“Yeah,” Sophie rasps. “That’s rough.”
“And how much longer will this silence go on?” I say. “I think the longest we’ve gone without talking was like a week or something.” I try to rattle free from my mind the longest spat to date. “But he was out of town.”
“On business,” Emily says in an understanding tone.
“Or out screwing his secretary,” I offer lifelessly.
Sophie rolls her eyes. “Pure conjecture, Jackie. And not substantiated by anything more than pure paranoia because of Lara and Nathan and…” She squeezes her lips together and looks like she’s silently apologizing before saying her next piece. “Maybe boredom.”
“Or unhappiness,” Emily says in an amazingly cheerful way.
“Or both,” Sophie treads lightly.
They’re probably right. If Andrew’s not two-timing me then I’m probably acting like this because of paranoia, unhappiness, and discontentment in my marriage. And, yeah, all right, I’m probably a teensy bit bored, but I can be pretty good at abating that. There are the trips to Pioneer Square; hours and hours of addicting television; spa treatments and mani-pedi appointments; tons of shopping to be had in the Westlake Center, Pacific Place, and along Broadway; and we can’t forget cupcake nibbling and coffee sipping at The Cup and the Cake.
“You two really need to have a serious talk,” Sophie says. “One without erupting into a fight and smashing things. That’s really not healthy.”
“I know. I’ve tried. Got me nowhere. My marriage is toxic. Nothing about it is healthy.”
“You talk to your therapist about all of this?” Emily queries concernedly.
Of course I talk to my therapist about this kind of stuff. He knows all about the spats and rough patches, even the really ugly ones. And each time we discuss it, or each time I bring up the latest altercation, he’ll ask if Andrew’s laid a hand on me, saying, “I just want to make sure, Jackie.” I say, as I always do, “No. Andrew takes his anger out on the furniture.”
I laugh out loud to myself. On the comical side of things, I suppose if Andrew and I continue these nasty fights eventually there won’t be anymore furniture left in the house and then I’ll be able to buy all sorts of Old World knickknacks and pieces to decorate our place. I could actually make the place a home for us, not the sterile as-found place it has been since I first moved in.
I heave a heavy sigh as my mind dances with mixed images of Andrew reading his newspaper, broken glass on the kitchen floor, sterile furniture, sterile life, sterile love…
“You’ll figure this out,” Emily assures me. “Honestly, this too shall pass, and if you try and make a real effort to get your marriage on track, you two will be in a much better place.”
“Someone has to step up,” Sophie says, smoothing her apron some more. “Or this void’s just going to grow and grow, Jack. Silence is not the answer. Talk. For real this time.”
“Andrew could step up,” I say in a weak voice. “Why can’t he make the first move, huh?”
“He said, she said, he’s it, you’re it.” Sophie stands up and lets out a noise that’s a combination of shrieking and groaning. “I don’t care who does it, just fix this. You and Andrew have only been married a year—”
“Thirteen-and-half months,” I correct.
She looks on at me with pleading eyes as she grips the top of the chair back. “Come on, Jackie.” Her voice turns soft. “Don’t give up. We’re here to support you and help you, but if you don’t start helping yourself…and Andrew…there’s nothing anyone can do.”
“Yeah.” Emily pats me on the back. “No one said marriage would be easy. But it is possible.”
“Sorry to interrupt the love fest,” Chad’s voice comes suddenly from behind. “I finished the dishes.”
“Thank you,” Sophie breathes out. She turns on her heels to face him. “Break a few along the way?”
“Break a few along the way,” Chad says in a mimicking tone. “No, Anna-Sophia, I didn’t break a few along the way.” He unties and removes his apron in a swift movement, then flashes her a lopsided grin. “Biscotti for tomorrow are all done, the ovens are cooling, dishwasher’s running, and we just need some more to-go boxes prepped.”
He rolls his apron into a ball and tosses it on the front counter between the cash register and the cupcake display case. He stretches his thick, tattoo-covered arms over his head, then behind his back, making one loud pop.
As he rolls his neck about, making grating crackle and pop noises, Sophie says, “Thanks, and don’t worry about the to-go boxes.” Any appearance of incandescence is gone. She now pushes a long strand of auburn hair behind her ear and gives Chad an appreciative smile. “Gatz or I can do them tomorrow.”
“Nah,” he says with a lopsided grin. “Don’t worry. I can do some.”
“You can go home now,” Sophie insists.
He runs a strong hand over his lightly greasy, haphazard, dirty-blonde hair as he walks to the espresso machine behind the front counter.
“Don’t you have to work tomorrow?”
Chad shrugs, flicking at his lip ring. “Five minutes won’t kill me.”
Sophie, too, gives a simple shrug, then turns her attention back to the table.
“Hey, what’d you want me to do with those leftover cupcakes you’ve got set out on the plate back there?” Chad asks while he fiddles with the espresso machine’s dials.
“Leftovers!” Emily beams.
“For Robin,” Sophie says, deflating Emily’s happy balloon. “I’m taking them to her tonight as a welcome home present.” She looks to me and Emily. “She and Phillip were released home today. I know she’ll need a ton of help with cooking and dinners and stuff. Figured I’d start with the best part first—dessert.”
“Always dessert,” Emily says.
“Phillip’s healthy? And Robin’s still good?” I ask. Last I heard, which was just the day before last, Phillip was healthy, at a strong weight, and all the vitals and stuff were top-notch. Robin was in good shape, too.
“Phillip’s healthy,” Sophie says proudly, “and Robin looks beautiful. Saw her yesterday after work.” She presses a hand to her tan cheek. “Looks amazing. Hard to believe she just had a baby. So!” She says this last word in a disjointed way. “You’re going to do something, right, Jack?”
“Yeah,” Emily pipes in. “Talk to Andrew? Not to push, but it sounds like things are kinda bad.”
“You going to get over this messy mess and be all in love again?” Sophie flutters her lashes and giggles.
“Seriously.” Emily fixes me with a sincere gaze, that look she gives me when she and I both know her sage advice is only for the best, and that I better heed it—or else.
“Anyone want anything while I’m here?” Chad asks over the cacophonous steaming of water.
“Yeah,” Sophie shouts. “A solution to life’s problems.”
“Hmm.” Chad scratches at the few days’ worth of stubble on his face. “I thought sex was the answer to that conundrum,” he meets Sophie’s teasing.
“Ha, ha,” she breathes through a sigh of annoyance.
“Sex is where all the trouble begins,” I say drolly, “and that’s coming from me.” I’m the girl of our close-knit group who’s always put an emphasis on testing out the goods before any commitment’s really made. I’m not saying I’m a wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am kind of girl, though. I do have my standards, and frequently hopping into bed on the first or second date is not always advisable. When you do, it can sometimes lead to some very wretched “hindsight is twenty-twenty” moments.
“Wish I could help you and join your pity party,” Chad says, the machine’s hissing dying down. “But sex and I are like best buds. I’d never turn my back on it.”
“Anyway,” Emily says, “we’ve already found life’s solution.” She rubs my arm. “Or whatever. We found your solution, your next step, Jackie. Talk to Andrew. Have a real and deep discussion. Seriously this time.”
�
�Without accusations,” Sophie adds in.
“No assumptions,” Emily says.
“No blaming and screaming.”
“No throwing things, either.”
“Deal?” Sophie says, holding her hand out for me to shake. Emily makes the same gesture.
Chapter Twelve
I’m ready. I’m ready to have this talk—a real talk—and put all of this behind me. So the last talk didn’t turn out so well; it doesn’t mean this one won’t. Besides, the last talk wasn’t even a talk. It was more like an episode of retching—insulting words and accusations just spilling from my mouth without any thought, running on pure emotion (and, in all fairness, a wee bit of Bushmills Irish Whiskey). This time I’m going to tell Andrew how I really feel—that I’m unhappy, that I’m lonely, that we need to do something serious about our marriage.
“Ugh!” I moan as I light a cigarette.
Okay, I’m not as ready as I thought, so instead of driving home straight from The Cup and the Cake I took a detour by way of Pioneer Square. I need some alone time to get my ducks in a row before I go back home and face the man who has my heart, and who also drives me completely mad.
Sitting on one of the many benches in the square, chewing some gum, smoking a cigarette, chewing some more gum, then smoking another cigarette, I begin to reflect on other times where I’ve found myself in the same precarious and totally unnerving situation. When you tell yourself you know what you need to do, and that you can do it, but you’re too worried about all of the what-ifs that you just wind up sitting immobilized, wandering down memory lane.
I blow out a large smoke ring and watch it dance into the chilly night air as I go back to my junior year at U Dub—the winter week my sorority house had its biggest gala and fundraising event of the year. The Delta Gammas were known to rake in the dough during their philanthropic week, and it was mostly because of one single, two-hour-long event. All of the fraternity guys gathered, setting aside any house conflicts someone might have for one brief but exciting event. In fact, nearly every guy on campus crawled from underneath their books and homework, their booze, joints, and girlfriends, to come to the Delta Gamma Anchor’s Away Date Auction.
The name says it all, but I’ll divulge the gritty details anyway. Basically, just about every DeeGee sister pledged to put herself and one clean date up for auction to the highest bidder. Unfortunately, this could lead to some raunchy cat fights regarding popularity and dibs-on-guys rights, and some girls had boyfriends who were none too pleased with the tradition, even in the name of philanthropy, so sometimes brawls could erupt afterwards. What happened after the event or as a result of it was never much of a DeeGee concern, though—Greek houses can get pretty good at skirting issues so long as the accused happens outside of the house and not within the party or member meeting.
Anyway, the dates were auctioned off with the written and verbal understanding that the dates were nothing more than dinner, or a movie, or maybe dancing, perhaps a moonlit walk on campus, or lunch in the cafeteria. Basically a date, sans anything sexual.
My freshman year the Theta house had a close run in with the campus police, and their charter was under a slight investigation after rumors had spread that there was a girl doing certain things for certain fraternity guys so she could have her house dues paid. Since then, the Delta Gamma Anchor’s Away Date Auction had watched its Ps and Qs carefully.
Somehow, though, some numbskull bidder didn’t pay any attention to those Ps and Qs, and he obviously hadn’t taken heed of the loud warning that while the Thetas may have swung that way, DeeGee girls did not—at least not officially and definitely not at public events.
I went up to the platform and a chorus of bids sounded along with a strong starter bet from Chad and Conner, Pi Kappa Alpha brothers who promised they’d get the ball rolling and save the day in the event I didn’t have any takers.
But takers I had, and I was sold for a whopping eight-hundred and twenty dollars, a lot, but nothing compared to Stacey St. Clair, who went for a thousand-and-a-half! I was bought by a tall, dark, and handsome jock named Kurt. I think he was on the basketball team, or maybe it was football, but it didn’t matter. He was a jock, and, as it turned out, a Grade-A asshole. Oh how often those two sadly go hand-in-hand.
Kurt and I agreed on dinner in the nearby U District at one of the cheap eateries right off the Ave. I was dead-ass broke, as always, and he wasn’t too hung up on extravagant dinner plans. He was more interested in the movie afterwards. Or, rather, what he had planned after the movie.
The dinner was enjoyable, and we actually got on well. Easy discussion, a dramatic Leo DiCaprio film, then a walk back to campus. I could see my sorority house in the near distance and was ready to kiss him goodnight and consider my DeeGee philanthropic duties paid. Kurt was a nice enough guy, and though I wasn’t horribly attracted to him or looking for a little piece of something on the side, I thought I’d be sweet on him and give him a simple kiss goodnight, followed by a thank you.
But the kiss turned deeper, harder, and before I knew it Kurt had one hand making its way up my skirt, thumb under my panties. I jumped back, so alarmed I couldn’t speak. He drew nearer, grinning this horribly fiendish grin, and he started to grope me again. I squirmed, I swore I’d scream if he didn’t stop, and it only turned him on more. He pulled me tight and told me that he’d get his money’s worth, that I shouldn’t fight what I flaunt all around campus, wearing my halter tops, miniskirts, and high heels.
I tried to jerk free, forcing him to grip my arms with both of his hands—at least free of further molestation at that point—and then he said I should have no problem doing the job he’d paid for, seeing how I’d been with half of fraternity row anyway. It was a sordid and flagrant lie. Okay, maybe a few guys, a few dates, maybe at a drunken house party or two, but not half the row. And what business of his was it anyway what I did with my free time? With my body? It’s my body to do with as I wish, and I told Kurt no.
I don’t know what would have become of the sham of a date had it not been for one of Conner and Chad’s fellow Pike brothers walking by on his way home from the library, stepping in to put things to an end.
That night I cried myself to sleep, not breathing a word of what happened to anyone. How humiliating to be known as a campus hussy, wrongly accused just because I may dress a certain way and be a little free-thinking with a few dates, and then exploited, abused. Part of me felt dirty and ashamed, and I wanted to burn all of my clothes and vow to join a convent or something over-the-top; the other part felt angry and vengeful. I wanted to buy more of the clothes I liked, date more of the guys I liked and wanted to date. Who was Kurt to shame me and make me feel badly about myself? I’d had enough of that growing up, thank you very much. I had enough demons to deal with, enough guilt and enough problems. I didn’t need some deadbeat assaulter quashing my spirit, my voice, my self—hampering me from trying to move on and grow up and figure life out.
My secret didn’t stay a secret for long, though. The next day Conner and Chad were let in on Kurt’s number on me when my guardian angel that night recognized me as one of the guys’ friends. Conner and Chad have never been very explicit on what went down once they found out, but I saw Kurt on campus a couple days later and his face was black and blue, one arm in a sling.
I blow out another smoke ring, watching as it disperses and spreads thin. Even if I’m reflecting on painful pasts, it’s still refreshing and sobering to come to Pioneer Square. It’s comforting to be one with my thoughts, especially when I have to do something big and scary and really difficult, like have a serious talk with my husband.
I didn’t have the courage to ever face Kurt after that, and I couldn’t bring myself to tell my girlfriends of the details. They could get what they wanted from Conner and Chad, but that evening’s story ended when my eyes fell shut and I was able to drift to sleep and dream of anything but what had happened that night. And now, here I am, unable to bring myself to talk to Andrew, to h
ave an open and honest discussion with the man to whom I pledged my eternal and undying love.
“How strange this silly world is,” I mumble to myself as I stamp out my cigarette. I dab with my pinky the lone tear in the corner of my right eye and stand.
It’s the damnedest thing, life. There’s no rulebook or lesson plan to guide you, and even the best damn therapist in the world can’t prepare you for all the curveballs. Especially the curveballs you somehow manage to throw at yourself.
Wrapping tighter my black, crushed velvet jacket, I make my way to my car and begin my slow and silent journey back home. To do what needs to be done—what should have been done long ago.
Chapter Thirteen
“If you keep pacing like that you’re going to burn a hole in your slippers,” Andrew says from his chair in the corner of the living room. He turns the page of the newspaper he’s reading.
“Hmm?” I sound, continuing my pacing. I scratch my head, pause at the end of the room, then spin back around.
I can do this, I tell myself. I can talk to my husband, have a serious conversation that will not start off with accusations, that will not become a yelling match, and will not end up like a scene straight from Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf.
“You feeling all right?” Andrew asks, peeking only briefly around his crisp paper to give me a discerning look.
I sound another hmm and continue to pace, continue to scratch, continue to procrastinate.
“Okay, Jackie,” he says at last, dropping his paper in a crinkle onto his lap. “You’re making me nervous. What’s going on?”
I abruptly stop pacing and look at him. “Well,” I start. I bring my thumb to my mouth and avert my eyes to the expansive view of the dark Bay.
“Jackie.” His voice is low, crisp.
“I’ve been wanting to talk to you,” I say, keeping my eyes focused dead ahead out the window.
“About where you were tonight.” I sense a slight hint of discomposure in his voice.
When Girlfriends Let Go Page 10
