The Night Before

by Wendy Walker

  I told her the things I’ve learned about her, how she is repeating the past. How she knows this night will not end with love, but with sadness. I told her. She knew. She knew, but she did it anyway.

  Jesus, Laura. You knew this would happen!

  Kevin was not like this. Kevin saw me and he refused to let me self-destruct. I pushed and pulled and used every tool in that box, but he would not be deterred. Weeks passed before he lay down beside me, and when he did, it was not over in mere minutes. And he did not pat me on the back and order a pizza. Kevin pulled me in closer and said those words. Those words I wish didn’t exist because I wanted them so much.

  I love you, Kevin said. And I believed him.

  Tears come hard now. The weight of my grief is before me. Jonathan Fielding has just shined a bright light square in the middle of it.

  I want that back. I want to feel arms pulling me tight. I want to hear those words and know they’re true.

  The wanting swallows me whole.

  “Are you all right in there?” I hear Jonathan say. I hear footsteps and shuffling.

  “I’m fine,” I call back.

  He asks me something about the pizza and I answer something about the pizza. The fucking pizza.

  I turn off the water. My head throbs from the scotch and the adrenaline and toxins that have been set free from the story of Mitch Adler.

  This is not the time to revisit the past. I pool water from what’s left in the sink as it drains and I splash it on my face. It stings, but I need it. I need to snap out of it. I look in the mirror. Run a finger beneath my eyes to clear the mascara that’s smudged. Then I run all ten of them through my hair, tugging at the knots. I tuck it neatly behind my ears and try out a polite smile. First my mouth, turning up at the corners, then my eyes squinting just a little. I try a slight raise to my brow.

  I have a thought to go with the smile.

  Maybe the mistake isn’t over. Maybe it’s still happening.

  Part One—choose a man who can’t love you. Part Two—reconstruct him into a man who will love you. Part Three—make him love you by any means necessary. Part Four—fail and feel worthless. Repeat as necessary to stay trapped in your childhood.

  And here we are.

  But what if there is a Part Five? What if that part is what I’m doing now—returning to that place that is dark and lonely but also feels like home? Like where I belong. Or where I deserve to be.

  And what if I was wrong about Part One? What if he’s not a man who can’t love me, but just a man I got drunk with and spilled my guts to and fucked on the first date?

  I bring back Dr. Brody. It begins with recognition. I see it. I see everything.

  A wave of hope rushes in and the smile becomes real. I suddenly know what to do.

  I open the door and find Jonathan in the bedroom, buttoning his shirt. He turns to face me.

  “You okay?” he asks again.

  I smile sheepishly. “A little embarrassed…”

  He stops buttoning. Tilts his head. “Why?”

  “Isn’t is obvious? This is our first date and I’m standing in your bedroom dressed in a towel.”

  I do not expect you to love me. But maybe you still can. Maybe I haven’t ruined it.

  He smiles back. He picks up a neatly folded pile of clothing from the bed—my clothing. Underwear, bra, dress. Yes—he has folded my underwear. He walks to where I stand, and holds out the pile.

  “Okay,” he says. “First, here are your clothes. Although I prefer the towel.” He winks and I am suddenly aware that he is forty.

  “Second, I’ve ordered a pizza, so technically it is now our second date.”

  “Ahhh,” I say as though he’s just discovered the earth is round. “I see.”

  “Feel better?”

  Actually, I do feel better.

  His hands take hold of my shoulders and he kisses me somewhere between a peck and what happened on his bed. I close my eyes and let it reach inside, this kiss of reassurance. This kiss of new promises.

  “I’ll dig out some plates and pour us another drink. It’s either that or face the hangover that’s starting.”

  “Okay,” I say now. “I’ll get dressed.”

  He lets me go and I retreat toward the bathroom again.

  “By the way,” he calls after me. “Did you notice that I have a bed? That counts as furniture.”

  “Yes, it does!” I say cheerfully.

  But really, he has just reminded me of my list of concerns. The woman who called his name at that first bar. The car. The way he drove us to the harbor, and his job, and this empty apartment after a year of being divorced.

  I close the bathroom door and reassess. No need to panic. I know there are things that seem wrong. But I also feel that last kiss on my mouth and I hear him pulling plates from a cupboard for the pizza he’s ordered, so I feel better about the night. The jury is out, I decide.

  It’s not easy. I’m bailing water from a sinking boat.

  I get dressed. I look in the mirror again. Nothing left to do. Then I feel my head pound.

  I open the medicine cabinet. I don’t know why I didn’t think to do this before. Furniture is one thing. But a person can’t live without toiletries.

  Toothbrush. Toothpaste. Mouthwash. Shaving cream and a razor, though they don’t seem like the kind he would use every day. Deodorant.

  And one bottle of Advil.

  Men aren’t good with these things, I remind myself. Especially when they’ve been married. They buy what they need when they need it. So maybe this is all he’s needed.

  I open the Advil and shake the pills into my open hand. I will take two, maybe three, then put the rest back.

  But I don’t take any pills.

  I stare into the palm of my open hand and feel the boat sink.

  Among the round, auburn tablets is something else that’s round.

  And gold.

  I stare at it for a long moment. It’s unmistakable. A gold ring.

  I pick it up and read the inscription on the inner edge.

  To Jonathan, with love forever …

  Love.

  There it is. That evasive word.

  Only it’s not for me. It’s never for me.

  My boat sunk, I drown in this realization.

  But I’m not going down alone.

  THIRTY

  Rosie. Present Day. Saturday, 10:30 a.m. Branston, CT.

  “Here we go,” Rosie said. They had moved to Rosie’s car, which was parked outside the diner. Gabe was right beside her.

  The woman from findlove.com wouldn’t give her real name, though Gabe had already found her using her cell phone. Kimmie Taylor. Age thirty-seven.

  She picked up after one ring.

  “Hi,” she said. She’d been expecting their call.

  “This is Rosie. The woman who emailed you. I’m here with a friend of mine. I have you on speaker.”

  “Okay,” the woman said cautiously.

  Then she was silent.

  “This is the friend—Gabe. Sorry to be cryptic on the emails,” Gabe said now. “We actually have a good friend who went on a date with here4you. He told her his name was Jonathan Fields, but we know he’s also gone by the names Billy Larson and Buck Larkin. We haven’t heard from her for a while, so we’re a little worried.”

  Gabe played it down. He told Rosie they shouldn’t say anything that might make this woman worried about the police getting involved. She could be married, or living with someone, or have a boyfriend—just like Sylvia Emmett, the woman who’d bought a round of drinks at the bar by the harbor.

  “You’re right to be worried,” Kimmie said. “He lies about everything. He used Buck Larson with me, but his real name is none of those. His real name is Edward Rittle. Not exactly the name of a stud.”

  Rosie clutched her phone so tightly, her fingertips were turning white. She did her best to soften her voice.

  “What can you tell us about him? Anything at all.”

  Th
e woman let out one quick burst of laughter. “Where do I even begin?” she said, her voice laden with disgust. “You saw his profile, right? Said he was divorced. Said he made over $150k. Said he had no kids and worked in finance. Look—a lot of guys make shit up. They lie about everything from their weight to their height, and especially their income. Sometimes they say they’re divorced when they’re really just separated. I think they have secret meetings, these douchebags—to give and get advice on how to avoid being excluded from search lists. Seriously, I can hear them.… Don’t say you’re not divorced yet! You’ll never get laid that way! Makes me want to throw up.”

  Gabe rolled his eyes and Rosie knew what he was thinking. She was thinking the same thing. Kimmie was one bitter veteran of online dating.

  “It’s horrible,” Rosie said. “Don’t they know that if they keep seeing a woman, she’ll find out they were lying from the start?”

  Kimmie laughed again. “They don’t give a shit! Are you kidding me? Three dates. A fuck. And they’re out of there. On to the next. It’s an online free-sex buffet, that’s what it is. But this one—he knows how to find just what he wants.”

  “So what exactly does he do? Maybe it will help us find our friend,” Gabe said.

  “Well, he lies on the profile. That’s the first thing. Lies about his name. Lies about being divorced…”

  “Wait—what do you mean?” Rosie asked.

  “I mean he’s married! Married with two kids in middle school. Living in Mamaroneck. Working as a salesman for energy-efficient windows. Can you imagine? Goes door to door performing ‘energy assessments’ for the electric company, but then he tries to sell people new windows for his company. It’s all a scam, just like he is. Finds a way in the door and then fucks people.”

  “How did you find all of this out?” Gabe asked.

  “It took me some time, but things weren’t adding up about him. The car he was driving. How cheap he was when we went out. He didn’t seem sophisticated enough for finance, you know? He seemed blue-collar to me. And eventually he let his guard down, left the room without his wallet. So I looked. It was that simple. I flipped it open and there it was—his real name and address. I went home and Googled him and whoosh—a tidal wave of bullshit came pouring out.…”

  Rosie got the picture, but she needed to connect the dots back to Laura. “How did it start? How did he contact you, where did you meet…?”

  “Seemed benign at first,” Kimmie said. “He calls to make sure you sound okay—no annoying accents or speech impediments. He asks if your pictures are current, but he does it in a subtle way. He asks about where you were when they were taken and then asks follow-up questions. One of mine was at my niece’s graduation, so he asked where she was in college and what year was she in now. Things like that. I knew what he was doing, but I’m sure he thought he was being very slick.

  “Anyway—when he meets, it’s always during the week. And to his credit, he doesn’t make up excuses about it. Instead he makes you wonder if he’s got other women he’s dating on the weekends—better women who are worthy of a Saturday night. It makes you want to be better, move up the ranks. It’s human nature, you know. To compete. And for women, that means being sexier, smarter, better in bed. He knows it. He wants his women to be at the top of their games.”

  Rosie closed her eyes then and thought about Laura. She would fall right into that trap, and she wouldn’t even know she was doing it.

  I will make you see me. I will make you love me.

  That face from the picture when she was a little girl. The image of her with that doctor, climbing Mount Everest …

  “Where did he take you?” Gabe asked.

  “First date—Thursday night, of course—was at that place by the harbor. The bar on the corner with the shitty food.”

  Gabe nodded at Rosie when she finally opened her eyes again. They had the same guy. There was no doubt now.

  “The next date was on Main Street. More upscale. He got me dinner that time.”

  “Just like Sylvia Emmett!” Rosie said to Gabe, muting the phone. “The woman from the bar—first planned date at the harbor, last date on Main Street—dinner.”

  Gabe nodded silently, then looked back to the phone.

  “He lives near there. Did you know that?” Kimmie asked.

  Rosie released the mute button. “Another woman he dated said that as well. But she didn’t know the address because she wouldn’t go to his apartment.”

  “Well, she was smarter than I was.”

  “Wait—you went there? You know where he lives?” Gabe said. He reached for his phone, eyes growing wider. “What’s the address?”

  “Oh Christ, let me think.… It’s in those apartments on Maple Street. There are a few buildings. His was one of the ones in the middle. Had underground parking.”

  “They all have underground parking. All of those buildings. There must be half a dozen.” Gabe was growing impatient. “What about an apartment number or a floor? Anything at all—was there a doorman or a keypad?”

  “Look,” Kimmie said. “It was over a year ago, okay? I only went there a few times and it was late. I was drunk. And after I found out who he was, I wanted to forget. I wanted to forget everything about him.”

  Gabe was busy now, on his phone. Rosie took a long breath to slow her mind. She wanted to reach through the phone and shake the information right out of this woman, but then she remembered about Sylvia. About the cruelty. There could be other things Kimmie didn’t want to remember.

  “Okay,” Rosie said. “Can you tell us what he was like? What it was like to be in his apartment, alone with him?”

  “That’s kind of personal, don’t you think?” Kimmie said, suddenly indignant. Or maybe just defensive.

  “Nothing like that. I just meant, was his apartment nice, inviting? Was he nice? Was he a gentleman? Did his mood ever change?”

  “Was he a gentleman … hmmm … let me think.” Kimmie was now sarcastic. “Well, he took me on three dates before he expected sex. We went to his apartment, which was a total bachelor pad. Nothing in the fridge. Everything black and silver. Should have been my first clue. But he said he had just gotten divorced, like a month before, so I bought it. It made sense. God, I even offered to help him decorate. Can you believe it? I was such an idiot.”

  “Not at all,” Rosie said. “It sounds like he was very good at what he did—conning women.”

  “You have no idea. He knew exactly what to say to me, exactly how to get inside my head. He talked about his dead father because my father had died when I was young. He talked about living life for the moment because you never know when it will end—again, something I was drawn to because of my father’s young death. And he made me feel like I was the first woman he’d been with since his cold ex-wife, who didn’t sleep with him for years. The thing is—the reason I started to wonder about him—if you can believe it, was how he was in bed. I mean, a man who’s been in a shitty marriage for ten years and who hasn’t had sex for a long time, and now is at the free-sex buffet—you would think he would be a little eager beaver—quick on the draw, you know what I’m saying?”

  “Yes,” Rosie said, imagining Joe after going four months around the time of Mason’s birth. He was like a man in the desert suddenly finding an oasis. “But he wasn’t like that?” Rosie asked.

  “No. He has it all down to a routine. He goes for a quickie off the bat, like he’s trying things out—a shark taking that first bite, getting a taste before coming back for the kill. So he made excuses for me to stay so he could go again, go in for the kill. And that’s when things got strange. It started with dirty talk—really filthy stuff. And then he got demanding. Some of the things he wanted to do—well, I’m sure he found other women willing to do them to get a Saturday night date. But I wasn’t into it. I left feeling disgusted, but it didn’t stop me from coming back again. I came back for one last date and that was when I found out the truth. He left the bedroom to get another drink and I pu
lled his wallet out of his pants pocket. When he came back, I was dressed and heading for the door. I made up some story about a friend who was drunk and stranded at a bar. He didn’t care a whole lot. Walked me to the door. No kiss. No nothing. He didn’t get his second round, so he was disappointed. I swear to you—I sometimes wonder what would have happened if I hadn’t found the wallet. If I’d stayed for the second round that time. It felt like he knew exactly what he wanted at each turn and that he was going to find a way to get it.”

  Gabe looked up from his phone, distracted and seemingly unaffected by a story that Rosie found horrific, and eerily similar to that of Sylvia Emmett’s. “Can I text you some pictures of apartment buildings on Maple? If we drive there now, maybe you can tell us which one looks like his? Maybe you’ll remember the number or the floor?”

  There was a long silence.

  “Hello?” Rosie said. “You still there?”

  “Yeah,” Kimmie said with a sigh. “I can pull up images on my computer. I can probably find it for you. Jesus, though, don’t tell him we spoke, okay? I would hate for him to think that I gave him even one second of thought after I walked out that door.”

  “Of course,” Rosie said.

  “And when you find the right building, it’s apartment 2L. I remember it. I remember thinking that L stands for ‘Liar.’”

  THIRTY-ONE

  Laura. Session Number Ten. Two Months Ago. New York City.

  Laura: I’ve been thinking about what you said—about there being someone from my past I tried to fix.

  Dr. Brody: Yes. I remember when I said that.

  Laura: It’s my father, right? The first man a girl loves.

  Dr. Brody: And the one who loves her back. Who teaches her she’s worthy of love.

  Laura: I can see that. Only, it wasn’t my father who was broken. It was my mother. He cheated on her. Left her for another woman. She was always crying. Worrying. And she didn’t hide it well. She used to talk about it in the kitchen with Mrs. Wallace and anyone else she could lure inside.

  Dr. Brody: Sometimes things aren’t what they seem. Especially when they’re things from when we were young. Our memories are not static. They’re not pictures of reality. Sometimes they’re not true at all, but rather fiction that we need to believe so we can make sense of things.