by Joey Bush
CHAPTER SEVEN
The next morning, I woke up early—around eight. Beside me, Drew slept on in dream world. His eyes fluttered. I wanted to kiss him, to wake him with my naked body, to fuck him once more. But I knew that I needed to get back to real life, that I couldn’t let the events of the previous evening change the day. I couldn’t simply get wrapped up in something when I wasn’t sure of the stakes. Did Drew actually care about me? Or did it just seem that way when we had been at dinner, when we had been in the shower, calling out our attraction for one another.
I crept up from his bed, looking around the room. The light shone in from the window, falling over the aged bedspread. It was clearly something he had had for a long time—perhaps since childhood. I imagined that whatever he had picked out for his “real” apartment—opening next month—was much nicer. I wondered if I would ever see the new apartment, if this sex was just part-time in the wake of him simply living down the hall.
And yet, he hadn’t known he had been living down the hall during all those days of text messages, of missed calls.
I crept out of the bedroom, not before seeing a framed picture of him and who I assumed was Marty, the roommate. I guessed they were about fifteen years old and they had their arms wrapped around each other. They were wearing adorable baseball jerseys. I chuckled to myself, knowing that Mel had known and loved Drew, all these years ago. Mel, herself, would have only been about ten years old when the photo was taken! And she was Drew’s aunt!
The world was strange.
I walked out into the living room, making sure to close his bedroom door behind me. The kitchen and the dining room was a mess. Things had been pushed to the floor for our raucous sexual activity. I chuckled to myself, thinking that I should clean it all up—especially if his roommate came home. But a small part of me wanted Drew to see the mess, as well; to understand the true damage we had gotten up to last night. It was beautiful, really; the passion behind the tossed books, the ripped pages.
I grabbed my clothes as I walked, feeling so very naked in the light of his apartment. My green dress, my underwear. I held them in front of my breasts as I walked toward the door, opened it, and rushed down the hall. I felt an infinite level of adrenaline, of joy as I burst into the place I’d called my home for the past two years, completely naked and completely happy.
On the table sat Boomer, his yellow eyes looking up at me with such confusion. I dropped my clothes to the ground and put my hands on my hips, trying to give him a similar level of sass. “What’s up, Boom?” I asked him. I leaned forward and scratched his ear over and over. Soon, he closed his eyes, giving way to the sense of pleasure.
“I know. It’s easy to get distracted with pleasure,” I murmured to him. I rushed to my room to find my robe and a book. I wanted an entire day of lazy—an entire day during which I could daydream and imagine a whole life before me with Drew by my side. It didn’t have to happen; it didn’t have to be real. It just had been so long since I had given myself the chance to hope for something, that I couldn’t handle it. I needed some time to think.
The next day, I went down to the lake and went for a long run along the beach, feeling the way the sand allowed my shoes to bounce up from the ground. I didn’t know that I was grinning the entire time, that people were looking at me strangely in the whirring of the Chicago wind off the lake. I tried to replay the events of the previous night in my head, but I grew far too horny to even keep up with myself.
On the train back to my apartment, I called Mel. I couldn’t take it any longer.
“Mel. Hi,” I whispered, noting that several people surrounded me on the subway.
“Molly, darling. Hank and I—and Jackson!—were just talking about you,” Mel spewed. “We can’t believe you found such a catch in Drew. We always thought he—you know—went and got a little bit snooty in New York City. New York just breeds a different kind of person, as you know.”
“I thought the same thing, at first. I thought he was a little—I don’t know. Ultra confident.” I laughed on the train, trying to control myself. “But he’s so, so sweet. Taking care of people with his money; being so kind and understanding about the dance studio.”
“You didn’t tell him we’re closing, did you?” Mel asked me. I could tell she wanted me to ask him for the money.
I lost a sense of joy for a moment. “You know. I didn’t. I—It’s too fresh, you know?”
“Sure. Sure. He’s family, to me, but I understand why you wouldn’t tell him. I kept things a secret from Hank for years. No secrets now, I don’t think. But that’s just because nothing is sacred anymore when you have a kid together. Everything just sort of—goes off the wayside.”
“Sure. It’s just. Last night—” I gushed into the phone. “I feel like I want to get really serious with him. Do you think this is a bad idea?”
Mel paused for a moment. “I don’t know if I’ve ever seen Andrew become serious with anyone. But everyone gets serious, eventually. Why wouldn’t it be with you?”
“No, you’re totally right,” I said, my heart pounding. But the doubts started to creep in. “You’re totally right. Hey. I have to go.”
I hung up the phone before telling her I loved her, like I normally did. I decided to exit the train early in order to walk past the dance studio. I hadn’t been thinking about it since yesterday’s dinner, since I had been taken on the wildest sex adventure of my life. But slowly, surely, I was descending back into real life.
I walked down the weary street toward my beautiful dance studio. I remembered how happy I had been when I had started renting it. During the first two months of owning it, I had actually LIVED in it, in the back room. I hadn’t been able to afford an apartment yet, and I had made do. Perhaps, in hindsight, this was what I should have been doing all along. Living in my dance studio; devoting my life eternally to dance.
I reached the corner as the sun set along Le Moyne Avenue. I realized that the next day was the first day of October, and it felt strange, like the month had passed me by too quickly. On the side of the brilliant brick building was a sign that said; “SOLD.” The letters were big, red, and stark. I wanted to tear the poster down. I wanted to do something—something loud, something zealous. But I didn’t know how.
I walked up to the window and peered in, noting that everything—the desk, the back bookcase—had been removed. I wondered what they were going to do with this old building? Convert it to a frozen yogurt shop? Another coffee shop? God. Around me, things were becoming so similar. I wanted everything to be unique, individualized. But Chicago was going the way of the dogs.
I walked back toward my apartment, pausing at a Chicago dog stand to grab a snack. I watched as the man administered all the ingredients, spreading the mustard far across the meat. I thanked him and paid him. I walked down the street with the steaming dinner in my hands, looking forward to getting back to my bed, to my daydreams. At least in bed away from the cruel world, I could pretend that everything was going to work out—that everything was fine. At least there, tucked away with my cat, I could forget about my nagging mother and my failing business. I could just be.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Several days went by, and for some reason, I didn’t hear from Drew. I watched my phone for the entire next day, remembering that every other time he had been a consistent texter, a consistent caller. He had wanted a second and then a third date so badly. And now, after we’d fucked so supremely in the apartment just down the hall, he didn’t want to contact me.
Was I supposed to contact him? I wondered. I felt like I had messed up somewhere down the line, but I couldn’t be sure. I wanted to think that he was simply too busy taking care of homeless people, taking care of Chicago’s many children. He was, after all, both building a new bookstore and trying to be a philanthropist all at once. Maybe he didn’t have time for a girlfriend?
After a few days, I knew I had to get back out into the world to try to make it again. I knew that if I didn’t get moving
soon, I would lose the last drabs of money I still had in my account. I knew I would have to retreat back to Indianapolis, to my nagging mother, and probably work at some dumb bar, pouring drinks for other sad losers who didn’t make it either.
I wrapped myself in warmer layers, because October swept over Chicago like a cloud. Everyone around me was shivering, wrapping their scarves around their faces. I walked semi-confidently down the street, writing down addresses and wondering—wondering—if I should just get a random job in Chicago and keep trying, keep working. I could do anything, as long as it was in Chicago. I rushed into a random restaurant and filled out a resume; I filled out another to be a bartender at a brewery. I smiled at everyone, acting ever-chipper, ever confident. The entire time, however, I had a shadow over my eyes; I was certain of failure.
I walked back to my apartment and decided to send Drew a text message. Maybe he was too busy to remember to text, but certainly he would text back. I toyed with the wording for a long time before sending a final, edited message;
“Hey, Drew. What’s up?”
Clearly, it had taken a good deal of work to come up with this.
But perhaps the message lacked personality; perhaps it was no good. I waited by my phone for hours, casually watching television with my cat, and I received nothing but a silly picture from Mel about what Jackson had done after dinner that evening. I rolled my eyes, tossing my phone to the end of the couch. I had been stupid, I knew, to ever think a guy like Drew would be into me.
I sighed and decided to call my mother. After all, she was always on my mind; I was constantly afraid of her, certainly. And plus I hadn’t seen her since before summer. She hardly drove out of Indiana, despite the fact that Chicago was only three hours away.
I listened to the phone as it rang and rang over the many miles between us.
“Darling, how are you?” This was how my mother always answered the phone, no matter where she was, no matter who it was on the other end of the line.
I swallowed, already hating the drab way my mother spoke. “Hi, mom. I just wanted to say hi.”
“Molly. It’s been a long time. I was just talking about you with my hairdresser. She thinks it’s fascinating that you’re a dance instructor now. She wondered if it was upsetting, not performing anymore?”
My heart sank. I already understood the type of conversation this would be. So much more like dick measuring than the conversation I had heard between Marty and Drew. My mother simply wanted to show me off to the world. This had been why she had signed me up for dance. She wanted to hold that little ballerina’s hand; she wanted to tell people her daughter was a dancer. And now all she could tell them was that I was a dance instructor. And even that wasn’t true.
“Sure. Anyway, mom. I just wanted to know how you were doing?”
“Oh, wonderful. I’ve joined a bridge club. Debbie Marshal is my partner, at least when she isn’t taking that horrid teenager of hers into therapy. Dennis is his name. He might have schizophrenia.”
This was how she spoke all the time about other people. I sighed, noting that I could not go rushing back to this woman, to this life. But my mother kept going, telling me about everyone at the church I had grown up in; who was pregnant, who was gay. It didn’t matter who it was, I learned about them.
Finally, after thirty minutes, my mother told me she had to go. American Idol was on and her favorite singer was in the top four.
I told her that it had been lovely speaking with her. I hung up the phone and swore to myself, beyond anything else, that I would never return to Indianapolis, even if that meant I would have to sleep in the hallway of this apartment building, bow down and became Jackson’s daytime nanny, or do anything else in the world.
I could not return.
CHAPTER NINE
The next morning, I knew the demolition crew was coming to destroy my precious brick dance studio. I woke up early, feeling the complete devastation of the day. I couldn’t believe that the place in which I had truly felt like myself—at least in the days after I had learned that becoming a real dancer would never happen for me—was going to be gone forever. I wondered what that meant for my identity. I wondered what would be left of me when the place was knocked to the ground.
I walked to the studio slowly, trying not to allow tears to glimmer from my eyes. I wanted to stay fresh, vibrant. Perhaps after I watched the destruction of the building, I could rush up and down Le Moyne Avenue and apply for jobs, tell them my sob story. Perhaps someone would take pity on me.
I approached the building, noting that a great bulldozer was parked out front. It was off; the great ball of steel was hanging still and stoic in the air. A bunch of men stood on the outside of the building, holding clipboards and pointing at things. They wore hard hats, and they looked very serious, very important. I decided to stand on the other side of the street, leaning up against a stop sign and watching the way the light gleamed off the glass of the studio for the last time. I remembered how well the light had entered that place, how beautiful it had felt on the inside—especially during the previous winter. It had been my only happy place, especially in the sheer cold. The snow had piled up outside, and us dancers had been inside, creating a world that was all our own.
I stared at the men outside the building again, wanting to rip them apart with words. “Don’t you know what you’re doing?” I wanted to scream at them. “You’re destroying dreams of young children and hopes for older women! You’re destroying my dream of continuing my passion! You’re destroying so much! Can’t you understand?”
But I knew they would never hear me over the striking of the great steel ball, over the anger of the whirring machine.
One man in the center was rather tall, sharp-looking. He held a great clipboard, and he appeared to be talking to everyone else, giving the most orders. He looked so sleek, so important. I looked down my nose at him, hating everything that he was. A corporate snob, certainly. Someone who wouldn’t understand anything I truly cared about.
Suddenly, however, the man turned. The sun glinted against his yellow construction hat. His suit—finely cut—traced his muscles, his firm, taut chest. He smiled at the crew before him, revealing those wolf-like teeth.
My jaw dropped. Drew, for some god-awful reason, was stationed before my dance studio, helping to bring it down.
He was moving his arms wildly, speaking with a broad smile on his face. I wanted to know what the hell was going on. Had he only been sleeping with me to get to my place? But that didn’t make sense! Was he going to build his bookstore here? But why here?
I remembered how I had met him mere blocks away at that coffee shop. I remembered how he had been scouting for a place for his bookshop. Femme Fatale. Why hadn’t anybody told him that was a terrible name for something? Why hadn’t anybody told him that he needed to take his bookstore and shove it?
The fire was burning in my stomach. I scratched my boots against the pavement beneath me. I longed to tear him apart. I remembered how well he had fucked me the evening before, and I felt hot, angry. I felt used.
I stormed across the street, unable to stop myself. Drew stopped speaking to the people before him as I approached. His face grew surprised, distracted. He smiled at me, removing his yellow construction hat as I approached. Sensing my anger, his smile started to filter off. He frowned.
“Drew,” I said. I stomped my foot a bit, trying not to make a scene. “Can I talk to you for a moment?”
Drew held up his hands to the other guys. They all smirked at him, murmuring “trouble in paradise,” to each other.
I led Drew to the side alley next to the studio. I looked up at him with broad, orb-like eyes. I wanted to start crying. “Drew. Drew. How could you do this to me?”
“Do what? Not text you? I have been so busy. So tirelessly busy trying to get this place up and running.”
But I was shaking my head vehemently. “No. How could you have bought my dance studio?” My voice shook as I spoke. I pointed behind
me, at the sad-looking building on the corner of Le Moyne Avenue. I knew it was the perfect location; I knew it was a place he would have wanted, regardless of anything else. Perhaps he had chosen me, squashed me on purpose.
But he was shaking his head, frowning. “I didn’t even know you had a dance studio until the other night. I didn’t even know this place WAS a dance studio. The owner told me that it had been several different things. A craft store. A home good store. A health food store.” Drew shrugged before me. “I didn’t know it was yours.”
I started breathing heavily, wanting to crawl into a shell and hide. I could feel the eyes of all the construction workers behind me. “This was my home,” I told him simply. I shrugged, feeling tears wafting down my cheeks.
But Drew just shook his head. “I have a business plan. This is where it’s happening.” He licked his lips subtly, feeling the tension in my eyes. “I’m sorry.”
I backed away from him, feeling the ultimate betrayal. I walked back out of the alley, touching my hand to the glass on the exterior of my beautiful studio. I remembered the hundreds of times I had entered and exited the door, the way the bell had jangled. I remembered, then, that I hadn’t grabbed the bell.
I turned toward Drew, almost ominously. I grabbed my keys from my key ring and deposited the key in the lock, opening the door. Sure enough, on the other side, jangled the small bell I had bought at a local craft store—a store that had since gone out of business. It had been my first decoration for the goddamned place.
I jangled it in the air as if it meant everything to me. I frowned at Drew as I did it, as if everything in the world that was wrong was his fault.
And with that, I turned on my heel and walked sternly back to my apartment. I knew, in my heart, that I couldn’t watch the place get torn down. I couldn’t watch the place fall. I couldn’t watch each beautiful brick become unattached from one another. I couldn’t watch my very heart, my very soul rupture before me.
