Not Looking for Love: Episode 3 Page 4

  "Would she?"

  "Duh. And you know David would tell you the same thing too, right? Only you'd listen to him, and you never listen to me."

  I can feel the tension rise between them from all the way in the kitchen.

  "Honestly, Janine, I don't know what David would say about this," Scott says, his voice hard and distant. "I can't even remember what his voice sounded like anymore."

  "Well, I still know what he'd say, and he'd tell you to drop her and cut your losses," Janine says, her voice cracking like she's about to cry. "I'm going now."

  There's a rustling and the clicking of heels against wood, and I can see their reflection in the window now.

  "Don't worry so much, Janine. I'm fine," Scott says. "You know Marissa called me last week, right?"

  "No. Why?"

  "She wanted to get together."

  "And did you?" Janine's got her hand over her mouth, her eyes wide.

  "No, I was having too good a time in the city."

  "Yeah, where were you all week?" she asks. "You might have told me you'd be back tonight, so I needn't bothered to come here and feed your cat."

  "With Mike mostly, then I ran into that Swedish exchange student on Friday night," Scott says, and I can see his wide smile clearly in the reflection.

  "Wasn't she only here for the semester?"

  "No, I was wrong about that. But then again, we never actually talked much," Scott says. I'm picturing pulling that blonde Swedish girl's hair until she's lying on the ground. I might even kick her while she's down. "So you really shouldn't worry about me at all."

  "Well, you just let me know how lots of meaningless sex works out for you. It did absolutely nothing for me except ruin my reputation," Janine says, buttoning up her jean jacket.

  "It'll blow over, don't worry about it. At least no babies came from it in your case."

  "Thank God for that!" She leans over and hugs him, then the front door clicks shut and she's gone.

  Scott's still staring at my back from the kitchen. Before the mention of meaningless sex, I couldn't wait for Janine to leave so I could tell him all the things I couldn't say in the car. Now, I just want to disappear through the floor of this cold, sad, little apartment.

  "You feeling any better now?" he asks, like he knows I'm awake, but doesn't really care how I feel. Then I realize that he must have seen my wide open eyes in the reflection in the window all along, just as I could see him. I close my eyes and take long, deep breaths, pretending to be asleep. A few moments later the door clicks shut for the second time. Cold and silence press on me from all sides.

  I should get up and leave. I have the keys of my house with me, I could take a cab there. Only I've tried to leave before and never got very far, always came right back. And if it really was just meaningless sex, he wouldn't drive all the way to Connecticut to get me, wouldn't hold me while I cried, wouldn't tell Janine to shut up when she told him to throw me out, wouldn't say things to make me jealous. The apartment may be chilly now, but the bed is warm and I could just lie here for a very long time.

  A horn blaring in the street wakes me the next morning. My stomach feels like someone's been jumping up and down on it.

  Scott stirs beside me. I never noticed him come back last night. He's laying all the way on his side of the bed, facing away from me with enough space between us for one more person. A small one, like Sarah.

  The thought makes tears ball up in my dry throat, until all I want to do is lie back down and never wake up. Only I can't. This is my life now and will be forever.

  The space between us is colder than a block of ice, and I know there's a lot to get through, a lot to talk about and maybe nothing can ever be resolved, but I can fix the block of ice problem. I slide closer to Scott, making the bed wobble, which sends a sharp pain through my belly. He's sleeping in a t-shirt, which strains against the bulky muscles of his back, the blanket only covering his legs.

  I probably shouldn't, but I can't stop myself from running my hand down his bicep, feeling the hard groove along the side. His arm tenses as he pulls it away.

  "I don't want to touch," he mutters, his voice clear, but laced with sleep.

  I pull my hand away and lie back down, looking up at the ceiling, tears inching up from my throat. At least there's so little space between us now that I can feel his warmth, at least there's that.

  "You mean never?" I whisper, because if I spoke any louder my voice would crack.

  He sighs and rolls over onto his back. The wobbling bed makes my belly throb. We're actually touching now, because his whole side is pressed against mine.

  I move closer still, but he throws the blanket off and gets up. He's wearing the same ratty pajamas he wore on the day I came here in just my underwear and a trench coat. Maybe that was the night Sarah came to be.

  "What do you want from me?" he asks, staring down at me, his eyes so light they're almost white.

  I sit up and wrap the blanket around myself. "You keep asking me that, Scott, but—"

  "It's because I really want to know," he interrupts. "You keep running away, and then coming back, and running away again, and it really can't go on."

  "I…I," I stammer, because there's so much I want to say, but he's looking at me with those scary white eyes, and I don't know if anything I have to say can make him not hate me, not think I'm crazy.

  "You what, Gail?" he says, his tone biting. "Was it so hard to call me back a month ago? Or even before you had an abortion? Because you sure called real fast when you needed something from me."

  "I'm sorry," I mutter. It's not even close to everything I should say, but the air in the room is crackling with his anger, and I have no excuse for acting like such a bitch.

  "Is that it? You're sorry? That's supposed to make everything alright?" He's yelling now, and I'm shaking because it doesn't matter what I say now or in what order. I fucked it all up already and nothing good will happen ever again.

  "I couldn't think, Scott, not at all. My mom just died, I had a ton of school stuff to get through, my dad's drinking too much, and everyone wants to make me feel better, but they can't because that's not how it works, I can't just feel better, my mom is dead." I climb off the bed, the adrenaline coursing through me dulling the pain in my stomach.

  I stand right in front of him, craning up my neck so I can look in his eyes, which are slightly narrowed now like he's weary of me. "And then I'm pregnant, but I can't be a mom, not now when I just lost my own, and I'm a total mess who can't do anything but study and sleep, not even talk to my friends. But that means I have to kill my own daughter, go to a doctor so they can suck her out of me, and I can't tell anyone, because then everyone will know what a terrible person I am."

  His eyes are wide now, his lips slightly parted. My cheeks are burning, and I'm breathing hard, but I can't stop talking. "What do I want from you? You're the only person in the whole world who makes me feel like everything will be alright, like maybe I'm not going to be this totally messed-up monster forever. And I'm sorry for the way I pursued you, for the way I pushed you away, for lying to you, for running away when I should have stayed. And if I could take it all back I would, but that's not possible and I know that, and I really wish things weren't as they are, but, but they…"

  I can't finish the sentence. I can't and I won't. We should be able to fight the way things are, we should have the power to shape anything so it's good. The adrenaline is draining from me like someone left the faucet running, and cramps are stabbing my belly like hot knives.

  I sit on the bed and double over, staring at the scuffed wooden planks and breathing deeply, fighting the pain. Scott's not saying anything and he's not moving. It's like I'm alone in the room. I'll just get my breathing under control, and then I'll leave, since that's obviously what he wants.

  It takes a few minutes for the pain in my belly to subside, but even after it does, I can't look up at him, and I can't stop hugging my belly.

  It takes an eternity, but he finall
y sits down next to me and drapes his arm around me.

  "Wow, that was a lot of things you said, Gail," he says. "I'm not even sure I got all of it."

  I lean against him, peering up at his face. This close, his eyes are blue like the calmest sea and even the pain in my stomach is very far away now, beyond the horizon. "Do you want me to repeat it?"

  "No." He chuckles. "Or, maybe, if you wanted to talk more about how great I am."

  I wrap my arm around his stomach, his heartbeat loud against my ear. "You'd like that."

  "I might, I don't know."

  "You would."

  He runs his hand over my hair and kisses the top of my head lightly. I wrap my arms tighter around him, listening to his breaths hissing by. I want to stay like this for the rest of the day, maybe through the night.

  "Do you want to shower and change, maybe," he asks, his voice rumbling in my ear.

  "I didn't bring any clothes."

  "I noticed that, yeah. Weren't planning on staying."

  He says it in a throwaway sort of way and anger sears through me. It's almost like all I just said had no meaning.

  "Maybe your Swedish girlfriend left something behind that I can borrow," I say, pushing away from him.

  "She's never been here," he says, smiling. "Are you jealous, Gail?"

  "Maybe," I say and lean back against him. I shouldn't be, I know that, even though he's not saying as much. "Did you go see her last night?"

  "Oh, that," he says, not holding me quite as tightly now. "No, I went to my dad's house."

  "For advice?" I ask, though I don't want to know what it was, because it couldn't have been anything good.

  "I had a vague notion of something like that, but my dad was pretty drunk when I got there, so we just ended up drinking together for awhile."

  "My dad drinks too much now, too," I say. "And I don't know how to stop him."

  Scott laces his fingers together so his palms are resting against my belly. "You probably can't. My dad hasn't stopped drinking for the last thirteen years since my mom died."

  He says it in a defeated sort of way, like he's tried and failed a lot, probably the way I'll sound in a few years.

  "That's what I'm afraid of," I say. "Watching my mom die was very hard on both of us."

  "What did she die of?" Scott asks.

  "Lung cancer," I choke out, Mom's raspy breathing echoing in my ears.

  "At least you could say goodbye," he says. "That's gotta be worth something. I'm sure your dad will keep it together."

  "Yours didn't," I counter, already seeing my dad as one of the homeless drunks sleeping on the sidewalk.

  "That's different, my mom was…" his voice trails off, like he doesn't want to say the rest, and maybe I shouldn't press him, but I have to know my dad will be alright.

  "Was what?" I ask.

  "My mom was…she was murdered."

  I gasp and pull away from him. His face is an expressionless mask, and I have no idea what to say, how to make it alright.

  "That's so awful," I manage, but the words do nothing to convey my shock.

  He shrugs. "It was her own fault, I guess, a little. She surprised a burglar, and confronted him, but there were two and the other one stabbed her. She should've just run from the house."

  A tear slides down my cheek, because he sounds so young when he says it. I'm seeing the whole thing clearly in my mind, and I might never be OK again, so I don't know how he can be.

  "But she didn't, and it was a long time ago," he says, like he's reading my mind.

  "I'm so sorry," I whisper and hug him again. His heart is racing in his chest now, but he's as still as a rock.

  "Yeah," he says. "So, you wanna get some clothes from your house? I still have the car, I can drive you."

  "I guess we better," I say. I want to tell him how bad I feel, how I wish none of that ever happened, but somehow he doesn't seem to want me to, like he's telling me not to, only with his mind.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Scott parks the car in the driveway and waits for me to get out.

  "Aren't you coming?" I ask, my door open halfway. I want him to, because otherwise I might not be able to enter the house.

  He peers up at the windows through the windshield. "That depends. Is your dad home?"

  I check my watch, sending the charms of the bracelet my mom gave me jangling. It's only just after two in the afternoon. "He should be at work still."

  I honestly don't know where Dad is, or what his schedule is like now.

  "Maybe I should wait here, just in case," Scott says and grins at me. "Not sure today's the best day for me to meet your dad."

  I gawk at him. "It would be fine. He'd like you."

  Scott snorts. "I doubt it. I'm just a gardener, and I got you pregnant. He'd have an issue with that."

  I swallow against the tears threatening to ball up in my throat. "I'm not going to tell him about that."

  "But he's gonna see you're not well, so you're gonna have to tell him something," Scott replies. "And it's best I'm not around for that, because he's not going to believe I had nothing to do with it. I'll wait for you down the block."

  "No, you can't…" I start, but I don't want to force him to do something he doesn't want to do. I've done that enough already.

  "Seriously, Gail, I've been threatened by enough dads to know what I'm talking about. I don't know what they tell you, but they can be pretty vicious while you girls are getting ready."

  Cold is snaking into the car since my door is still open, and maybe I should just leave too. What am I going to tell Dad? He's not dumb, he's going to know something's wrong, and if he asks me, I'll probably just blurt it all out, because that's what I do under pressure. But I need fresh clothes, otherwise I'll get an infection.

  I open the car door all the way and step outside before I can change my mind. "Alright, I'll just be a second."

  "Call me," Scott says and puts the car in drive.

  My hands are shaking so hard, I drop the keys twice before I can unlock the door. The house smells like stale cigarette smoke and rotten food. Dad is smoking again, and drinking, and not taking out the trash.

  "Dad, are you home?" I yell into the silent house. None comes. I call again and wait a bit before walking down the hall past the kitchen and living room. A nearly empty bottle of whiskey is sitting next to an overflowing ashtray on the dining room table.

  I walk up the stairs slowly, but the exertion still sends the walls spinning around me, and cramps shooting through my belly. The door of my mom's room is shut, but I can see her lying dead on the bed, her sightless, gleaming eyes staring at the ceiling on the other side of the door. My entire chest melts into an oozing dark mess, and tears are flowing down my cheeks hot and thick. Will I ever be able to remember my mom alive?

  I rush into my room, and stuff some clothes into a backpack, not even caring what I'm packing. I mostly just left old jeans and t-shirts here, a few dresses I never wear, and some old underwear, because I didn't plan on coming back for a very long time. The blood stained trench coat is still hanging over a chair in my room, and I take it. Under the sink, I find a full pack of pads and I pack that too.

  I'm back in the driveway inside of ten minutes, calling Scott, afraid my dad will come home at any moment.

  The car is warm again now. "My dad wasn't home."

  "OK, but maybe you should call him anyway," Scott suggests.

  "Later," I mumble. "He thinks I'm at school, and it's probably best."

  But I should tell Phillipa where I am, or she might get worried. I take out my phone and text her saying I went home for a while.

  Scott's looking at me from the corner of his eye, but not asking any questions.

  He takes the backpack from me when we return to his home, checking its weight. "You think you packed enough stuff, Gail?"

  I shrug and walk past him to the door. The feeling that he wants me to leave is growing again, but I can't do that, so I won't acknowledge it.

 
Once we're upstairs, I take my backpack from him and disappear into the bathroom. The hot water is washing away the blood flowing down my legs, and I'm on the beach again, desperately hoping the waves will return my Sarah safe and alive at any moment now. But they won't, ever, because I killed her. I slide down and sit on the floor, clutching my face, hoping Scott can't hear my wails.

  I gasp and scramble away as an icy cold jet hits my back.

  My eyes are red and puffy, and my hair will be a frizzy mess when it dries since I have no product to put in it, but there's nothing for it. I change into an old pair of sweats I've owned since the eight grade and finally emerge from the bathroom. The cold air hits me like a slap.

  Scott's drinking coffee at the kitchen table. There's a pile of freshly laundered clothes next to him, along with a couple of Tupperware food containers.

  "Want some of this?" he asks, and points to the food.

  "What is it?" I ask in a whisper, my throat still swollen from the crying.

  He shrugs and opens one of the containers. "Lasagna, I think. Or maybe that eggplant thing."

  I want to sit in his lap, but I take the empty chair at the side of the table anyway. This morning seems years away, like it hasn't happened yet. He wants me to go, I know he does. But I can't.

  "Where did the food come from?" I ask. Steam is rising from the containers, and my stomach rumbles.

  "Ava brought it over with the laundry while you were in the shower," he says like that explains everything.

  "Is she another of your girlfriends?" I ask, harsh like I have any right to mind.

  His eyes flash to mine. In this light they're the color of frozen, dirty snow. "No, Ava is Janine's mom."

  He stands up and gets a couple of forks and plates from the kitchen.

  It's been almost two days since I've eaten, and suddenly it's all I can do. It's lasagna and it's the best I ever tasted.

  "Janine's mom does your laundry?" I ask between bites, because I want to forestall the moment he tells me flat out to leave.