Truth or Dare, page 25
How am I supposed to know what to do, how to be? Where am I to go? I just know what I feel. They don’t.
They know nothing about her Yes! Yes! her flushed face her back wet the feel of her leg stubbled from eleven-hour days. They don’t stay up with her or wake with her, bathe with her, bend to her. They don’t love her.
They just don’t know.
Maybe this time will be different. Maybe she’ll change her mind. Maybe it really isn’t me, isn’t her, isn’t over at all. Maybe there is no answer because I shouldn’t be asking those questions in the first place. Or maybe she’ll unpack. Turn around. Not right now. Not even tomorrow. But maybe I’ll wait.
I try to look happy, but she radiates happy running to catch her phone somewhere private. She’s quick about it. So quick that she left her drink half drunk. Mine’s two swallows from empty. I need another. I motion to the bartender, who dips over. She doesn’t judge me, though it’s way too early for another, if you ask me.
I join the conversation and laugh for no reason. It amuses me to hear what other people find significant. Did you hit that accident on the 91? It’s probably your battery. If you’re a pillow queen. You would say that. He seriously said that to you? Did she go—what’d I miss? It’s canceled? You would love that show! Maybe you should see the doctor about that. You’re probably just PMSing.
I set my beer across from her drink and slouch until they meet—like when the eye doctor gives you that test and asks when one light is on top of the other. I compare colors. Hers opaque, mine was clear. She used to kiss me with those same creamy lips, that same lipstick that’s on the rim. I can hear that Yes! Yes! I can taste it, so I take another drink to wash it down.
Is she the one? Sometimes she is.
* * *
Brie
I dodge a bunch of obstacles just to duck around the corner toward the ladies room and (non-operational) coin-op phone booth. My knees feel like Jell-O. I suck my lip, rub my neck. It’s hard to believe, just a minute ago, I was sulking.
Our conversation is like Ping-Pong.
Hey.
Hey.
Hey.
Hey.
Hey.
Sounds pretty happening.
Just a few friends.
Thanks for writing me back.
But I haven’t. That was—
I didn’t think I’d hear from you. Things are going…good?
—saved as a draft. I do the only thing that I can at this point, which is play along—more than mildly mortified.
As good as can be. You?
Good, good. Things are really great, actually.
Really great, actually. I’m kind of crushed. Rub it in, why not? It’s so good to hear her voice, it is, but I’m suddenly devastated and…don’t come back to share how fucking wonderful life is now that we’re apart. I say nothing.
I miss you.
She’s a black hole. How can I not get sucked in?
I say the same back. Why is that? I miss you. It’s such a simple statement, but it’s not. And why is it that, when I say it, it doesn’t sound nearly as irresistible as when she says it? It never does.
Yeah?
Yeah.
Of course she’s delighted. I’m just glad she can’t see the euphoria on my face. I can’t be this easy, not after all I’ve been through.
I forgot how much I love your voice.
I’m shuffling my feet like a sixteen-year-old girl.
So what’d you do today?
A lot of thinking.
About?
Nothing…
Nothing?
I lost my job.
I’ll hire you.
I bet you would.
Her laugh chops into three sputters.
So things are great?
Well, they could be better. You know how it is.
I like being on the phone with you.
Do you?
You make everything right.
Are you seeing someone?
Not since you.
I stare mindlessly at carpeting leading up a floor and those tourist flyers stacked on wire racks directly in front of me.
I miss you. So much.
It feels like we’re in bed together. I miss you, too, I think, painfully. It’s what I wanted. But I don’t know if I’m ready. Do I even care? I must not because I say the same back.
Are you…seeing someone?
With a nervous laugh, I tell her no. But she’s skeptical.
Can I see you? Can I drive down?
I can never move on. This is why. And she has my address, so I fixate on my unshaven legs, my winter-dry hands. What if she does drive down?
I could hit the highway and be there in a couple hours.
Like, now? Don’t be nuts.
Why not?
Because.
Because why?
Because.
Because why?
Because…because…because you always do this to me.
I want to see you. I’m an idiot.
You’re not.
I am.
I let her grapple. It’s nothing new. I feel that drug-induced happy. Whole again. All I want is her. The world evaporates. It’s like we never broke up at all. That’s how it always is.
And before I know it, we’re whispering all sweet and sappy. I’m confiding in her. I’m telling her all the outlandish things in my life, the important things and all the little in-betweens.
Have you seen Grams?
I did. At the store.
And?
She was yelling at a clerk.
As I get the whole story, I see her smile. She’s squinting, even without sun.
I cut my hair.
How?
Really short.
Marry me.
I’m glad she can’t see me.
I’m thinking about moving back.
When?
Soon.
I told you—destiny. Come live with me.
Don’t be nuts.
I love you.
I can’t come up with a single thing to say back. All I can do is count the hours, minutes, seconds until I can leave.
I love you, too.
We say our good-byes. Our long good-byes. Our you-hang-up-first good-byes, which nobody wins. And I float back to the table with a painful grin on my face.
Stylista’s looking at me, wondering.
“Mom called,” I holler, grabbing my Baileys and sinking euphorically into my seat.
Then I hear Sam ask, “Everything okay?” She’s squatting beside me with her knees crooked, balancing on the balls of her feet.
“Of course!”
“You sure,” she asks again.
“I’m fabulous.”
“Okay then. If you need to talk or anything, you know where to find me.” She puts a hand on my knee. It’s warm. “Nice cut, by the way.” She winks.
I laugh. I am absolutely giddy.
Chapter Twenty-one: Ella and Sam
Sam
As much as I’d like to help out a damsel in distress, Brie’s being tight-lipped. So I motion over to my wife to say, “Can you go check to see that she’s okay?” And as expected she excuses herself, sliding graciously into the empty seat next to Baileys over there.
Then I peek at my own wristwatch and it’s already half past six. So the host in me resolves that now is the perfect time to order. In fact, it’s well overdue. Grabbing a handful of menus, I pass a stack to my left to distribute. “Starving, aren’t you?” I ask, turning to Hadley. Her eyes are fixated on you know who, but Jessie’s way too busy captivating the table to notice.
“You read my mind,” she says, opening hers and gliding an index finger down its page.
“Jess isn’t cooking for you, eh?”
“Oh, you know, she wants to.”
“Cook?” I ask. “You can’t be serious.”
“She wants to be my chef now. So I’ve been teaching her a few things around the kitchen. I don’t know,” she says under her breath. “It’s like I can never tell her no.”
I can feel my brows pinch.
“I’m trying to be encouraging,” she tells me.
“How’s that working out?”
“Don’t ask.”
“She may surprise you,” I say, reaching for my drink. Votives dot the length of our table, scattering in and out and around.
“By the way, congratulations,” I hear. “Goodness, here I am jabbering about me. It’s your night.”
“This is just an excuse to get everyone together for once. You do know that, right?”
She takes a thoughtful pause. “The two of you are so lucky.” She sighs.
“Five years isn’t all that long. Come back to me in ten, twenty years,” I say. “But you know, it’s true what they say. Marriage is work. I’m warning you.”
“Yeah, so much work,” she says, rolling her eyes.
“And compromise,” I say.
“Like which side of the bed—”
“Not just that,” I tell her. “You’re too giddy, just look at you.” Then I tap her hand and ask, “So, how did this happen?”
“It just did. It’s hard to defend. Good timing, perhaps.” Then she folds her menu. “Of course I worry, though. I do, a little. I usually have lines that I don’t cross—never, ever—when it comes to friends. Don’t we all? It’s crazy, you know, that’s not how it works. I mean, with Jess—oh my God—it kept coming back. I don’t even care anymore.”
I’m wondering if she’s going to turn and look away. But she won’t. Not even as she takes a drink.
“I just don’t want to screw this up,” she says.
I lean in. “With Jessie?”
She nods.
I laugh. Then I take her menu and start motioning to others.
I follow her gaze across the table where, speaking of the devil, look who’s making her way over.
That’s when I catch Ella gazing at me. And Brie’s lips are still near her ear. I’m wondering how long my wife has been chaperoning me. I raise an eyebrow.
I get such a look back.
So I wink.
She shakes her head.
Chapter Twenty-two: Ryan and Brie
Brie
It requires two stout servers to carry out all our plates on those enormous round platters. I still don’t know how they can balance so many things on top of something that looks more like an oversized Frisbee. I sure couldn’t. But they do somehow, and they set those trays on a foldout cart in the aisle. And then, one by one, each plate descends to the table.
Fish sandwich? Side of onion rings? Hold the tomato?
Not one of us ordered a drink with dinner. I think we’ve had our fill. Besides, we have to drive home. I’ve settled into the seat next to Sam, enjoying a comfortable distance from my ex, who’s paying no attention anyway, typing into her phone.
Sam and I both slide napkins to our laps. That’s when I feel her shoulder bump mine and she leans in like she’s trying to share some kind of secret.
“Ella and I,” she says, finally. “We’re going to help you pack up.”
I think I heard her right. But I don’t know what to say. I just shake my head. “What are you talking about?”
“Word travels.”
I roll my eyes, wondering who at this table spilled. I’m partly disappointed, but at the same time, I’m also relieved it’s behind me. And the fact that she knows, that I guess everyone knows, makes it seem a little more real and a little more sad.
* * *
Ryan
The table’s a hush by the time I finally muster enough courage to walk over to the opposite side. Still, my nerves won’t settle. I slip an arm between shoulders, resting my weight on the table near Brie and bending until I’m at a comfortable closeness to her ear. “Can we talk?”
“Sure, sure,” she tells me, scooting out. It’s that perfume again. I wait out of courtesy and then motion her to follow. There’s lint in my pockets. The noise elevates in the kitchen as we make our separate ways toward a quieter area in the rear. I’m just watching my feet on the floor the whole way. I sit on the second step of the staircase, knees high with my elbows resting on each side. Eventually she sits next to me. Her profile is striking.
I say something that sounds more like nonsense. That much isn’t planned. I’m not sure what to expect in return. We’ve been fighting for days, so I’m timid and defensive. But she gives me a sweet, rather encouraging smile back. She blinks.
“I just wanted to, I don’t know, about tonight,” I say.
Her stare holds on for an eternity. Then it flits into the next room as if to deny me anything further.
“We have a couch. You can have it if you want. You know. If you want.”
Her hands dip down her neck.
“I do appreciate it.”
“So you want the couch?” I ask.
“Yes.” She laughs uneasily. “Thanks.”
Good-bye seems to be dragging its feet between us. But I feel more focused on this moment than I have for a really long time.
Then I hear, “I need to pack a truck tomorrow.”
And even though I expected this, it hurts. It hurts badly. I shrink a bit before remembering—this isn’t about me.
“I’m sorry, Ryan.”
“What for?” I’m trying to convince her. Or myself? I don’t know. But my head just falls into my hands and my hair is a mess and I mess it more and my heart’s climbing up my throat and into my eyes and we sit, mute. She’s gone this week. Knowing her, tomorrow. I just want to bring it back to business before I start out again like an ass. “So this is our last night, right?”
“It is, I think.”
“Okay. I’m heading out after this,” I say, struggling not to touch her. Not her shoulder, not her knee. And I try to smile, feebly. Then she lifts her eyes to me, but I can’t look anymore or I’ll kiss her or cry or do something I’m not supposed to do. So I focus on my shoelaces. “I think this shindig is just fine without me. When you get in, take the bed, okay? I’ll take the couch.”
“You don’t have to—”
“No, really, I do. And I’ll help you pack tomorrow, all right? I’ll pack your truck. I’m taking a day off. I already told Ella.” I catch her staring at me. “Maybe we can remain friends. Who knows.”
I push myself up from the step and walk away without looking back.
“Thank you,” I hear, and I think, I love you. I nod over my shoulder without stopping or slowing.
The music swells as I curve past the bar, swerving my way to the table just in time to catch Jess packing up. I swallow. “Wait up. You two heading out?”
“We have work tomorrow.”
“I’ll walk with you.”
As I slip my arms through the sleeves of my coat, I thank our hosts. Jessie strolls over to Ella and she pulls her into this full body hug. Then they start whispering and I’m thinking What are they saying? and Get a room.
I zip, tuck my hands in deep pockets, and elbow Hadley. “What are you doing with that buffoon?” I ask, and she grins at me all dopey-eyed as the three of us push out.
* * *
Reading on a night like tonight is hard enough, but it’s my escape. So I make an effort.
Still, everything in this universe is tugging my mind away from this page. Even my book light isn’t cooperating. It’s dim and flickering and either the bulb or battery will need to be replaced, but this will do for now.
It’s not until I hear her key rattle at the doorknob that I just give up the charade, shut the shadowy light off, and close my paperback. I gaze out the window at the companionable moon as I listen to Brie perfectly hang her coat, perfectly close the bathroom, perfectly wash her face, and then perfectly sink into bed—which must seem rather large without me in it.
That’s when I close her like a novel and place her on the bookshelf along with all those other stories I’ve dived into and held on to but never actually picked up and read again, felt again, loved again. I just move on into the next one instead.
I’m going to take a trip. I’m not sure where, but it’s going to be far away. It’s going to be remarkably foreign.
Why is it that under no circumstances have I ventured out of this state, let alone country? Let alone solo. But I’m going to.
Maybe I’ll stand under the Eiffel Tower. Sink my toes into O‘ahu. Better yet, tour Italy, trace my roots and see all those towns I’ve been told so much about.
And when I do one day decide to be with someone again, I’m going to focus not so much on finding someone I think is perfect but, instead, look for the one who thinks I am.
Chapter Twenty-three: Ella and Sam
Ella
“We’re last,” I tell my wife, glancing across the table now speckled in spilled salt and crumpled-up napkins.
I hear a loud slurping through her straw.
“I had a good time,” I say.
“I did, too.”
“I could fall asleep right here and now, though.”
“Me, too,” she says. “We’re too old to be out this late.”
“No.”
“I’m sure I missed a lot.”
I just shrug.
“You’ll catch me up, right?”
“I will.”
She seems rather introspective for some reason, that piercing gaze, those nude lips. I notice the fine hair where her shirt sleeve is cuffed, nubby fingernails, the curvature of her jaw. Eyelashes barely noticeable in the candlelight.
“What are you looking at?”
“Nothing,” I say. I pat her hand.
I feel the muscles in her grip around my own, and I detect a slight touch of sinister. Could she be thinking what I am?
As she rises from the table, I lift my gaze toward her outstretched arm.
“Can I have this dance?”
Okay, I’m sort of melting.
We make our way steadily to the dance floor and a single palm rests at the base of my back. Her breasts against mine. Her hips. And there’s that smirk.
