That Wild Player, page 16
“I didn’t mean to interrupt your work,” I say automatically.
“Has to be done.” She sighs. “It’s just so tedious.”
I suddenly realize she’s never said anything nice about her career. Depositions are always tedious, cases are dull, her clients selfish. But she never, ever says she’s happy or thrilled with her work. “You don’t enjoy your work?” I ask.
“Enjoy it?” She frowns. “It’s a career.” Like that explains everything. “Now. Why are you really here?”
Right. The unavoidable pink elephant of doom. I should just come right out and say it. Mom’s a lawyer. She’ll see right through me, no matter how circuitously I try to speak. “Dad’s cheating on you. I saw him with another woman. He said he’s been doing it for twenty years, and he swore you knew and didn’t mind and is that true?” It comes out in one huge rush of breath.
Mom blinks slowly once, then presses her lips together. “Where… How?”
“At the Ritz. I saw them.”
She puts a hand on her forehead, then lets out a long, exasperated sigh. “I told him to be discreet.”
“What?”
“Your father’s telling the truth. I knew. The only thing I asked is that he be discreet. It’s not a good idea to flaunt one’s affairs.”
My jaw drops. “You don’t mind?”
“Why does it matter?”
Am I stuck in the Twilight Zone? “Because he’s your husband? And he’s supposed to be faithful and stuff?”
“Oh dear. That’s…a fantasy.”
“Excuse me?”
“Mind you, I understand. When I was your age, I believed in those things, too.”
“And…you don’t now?”
She looks at me like I still believe in Santa.
“Did you actually even love each other?” I ask.
“We thought we did. I thought he was the one. My parents didn’t think so. They thought he wasn’t rich enough, which was true. Your grandmother is a firm believer that your station in life depends on who you marry. And Jordie’s parents didn’t like me. They thought I’d make a poor wife.” She glances up at the ceiling. “Too educated.”
What the hell? My grandparents are from an older era, sure, but do they have to be so…archaic?
“The thing is, your dad isn’t a bad person. We just…drifted apart, but neither of us wanted to admit we’d made a mistake and divorce. And image is important in life. Success begets more success. Nobody wants to associate with a failure. They’re worse than plague if you want to have a fulfilling life.”
“So this”—I gesture around the living room—“is your idea of a fulfilling life?”
“Of course. We’re very comfortable. Isn’t this what you want, too?”
“Because I thought you had a loving marriage! I thought what you had with Dad was real.”
“Oh, it’s real enough. This house, our 401(k), our lives—all quite real.”
I look around at the trappings of material comfort. She’s right. The money is very real. She and Dad are doing well by anybody’s definition…if you don’t look too closely. “All this time, I wanted what I thought you had. I thought you had a loving and happy marriage, and you were really, you know…fulfilled. I even let you berate me every time I disappointed you by not fitting in with your idea of success. But you don’t have anything. A sham of marriage and a career you don’t particularly like, all for the purpose of having…stuff. Do you like anything you do?”
She gives me her patient look. “I enjoy living the life I’ve built. I like driving my Lexus. I like the nice vacations we take. I like knowing that I have enough to provide for my children and be comfortable in retirement.”
“Okay. But you could’ve had all those things without the ‘image.’”
“Michelle. Things look one way before you’re married and another after. Your priorities change. You change. You’re simply too young to understand.”
“Right.” I stand. I just can’t stick around anymore. “Thanks for telling me everything, Mom. I need to go home.”
She sighs lightly. I can almost hear c’est la vie in the sound. “Good night, dear.”
I stumble away. Somehow I make it through the drive home and end up in front of the townhouse in one piece. Everything I’ve based my life aspirations on is fake. A sham!
My head pounding, I stare at the darkened building. I pull out my phone. It’s a little past midnight. I start to call Jan, then stop. It’s late, and she’s with Matt. And Sammi’s with Luke.
How about CJ?
I shake my head. He’s the last person I should contact. The only thing he wants is sex. Why would I burden him with my personal issues?
I slump forward until my forehead rests on the steering wheel. Maybe all my expectations are just…bullshit. I didn’t understand what my parents really had all this time, and I lived with them for eighteen years. What do I know about life truths?
And all those wasted years, me trying to be more like Mom so I could have what she…well, what I thought she had. How stupid. How naïve.
No wonder she always looks at me like a dumb kid. I am a dumb kid. Blind, too, apparently.
I think back. Mom’s always been a bit standoffish and aloof, and Dad’s always done whatever he wanted. I just assumed it was their personalities, nothing more. Well, it is more. I’ve been projecting my expectations and dreams onto my parents, rather than seeing what’s really there in front of me. This is why I’ve had so many failed relationships. Even though there wasn’t anything real between me and the guy, I stuck around because he had the right ingredients for the kind of life my parents had—a good education, a good job, decent manners. I was dating résumés, not people.
It’s about time I grow up. And stop seeing what I want to see…in order to see what’s actually there.
Chapter Thirty-One
CJ
Michelle didn’t call or text all weekend, and I didn’t either. I have things to do, mainly reviewing some investment proposals. All I did was mention once that I was interested in some angel investing, and voilà. Scores of emails pop up in my inbox. Monday morning and I still haven’t gotten through them all.
Of course, the person I really want to talk to won’t make the first contact. Maybe I should’ve been gentler in my delivery. I know how women are. And Michelle is a lot more sensitive than other women I’ve dated. Softer. I’m still not sure why I freaked that way.
After some consideration, I decide it was the surprise that got me. I couldn’t believe she thought things could progress to something more permanent…like living together and more. I thought I was pretty clear about everything. But if I’d been ready, I could have handled the situation better, told her my ideas for separate but equal households…
I tap my fingers on the kitchen counter. Maybe I should make the first move? I could do that. It wouldn’t be a defeat, but rather an honest admission that I like what we have too much to give it up over a silly, pointless argument neither of us will remember in a week.
I pick up my phone and see a text.
–Jan: Did you get into a fight? What’s going on?
Fight? I think back on the last twenty-four hours. With who? About what?
–CJ: Specifics? Who, what, where, when, why…
–Jan: Michelle! She isn’t at work. She called in sick. And she never calls in sick.
Ah. I finally get it. No wonder Michelle hasn’t made contact. She’s been too sick to text. Well, I hate it that she isn’t feeling well, but it also gives me the perfect excuse to drop by with some comfort food—maybe chicken noodle soup—and nurse her back to good health and humor.
–CJ: Let me check up on her.
–Jan: She isn’t answering her phone or text. I should’ve stopped by the townhouse last night.
No. I should’ve stopped by. But I can fix that now.
I swing by a diner to pick up an order of chicken noodle soup on the way to Michelle’s. When I get there, the front door is propped open. I see Michelle’s car in the driveway, and a cardboard box full of scrapbooks and magazines is sitting on the asphalt.
I park my Ferrari in Matt’s driveway and step out with the tub of soup. Just then, Michelle comes out with a plastic bag stuffed with magazines.
I almost don’t recognize her. Her hair’s pulled up in a messy top-knot secured with a couple of glitter pens. She’s wearing an old T-shirt and gray shorts just long enough to cover her ass. No accessories. And she’s scrubbed clean of makeup.
Her face looks amazing, her skin clear. The lashes around her eyes are long and curly, and even without much color, her pale pink lips are lush and eminently kissable. She looks like some dream version of the American Girl Next Door. And the tight humming in my heart grows louder.
But there are smudges under her eyes… No, wait. They’re dark circles. Whoa. Maybe she really is sick.
“Michelle,” I say, approaching her.
I almost falter when her eyebrows snap together as she looks in my direction. Even when we had our argument she didn’t look at me like that, and for some inexplicable reason it bothers me a lot more than it should.
“What are you doing here?” she says coolly.
“Jan said you called in sick. Just came over to check up on you.” I reach out for her bag, but she pulls away. “Let me help,” I say.
“No, thank you. That won’t be necessary.” She dumps the bag on the ground next to the box.
“Should you be doing this? Aren’t you sick?”
“No. And I’m doing this because I want to.” Her words come out clipped and flat. She turns away and starts to walk back inside.
I look down at the box and the bag. They’re full of old bridal and home-and-garden-type magazines. And three huge binders. I pick one up and read the cover. Michelle’s Dream Life. The other ones are titled Michelle’s Dream Wedding I and II.
“Put those back,” Michelle says coldly over a shoulder.
“Why are you tossing them?” By the number of pages, she must’ve spent months putting them together.
“Why not?”
“Aren’t they yours?”
She turns to face me. “Don’t want ’em anymore.”
“Not keeping them for Jan and Sammi?” Then I quickly add, “For their weddings?”
“They don’t need plans I’ve rejected. They’ll be fine.”
I sigh inwardly. Michelle’s being dramatic over what I said. Time to nip this in the bud. “You’re upset.”
She ignores me.
“Want to talk about it?”
Crossing her arms, she studies me for a few moments in total silence. Then she finally says, “Come by after nine if you want. If not, don’t.”
I’d rather talk now, but I know how she feels about looking presentable. She might be extra upset that she’s facing me in a less-than-battle-ready outfit and no makeup. “Okay. We’ll talk then.”
“No, we won’t.”
“We won’t?”
“Nope. We’re going to have sex.”
I couldn’t have heard that right. “What?”
“You heard me.” She starts walking back to the house.
I follow her with the soup, determined to fix the situation.
Abruptly, she turns around. “Take that away and leave me alone. I need to clean out my room.” Then she shuts the door in my face.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Michelle
When I hear the front door open, I scowl. It’s only five thirty. It better not be CJ coming back so soon. I’m not in the mood for sex right now.
“Michelle?”
“You home?”
Sammi and Jan. I relax. “Up here. Be down in a sec.”
Grabbing my purse, I go downstairs to join them. They’re in typical work clothes—Jan in a blue and yellow sunflower dress, and Sammi in a pink shirt with “The Da Vinci Coder” on the torso in glittery gold and silver and cropped denim pants. I have on a floral red and purple sundress, sky-high heels and extra-careful makeup. The dark circles are bitch to erase, and I’ve never had to deal with them before.
“So you aren’t dead,” Sammi says.
I smile. My head feels awful, and seven cups of coffee don’t seem to be helping much. But I’ll be damned if I’m going to miss our Mexican Monday. “I’m fine. Just couldn’t sleep since Saturday.”
Sammi gapes. “You? Not sleep? Just how sick are you?”
“I’m not sick,” I say, at the same time Jan says, “That explains you calling in. You sure you want to go out? We could order—”
“We’re going out. I want my five-dollar margaritas.”
Jan holds up her hands. “You’re the boss. Want me to drive?”
“That’d be great.” I can muster a smile and some conversation, but I’m not sure about driving, not with this headache. Guess I should’ve had something other than granola bars over the weekend.
We pile into Jan’s car and drive to Carlos’s. Our regular waiter, Diego, has a table waiting.
“So what’s going on? How come you couldn’t sleep?” Jan asks as soon as we’re seated, and Diego brings out water and margaritas.
“I had to think.” I take a big gulp of the margarita. Sooo refreshing. It’s comforting to realize certain things in life don’t change.
“Same as always, ladies?” Diego asks.
“Yup,” Jan says, and Sammi nods.
“Not me,” I say. “I want a large nachos with extra cheese and sour cream.”
Diego jots it down and vanishes. Jan and Sammi stare at me like I’ve suddenly been possessed.
“You never eat nachos,” Sammi says finally.
“‘Not worth an extra yoga session,’” Jan quotes.
“I’ve changed my mind. And I only had, like, four granola bars in the last two days.”
“Fucking CJ,” Sammi mutters.
I shake my head. “It’s not CJ. It’s…” I sigh, then tell the entire crazy, messy situation involving my parents. The kind of stuff no child ever wants to discover.
“No way!” Sammi says when I’m done.
Jan is looking dazed and confused. And who could blame her? I’m still trying to process things myself, and it’s been almost two days.
“Are you…okay?” Jan asks finally.
“I’m fine. Actually, the fact is…I don’t know. I’m not… I’m still trying to decide.”
The arrival of our food interrupts the conversation. I have a nacho or two before adding, “It’s just… I thought I wanted what my parents had. I actually felt inadequate, you know? Like, ashamed when I couldn’t do what my mom wanted me to do. I felt like a total failure, someone unworthy of the kind of perfect life they have…but then it all turns out to be fake.”
Sammi and Jan make sympathetic noises. Sammi squeezes my hand. “You’re too special to not get what you want in life, Michelle.”
“Definitely,” Jan agrees.
I have another margarita. “Well, the old Michelle is dead.”
“Don’t totally kill her off. She’s a great person,” Sammi says.
“Nope, nope, she’s gone. I’m going to be New Michelle.”
Jan nibbles her lower lip. “Which is…who?”
“A smarter woman. The kind who doesn’t worry about anyone but herself. ‘Me before you’ in the purest sense of the phrase.”
“That’s a movie,” Sammi says, staring at me dubiously.
“Whatever.” I wave my hand, then order another margarita.
Jan clears her throat. “But we’re still friends, right?”
“Obviously. Not being friends with you would be trés stupid. Both of you are priceless—the truest of friends.”
“Whew.”
Suddenly the entire situation feels absurd. I giggle. “Don’t tell me you were really worried. You know how I feel about you guys.”
“Well, yeah, but you’ve never, ever not slept for two days. Or called in sick.”
“Or had nachos,” Sammi says.
“Or more than four margaritas.” Jan looks pointedly at the glass sitting in front of me.
“Like I said. New Michelle.”
Diego comes over to check on us, and I order fried ice cream. “What?” I say to the girls. “I like fried ice cream. I mean, I think I do.”
“You think?” Jan asks.
“It always looks great on the menu. I just never felt like I could order any.”
“Right.” Sammi leans closer. “You want to get up early and join me for my morning run?”
“Uh, no. New Michelle isn’t Totally Insane Michelle.”
Sammi relaxes. “Whew. You’re still you, then. Somewhere down in there.” She and Jan high-five each other.
Still, I know they’re worried. They smile every time our gazes meet, but I know them.
When we go home, Jan drops me off first. “You sure you don’t want us to spend the night with you?” she asks for the tenth time.
“I’m fine. You girls go screw your men’s brains out,” I say, my words slightly slurred. But I’m not too bad, considering. Seven margaritas is probably a record.
“I don’t mind,” Sammi says.
“It’s going to be boring. I’m going to take my makeup off and hit the sack.” My befuddled brain says I need to stay up for something, but I can’t remember what. It’ll probably come to me later.
“It isn’t even eight thirty,” Sammi points out.
“Gotta make up for lost sleep. And get up early for work tomorrow.”
“You aren’t calling in sick?” Jan asks.
“Once was enough, don’t you think?”
“Definitely more than enough,” Jan says, while Sammi nods vigorously.
“Good night, besties!”
I get out of the car, leaving my befuddled best friends, and walk into the townhouse. Whether they believe me or not, I do plan to sleep tonight and get back to work tomorrow. It’s about time I resumed my routine. After all, I’m only going to hurt myself if I don’t take care of my health and career.
* * *
CJ
I nurse a beer with Matt and Luke at Matt’s place. Since Monday is the girls’ night out, the early evening has naturally become us guys’ time together. A baseball game is on, but I’m not paying attention. Matt and Luke are sort of watching it between bites of pizza.
