by Lisa Sorbe
But you’d think my fucking degree would count for something.
I swallow back the rest of my tea, the anger flaring in me like a fire I can’t control. It heats my cheeks and makes my eyes burn. And for about the millionth time since looking at those photos of Julian, I feel shame.
I am beautiful. But I am nothing.
When I reach into my purse for my keys, my fingers brush an envelope, the sharp edge poking into the soft pad of my thumb and making me wince. When I pull it out, I realize it’s the bill from Miles. Back when he fixed my tire. Three whole weeks ago.
Shit.
With everything that happened that night – Victoria and Trevor, Emilia getting sick and then me getting sick – I’d forgotten about it. The last few weeks I’ve been preoccupied with all the conflicting emotions that looking up Julian brought on – seeing him so successful and discovering he’s in a relationship with a fucking prima ballerina for Christ’s sake. Time didn’t freeze for him like it did for me.
He’s something. And I’m nothing.
And I can’t be nothing anymore.
I can’t.
Sliding my finger under the envelope’s flap, I rip it open. The only bill inside is the one from the parts store, an invoice Miles already paid when he picked up my tire. Which means he only intends to charge me for the part and not for his service. And for some reason, this pisses me off. What gives him the right to be Holier Than Thou, huh? It’s like he’s rubbing the fact that he’s the better person in my face.
Asshole.
Before I know it, I’m in my Rover and driving toward the shitty part of town. Toward the one place I never thought I’d step foot in again.
Wright Auto Repair.
Invoice in hand, I push through the door, the click of my stilettos muffled by the layer of grime on the floor. Of course, there’s no one behind the counter. I don’t bother waiting; been there, done that. Instead, I blow past the overweight guy sitting in the waiting room who’s dressed in a power suit and oinking into his cell about his prostrate exam and burst through the counter’s swinging doors. When I step into the garage, however, I slow my pace. Lord knows I don’t want an experience like last time. Picking my way over grease puddles and oil slicks and random piles of grit, I swing my head around, looking for Miles. When I see his legs sticking out from under a cherry red sedan, I make my way over and kick him in his shin.
“Hey! What the…”
There’s a dull clunk as his head makes contact with something on the vehicle’s undercarriage. He curses and rolls out from underneath, his back resting on some sort of flatbed with wheels. When he sees me, he curses. Again.
I glare down at him, waving the invoice. “What the hell is this?”
“Well what do ya know?” he says, pushing off the floor and rising. “The deadbeat decided to pay her bill.” He grabs a rag from his pocket and wipes his hands. He’s wearing thick plastic safety glasses with black frames, and the dorky lenses make him look even more nerdy than he already is.
And – ugh – he’s even more of a mess than he was the first time I saw him.
“You’re unbelievable,” I spat, waving the invoice again. “Why aren’t you charging me for your time?”
He slips his glasses off, the clean skin around his eyes emphasizing the black muck on the rest of his face. It’s almost comical, and I’d laugh if I wasn’t so ticked. “Because I’m trying to be a nice guy?”
I humph and cross my arms. Close myself off. “There’s no such thing.”
“You’re free to believe what you want. No skin off my ass. If it makes you feel better, add another sixty to the cost of the tire and we’ll call it even.”
“Fine.” My voice is clipped.
“Fine.” His is mocking.
We glower at each other, the heavy ticking of the clock the only sound in the room.
“Well, Jenny,” Miles says, stuffing the rag into his pocket. “If that’s all, I really need to get back to work. Feel free to leave a check on the counter.”
He turns to his workbench, and I make a face at his back. Immature? Fine, yes. But it’s not like I’m the epitome of maturity these days. A thirty-two-year-old woman who lives in her parents’ guest house, lets them raise her daughter, and can’t get a job…
It’s like I’m waking up from a long sleep, the grogginess finally fading enough so I can see how pathetic my life actually is. And it is. Fucking pathetic.
I am beautiful. But I am nothing.
I’m just about to leave when the phone rings. It’s an old rotary contraption, a shrill scream that bounces off the old brick walls. After the sixth ring I stomp over, ball up my fist, and slug Miles in the shoulder.
“Sweetheart,” he says, half turning, “you have got to stop poking me.”
I wave my hand toward the front. The phone is still going crazy. “Aren’t you going to get that?”
He shrugs. “I already told you, I’m busy. If I stopped work on a vehicle every time the phone rang, I’d never get anything done. Besides, the machine will pick it up.”
I crane my neck, listening. The rings continue, one after another – each one grating on my nerves. Somewhere around the eleventh, I roll my eyes. “Shouldn’t the machine have picked up by now? And, by the way,” I add, “the fact that you still use an actual answering machine is pretty pathetic.”
Miles sighs. “You’re like this annoying little fly that just won’t go away. You know that?”
I ignore him, an idea brewing. “And you do know you have a client waiting up front, right? Some fat guy in a suit who looks like he has places to go, people to see…” I let my voice trail off.
He closes his eyes. “Damn it. That’s Mr. Barnaby. What time is it?”
I glance at the Pennzoil clock. “Twelve thirty. A little after, actually.”
His shoulders sag, exhaustion creeping over his features like a shroud. “He needed his car by noon. I knew that parts run would put me behind. Shit.” He clasps his fingers behind his neck, looks up at the ceiling, and paces back and forth. “Shit, shit, fuck!”
The poor guy looks so woebegone that I’d feel sorry for him if his misfortune wasn’t turning out to be my gain.
I point at the sedan. “Is that his?”
Miles nods.
“How soon will you have it finished?”
“Ten minutes, tops. I was just finishing up when you barged in.” He shoots me a dirty look.
One which I ignore, because it’s time to try to get on this guy’s good side.
“Here’s what’s going to happen. I’m going to go out there and let him know you’re almost done. You,” I say, “get to work.”
Miles looks at me like I’m crazy. The shock on his face would be laughable if the trajectory of my life wasn’t hinging on his reaction to what I’m about to propose.
“What?” He furrows his brow. “What are you even talking about?”
“You obviously need some help here. I mean, look at you. You’re drowning.” I turn in a circle, indicating the chaos: two vehicles in various stages of completion, overflowing garbage bins near the roll-up garage door, take out bags and wrappers littering every spare surface that isn’t already covered in tools and parts and parts boxes. I indicate his old ghetto blaster, which is blissfully silent. “I mean, you haven’t even had the time to turn on your mullet rock. No wonder you’re out of sorts.”
Miles grits his teeth, the anger flashing in his eyes enough to make me want to take a step back. But I don’t, because I need this.
“So, what? You’re going to stick around and be my” – he hooks his fingers in the air – “helper for the day? And out of the goodness of your heart, I’m assuming?”
“No,” I shoot back. “You’re going to hire me on as your assistant.”
And now he laughs. He laughs so hard tears leak from his eyes and it takes three tries for him to even speak. “Just when…” His lips wobble as another snicker slips through. It’s taking everything he has to compose h
imself. “Just when I think you couldn’t surprise me more.” He slips his safety glasses back on and points at me, his eyes shining. “You, Jenny, are a hoot. A real, fucking hoot.”
I want to say Look who’s talking, but I bite my tongue. “You,” I say instead, “need someone to run things up front while you,” I wrinkle my nose, “do whatever it is you do back here.”
Miles falls silent, considering my words. “Fine, okay. Okay. So maybe I do need a little help. Up front,” he clarifies. “But that doesn’t explain why I should hire you for the job. I mean, Princess… Come on.” Miles saunters over, so close I have to tilt my head back to look up at him. “Why would you even want to work in a joint like this?” He studies me and, much to my annoyance, his gaze makes me blush. “Something about you, sweetheart, just doesn’t add up.”
I narrow my eyes. “It doesn’t have to add up. The only thing that matters is you get what you need, and I get what I need.”
He crosses his arms. “And what is that, exactly? Hmm?”
And I tell him. Because if I’m not honest with him, he won’t bite. “A job reference.”
He takes a deep breath. Releases it. His expression softens, and when I look into his eyes I see… Not quite pity, but something too close to it for my comfort.
He feels sorry for me.
And that I won’t have.
I shake my head and turn on my heel, ready to leave. For the second time today, frustration reddens my eyes. “You know what?” I clear my throat, dislodging the lump that has suddenly appeared. “Never-”
“Okay.”
I stop. Turn and look back at him. “What?” I squeak. “Are you?” I clear my throat again. Damn lump. “I mean, are you…”
“You’re hired.” Miles nods. “Now get to work.”
Julian’s big break came six months after that night in the pub. We’d been seeing each other in secret almost every day since, with me unofficially moving out of my dorm and into his condo after only a few short weeks. We were both the sort of people who took what we wanted. And, at the time, what we wanted was each other.
I guess we both manipulated one another in a way; seduction was something Julian and I exceled at equally. I’d never met anyone who could keep up with me – in bed and in wit – and dating Julian constantly kept me on my toes.
I wasn’t clingy. Lord knows I wasn’t going to scare my boyfriend away like other girls my age did. I allowed him his freedom, knowing the less he had of me, the more he’d crave.
And he did. Julian craved me. Like a fine wine he couldn’t get enough of.
The only thing was, he was doing the exact same thing to me.
He was my addiction – no drug could compete with the euphoria I experienced those first few years we were together. No one had ever charmed me like Julian; everything he did was sensual. The way he’d take my hand as we crossed a street, his fingers sliding through mine before pressing my palm to his. Or when I’d stand at the bathroom sink in the mornings, brushing my teeth or putting on makeup, and I’d feel his large hand absently cup my hip and glide along my lower back as he passed behind me on his way to the shower.
He was a sculptor and touching me was instinct. And when Julian put his hands on me, my body became a work of art.
I never stood a chance.
Julian already had a following by the time we got together, though it was small and consisted mostly of a handful of collectors who stumbled across his pieces at the few local galleries who showed his work.
As alike as we were, we did have our differences. Julian preferred to live under the cloak of night. It was in the dark, he said, where his creativity flourished. Where he tapped into a portion of himself that wasn’t, in his words, “human.”
Looking back now, I’m not sure he ever was human. At least, not when he was with me. He was a god. He was a devil. Maybe we were more damned together than we were apart.
Either way, I knew how he felt. Because my golden hour was morning. I was an early riser, and those glorious hours between four and six were where I found my inspiration. The morning dew hugging the ground was refreshing; the way the sky would go from black to indigo to pink to orange was inspiring. I loved the feeling of being up before everyone else. Grabbing the proverbial worm, if you will. It struck a chord of creativity in me the later hours of the day never quite could. Of course, I could create any time, day or night. But those moments just before sunrise were all mine. There was a quite hum to the hour just before dawn. A silence where I found myself. It was the only time I didn’t mind being vulnerable.
When I moved to Chicago for school, I stopped rising before the sun. I refused to admit it to anyone, but getting used to the cityscape was difficult. I missed the wide-open country and green spaces I’d grown accustomed to back home. (Even though, when I lived there, I did nothing but complain about it.) The city was loud and fast and stiff, but I knew it was where I needed to be if I wanted to make anything of myself. And despite the claustrophobia that would periodically squeeze my chest, I loved the drama of city. It was exciting, always alive. The promises it held made up for what it lacked. I didn’t care that it stole my breath.
One morning about a month after Julian and I got together, I found myself stuck on a project for his class. Wanting to impress him, I’d been sketching and sketching and sketching, hoping for brilliance and… nothing was happening. By this time, I’d shucked my early morning routine, trading it instead for a nightly one because, at the time, adapting to Julian’s schedule was more important than accommodating mine. But that morning, desperate for inspiration, I pulled my naked body from his arms, slid out of bed and back into my underwear, and crept into his living room.
It was late fall, and gloomy gray light was just beginning to filter in through the windows. The cold was jarring – I remember the way goosebumps prickled my skin and the frigid air wrapped around my bare shoulders, my waist. But I felt alive and present in a way I almost never did when I was caught up in the hustle of the day. I stretched, slowing working my body into the various yoga positions I’d learned over the summer from a local class I’d taken with my mom. She’d wanted us to bond in a mother-daughter activity before I left for college, and I suggested yoga because I didn’t think she’d agree to it. I had more important things to do that summer than hang with my mother. But she did agree to it, and the early morning class turned out not to be as lame as I thought it’d be. I grew to love the mushy feeling I’d get after it was over. And with my form and background in ballet, I was a natural.
My body began to warm up as I moved through the poses – blood pumping and muscles flexing. And by the time I bent backwards and grabbed my ankles in a camel pose, I noticed I had an audience.
I wasn’t sure how long he’d been standing in the shadows, watching me, and I didn’t care. It was erotic; I loved the intensity of his stare and the fact that it was me that held him captive. Julian appreciated everything about my body – the way it moved, the shape of my curves. I continued through my routine, and by the time I untangled myself from the fish pose, Julian had tangled himself up with me. Later that day, he made me go through the poses again, and this time he watched me with a sketch book in his hand. In the end, he had six rudimentary drawings of me in various poses, which he later brought into the studio and sculpted into a smooth bronze.
He called the series Luxure, and the entire abstract set sold for just under a million.
After that, Julian resigned from teaching. Our relationship went public. Julian called me his muse, and from that moment on, he rarely let me out of his sight.
Not that I minded. Nope. Not one bit.
This probably goes without saying, but one should never wear heels when working behind the counter of an auto repair shop. It’s only been three hours, and my feet haven’t ached this much since I first went on pointe back in my ballet days.
Honestly, I’m not dressed at all appropriately for work here. Although, my lowcut leopard print blouse and skimpy red shorts
did seem to mesmerize Mr. Barnaby enough that he didn’t mind getting his car back forty-five minutes after he was promised it. He told me he understood and to tell the mechanic to “take all the time he needs.” He then proceeded to bend over his phone, his beady little eyes flicking up every now and then to trail me as I worked.
Work might be a loose term for what I did this afternoon. But this place is such a mess that, after just a few seconds behind the counter, I honestly had no idea where to start. After a frugal attempt to clean and getting hit in the face with so much dust I’ll be coughing it up for days (gross, I know), I bagged that idea, grabbed a stray pad of crusty paper with a pop can ring in the middle, and started jotting down a list of things I could see right off the bat that needed to be done.
1. Clean
2. Organize
3. Clean some more
4. Tear wood paneling off walls
5. Buff floors
6. Tear up floors and replace
7. Get new computer
8. Get new phone
9. Upgrade tech
10. Clean, clean, clean
11. Burn building down and start over
12. Scrap this stupid idea and go have a drink…
I’m leaning against the counter, strongly considering this last item on the list when Miles clomps in from the shop. He’s sweaty and greasy, and when he sees me wrinkle my nose, he grimaces. “Shit. You’re still here.” He eyes me up and down, his gaze lingering on my bare legs, my stilettos. “Lasted three whole hours. This a record for you?”
Apparently, he doesn’t feel pity for me anymore.
Good. I don’t want.
“In a place like this, it is,” I bite back. “I can’t imagine anyone wanting to stay longer than they have to in this hovel.” And then I hold out the five phone messages I took down over the short course of my employment. “Service requests,” I say. “You’ll have to show me your scheduling system so I can book these myself when potential clients call.”
Miles takes them, his fingers brushing mine, and shoves the sticky notes in his pocket without so much as a glance. He nods at the pad of paper on the counter. “What’s that?”
