by Claire Adams
“We should go home,” I said, unable to look at him.
“Mercedes.” He took another step closer to me. I pulled away. “Please, talk to me.”
“I just want to go home, okay? Everything is fine.”
I felt like I’d just shot him between the eyes. I couldn’t drag out the moment and lead him on, but he knew. He knew exactly what I was thinking. It was obvious in the way he kept trying to look at me out of the corner of his eyes. He hunched his shoulders and leaned against the car when we walked up. “Mercedes, please...”
I was torturing him. I’d never hated myself more, but I had to do what I had to do. I walked around to the passenger side door.
He toughened up when we got in the car. The tension between us was electric, but he didn’t say anything. I expected a big fight. Instead, his face calmed, and he stopped looking at me out of the corner of his eyes. He would adjust to life without me. He’d find some other whore to move onto, and I’d build a career for myself.
All the way home, from the second we left the event hall, the air around us became thicker and thicker. A wall of budding resentment and bitterness sprouted up between us. He could cling to that. It would make it easier for him to forget about me.
When he stopped the car in front of my house, he leaned over and grabbed me by the shoulders to face him. “Talk to me, Mercedes.”
“I have to go, Jake.” I opened the door and wrenched away. I climbed into my bedroom window using a patio chair from the backyard and fell face first on the bed.
I wrapped the comforter around my head and stayed there.
Chapter 31
Jake
The night had started amazingly. Mercedes and I had finally crossed the gap between us, and we were together the way we were supposed to be. We would’ve spent the night together, cuddling and making love. Then we’d wake up next to each other, and I’d make breakfast. That was the way it should have been, and it would’ve had it not been for Satan herself.
Becky was the worst kind of human being possible. She didn’t care about anyone other than herself. She thought she did, but it always came down to how she felt, and whether or not she got the things she wanted.
It all came down to her rich daddy complex. She was from an upper middle-class family. They were the kind of people that thought they were above everyone else, just because they had six figures in their checking accounts.
Her father couldn’t move past his blind ambition. He worked constantly, and when he was off, he was with his mistress. It bothered her a lot. I remember when she told me about it, how she cried and shook. It was hard to hear, but she used that story to get me to let her in.
I gave her nice dresses, and I helped her with her rent when she was in trouble. I even gave her an allowance, so she could feel comfortable, but it was never enough for her. She always wanted more: more money, more jewelry, more clothes. By the time our relationship ended, she had the fall, winter, and summer collections for all major fashion lines. She was mad because she couldn’t keep that up.
In a sense, she was a gold digger. A glorified prostitute. She knew the tricks of her harlot trade. She researched all the right surgeries. She had a schedule set up. Every two years, she had a tit tune-up. Every month, it was Botox injections. And every few weeks, they pumped her full of collagen.
That was how she made her living. Every cup size she went up tripled her budget. Every shot she got made her look five years younger. The men loved it, and they paid a very high price to be with her. It didn’t take her long to figure out that she didn’t need to whore herself out. She could just pick one prick and bleed him dry.
The sad part was that she used men, not because she wanted to use them, but because some sick part of her had gone sour a long time ago. She preyed on rich men because they could shower her with all the pretty things that her father never bought her. They’d fill the gaping hole between her legs and make her feel like she had a heart.
Once they’d proven themselves capable of supporting her fashion addiction, she fell for them. It wasn’t a shallow, “Oh, I love you sweetie,” type of love, or a deep, intimate connection. It was a wild, drunken, glass-breaking brawl.
It turned into an intense battle between the complacent male and a neurotic beauty queen. She’d fight and scream and push her men away. Then she’d lose it when they cheated on her or broke up with her, but it was her fault. I was lucky enough to cut things short before I had to retreat to somebody else.
I did it the right way, too. I brought her to a romantic dinner, and I got her a new dress and a diamond necklace. That was basically a prerequisite to get her out of her townhome at that point. She spent the entire time going over the thing, inspecting it, and asking about the carats. Then she moved onto the new spring collection, and how much she’d love it for her birthday.
I nodded along and listened to everything until she started asking why I was so distant. She wanted to know why I didn’t call her and spend all night on the phone with her, and why she hadn’t seen me all week. I wasn’t even trying to avoid her.
Nothing I said was enough. I’d concede every single step of the way, and it wasn’t just empty promises. She had me second guessing myself. When she moved on to my faults and how I should dress differently, I snapped and told her that I never wanted to see her again. She flew across the table with her nails outstretched like claws. I felt terrible. She was sobbing and begging me when I walked away, and she didn’t stop.
She harassed the gate guards in front of my house. She looked up all the board members at my company and called to harass them about me. She even tried to strangle my receptionist in the parking lot. As far as she was concerned, I was the one, and she was entitled to me, just like she was entitled to everything else.
People that use other people aren’t necessarily crazy. Often, they’re saner than most. They’d have to be to move through the world without getting found out. Becky was sloppy. She mixed her business and her personal life in the worst kind of way. She didn’t know the difference. She was delusional.
Anyone that buys into their own lies is doing so because they’re mentally ill. She didn’t really care about me, just what she saw in me. So, she lied to herself to reinforce our abusive relationship, just like any good codependent. That was Becky. She was out of her mind.
I never once cheated on her. I did without if I could because I thought she was worth the trouble. I was fair with her. I never cheated on her like her other boyfriends, and I never once laid a hand on her. She was just resentful because I wouldn’t put up with her crap. Now, Mercedes was gone, and I laid in bed, hiding underneath the covers while I stared at my phone.
I had pictures of her in her dress, the white and red masterpiece. Her hair, done up by a celebrity stylist, framed her amazing face. She was the most beautiful person I’d ever met in my entire life, inside and out. Her looks had nothing to do with it. It was her personality. She dedicated herself to her family, so much so that she was willing to sell herself to help them pay their bills.
Most children would’ve run away a long time ago. They had their own lives to live, and too many complexes to stick around. Mercedes wasn’t like that. She wasn’t selfish. She was compassionate and honorable. She made her father’s food, took him to his appointments, and helped him get around. Who does that for their parents?
She was willing to do anything to save her father. She’d have sold her body, washed mountains of dishes, and sat through millions of customer complaints, all because she loved somebody.
I remembered the way she looked when she saw me donate to the Rose Foundation. It was the most amazing thing I’d ever seen, watching her break down. The depth of her love for her family was inspirational.
I could learn so much from her—dedication, honor, sacrifice. She could’ve helped me become a better person. I could’ve helped her, too. Her father’s bills were one thing; it was a huge help, but I could change her world.
She didn't have to slave a
way for nothing. She could spend her time pursuing her ambitions without ever having to worry about whether or not she could eat or have a place to live. None of the daily struggles people went through would apply to her or her family. I wasn’t just mourning my relationship with Mercedes. I was mourning the life she could’ve had.
The next morning, after the event, I called Mercedes as soon as I got up. The first call just rang and rang. Then, she ignored me. After that, my calls went straight to voicemail. She had me blocked. I tried texting her easy stuff like, how are you, and good morning, but that didn’t work either.
I thought that she was just avoiding me after what happened and didn’t want to deal with things, so I let her be. I kept my phone in my pocket and never once took it out unless it made a noise. Every time it went off, I snatched it right up, certain that it was her.
It wasn’t.
I had to distract myself. I was losing my mind. I went to the gym and worked out until I couldn’t breathe any longer. When I got out, the sun was setting, and she still hadn’t called. I was certain that it would be soon. It was starting to get late, and there was no way she’d ignore me for a whole day.
I waited as long as I could before I called her. My number was still blocked, and she wouldn’t answer any of my messages. I couldn’t take it. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t function. She was everywhere. Her scent was in the air; her sweat was in the sheets, and in the dust on the walls. Even the couch, where we’d first made love, was enough to set me off.
I couldn’t walk around the house and do nothing. I had to find some peace, but there was no relief from this, not without her. So I changed the sheets on my bed and retreated underneath the covers. The next day, I called her first thing in the morning, thinking that she’d answer now that she’d had some time. She didn’t.
There was no point in trying to call or message now. I was just making myself look desperate, and in all honesty, I was. I’d never been that guy before. I never wanted anyone, never. It was all about gratification, even with Becky. But with Mercedes, I fell, and I fell hard. I couldn’t even get off the bed.
I took another sleeping pill. I awoke to the sound of my phone ringing. I threw the covers off. This was it. It had to be. She wouldn’t wait this long. I snatched my phone off the nightstand and looked at who was calling. It was Samantha, of all fucking people. I didn’t bother answering. I threw the fucking phone against the wall.
I slid back into bed and took another sleeping pill. I lost track of time. One night faded into another. Every morning was a reminder she was gone, and every single time I threw off that blanket was another time I’d have to get out of bed without her.
I had to accept it, but I couldn’t. It was the only thing in my life that mattered. I blew off work. I couldn’t face it. I couldn’t even face myself. Instead, I huddled in bed and stared at the phone. I went through all of our messages, our pictures, even my call log, like a mother that couldn’t leave her dead child’s room.
The picture I stared at disappeared, replaced by a call notification. It was Andrew. The last thing I wanted to do was go out and get drunk. I’d just end up getting upset and making things worse. I didn’t want to see what worse looked like.
Andrew called back again, and I ignored the call again. When he called after that, I blocked his number, but that didn’t stop me from having to see the voicemail notifications. He called six times before I decided to call him back.
“Hello?” he said, with an edge to his voice.
“What do you think you’re doing, calling me like a crazy person?”
“A woman named Samantha at your office called me. She wanted me to do a wellness check. Apparently, nobody has seen or heard from you since Friday. What the hell happened?”
I sighed. “It’s nothing.”
“Fine, you don’t want to talk about it? That’s okay. But don’t make me leave empty-handed. Come out with me. It’ll do you some good.”
“I don’t want to.”
“Look, whatever this is, it was enough to make you skip work. You don’t do that, ever. Now I’m starting to worry, and I know that staying in will just make things worse.”
“I’m not sure that’s possible.”
“Shit, Jake. Seriously. What is wrong with you?”
“I don’t know,” I lied.
“You’re coming out with me. No arguments. I’m outside.”
“They let you in?” I threw the blanket off and stood up. “Who did that?”
“Couldn’t say.”
“My staff breached the security of my private home.”
“Because they’re scared shitless, and they’re worried. And I’m your goddamn brother. Not some psycho killer. So relax. Come on. Get ready.”
“Fine.” I hung up and jumped into the shower.
When I got out, I wiped the fog off the mirror and took a look at myself. My face sagged, and a thin beard had sprouted on my face. I never let my facial hair grow. It made me look like a hobo, and that’s exactly how I felt. Without Mercedes, I didn’t feel at home, even in my own house.
Andrew was waiting in the living room when I walked in. Normally, I would’ve hunted down and fired whoever did that, but dammit, they were right. It was time to accept that Mercedes was gone and move on. I didn’t like thinking that, not even in my head. It was too painful. But the truth kept slapping me in the face. He was just the messenger.
“You look terrible.” Andrew got off the couch and walked up to where I stood in the foyer, leaning against the bannister.
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“That’s cool,” he said and threw up his hands.
“Don’t bullshit me, Andrew. I mean it, and I’m not going to let you take me out and get me drunk so you can get me to talk. No alcohol, and no fucking interrogation.”
“You want ice cream? I know you can’t turn that down.”
“Do I look like I want to leave the house right now?”
“What car should we take?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“You’ve obviously lost your mind.” Andrew looked me up and down, tearing through what little composure I had. I shrank back. “Tell me what happened, Jake?”
“Don’t come at me like this.”
He looked right at me and took a step closer. “Something is seriously wrong with you.”
“Something is going to be wrong with you if you don’t stop. I’m not into this. Let’s go.” I led him into the garage and picked a car. “You want to drive?” I motioned towards the big, black sedan.
“Really?”
“Yeah, why not?”
Andrew started to walk around the driver’s side of the car. Then he stopped and looked up at me. “It’s almost like you…”
“Like I what?” I snapped.
“Like you… never mind.”
I threw him the keys, and he got in. The drive was short and tense. Andrew made a big deal about being allowed to drive the car. Then he hit the accelerator and realized that I gave him a soccer mom engine. He expected me to let him drive something nice with a turbocharged engine and a sweet stick. I wasn’t about to step outside in a car that brought unwanted attention.
I figured he’d be happy, but he wasn’t. He tensed up, and we both went quiet while I listened to the sound of his heavy breathing. Several times, he looked at me like he was ready to say something. I kept my eyes out the window and watched as the city passed by.
When we got to Frank’s, Andrew had to get the salted caramel. He noticed me standing behind him with my arms folded when he got it, but he didn’t say anything until we walked out to the back patio, where he tore into his cone.
“What’s your deal? I’m tired of this crap.”
“That’s the only reason you came here. You just want to see me fucking squirm. Well, you know what, you disgusting piece of shit? I won’t allow it. I should leave you here.” I stood up with my chest puffed out.
“Sit down.”
“No, y
ou hate me. You’ve always hated me, you and your wife both. The only reason you talk to me is so you can see me fail, and it’s not because I’ve done anything wrong. It’s because your ass is jealous because I’m rich. You’re just like everyone else.”
“You think it’s because of the money?” Andrew was on his feet and in my face.
“Yeah, I do, and I know about Elizabeth.” He shook his head like he was ready to punch me. “She’s been threatening to leave your ass since before Haylie was born, because you’re too lazy to get a real job.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah, because I’m a fucking man, and you’re an overgrown child sitting behind a computer staring at all the women you can’t have.”
Andrew’s face reddened in anger. “Why were you in the bathroom for like an hour at my barbecue with your girlfriend? Why do you always have a fucking boner? You know why we hate you?”
I clenched my fists.
“Because you don’t believe in love,” he said.
“Yes, I do.” I gripped the table so hard my knuckles were white.
“Then how come every girl I’ve seen you with has a fake pair of tits and a bad facelift? You think I don’t know what you do? Everyone knows that you pay women to have sex with you, and you’ve been doing it for years. You’re sick, Jake. You could have trillions of dollars, and every single car in the world, and that still won’t make up for the fact that you’re a self-centered pervert that’s incapable of loving anyone other than yourself.”
I threw a right hook straight at his nose and winced at the sound of the bone cracking. He stumbled backward, and he collapsed in his seat. He cradled his nose while I stood there trembling. I couldn’t look at him, so I turned around and walked back into the ice cream parlor to get some napkins.
His face and hands were covered in red when I walked out and threw the napkins on the table. “I am not incapable of love. You can find your own fucking way home after that shit. And I’m having your car towed, just for fun.” I turned around to walk off. “And you don’t know what I’ve been through, Andrew. You don’t have any right to judge me.”
