Truth or Dare, page 19
On Main Street, the clamor of rubber and exhaust drowns us out. We make our way through the crosswalk to a sidewalk on the opposite side, which is dimly lit by those gothic posts.
I pause to peek in the music store past my reflection to those guitars. She wants to keep walking away. This is about the time I drift off. I’m tuning, singing “Drive,” telling bad jokes to a small dive crowd, breaking strings, sleeves cuffed, and then she breaks in with, “You’re no Melissa Ferrick, but I love you anyway.”
I just give her a look.
“Keep practicing. I have earplugs.”
I would be insulted if she wasn’t so smitten by me.
We’ve reserved seats at the nicest restaurant in town. That’s not to say it’s uber high class. But it’s as high class as we’re ever going to get. I pull the door and follow this goddess in, where our hostess stands by a pedestal. Her eyes meet mine, though my wife’s the one vying for her attention.
“Party of two. Lasley,” I say. “We have reservations.”
* * *
After signing a credit slip for our whopping one hundred fifty dollar meal with drinks and sweets, I tuck the pen in the binder and slide it over to the edge of the table. Ella takes one last drink of water, ice tumbling, before she stains her lips strawberry—something she always does after a meal out.
“I hope you got enough to eat,” I say, rising to help with her coat.
“I could’ve skipped dessert.”
I just shake my head.
It’s a shadowy restaurant. Crystal chandeliers drop from elegantly high ceilings and sparkle across pressed tin ceiling tiles. I hold her coat as she slips an arm delicately into one sleeve and then the other. Coated up, we wind our way through the maze to the front lobby. I pause to grab a mint from a tray before slipping mittens on.
“I think we’re early,” I tell her. Then we push through the door together. The snow’s returned, resting along fine limbs up above. I can feel flakes featherlight as they melt on my skin. We huddle together, heads ducked, down the sidewalk.
“I love you,” I say in the most unromantic voice imaginable. “Your hair smells like coconut.”
“You like?”
“I kind of do,” I say. “You have my permission to buy this stuff again.”
I get the same expression back that I give her. Then I finger loose strands of hair that have fallen across her forehead.
“There it is,” she says.
A scrolling marque reads: Friday and 7:30 p.m. and Giselle.
“But is that the line?”
“Doesn’t look open yet.”
The place is pretty out-there. Picture neon red meets violet on brick. An angular facade, a touch of Neo-Renaissance, with prominence suitable for tuxedos—at least, in a more cosmopolitan region. And that line wraps and crawls around it. I follow the smooth tempo of heels until we reach the end. That’s when my shivering companion inches forward past anchored benches and a glassed-in cast list.
I whisper privately, “You know what this reminds me of…?”
“The Nutcracker,” my wife says.
“Have I told you this story?”
“Only a million times.”
I feel dejected, which must show on my face.
“It’s cute. Really, babe.”
I’m thinking about women wrapped in fur-lined capes. Perfectly choreographed plies and pirouettes. “We should do that.”
“Do what?” She sounds so disapproving.
“Have a tradition every winter, like now—”
“I don’t know about that. Traditions can be kind of, I don’t know, monotonous. Don’t you think?”
“Tradition doesn’t mean boring. Just familiar. That’s not always bad.”
“Tradition is doing the same thing over and over and over,” she says. “How is that not monotonous?”
I continue to harp.
She raises her eyebrow.
I twist my lip.
She rolls her eyes.
I wink.
“What time is it?” I ask.
“It’s six forty-five.”
Then we opt to listen to conversations as opposed to engaging in one of our own.
And eventually we step inside, my fingers tingling. I marvel. The ceiling. That carved wood. It’s antique right down to this worn carpeting at our feet, which we follow, guided by ushers, making our way to a staircase leading to our own balcony—and we’re hidden above rows of chatter.
“Can you see?” I open the program, sinking into my seat. An ankle settles on my knee.
“Yes, perfectly,” says my shadowed companion, leaning headfirst to watch a crowd of heteros file in just below. The program’s barely decipherable under jewelry light and tells me tidbits of absolutely no interest. Though they would be to her.
And soon enough, the room dims and heavy drapes are lit. A conductor enters and bows. Applause soars into a hush. A dramatic pause, a shift in the seat. A page is flipped. And the melody begins. Flutes dance in leaps and lulls. Violins flitter until a second curtain rises, gathering section by section until it unveils a quaint autumn day. A cape crossing before troops of loose skirts on laced slippers.
I turn to my wife, lit and entranced, and I’m more entertained by her than the show itself. I feel for her hand in the darkness, finding her knee instead. And there are no butterflies, for her or me. She doesn’t even acknowledge me. I’m not holding my breath or flexing or tense. She’s not pretending. I’m not wondering or worrying, tortured or longing. There is no apprehension. It’s really the most wonderful thing. This.
Chapter Fourteen: Ryan and Brie
Brie
You can let life change you, or you can change your life.
Waiting, like this, has never been my strong suit, but fifteen minutes is acceptable as long as it’s done in the waiting room of the best hairdresser in town, without question. That’s what I get for taking his last appointment of the day.
I choose an outdated Vogue and begin flipping pages creased with Photoshopped beauty standards, settling into the aroma of perfume and perm. A mix of ammonia and vetiver, sandalwood, and rosemary. The baby boomer across from me is reading People. I sense her eyes on me and, when I let myself peek over the top of the page, those suspicions are confirmed.
I scan sans reading, as my ear strays into another room. The gossip that’s shared in the presence of a hairdresser. I can make half of it out over the buzz of electric clippers and hair dryers.
Kevin smiles and nods as he lifts thin strands of hair over foil and brushes each with a creamy white paste, nodding to his chair’s rant about her man, her boss, her boys. I watch as my fashionable hairdresser imitates her outrage, and I flip another page. Her head is soon a figment of a midcentury science fiction flick.
He hollers in passing, and I gesture as if to say okay. I set Vogue down on the table in front of me. This is Ryan’s salon. And finding it was one of the few upsides I can take from that failed relationship.
“I’m so sorry you had to wait,” he tells me. And I reflect on the fact that, sometimes, there’s a great deal of comfort in a Hollywood hug. “It’s been a madhouse,” he gushes, combing through my tangles. “What are we doing for you today?”
We talk to each other through his oversized mirror. “Actually,” I say, pulling out my own magazine clipping, “I’m going to need a change, doll.”
My guy squeals and begins talking in staccato. “Oh. My. God.” Then he studies my reflection as if I were bar prey.
“No more Disney princess,” I say.
He chuckles, shaking his head. “So we’re taking it all off?”
I nod.
He latches my photo to the mirror all the while dousing me with praise. Tipped back, hair under the spray, with warm lather draining down my neck, I fall into an aromatic coma.
He asks me what I’m wearing. “Is that a new shampoo?”
Chris wears this better, is my unspoken response. “An old perfume,” I say.
When he asks about Ryan, I redirect the topic like a boomerang, more than happy to just listen and not talk for the next twenty minutes. I wonder, as I always do, if he also talks about me once I leave.
With a towel across my shoulder, I make my way to the chair and my chatty stylist snaps me in plastic. I guess the rubber band makes it more efficient, but it still feels like an evil sorority pledge.
“Ready?” he asks, positioning his shears.
“As I’ll ever be.”
The cut does tug, and my hair, my gut, my ex-boss, my ex-girlfriend, my femininity, my passivity, my stupidity, my misgivings, my dependence, my anxiety, and all my disappointments fall to the floor in one fell swoop.
I look through my bangs, which tickle my lips. I sense cold steel behind my ear, a razor on my neck, a comb across my scalp. I rise with each pump of the chair. I face a wall, a mirror, a chest. And I’m tilted this way and that.
When I return to the mirror, it’s 1968. And I’m Mia Farrow.
* * *
Ryan
I once read that Saturday night just around right now is the most common time for couples to have sex. I’m happy for them, as I curl up on the couch in flannel pajamas, alone.
Which reminds me, I need to get online and renew my gym membership and Netflix subscription, two luxuries that make this single thing immensely more tolerable. In the meantime, at least for this evening, I’m choosing from the few DVDs I actually own. I pick The Tudors, season one, and slide it into the tray. There’s something to be said for corsets and busts pressed up like that. Of course, the downside is murder and men—but that aside.
With remote in hand, I squeeze the pillow into my chest and wrap a throw over my toes. I keep the volume high to give it a movie theater feel. That racket might be what’s brought her in. I can’t say I’m disappointed.
In fact, it’s difficult to look away and I stare well past the turn-away point since I’ve had but a few hours to get used to this unexpected new look of hers. And as much as I’d prefer to see her in a breakup-appropriate robe and frumpy slippers, it’s more like loose and sleeveless, a tank top with pants of some kind of knit that of course cling too well over those curves. I’m thinking she’s deliberately torturing me.
I try to act indifferent as she makes her way to the chair. It makes a noise when she plops down. I’m thinking I probably should’ve worn something less modest given my current look is more Subaru Outback than Jeep Wrangler. It’s hardly going to win her over or back or anything else for that matter. It’s probably what frightened her away.
She settles in, lit in screen glow, as His Majesty enters to the sound of trumpets and bellows an argument for war.
That’s when I ask, “Is this okay?” We don’t normally agree so easily. She and I, we have rather distinctive tastes. She’s more Cannes and subtitles. Then I add, “If you’d prefer to watch something else…?”
That’s when she turns to face me. “I like this show. I forgot how much actually.” It’s nice that we have some common ground. But I find myself wondering when she saw this. It wasn’t with me. I glance over without looking, her knees tucked to her chest with a fist around them.
I turn down the volume. “Listen, I’m really sorry about everything,” I tell her. “I know I haven’t been here for you.”
She’s listening. I know she is because she nods.
“Can I get you some coffee?” I ask, thinking, You can drink as much coffee as you want. I don’t even care anymore. It’s so petty. Then I say, “If that’s behind this.”
“That’s not it.”
“We could see someone like a therapist or counselor. I can change, you know. I’m far from perfect. I know that more than anyone.”
She sucks her lips in. Then she shakes her head.
“No to the counselor,” I ask, “or no, you think I’m perfect?” I get this look from across the room. My wink is probably flirtatious. I love you, I think.
Her half smile lingers long after she returns to the screen.
“You don’t have to rush the job thing, you know. The right one can take time. But if you wait, I can take care of expenses. I already am. Like you said, I was fine before you. It’s not even an issue.”
It’s a simple thing, that smile, but complicated. And she turns to me again. “But I love my work.”
“Then let me help you find a job. I’m sorry that I’ve left this up to you—it wasn’t fair. Of course you’re overwhelmed. Who wouldn’t be,” I say, talking as much to myself as I am to her. “I can do so much more with that. I will. I want to.”
“But I’ve already tried that. My résumé’s everywhere—don’t you see? I need to be near family. I don’t think you realize how important it is to me.”
She turns back to the screen; so do I. I need to back off. If I give her space, she won’t get upset. She’ll stay like this, right here with me, all night. She won’t walk out. And I do stay quiet, staring mindlessly at the television for at least fifteen seconds more.
“Well then, what if I moved with you?”
“Moved—to Maine?”
“We could find a place together. I want to. I have equity here and there’s a down payment,” I say. It feels genius, absolutely brilliant, a feeling that’s reinforced when she drops her fist and stretches out a single leg. So I add, “I’ll do anything for you.”
“You already have your life, everything you need here.”
“It doesn’t matter to me anymore. You do. I’ll do whatever I can to make this work.”
“I’d never ask you to do that.”
“I can find another job,” I say. “Anywhere really. Just think about it, all right? I won’t screw up again. I can make this up to you.”
Her chest swells as she turns back to the show. I’m fine with that. Besides, I’ve run out of things to say. So I turn the volume back up and try to act like I’m in this room watching with her. In truth, my heart’s sinking at the thought of moving. Selling. Packing. Starting over. I don’t want to. But it’s exciting to think so.
Chapter Fifteen: Jessie and Hadley
Jessie
I never expected the day to turn out the way it has. How could I? There’s a lot I don’t know about her. There’s a lot I do.
We learned that, in the dead of winter, there’s little to do in this rolled-up town—especially after all this, when everything’s closed up with the exception of a few family-run delis.
We finished some errands just before lunch. She had things to drop off at the postbox. I picked up coffee beans because I’m out. We passed the mini-mall and decided that would be our next expedition. I felt like a celebrity, or how I imagine it’d be, when they unlock just for you. But that’s where the comparison ends because half the shops were closed. It was our empty playground. I bought my boots. She found candle lanterns for outside.
We wandered down the hill to Ella’s. She was out back but caught us and came out to see us. She should be home with her wife; it’s their anniversary. I told her that. She told the woman at the register to waive the fee when we ordered. We wanted to pay. We insisted. But she wouldn’t have it.
Which leads me to this parking garage, which is empty with its entry gate up. Less a surveillance camera or three, we could run a marathon up and down the ramp and nobody would be the wiser. We’ve chosen not to. Instead we walk leisurely down the slope.
The rest of the afternoon is still a free fall. Our conversation has descended into overtalk about stuff that doesn’t want to end. It isn’t about anything in particular. It isn’t about anything at all, really. It’s about everything. Gender reassignment. Our shitty jobs. Her shitty car. Vegetarianism. Sexism in STEM. Priests, atheism. Democratic Socialism. It twists all over the place like an overpass.
And while most of the town is shut down, there’s this church. Churches are always open. They’re heated, too, which is why we duck in. I’d forgotten the smell of church, a stuffy blend of aging wood, dust, Sunday-best perfumes, and coffee from a can. A different kind of quiet sits inside.
The double set of parted doors, that makes it feel accepting even though I’m far from religious myself. I sit in the back, flipping a hymnal and closing a kneeling bench. She’s up front being Catholic.
Humble people have gathered here for hundreds of years wearing pins on their Sears brassieres, sock suspenders and bowties. They took care of one another. That does appeal to me—the forgiveness part, too. Why is religion so ugly yet so beautiful on her?
As we leave, that same solitude follows us for a couple of blocks, swapping overtalk for voyeurism, past a local art gallery and theater, which is already prepping for tonight’s performance.
“Do you want to head home?” I ask.
“And do what?” She’s clutching my hand and speeding her pace. Tugging me. “Come here. I have to show you something.”
We leave the sidewalk and take over this roadway, crossing the street but skirting the crosswalk. An entire block passes before I know it. The alleyway’s narrow with barely enough space for one of us to slide sidelong. That’s when I realize I’m borderline claustrophobic.
“Where exactly are you taking me?”
“You’ll see.”
I’m relieved when we reach another pair of doors. They’re nearly twice our height. She rattles the knob. “Let’s go around.”
I trail behind—am dragged, rather—to the side where more slender paths are carelessly cleared. When she turns this knob, it opens. We look at each other. The air’s stagnant inside, like that church, and we make our way toward the spiral staircase. It even smells of church. My thought is that it might be the chapel. It echoes.
“We can’t be in here,” I say in a loud hush as we wind up flight after flight.
“Sure we can. I know someone. It’s totally fine. We won’t touch anything.” Her smile is devious. I kind of like it.
Our steps repeat vertically. We’re not discreet. And if it weren’t for daylight streaming in from up above, our path would not be lit.
