by Portia Moore
I never thought this would happen to us. I knew he could be closed off, but I never thought it would go this far. Sometimes, I want to go back to that first minute I saw him and scream to myself, “Run the other way!”
The phone in my hand rings again. It’s him. I push the answer button, but I don’t say anything.
“You done?”
I bite my tongue in a stubborn effort to not call him every foul name I can think of. “Cal, where are you?” I say as calmly as I can.
“I’ll be home tomorrow,” he says, ignoring my question. I hear music blaring in the background, and it almost sounds like…
“Are you at a club?” My voice almost squeaks on that last word because I can’t believe what I’m hearing.
“Around two,” he continues, deliberately ignoring me.
“Cal, are you at a fucking club?” At this point, being calm and civil is out of the question.
He’s at a damn club, God knows where, when he told me he’d be home today. I take a deep breath. I’m so mad my hands are shaking, but I demand my tone to be calm.
“I’m so sick of your shit, Cal. I don’t give a shit when you get home, because I won’t be here.” And I extend the same courtesy to him as he’s shown me. I hang up.
I won’t keep doing this. I am not his doormat. He can’t do anything he wants then come home whenever he’s done without any repercussions. This is it. I won’t play these games with him anymore.
I’m a good—well, I was a good wife. I don’t know if he understands, but I do know he doesn’t appreciate how much I love him. Of all the men for me to fall for, why did it have to be him—a man who’s incapable of showing his love for anyone, especially his wife?
Before we were married, I knew he loved me. He made me feel as if I was the most important person in his world. Thinking back, maybe I was so in love with him that I didn’t even notice the person he’s in love with is himself. He says he loves me, but his actions show me he doesn’t give a flying fuck.
The house phone rings, breaking into my thoughts. I walk over to the wall and pull out the line. I’m done talking to him, or rather, I’m done with him talking at me. I walk into my closet to find my suitcase. Opening drawers, I pull out random things and throw them in. I ignore the dressers filled with nothing but lingerie, the things I wear only for him.
I watch what I eat and work out every day so my body is still attractive to him. But he doesn’t care. It’s not like he’s around often enough to see it. I pick out a few more shirts and pants and stuff them into the suitcase as well. I walk back into my room and put on my leather boots, then I glance at myself as I walk past the mirror. I’m wearing a black cashmere sweater and leggings; I spent two hours curling my hair. I look nice. Stupid me, actually believing he’d be home when he said he would, for waiting for him.
My cell phone starts to ring again. On impulse, I walk out onto the balcony and drop it off the side with satisfaction. That’ll stop it from ringing.
Feeling much better, I go back into my room and try to zip my suitcase, but it’s too full. Of course, folding everything neatly would solve that problem, but I’m in no mood to mess with that crap. I stomp on the lid until everything is finally squashed enough to get it zipped up.
I grab the leather jacket that he bought me while on our honeymoon and throw it across the room. The thought of wearing it sickens me. In the closet, I find another one that I bought myself. I grab my suitcase. It’s a big one, stuffed full and heavy as hell. Thank God it rolls, or I’d have serious trouble. I drag it out into the hall to the top of the stairs. I turn it on its side and give it a good shove. It stops halfway, so I kick it the rest of the way down.
At the bottom, I grab the handle and roll it to the door. I look around at what I once thought was a beautiful penthouse, with its huge picture windows, boutique furniture, and state-of-the-art electronics. In my mind though, all I can see now are barred windows and a cold bed—the prison where I remained silent. Well, that’s a lie. I have caused a lot of hell, but nothing unwarranted. I can feel tears forming, and I try to fight them back. I really shouldn’t cry; he’s not worth it.
Losing the battle, I reach up to wipe away the tears and catch sight of the spectacular ring on my finger. It means nothing. I pull it off and slam it down on the console table next to the door, precisely where he sets his keys when he walks in. At least he won’t be able to miss that.
Taking a deep breath, I open the door and head to the elevator, pulling my bag behind me. There’s really no need to lock the door. Security here is better than in a Vegas casino, so the chances of the apartment being robbed are slim. Not to mention we’re over ten stories up. I press the button and step back to wait, fidgeting with my hair.
I don’t even know where I’m going. I mean, the logical place would be my aunt Raven’s, but I’m not sure that’s where I want to go. Instead of showering me with hugs and kisses, she’ll probably shower me with questions and opinions. Questions like, “What’s going on?” and comments like, “You really should talk to him.” I’m not in the mood for that kind of shit right now. Still, I have no plan at this point. I’ll have to figure something out to tell her. I need to think about what I want and what I’m going to do. I’ve been with Cal so long that I can’t remember what it’s like being without him. I’ve wrapped myself up in him, something no woman should do with any man.
The elevator has arrived. I drag my suitcase in and hit the garage floor button. I hate the way my stomach feels as it’s going down; it reminds me of the butterflies Cal used to give me when we first met. Finally, it stops and the door opens to the parking garage. Cal hates for me to come down here alone, but I always remind him there are cameras everywhere and Jeff, the security guard I’ve just waved at, watches everything like a hawk.
I head down to our parking spaces and over to the white Audi Cal bought me for my birthday. I remember getting up that morning, being blindfolded and led downstairs. There, I found a jewelry box and opened it to find a beautiful emerald necklace inside. I was so enamored with the necklace that I didn’t notice the car key—though I did wonder why he brought me to the parking garage to give it to me.
That was one of our good days, just a memory now. There’s no sense in fantasizing about those, dwelling on the past when I live in the present, even if the present is falling short. It’s only been six months since I became Mrs. Scott, and now I think the name is temporary.
How long do I hold on to those memories when they’re fading further and further away? I pop the trunk on my car, heave my suitcase in, and slam it closed. I take a deep breath as I get into the car and shut the door. I sit for a moment, leaning back and gripping the steering wheel. Suddenly, the enormity of what I’m doing washes over me and I lean forward to rest my head on the steering wheel.
“What am I going to do now?” I say softly to myself.
May 3rd 2008
May 3rd, 2008
“I can’t believe you really considered screwing him.” Angela chuckles as she wipes down the bar.
We’ve been doing inventory on all the alcohol, our regular routine before the club opens. Angela is the one who pulled a few strings to get me my job here. Her mother and my aunt Raven used to go to college together and, thankfully, stayed in touch, so when I moved here to the big city, I wasn’t just a nameless face with no one to call a friend. Angela got me this job and introduced me to Hillary, who needed a roommate to help her cover the rent.
“I know. I feel like I’m Hillary,” I joke, pulling the case of Patrón Tequila.
“Nah, Hillary would have fucked him right on the front door.” Angela chuckles.
“That’s what she told me I should have done. She said it would have ‘liberated me,’” I say, using air quotes.
Angela laughs and sighs. “Well, I say you only live once. But you shouldn’t do anything you’ll regret either.” Her tone goes from playful to serious over the span of the sentence. “So when are you going to see him again?�
�� she asks giddily.
“I don’t know. I’m waiting for him to call. He hasn’t yet,” I admit grudgingly.
“After a kiss like that, he’s going to call. You need to think about what’s going to be your excuse to not screw him if he picks you up in a car.” She nudges me in the side, and we laugh before her attention turns to the door. “Look who’s entered the building.”
I look over to see Michael strolling in. How ironic—one of my biggest regrets walking right toward me.
“You know, for someone who doesn’t work here anymore, you spend an awful lot of time here. Shouldn’t you be out arresting criminals?” she mocks, snapping him playfully with her rag. He’s working a part-time security job now.
“And good afternoon to you too, Angie.” He smirks, walking past her.
“Well, it was. Then you got here,” Angela sings before heading to the back, twisting her coal-black hair in a faux bun and leaving us alone.
“Lauren, we need to talk,” he says, the playfulness in his voice turning serious.
I arch my eyebrow at him. “No, Michael. We don’t.” I walk past him, and I feel him following close behind me.
“Please,” he insists, grabbing my hand.
“Michael, we haven’t been on speaking terms for at least two months. What’s the big deal now?” I ask, snatching my hand back.
He doesn’t say anything for a moment, but then he blurts out, “I miss you. I want us to at least still be friends. Like you and Steven are. You guys stopped going out and you’re still friends!”
This time, both of my eyebrows go up. “Seriously? Steven and I went out a few times. We weren’t in a relationship, and he didn’t feel it necessary to screw some other girl while I was upstairs working,” I say more bitterly than I intended.
“Lauren, I don’t know what I was thinking that night. If you would just listen—”
“You’re talking a lot. But you’re not saying anything worth listening to,” I interrupt him.
“I messed up. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry!” His eyes are pleading.
For a moment, I think he may be sincere. Then I think back to the girl he had pressed up against the wall in the stock room—her skirt hiked up, his pants down—and how he lied, saying nothing happened… and I remember he’s just a liar.
“Apology accepted. Happy?” I flash a fake grin at him and try to walk away, but he grabs my arm. I look back at him; my eyes are daggers. “Don’t touch me,” I warn him, my tone laced with ice.
He ignores me. “If you would just give me a chance to talk to you—”
I snatch my arm away from him. “What, Michael? What do you want to talk to me about?” I throw my hands up.
“What I did that night. I’ve regretted it every day since then. If I could change it, I would, but I can’t. I keep trying to remember what I was thinking and what the hell my problem was, but I can’t count it toward anything but drunken stupidity. Never in a million years have I ever wanted to hurt you like that. I just—” He stops mid-sentence, and I follow his gaze to the door to see Angela walk in.
“Lauren, someone’s here to see you.” She smirks, not forgetting to roll her eyes at Michael.
“Michael, I’ve already told you. I’m over what you did, we’re not together anymore, and it no longer concerns me. I don’t care what you did, what you are doing, or what you are about to do. I’ve moved on. I just want you to leave me alone,” I tell him before walking away.
I have to take a deep breath once I get out of the room. He will never know how hard that was for me. Michael and I had a complex relationship from the start. I had just broken up—well, kind of agreed to be friends—with Steven, and one night, after a little too much drinking, Michael kissed me, and we kind of fell into a relationship from there. In the end, I think we probably should have chalked the kiss up to drunken attraction instead of deciding to be together. But you know what they say about hindsight…
The man sitting at the bar is Jason, the newspaper guy.
“Hey, Lauren.” He stands as I approach him.
“Hi, Jason,” I say hesitantly. After all, the last time we spoke, he did ditch me.
“I just wanted to say how sorry I am about the other night.”
“It’s fine.” I smile at him. In fact, if he hadn’t ditched me, I never would have gotten up for some fresh air, which means I wouldn’t have bumped into Cal.
“I just… I thought I saw someone that… never mind. It was no excuse, and I wanted to apologize,” he says.
“Well, apology accepted.” I laugh slightly. I’m accepting a lot of apologies today, it seems.
Michael walks up to us, looking a little angry. What the hell does he want now?
“Remember me?” he asks Jason in a sarcastic tone.
Jason looks at him with a perplexed expression.
“No, have we met b—” His question is cut off by Michael’s fist in his face, knocking him to the floor.
“Michael! What the hell!” I scream. I immediately jump out of the way as Jason stands and rams into Michael.
“Steven, Dan! Do something!” I call.
Hearing the commotion, Angela rushes our way. “Dan! Dan, get out here!”
Soon Dan runs out to break them up, followed by Steven.
“Let go! Let go, guys!” Dan growls as he tries to pull the two of them apart.
Steven grabs Jason and succeeds in separating them right as Ryan walks in.
“What the hell is going on here?” he yells angrily, his usually subdued British accent flaring.
Everyone looks at Ryan, none of us knowing what to say.
“I don’t know! This—this lunatic just attacked me!” Jason yells.
“What the hell happened, Michael?” Steven asks.
“He hung up on me when I called Lauren!” Michael yells.
Oh my God, I can’t believe this. I cover my face in embarrassment.
“I have never spoken to this guy!” Jason yells. “I hang up on a lot of people, but you don’t see them coming up to me and punching me in the face! For the record though, I’ve never spoken to you before!”
“Jason, I am so, sooooo sorry for this,” I say, walking around the bar to get a cold towel for his eye.
“Jason? Your name isn’t Cal?” Michael says as stupidity takes over his expression.
“No,” he says sharply.
I hand Jason the towel. “No, Michael, this isn’t the guy. But even if it were—oh, God! I can’t even believe you!”
“What is this, Melrose Place?” Ryan yells. “I haven’t even opened and I’m already breaking up fights. From now on, no one who is not currently employed here is allowed in before opening unless I personally approve it!” Ryan frowns at all of us.
“I-I’m sorry,” Michael murmurs.
“Michael, get the hell out!” Ryan yells.
“I’m sorry, Ryan, and I’m sorry to you too, Jason.” Michael glances at them briefly before scooting quickly out the door, escorted by Steven and Dan.
“Jason, I am sorry about this, mate,” Ryan says, dusting off Jason’s suit.
“It wasn’t your fault,” Jason utters, rubbing his eye, which is already purple.
“I’ll be back,” Ryan says angrily and walks out, cursing Michael under his breath.
“I’m really sorry again. He can be a douche sometimes,” I tell him sincerely.
“Don’t apologize. You aren’t the one who punched me in the eye,” he says.
“I know. But still…” I feel bad about the entire situation.
“So is it always this hard to ask you on a date?” He laughs slightly.
“Y-you’re asking me on a date?” I chuckle.
“Yeah, I was about to when that guy—who I take it is your ex-boyfriend?—attacked me.”
I stuff my hands in the back pockets of my jeans. This has been a busy week; two sober guys asked me out in the same week.
“I, well…” I’m thinking hard about it. This could be fun. Another date wouldn�
�t hurt. I mean, this guy did just get punched in the face for me. I can’t turn him down after that. And Cal hasn’t called, so… “I would love to.”
“Well, maybe this day won’t turn out so bad after all.” He smiles broadly.
“I can’t Friday night, but how about Thursday?” I ask.
“My eye should be down by then. Hopefully.” He laughs.
“That’s great. I’m sure it will,” I agree. Well, I’m sure the swelling will be down, at least. Whether his normal color will be back, I doubt it, based on the way it looks now. I’m still shocked Michael hit him. He’s studying to be a police officer; you’d think he would know better.
“Great!” he says with enthusiasm.
It’s eleven o’clock. I can’t sleep. That’s what working the night shift will do to you on your days off. I had planned on catching up on my sleep, but I’m utterly restless. Switching on the lamp beside my bed, I pull out the sketchpad I keep under my bed and start to draw. The phone rings suddenly, startling me.
“Hello?” I answer hesitantly.
“Hey, gorgeous.” The voice is a familiar one and it immediately awakens the butterflies in my stomach.
“I guess that would be me,” I say, a grin spreading across my face.
“I’m not calling too late, am I?”
“No, it’s fine. I’m a bit of a night owl myself,” I tell him.
“Note this: me working on the asking thing.” He chuckles.
I think back to his earlier promise and grin. “Look at you, sir. I am so very proud of you,” I tell him playfully.
“Well, you’ll have to show me how much,” he flirts back. I bite my lip at the thought. “I was going to text you. I didn’t know if you’d be at the club or not.”
