But I wasn't in Texas anymore.
The first punch caught me in the back of my head and I lurched forward, barely catching myself before I fell to the ground. Black spots dot my vision like Morse code and I shook my head to try to clear it. The pain was nothing and I tucked it away because fighting back was more important. I turned around swinging and my fist made purchase against a hard, warm body. I could feel the bones of his ribs against my knuckles and I could hear the distinctive thud of contact. He made a pained noise and I smiled, knowing that I had surprised him, just as much as he surprised me. Unfortunately, there's two of them. When the second blow meets my cheek, my face is snapped to the side and it slowed me down enough to not be able to fight off the first asshole as he recovered. He comes back with a fist to my gut which makes it hard to breathe. It was already hard enough to suck in the frozen air into my lungs, but after the punch, it was damn near impossible.
“What were you trying to do, huh?” one of the men said, his voice muted by the wind. “You like to attack women for fun?” he asked but doesn't give me time to answer, not that I would've. He punches me again in my side and this time I can't stop myself from falling back on my ass. I know they'll kick me if I fall, and sure enough, they do. I could only try to steel myself against it but it's difficult when you've got a steel-toe boot trying to make a dent in your spine. After taking two painful blows, I was able to roll to the side and throw my arm up to protect my face as I put all of my strength into getting back on my feet. I catch another punch on my bicep, but it's better than another face hit. I was in pain all over but the adrenaline was finally pumping, warm and hot.
The second guy had shown himself to be slower and not as vicious as the first, so I took advantage. I punched him square in the face and dark blood blossomed over his face as his nose crunched against my knuckles. It's always been satisfying to break a nose, especially when it's necessary. I'm not much of a fighter, but if forced into a corner I've been known to hold my own. In prison, I had to do what I had to do. I've fucked people up and been fucked up in return. On that night, it felt good to fuck the guy up, I'll admit. I'm sure that makes me a terrible person, but I can't say that I care too much. Up in Alaska, it was always about survival. And even though I felt like I was dead sometimes, like all my blood and come was drying up and my heart was freezing over, I wasn't going to give up. I'll never give up as long as Joanie is on this Earth. As long as she's out there, I have a reason to exist.
The fight in the parking lot was almost over, I could feel it. They were no match for me and they were realizing it. It didn't matter how many shots they got in, I wasn't down for the count. I was starting to enjoy it a little too much, I'll admit. The snow was still lightly falling and the ground was slippery under our feet. When the first guy lost his footing when I dodged his next shot, I took advantage. I tripped him and he fell hard to his knees. I locked my arm around his throat, pulling him back against me and squeezing hard. At that point, I didn't give a shit what I did. The violence felt too good. It's so easy to get lost in the violence. Wrestling that dude was more satisfying than the girl. It felt like what I needed. If I couldn't fuck the woman I wanted to fuck in the way that I wanted to fuck, hurting someone real bad – maybe even killing someone – was the best alternative.
I could hear the sound of glass shattering, but it didn't register what it was until I felt the dull blow once against my coat. I didn't loosen my chokehold on the guy, because at that point, I couldn't. It felt too good to squeeze his neck as hard as I could. He's still fighting my hold, so I know he's still alive. But I don't know how much longer. My coat didn't protect me for long though. He was able to angle the broken bottle under my bomber coat and the pain is instantaneous. The asshole dragged the jagged, sharp edges into my skin and I could feel the blood gush, hot and thick, down my side. I released the man I was choking out and grabbed my side. My first thought was for my liver, because I had no fucking idea how deep the gash had gone.
One last punch got me good and I dropped down to one knee, gritting my teeth. I wasn't ready to give up; I would've kept fighting. But they were done. They called out to each other and I can hear the girl's voice, then the slamming of car doors. The parking lot lit up with the blinding headlights as the car roared to life. Then it squealed off, its back end fishtailing on the slippery gravel. I didn't move for the longest time, until the parking lot returned to a quiet, almost eery calm. For a brief moment, I chided myself. This dive was my favorite bar in the whole town. There's only two others so I figured I'd have to pick a new favorite. My hand was shaking and my knuckles are raw. I was sure one was probably broken as I dug around in my pocket for my car keys. A sharp pain shot up my arm when I moved, but I didn't know where the pain was coming from anymore. My whole body was starting to throb.
I was going to be a real mess in the morning.
It took me over two minutes to get moving and get into the truck. I slumped in the driver's seat of my old rusted out truck and slammed the door shut behind me. The cab lurches with the movement, which rubs my clothes against my wound in a painful way. I gritted my teeth as the pain began to take over everything. My shirt was sticking to my skin with thick liquid and I knew I was bleeding. Not too much, but enough. I winced as I worked at pulling my shirt out of my jeans. The wound wasn't too deep or too long, I didn't think. Just a flesh wound that hurt like a bitch. I gritted my teeth to keep from making too much noise when I finally dragged the thick cotton up over the wound. I tried to be careful, but it was impossible not to disturb the area. I could feel a thick drop running down my side and even though I couldn't see it, I knew it probably needed a few stitches. I gave myself a minute to collect myself before reaching over and probing the wound with my finger.
“Fuck,” I hissed to myself as the pain throbs through my brain. I felt the ragged edges where the bottle gauged into me. An inch long at least. My finger brushed a sharp glass shard and I blew out a low, slow breath before I pulled it out. I squeezed my eyes shut as the pain rushed through me fast and hot. I deserved it, I know. I was a piece of shit and I deserved whatever pain I got. I was lucky that I didn't get it worse. But that didn't mean it didn't make me want to bash someone's brains in to lessen the pain. I flicked the thick little piece of glass out the window and leaned back in the creaky vinyl seat in the old truck. As the pain ebbed, I couldn't help but think about Austin again. Austin was the last time I was truly happy, I realized. I had my house, I had my nice truck, I had my freedom. Before Joanie, I had everything I thought I wanted. But the second I saw her, none of it was enough.
I rolled my shirt back down over the wound and pressed my hand against it, even though the pressure hurt like a bitch. The windows in the truck were all fogged up from my breathing and I couldn't see out to the frozen ground in front of me. The harsh wind whooshed and whistled outside, making the truck rock slightly with each gust. For the longest time, I just sat there, even though I knew I had to get home and fix myself up.
It was never bleaker than at that moment.
“Joanie,” I whispered, leaning forward and pressing my forehead against the cold, molded steering wheel. “Look what you've done to me.”
Chapter Eleven
Ihave to admit that I never really thought it would happen.
I never really thought that the day would finally come. I assumed something would happen, some catastrophe or some twist of fate or maybe just Mitch realizing that I wasn't who I was pretending to be. Or maybe I was hoping for someone else to intervene, someone I had never quite given up on. My mother put event announcements in Dallas, Seattle and Austin papers, at my request. I didn't know if he was still paying attention. I didn't know if he still cared. But I tried. I tried to send a message to him, somehow, because I was about to give myself to someone else. I was about to give up on him for good. I didn't know how much clearer it could be.
I was about to become another man's wife.
I sat in a chair in front of the mirror as they poked
and prodded me, highlighted my cheekbones and filled in my lips and my brows. I sat as they curled my hair and sprayed it until it was hard to keep it from moving. I stood and let them help me into the heinously expensive but beautifully delicate wedding dress my mother and I had picked out months ago. It was my first time seeing it in over a month, since my last fitting. I hadn't really been paying attention then. I'd been distracted with my mother's questions about the guest list and the flowers and the food and all the other things that filled my brain. But as my mother and my sister-in-law Rosalie buttoned all the tiny pearl buttons up my back, I finally looked at it. Really looked at it.
It wasn't bright white – I'd made sure not to get a white dress. A white dress was further than I was willing to go. I may be a liar, but that just felt disrespectful. It was a soft ivory, and the bodice fit me perfectly and was hand-beaded with seed pearls. The dress was flat in the front and fitted close to my hips and thighs, but the train was yards of billowy silk that was lined with beads that glittered in the light. My arms were left bare and dusted with a lightly shimmering powder. My hair cascaded in perfectly coiled curls down my back. My grandmother's emerald and diamond necklace was around my neck, highlighting the graceful line of my collarbones and my cleavage, perfectly boosted by the bustier my mother had insisted on. I stared at myself in the mirror as they fidgeted with me, fluffing my train, adjusting my hair.
I didn't look like myself at all. I looked like a bride in a movie – everything was too perfect. That was what my mother had planned of course. She'd hired the best makeup and hair artists and paid for the dress to be tailored within an inch of its life. This was her idea of a wedding. She wanted people to be in awe of me as I walked down the aisle. She wanted to parade me in front of everyone and let them know that I was her daughter. It was my own fault, of course. I'd given her complete freedom. Mitch had only requested that we serve salmon and that he didn't have to wear anything other than black and white. He was wrapped up in the construction of the house, which was almost finished. If everything went according to schedule, we would be able to move in when we got back from the honeymoon.
Everything was changing.
I couldn't deny it anymore. I couldn't pretend that I wasn't going to leave the condo that was filled with so many memories. I couldn't pretend that I wasn't going to be another man's wife. As soon as I walked down the aisle, I was giving up on Elliot. I was giving up my distant hope that he was going to come back for me. I didn't realize that I'd been hoping and praying for him to return until that very moment. I'd been putting it out of my mind, ignoring the longing and shoving it away. Ignoring how much I still wanted him. He wasn't in my dreams every night any more, but he was always there on the edge of sleep. I always was waiting to curl into his arms and wake up beside him.
I was still his slave.
“Countdown. We've got five minutes until aisle,” the wedding planner announced, poking his head into the room. “Bridesmaids, last looks then line up.” My mother checked her watch and I turned to my bridesmaids. My childhood best friends, Laura and Tonya, my cousins, Pilar and Julia, and my brother's wife Rosalie, stood before me, beautiful in rose gold satin knee-length dresses my mother had chosen. I'd been a bad friend to them, distant at times, downright unreachable at other times. But they were here now, on this most strange day of my life. I appreciated it.
“Tonya, your necklace is crooked,” my mother said. “Pilar, adjust your tatas.”
“Her tatas are fine, momma,” I said. “They all look perfect.” I held out my arms and hugged each of them quickly, trying not to linger too much in the cloud of perfume and makeup and hairspray that we created as we grouped together. I didn't want to cry and I ruin my makeup so I pulled away and waved at them as my mother shooed them out of the room to meet the wedding planner. I could hear the organ music echoing through the church when the door opened. Finally it was my mother and I alone, for the first time all day. I didn't look at her because I didn't want to see her face. I didn't want to see the emotion on her face, the mixture of joy and sadness and the signs of reminiscing about long-past times when I was just her little girl. I expected all of that, but it was still hard to face it head on. I didn't want to have all of those emotions inside of me. I didn't want to explode with feelings. I wanted to control it as much as I could.
If I started crying, I might never stop.
I'd spent too much time building the dam, I didn't want it to burst.
“I feel like sometimes I don't know you anymore,” she said and I couldn't stop myself from looking at her then even though I didn't want to. “Sometimes I look at you and I don't see my daughter. I don't see the little girl that used to play dolls under the kitchen table. I don't see the girl who used to fall asleep at the foot of our bed when she had nightmares.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, even though I knew.
“You're so different,” she said, reaching out and adjusting my curls. Her long nails tickled the skin of my back. It reminded me of when I was a girl and she used to brush my hair before school. I felt the prickle of a tear in my eye and I wanted to pinch myself to make it go away. “I accept it. I accept that you want to live your own life. You may not think so, but I do.”
“I know, momma,” I said, my throat getting tight.
“I just wanted to thank you for letting me be a part of this,” she said. “I loved every minute of planning this wedding with you.”
“I didn't do anything,” I said. “You did it all.”
“I did not!” she scoffed, smacking me lightly on the arm. “I only helped. But that's not what I was trying to say.”
“One minute,” the wedding planner popped in again, carrying my bouquet. My eyes widened when I saw it. It was a big unwieldy thing, made of roses and lilies and sprigs of greenery. It looked heavy and it was. I held it in front of me, trying to figure out the best way to carry it. The photographer shot a quick blaze of photos, the shutter clicking around me. And then my father was in the doorway, tall and domineering in his black suit. He held out his arm and I took it, hooking my hand around his bicep. He was warm and solid, like always. He'd trimmed his mustache and shaved. He'd gotten a haircut. He looked ten years younger.
I couldn't let them down, I realized.
My family was expecting so much. I'd been running from their expectations for as long as I could remember and now I was stepping right into them, in an expensive dress and covered in flowers and gold dust. I was the princess that they'd always wanted me to be, getting married in the biggest Catholic church in Dallas, with hundreds of guests. I told myself I had to do it, I had to follow through. There was no other choice. But as the organ played the wedding march and my father accompanied me up the aisle, I could feel the panic rising. I smiled and nodded as I passed my relatives and my parents' friends, and Mitch's family and his colleagues and all the other people that I didn't even recognize.
I saw Mitch at the end of the aisle, standing with my brothers and his friends beside the priest. He was smiling and his eyes widened when he saw me. I knew he liked what he saw. I'd been fluffed and brushed and starved into the best version of myself. It was all fake, an illusion. The whole wedding was one beautiful, expensive illusion. But it felt very real as Mitch held out his hand for mine and I took it. I glanced back over my shoulder at the last moment, my eye settling on the huge double doors at the back of the church. For a long moment, I couldn't look away. I was waiting, even if I didn't want to admit it. I was marrying a dream man and I was given a dream wedding, but my eyes were on the door and I couldn't peel them away. Even as the ceremony started and we held hands and looked each other in the eye as the priest droned on, my attention was to the back of the church. As Mitch declared his undying love to me, I had one eye on the door, waiting for the man I hated the most in the world to come barging in. But Elliot never came.
There was no catastrophe.
There was no act of God.
Nothing stopped me from getting married, not ev
en myself.
*****
We went to the Mediterranean for our honeymoon. We spent two weeks exploring the coast, taking our time as we travelled from Italy to Greece. In Santorini, we stayed out all night on the beach and watched the sunrise. We made love in the mornings, the afternoons, and the evenings. Whenever we felt like it. We ate good food and drank good wine. It was the best honeymoon I could've hoped for. Mitch was the best husband I could've hoped for. Life was the best I could've hoped for. And for a few months, I thought I could make it work.
When the new house was finished, I packed up my condo and moved across town to be with my husband. I filled out a change of address form with the post office and then I put it up for sale. There was a bidding war for the little bungalow and it sold in less than a week. I never went back there again.
Three months after the wedding, Mitch started bringing up children. He'd mentioned it several times before we got married, here and there, and I would say something to appease him because I wasn't really interested in the topic. I hadn't considered having children in a long time. My capacity for being a mother had fled my body a long time ago, as far as I was concerned. I didn't have enough feeling left for my family and my husband, how would I have enough for a baby? I didn't think I would make a good mother, no matter how much of a good father Mitch would make. He was relentless, though. The topic never went away. When we went to restaurants, there were children. In the new neighborhood where we'd moved into a big new house with a three-car garage and five bedrooms, there were children riding their bikes and scooters up and down the sidewalks. Everywhere I went, from the coffee house to the farmer's market, there was a baby, staring up at me with innocent eyes from an overpriced stroller.
Love Is Strange (I Know... #2) Page 14
