a tense twenty minutes until it goes off again. After another few minutes Brody emerges, bare chested, a white bath towel wrapped around his waist.

  Moving with his breath, the angel’s wings across his chest seem to shimmer.

  “I’m sorry I was a dick,” he says softly, looking at his feet. “It’s not you.”

  His left hand is curled into a fist. The right one is slightly shaking.

  “Apology accepted. I got up on the wrong side of the bed this morning, too.”

  He glances up at me, sitting with my arms around my knees, and offers me a sad smile.

  “It’s okay if you want to bitch me out, you know. You don’t always have to be so understanding.”

  I shrug. “I’m a relationship counselor, Brody. I’ve seen the best and worst of human nature. I’m not going to bitch you out because you firmly closed a door and took a shower.”