by Hope Irving
Damn, I wonder what became of her…
Both women were opinionated and valued justice. They taught me well, I think, although Father might disagree. There’s a major difference, though. Mother and Catherine fought their battles silently, whereas mine are voiced aloud.
I often wonder how things would be different if Mother was still alive. Would Charles Godefroy de Briard have become such a business-driven man, or would he have remained the loving husband that he once was?
“Please accept my apology,” I concede, irritated, and help myself to a couple of watermelon and peach slices that Céline brought to the table. “It’s just that I can’t be with someone who treats me poorly. Louis betrayed me, and that’s all you’ll ever get out of me.” The asshole disclosed that he gave me a try to see if my colorful reputation held water and later broadcast some exaggerated scenes from our last disappointing encounter.
Mozart’s Marriage of Figaro—our favorite opera— playing in the background, doesn’t seem to help calm his nerves. Trust me, I know that his intentions are good, I really do. Be that as it may, I’m not a baby and can’t sit back and listen to this anymore.
“I’d like to be excused,” I conclude as politely as I can muster and find refuge in my room where my sisters can join me later.
I don’t consider myself a feminist, although most do. I hate forcing myself into a box, no matter how it’s labeled. I’m after fairness, respect, and equity—in general and especially regarding relationships and sex.
I have one hard limit: there’s no way I’ll try online dating. I’ve heard tons of creepy stories that scare me shitless. Also, I firmly believe that the genuine connection I’m after couldn’t be obtained through a virtual one. I’m a bit of an expert since I interact with strangers online on a daily basis. This alternative life enables me to fully express myself. I choose my battles wisely, not against men but for equity. In order to elevate my message, I launched my female empowerment blog and associated social media platform.
Another thing that my father doesn’t approve of. Actually, he doesn’t comprehend my career choice and believes it’s just a phase. He couldn’t be more wrong. Hypokhâgne is the phase, and pushing myself to succeed in the preparatory literary class had been a challenge. I had to prove that I could do it so that he’d be reassured for my future. If I hadn’t enrolled, he wouldn’t have entertained my desire to become an influencer. It’s been my secret life for two years now, and I’ve gained a massive following. That’s what I’m truly into. That’s how I found purpose. That’s why I allow him to give me a hard time once in a while… so he won’t suspect that this online life is far more real, important, and meaningful to me.
Most of the world knows me by my online persona. Granted, I was inspired by Sasha Baron Cohen’s character—I find him hilarious—that I first saw in Madonna’s Music video, and it’s my name after all.
Alie G.
Chapter Three
Somebody that I Used to Know
Aliénor
“Do you think Father’s angry at me for dropping the bomb during brunch?” Sybil speculates, mere minutes after I retreated from the family table. Behind my closed door, our shoulders instantly relax, grateful for the break after another agonizing Sunday brunch. I scroll through my iPhone and select Alanis Morissette, an artist that Mother loved. “I figured I’d be his target this morning.”
I shrug. Her new dropout status came as a total shock since her broken engagement led her to set her sights on getting the Guinness World Record for the most degrees earned at record speed. The last one that tempted her was interior design. Her right hand slaps the sofa, and a few pillows tumble to the hardwood floor. We snort at that, no doubt due to our sugar high. Taking her in reminds me of how different we are. In our physical traits. In our interests. In our taste in men. Ever since her fiancé ditched her, she’s had this thing for bad boys. You know the type: wearing all black year-round, covered in tattoos, and sporting cocky smiles. I abhor them, whether they’re movie stars, rock stars, or regular Joes.
Some might see a resemblance, but I don’t. Although Sybil mostly favors our American mother, she’s what comes to mind when you think about French aristocracy: tall, lean, preppy, and well-groomed. Also, she excels in everything, like Mary Poppins. However, her obsession leans towards fashion. She’s a year older than Margot, two more than Caroline, and four more than Blanche. The seven years that separate me from Sybil are irrelevant. There’s always been a deep-seated connection between us.
“You know how Father hates surprises. I bet he would have appreciated a heads-up. Now, tell me: why did you quit?” I’ve been meaning to grill my sister ever since the drive home a few days ago. I was wary when she mentioned that she wasn’t returning to New York but wanted her to confide on her own terms.
Instinctively, my hands reach for hers. Contact is vital for us, and Mother’s death only intensified our need to touch and hug. One of her hands escapes from my reach and curls into a fist, which she coughs into lightly, and lowers again. “Actually… I put a lot of thought into this, and so far, I only applied for a transfer to Otis College of Art and Design in California. Honestly, I’m not sure that’s what I actually want.”
“I don’t understand. What prompted this sudden change of heart? Last time we talked, your life in New York was perfect. Did you have an argument with Uncle Phil? I know that he can be difficult sometimes, but—”
“Nah, they’ve been nothing but great. They have no clue that I’m not coming back yet. I needed space. I threw myself into this degree challenge for years. It came to a point where I was swamped with work, lonely, and needed excitement. And I found it…” she hesitates. “Online.”
“Wait! You met guys online?” She cringes at my brash interruption but doesn’t voice her disapproval. “What’s gotten into you? The internet’s full of creepers and serial fuckers!”
“First of all, look who’s talking, my young and impulsive Aliénor.” Annoyance creeps into her voice. Okay, I deserved that, so I offer her an apologetic smile. “If I remember correctly, you’re not against sampling the goods, are you?” I’m about to interrupt her yet again, but she raises her hand to stop me. “Second, there are as many oddballs on there as genuinely nice guys.”
“I’d never take the risk, though. I’ve heard way too many horror stories from friends. It’s a major no-go for me!”
“Whatever floats your boat.” She reaches for the bottle of water on my nearby desk and takes a swig. “I’m not trying to convince you but explain why I won’t go back to my studies, let alone New York.” She pauses, gets up, and wanders aimlessly around the room. “Like I said, I needed a break. I was tired of being a recluse and gave dating apps a try.”
That word irks me. Dating… I bite the inside of my cheek to stifle the roar of laughter that’s threatening to burst loose. Why can’t she call it a hookup app and stop being so hypocritical?
“It was awkward at first, and I met with quite a few… specimens that you might call weirdos. Others were decent, but none really snagged my attention. After a while, I was ready to call it quits… that is, until I found…” She fidgets, lacing her fingers together in embarrassment as she trails off. “Him.” She gets a faraway look on her face and begins mouthing numbers and counting on her fingers. “We were together for thirteen days total. Oh, my God! Only thirteen… but it was…” She clears her throat. Her eyes are on mine again. “Intense.”
Brazenly, my otherwise reserved sister proceeds to fill me in on Tig, who made an impression when she first encountered him.
“Tig?” I blurt. “What kind of a name is that? And a tattoo artist on top of that!”
“That’s not the point!” I hear a hint of exasperation in her voice before her breeding takes over and her tone changes. And there was an indelible reason for it: the secret tattoo that she got about three years ago. A bird. A cage. An escape. I offer a small smile, pretending to care for what she calls art. “Oh, please, Aliénor. I know y
ou hate tattoos. You’re exactly like Father at times. It’s both cute and aggravating… I’m not interested in your approval. You asked, so hear me out.”
“Okay,” I grumble, and she resumes her story.
She’d been meaning to get a tat after her engagement fell apart and considered the parlor after reading glowing reviews. “Back then, I drooled over him.” Now, I suspect that her choice wasn’t solely based on reviews. “Once at the parlor, I noticed one minor detail that undoubtedly stopped him from flirting back: his wedding band… He got me all flustered because he was hot and—”
I gesture for her to stop. “If you’re about to tell me that he was hung, I’ll call you out on TMI!” I tease her.
“Don’t worry about it. I’m perfectly aware that you’re a prude!” she says, dropping next to me on the sofa. “I was about to say that, on top of his looks, there was something that appealed to me; I still can’t quite pinpoint what.”
“Right,” I comment, unconvinced.
“You can imagine how thrilled I was to come across his profile on a dating app.” I nod, proud of myself for keeping my mouth shut at the word “dating.” “Anyway, we got to talking. Long story short, the wedding band’s gone, and he was more than ready to scratch my itch this time around… under one condition: no round two.” She bats her eyelashes for effect. “So worth it! The man’s body is a work of art, and God, was he amazing in the sack!” Her face turns fifty shades of red. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen my sister get this emotional over a guy. “And he was huuung!” She giggles at her own words.
I shove her so that she topples sideways. Once our laughter subsides, she continues her tale. All in all, her story’s sad. First time was dinner and a quick fuck in his parlor, upon her request.
Once she’s herself again, she carries on. “But rules are meant to be broken!” She was flattered when he asked for more. They cut to the chase and fucked in a hotel the very next day. “He was adamant about keeping it casual, no possible commitment. We agreed that we were only after a good time... We’d always end up in bed.”
I sigh, lost inside my head. Her explanation echoes my own love life—again, such a hypocritical word. They continued to meet up, but he kept his distance, which drew her to him even more. I guess the mysterious, distant vibe intrigued her… that and the sex I’m sure.
“He said he was commitment-phobic, but there was definitely something between us. He was guarded but got under my skin so fast! He was really adamant about no repeats, but he kept texting. He was changing, one step at a time…” Right, sis. She hesitates, then adds, “I was going to make him open up and change.”
“Of course.” Why bother entertaining this absurd notion? I don’t even know the guy, and I’m well aware that people—regardless of gender—don’t change.
She lets out a pained sigh. “I stupidly hoped that it would lead to something real. Instead, he basically ghosted me. I texted him repeatedly until he finally called and admitted he didn’t want to see me anymore… He said,” she air quotes, “‘It’s not you, it’s me…’”
So lame!
“Then apologized for not sticking to his rule and hung up before I had a chance to reply. So I did something crazy.” Once again, her eyes are downcast, her face flushed. “I stalked him! I had to figure out what went wrong.” She worries the corner of her lip with her teeth. “About a week after he dumped me, I trailed him to a bar one night. From where I was standing, I overheard him joking with a few other guys about his collection. I could see him staring at them blankly, and one of his friends insisted that he share the number of women he banged over the last year… So, I didn’t waste time and rushed for the door...” She swallows loudly. “It makes me sick to my stomach that our friends judge you harshly since you’re a girl while his friends admire his behavior.”
I’ve heard male friends boast about their sexual exploits before, about how many girls they’ve slept with, about how gullible some of them were. Then, their friends chortled, applauded the men, and belittled the girls. I can’t tolerate it.
Incapable of responding, I hug her instead, containing the rage that threatens to overwhelm me. As much as her story upsets me, my flood of emotions is due to her last words; they awakened something in me that’s been bottled up for too long. She voiced my struggle. What triggered my need to start my blog. Because I’m a woman, I’m shamed; because Tig’s a guy, he’s praised. Same behavior, different outcome. Discrimination bothers me.
I suck it up and let her finish her confession.
“Part of me didn’t want to believe it. I was still hanging on to what we had. I had to see it with my own eyes, you know?” At this point, she’s mumbling. “Turns out he didn’t go out with the same woman twice. Maybe he used me… Yeah, he probably did.”
“You deserve better!” As selfish as it might be, the cold chill that runs down my spine is related to the fact that I can’t get over her words, rather than what this guy did to her. Same behavior, different outcome. Unfairness infuriates me.
“I’m so humiliated, Aliénor. I mean, he never promised anything, but we were good together. Why would he keep seeing me if I was just another random cheap fuck? Why am I always attracted to guys who aren’t invested? Why is it okay for guys to act like this and high five their friends at the clueless girl’s expense?”
Her words are haunting me now. They mean everything to me. Same behavior, different outcome. Inequity revolts me. I want to scream. I want to set an example. I want to show the world how wrong this all is.
“Shhh… shhh…” I comfort my sister to the sound of Alanis Morissette’s voice.
It takes another hour, a good number of tears, and many tissues for her to calm down. Exhaustion and remnants of jetlag win, and she opts for a well-deserved nap.
Before she steps out, she kisses my cheek and leaves me thoughtful, frustrated, and enraged.
I’m a wrecking ball and pace the room for a few minutes, hands threaded through my blonde hair as I try to compose myself. I fail miserably until I sit at my desk and open my laptop to respond to my followers on Instagram and Facebook. Next thing I know, I’m writing a long blog post that mirrors my sister’s recent online experience, requesting feedback.
Engrossed in my writing, I’m startled when the door opens abruptly. My sister quietly steps in and closes the door, resting her back against it.
With one hand on the doorknob, a smile spreads across her well-rested face, and she simply says, “Thanks for listening to my whining earlier… I should have talked to you sooner. Things seem much clearer now, thanks to you. I guess that being away from New York, being back here, and being with you helped me figure things out.” She sighs and looks at her feet, then back at me. “I obsessed over this guy, and it just hit me that my initial attraction to him, or the likes of him, was because he’s off-limits. I should probably focus on finding someone that’s right for me instead of rebelling to piss Father off. I’m old enough to stop my mindless provocations. Same goes for my studies, if you ask me… Running away from my life here for more diplomas isn’t the answer to my problems.” Wow, sounds like either our discussion or her nap resulted in an epiphany! “And to be totally honest, finding him online and seducing him like a personal challenge. I couldn’t have him the first time, and I would have done anything to land him if given the chance. It was a stupid infatuation, really. Thanks, sis!”
Without further ado, she quietly opens the door and backs into the hallway, and I’m left inside my head, acknowledging that my anger hasn’t subsided. I stare blankly at the screen, trying to regroup.
Wait a minute…
Before I know it, I’m typing in the search bar as if my life depended on it. New York. Tattoo artist. Tig Nolastname.
Bingo! Nice to meet you, Tig de Luca… I didn’t think it’d be this easy.
There’s no need to comment on who Sybil finds attractive, or used to find attractive to piss off Father, if I heard her correctly. This guy fits the part and my sol
e thought is: yuck!
I dig some more, comb through his social media, and unearth pics. A painter… well, he definitely has the artistic vibes that my sister craves—or craved? I learn more from his online pedigree in less time than it takes for a quickie—everything but his personal life that he managed to keep under wraps.
Still, sir, you should be more careful!
I wonder if Sybil did this kind of research, too. The more I think about it, the more certain I am that he needs to be taught a lesson.
Playboy. Manwhore. Player.
Such a heartless man deserves to be knocked down a few pegs. I refuse to allow Tig de Luca’s behavior to be accepted as normal when mine isn’t. My mind is made up within seconds, and I’m almost tempted to search for him on the app that Sybil mentioned earlier.
Nah, I know better.
He’s the perfect medium to set the record straight for all the men who act so wrong. He’s the perfect medium to set the record straight for all the men who think it’s so right. He was the perfect medium to set the record straight for all the men who condemn me.
It wouldn’t be fun to use his weapon of choice against him, and I refuse to become a handle on a hookup app. I’d rather use my actual handle. My online presence doesn’t reveal my identity. So I follow, like, or comment on everything that he’s posted on social media to make myself stand out. He was more active several years ago. These days, the posts are scarce, and his replies contain more emojis than words.
Tig, you enjoy toying with women that you consider disposable goods, and your friends cheer on your behavior simply because you have a cock... Fine…
One way or another, I’ll set an example, trick this player, and give him a taste of his own medicine. And just like that, my summer vacation gets much more exciting. Now…
