by Willow Aster
“A lot more cheerful when I’m not, would be my guess,” I try to joke, but it just sounds sad.
Do I have an I am needy sign hanging over my head?
Maybe my pheromones are exuding an I-haven’t-had-sex-in-a-year vibe. I take a subtle whiff of my armpits and the inside of my wrists … and even my breath. I’m not catching it. I pull out the wet wipes and use one on my nose and another on my hands. Once I’ve started that, I have to go to the restroom and use the feminine wipes as well. I’ve read somewhere that you shouldn’t use those, but I can’t be having my pheromones outing me. Or if I am going to be outed, could it please be with someone who is completely unattached to any part of my former life?
I shake my fist at the universe, careful to not anger God in the process. I’m pretty sure he knows I’m crazy, so it’s probably okay.
I MAKE IT home finally, all 77 colors of crazy fully intact. I pick up my phone and there are 3 messages from Dalton and 1 from Saul.
Dalton: Did I make you laugh?
Dalton: How about a picture of your smile?
Dalton: And then your tits … just kidding! But really it would be ok.
I shake my head and start to ignore it, but then quickly type:
Reminder: YOU HAVE A GIRLFRIEND.
Feeling much better about myself, I delete the whole thread and look at Saul’s text.
Saul: Can we go eat Mexican food this Friday night, like old times?
I hover over the letters, not sure what to say. I mourned losing Saul’s friendship more than my relationship with Dalton, so I’m not sure whether I can just go right back into old times for a night and be okay with that.
My desire to see him outweighs my concern, so I say yes.
Saul: Great. Hecho en Dumbo at 7?
I’ll see you there.
I’m convinced there’s been a massive shift in the universe.
I DON’T KNOW if it’s because I finally have something to look forward to or what, but the days leading up to my dinner with Saul are better. I try not to overthink it, so I don’t undo all the progress by slipping … but I haven’t excessively washed my hands once.
I get a late night text from Dalton the night before I’m supposed to see Saul. He’s been quiet all week, so I thought I’d heard the last from him for a while … maybe Courtney finally gave him some and he settled down.
Dalton: I can’t stop thinking about you.
I type one word.
Girlfriend.
Dalton: I’m drunk. Are u feeling better? U sure have been quiet this week.
We haven’t talked in ages and since you saw me earlier in the week, you’ve been acting like a perv. What’s going on with YOU?
Dalton: No, this is a perv.
I can tell he’s sent a picture and my curiosity gets the better of me.
I open up the picture and his perfect naked buns fill up my screen.
Nice. You’re right. That is pervy, but I have to say I’ve always been jealous of your tight cheeks.
Dalton: Your turn.
No.
My phone buzzes again and I turn it off and go to bed. The next morning when I wake up, I see 2 missed texts from him. It takes everything in me not to open them—for a few reasons.
1. He’s beyond attractive.
2. I miss naked men.
3. We’ve already established that I’m in a bad way.
I get so uptight thinking about what I’m going to do about Dalton that I have to wash my hands 10 times. And another 10 times when I get to work. I put lotion on them because they feel raw and then have to go through another round of washing and lotioning. Finally, it feels okay to leave the lotion on and I get out of the bathroom as fast as I can.
We have our small Christmas party in the afternoon. I’ve been ignoring Christmas, but it’s just 5 days away. However, I do have my Secret Santa Christmas present for Peggy. She comes in every two weeks to do the books and has never said more to me than, “Have any new receipts for me?” I bought her a wallet that I found at TJ Maxx for less than $12. That was the only criterion: no gifts for more than $12. And since I know absolutely nothing about Peggy except that she deals with money, I thought a wallet was the most logical gift.
It turns out that Peggy has my name too, so we manage a pretty clumsy exchange. She gives me a small quilted polka dot bag.
“To keep receipts,” she says. “I made it.”
“Oh yes, great idea. Thank you!” I zip and unzip 6 times. “It’s made very well,” I add.
“Thank you,” she says shyly.
I leave as soon as that’s over, figuring I can’t make much more progress than that in one day.
GETTING READY FOR the night is also fairly painless. I put on the only jeans I own that fit, surprised that they’re a little looser than last week. I brush my hair until it shines, something I could stand to do a little more often. I wish I could say that I don’t care how I look since I’m only seeing Saul, but that is so far from the truth. I try to avoid my favorite blue cardigan because I don’t want it to start getting nubby, but I need it. It’s the last thing my mom gave me and it’s become a security blanket.
The restaurant is a 10-minute walk from my apartment, but I’m wearing my high heeled boots and it’s freezing, so I decide to take a cab. I walk out the door at 6:30, so I can have a few minutes to breathe before he gets there. I didn’t use to need time for ‘breathing’ around Saul because it was just Saul, but that all changed a little over a year ago.
I get a nice table for us and order a margarita while I’m waiting. Dalton never wanted me to drink in public. He thought I became a little too free with my thoughts and hands when I had even a little alcohol in me.
Cheers, Dalton, I think as I lift my glass.
I see Saul before he sees me. His height immediately commands attention in a room. He looks like a rugged football player and I watch the people around him take a second and third look to see if he’s someone famous. Either that or they just wanted to admire him one more time. I think about how vastly different his looks are from short, pretty boy Dalton. Short guys have always gone for me because I’m short. There’s like this little unwritten rule that says tall guys are off limits for short girls. Right before I met Dalton I’d decided I wasn’t going to date another short man just because I was supposed to. His green eyes won out and I gave in.
Saul cuts short my Tall Man/Short Man deep thoughts when he approaches the table. He looks good enough to eat. Yep, hello, margarita.
He grabs my hand and pulls me up for a hug. My head lands on his muscled chest and I think yes, this is why. I’m small, let me feel small in the arms of a big man. I choke back a laugh that sounds more like a cough at my own stupidity.
Saul pulls back. “You okay? Need some water?”
“Nope, I’m fine. Oh, you smell good too,” comes out of my mouth.
He chuckles. “Thanks. And you look really ho—nice. Different. Your hair?”
“Brushed it.” I smooth it down. Fifty-seven times, I think.
He laughs again. “Well, it’s definitely working.”
We sit down and dig into the chips and salsa. Once we order, he gets right to it.
“Maby, what you said the other day about … there being nothing from me. I feel really bad. You’re right. I’m so sorry.”
I just look at him, not sure of what to say.
“I did abandon you, and probably when you needed a friend the most.”
“Dammit, don’t make me cry,” I whisper.
“Oh God, I can’t seem to say the right thing. This is part of why I’ve stayed away.” He rubs the stubble on his chin. “How are you doing about your mom?”
I look down at my hands and try to keep them still. “Not very well.”
“I know I can’t even relate. My mom sucked. She was probably the worst mom ever and your mom was the best. It’s not fair that my mom is out there alive, who knows where, and without any thought of her kids.”
“I think that all
the time,” I lean in, “I know it’s wrong, but I do. Why do the nice ones die? There are so many mean, twisted sickos out there. Hell, I’m one of them! Why couldn’t I go? Why did my kind, healthy mom have to die? And you know, I like old people fine, but why not somebody old and cranky? She was beautiful and … good.” My face is heated. I take a big gulp of margarita so I will shut up.
“There’s nothing right about your mom dying or the way she died. I think about that all the time.”
“You do?” I take out a wet wipe and wipe the saltiness from the chips off of my hands. “Thank you.” It feels nice to talk about her. No one else has been brave enough to mention her around me.
“It’s true. I left you a message when they caught the bastard. You didn’t call me back,” he says softly. “I don’t blame you if you don’t want to talk about her. I just … I was so relieved they caught him and wanted you to know.”
“No, I’m okay talking about her. I’m sorry I didn’t call back. It was just too hard then, but I appreciated you reaching out. You’re the only one who did out of our group of friends. Of course, they all disappeared with Dalton and Courtney.”
“I really thought you were gonna marry Dalton.”
The waitress brings our food and a pitcher of margaritas. This could get interesting fast.
“How long did you know he was cheating on me?” I get right to it.
“I didn’t know. I told you that. I suspected he was and asked him about it and he lied to me. He told me he wanted to marry you and I believed him. Even when I found out he was with Courtney, I thought he’d go back to you. He always went back to you.”
“Well, not this time.” I give a bitter laugh.
“And I felt too guilty myself to ask him for details about Courtney. I didn’t handle any of it well.” He shakes his head and looks at the bar.
We’re both quiet for a few minutes. When I can’t take the tension any longer, I tap quietly on the table. He looks at me.
“We made out. It was the wrong thing to do, but shiiiiit, I can’t feel guilty about it anymore. Dalton was angry with me all the time, we weren’t having sex, and yes, I should have broken up with him before making out with you, but he’d been cheating on me for months by then! I think he was doing everything he could to make me break up with him and I was too afraid of change. Chalk it up to my crazies.” I lean in closer, because the people at the next table have stopped eating and are listening. “At least we didn’t have sex … although we may as well have.” I blush thinking about the way he kissed and how good he made me feel with just his fingers. Flustered, I stutter, “I-I mean, once you go that far…” I shake my head.
Saul clears his throat and makes a steeple with his fingers.
“But anyway, it’s a good thing we didn’t, I guess, because here we are a year later, and we’re still talking about Dalton.”
I know now would be a good time to bring up the fact that I ran into him, but I ignore my conscience. I’m tired of Dalton wrecking everything.
“It scared me, what I was willing to stoop to. If I could do that to my best friend … I don’t know. I’m not a cheat, Maby. I’m a lot of things, but not that. You just … we were so close.”
“I didn’t think I was a cheat either, but … it was you and…” I can’t finish that sentence because it would be: Maybe I just liked you so much that I was willing to risk everything.
After all, I am the mean, twisted sicko.
OUR CONVERSATION GOES up in intensity by several notches, the longer we sit.
He looks at me for a long time, studying me so hard I start fidgeting.
“Maby … I’m horrible with relationships,” he says, taking a bite of the Tres Leches cake we’re splitting.
I’ve heard him say this so many times before and I see red that he’s using it on me now. I don’t say anything.
“What?” he asks.
“What?” I shake my head sarcastically at him.
“I know you’re mad by the look on your face.”
“You’re not around anymore—you don’t get to ‘read’ my expressions. Maybe I’ve changed,” I snap back.
“Your tone proves me right.”
I roll my eyes. “Fine. I am annoyed by you. You’ve probably dated everyone in this city but me, and you try to use your ‘I’m horrible with relationships’ line on me the minute we talk about anything heartfelt … like I’m trying to get in your pants or something.”
His eyes widen.
“Yeah, I said it,” I continue. “And I wasn’t. I was trying to have an honest conversation with you. I’m sure I’d probably like it in your pants, but realized a long time ago—like whenever the hell it was you bailed on me—that it wasn’t gonna happen.”
“I’m not sure what you want from me, Maby. You know I’m crazy about you, but I don’t know what you really want. And I haven’t wanted to ruin what we do have.” He looks at me out of the corner of his eye and sucks in a breath. “I also don’t want to do anything to make you worse.”
Ah, there it is. The truth.
He starts to say something else and I lift my hand.
“Don’t. Just … don’t.”
I throw down enough cash to cover my drinks and food, get up, and walk out. I hear him behind me, but I’ve already caught a taxi and tell the driver to hurry up. I don’t bother looking back and feeling bad for Saul Mayes’ sad eyes. I’ve already done that more times than I can count.
I HAVE A dream about my mother. We’re in bed and I’m spooning her. I slept with her most of my life. I never knew my dad. It was just us. She turns over and I see her. It’s so real and I think, Oh, I’m having one of those experiences! I can’t believe I’m seeing her face. I’ve been waiting for this since she died and it’s never happened. Even in my sleep, my expectation is so high that whatever she says will be profound.
She looks down at me sadly. Her hair is so much darker than mine and her eyes look especially light. She’s beautiful.
“I wish you hadn’t done that,” she scolds me. “I’m worried you’re gonna end up old and alone if you keep acting so crazy.”
I wake up with a jump, my heart pounding out of my chest, and the tears already forming in my eyes. I can’t believe that was my time with my mom. Scolding and guilt. Like I didn’t have that enough on my own without her using her voice from the heavens, or wherever she may be right now, to drive the message home.
It’s 3:23 AM, and I get in the shower, scrubbing and scrubbing and scrubbing. My skin hurts, but I can’t stop. I cry so hard that I have to get out of the shower to vomit. I get back in the shower to get clean again.
Around 5:39, I crawl back in my bed and for a minute before I fall back asleep, I think about how that didn’t sound like something my mother would say to me. But whoever it was did have a point.
I DREAM ANOTHER dream where I go to hug my mom and she’s as hard as a rock, the way she was when I touched her in the casket. I wake up in a sweat. 7:02 AM. I fade back into another dream and I’m having to identify her body in the morgue. I dream it exactly the way it happened. I said it was her and fell on her chest. They tried to pull me off of her, and I told them I wouldn’t touch her, but I needed a minute. They gave me just that and then longer after they’d gotten all the evidence. I fixed her hair the way I knew she’d want it. The bastard had knifed her in the back, just to get a measly $57 and a credit card out of her purse. I looked at the wound and cried more tears than I ever thought possible.
I wake up crying. I can’t get a grip. I can’t eat. I don’t try sleeping again, too afraid of where my dreams will take me. I turn off my phone and numbly watch TV all day. The next night is tormented with dreams again.
On Sunday afternoon, I start my hatred party of Dalton. He left soon after my mom died. It was like he’d been so close to getting out and knew if he stayed when something that terrible was actually happening, he’d never escape. It’s just as well. I hated him by that time and I needed to mourn without anyone watching a
nd judging.
I suspected he was with Courtney. Every time we went out as a group they would gravitate toward each other. I saw the way they looked at each other. I knew when Dalton wanted someone. It hadn’t been me for a while.
I start a bottle of wine and finish it. It’s late and I have a nice, solid buzz going on.
My phone buzzes.
Dalton: I’m hurt I haven’t heard from you.
I ignore him because I’m drunk and hate him.
Dalton: I’m trying to be a good friend here.
Why now? Have you and Saul been talking about me?
Dalton: No, why? I haven’t seen Saul in forever.
It’s just weird. Mother Nature seems to be ganging up on me all of a sudden.
Dalton: I’m thinking of breaking up with Courtney.
Then do it. I’m surprised you’ve been with her this long.
Dalton: Really?
She’ll kill you if she knows you’re texting me.
Dalton: I’m tired of her controlling every part of my life. Can I tell you something?
I’m afraid you’re gonna.
Dalton: When I go down on her, I imagine it’s you.
WTF! < Look what you made me do! Seriously! If you feel that way, why are you with her?
Dalton: Look what you do to me.
No! Don’t you dare!
He dares. He sends a picture of little Dalton and it’s just like him. Pretty and sort of perfect. At least on an iPhone screenshot and when I’m already seeing things a little fuzzy. I have missed it a little bit.
