But before I can elaborate, there’s a knock on my door. And Delores’s squawking, singing voice drifts down the hallway. “How ya call ya loverboy? Come ‘ere, loverboy . . .”
Motherfucker.
This is bad. Like building a house on an ancient Indian burial ground whose bodies are reawakened and really pissed off kind of frigging bad.
I walk away from Rosaline and make my way to the door, going over my options. I could stash Rosaline in a closet or under the bed, but if Dee finds her, I’ll look guilty. I could try to rush Delores away from the scene of the crime, but if she ever finds out why, I’ll look really fucking guilty.
The only viable choice is to lay it on the line-tell Delores the truth-appeal to her trusting nature and God-given faith in the honesty of her fellow man.
Yeah-you’re right-I’m totally screwed.
I open the door. Delores holds a Dirty Dancing DVD up for me to see as she dances in place. “This is the perfect movie for us! I’m sure you haven’t seen it yet-since your testosterone-drenched eyeballs have been too busy watching action movies and war porn. But lucky for you, I own the director’s cut with extended scenes. We can reenact the ‘lift’ scene. I also do a hot cha-cha.”
I slide out into the hall before she’s done talking and close the door behind me. That’s when she notices the look on my face and stops dancing. “What’s wrong?”
I put my hands on her shoulders and say, “I need you not to freak out.”
Of course saying that is just going to make her start to freak out sooner. Stupid.
“Why would I freak out?”
I try to do better. “You have to trust me, Delores. I swear it’s not what it looks like.”
That’s not any better, is it? Shit.
Her apprehensive tawny eyes shift from my face, to the door behind me, and back again. She doesn’t assure or agree, but demands, “Open the door, Matthew.”
Might as well just get it over with.
I open the door and Delores marches in ahead of me. Whatever she was bracing herself for, she doesn’t find it. She looks around the living room. “What are you . . .”
It’s then that Rosaline comes striding down the hall-still covered in garters and lace.
Because if I didn’t have bad luck? I’d have no luck at all.
“I think you’re being rather childish about . . .” Rosaline stops short when she sees Dee-but doesn’t seem even a little bothered. “Well, this is awkward.”
I grind my teeth. “I told you to get dressed.”
“I thought you were being coy. I didn’t think you were serious.”
I turn my back on her and face Delores. “Dee . . .”
Half a dozen emotions swirl in her eyes-shock, surprise, hurt, betrayal, anger, humiliation. Faith and trust are nowhere to be found.
But she doesn’t run.
And for just one moment, I think I might have gotten through to her. That she’ll remember my promises-think of my actions-over the last several days and she’ll come to the inevitable conclusion that I’m not a cheating dickwad.
I’ll give you a second to guess what she does next. Just to keep things interesting.
. . .
. . .
. . .
. . .
. . .
. . .
. . .
. . .
. . .
She slaps me. Hard. Straight across the face.
Slap.
Then she runs out the door like a bat out of hell.
“Goddamn it!”
I want to go after her-I will-but first I have some exterminating to do.
With an oblivious smile, Rosaline says, “Now, where were we?”
“I was just about to toss your ass out the door. Still am. I don’t want to resume anything with you, Rosaline. We’re done. Don’t try to speak to me at parties. If you see me on the street? Turn around and walk the other fucking way. If you ever pull something like this again, or try to interfere in my life? I’ll make damn sure your husband and every society acquaintance you have learns that you’re a conniving, cold-hearted, two-faced bitch. Understand?”
Her confidence evaporates and her expression turns wounded. But it only lasts a second. Then her eyes ice over. Angry, but controlled. Like a rat hell-bent on survival, even if it means chewing off her own leg. “Very well.”
I give her a final glare as I walk out the door. “Don’t be here when I get back.”
Images
By the time I catch the next elevator and make it down to the lobby, Dee is nowhere in sight. I jog out to the sidewalk and search through the sea of busy New Yorkers until I spot her blond head retreating down the block.
And that’s when it starts to rain. It’s pelting and icy, like a giant sky-wide showerhead turned on cold full blast.
Thanks a lot, God. Way to cut me a fucking break.
I weave between pedestrians-trying my best not to get an eye gouged out by the flurry of umbrellas along the way. When I catch up to Dee, I grab her arm, spin her around, and yell, “Would you stop running! I told you not to freak out!”
She motions back toward my building and shouts, “How am I supposed to not freak out when you’ve got a naked girl in your apartment?”
“Because I’m not up there with her! I’m down here-probably contracting pneumonia-chasing the fuck after you!”
“Why?”
And it’s then that I realize I’ve asked Dee to trust me-to believe that I’m different from the assholes of her past-without really giving her a reason to. Any guy can show a girl a good time-thoughtful presents, fun dates-but that doesn’t mean he’s honest. He could just be putting up a convincing front. Shielding an ulterior motive or a player persona.
To prove you’re not hiding anything, sometimes you have to empty your pockets, open your bag, submit to a pat down. Even if it’s uncomfortable or embarrassing. Trust has to be earned . . . sometimes by stripping yourself bare.
“We dated for two years in college. I wanted to marry her-and I thought she wanted the same thing. But she didn’t. She was cheating on me the whole time with an older, richer guy, and I was too fucking blind to see it. She dumped me when he got her pregnant. She broke my fucking heart . . . and . . . and now, I’m so glad she did. Because if not . . . I never would have met you.”
Delores looks surprised. Then sympathetic-but lingering doubt is there too.
“She’s so beautiful.”
I gaze at Dee’s wet, matted hair, her mascara-smeared face, her blue tinged-from-the-cold lips. Then I shake my head.
“Not to me.”
She takes in my words, and after a moment gives me a small smile. I hold out my hand. “Can we please go back inside now?”
She takes it. “Okay.”
We walk quickly back to my building. As we get close, I see Rosaline step out of the lobby door-wearing dark sunglasses despite the weather, an impeccably belted trench coat, with her hair pulled back into a low, neat knot. Her driver holds an umbrella over her head as she walks to the open door of the limo. I don’t bother to watch her drive away-I’m just relieved that she does.
Images
Back in my apartment, Dee wraps her arms around herself, but that doesn’t stop her teeth from chattering. We strip out of our wet, cold clothes, and I fill the double-wide Jacuzzi with water, just short of scalding. Although few things are better than a splashing, slippery screw in a bathtub, that’s not what this is about. I’m not going to get all corny and say I just want to “hold” her-I want much more than that.
Just . . . not right now.
I relax against the back of the tub, my arms on the edges, with Dee’s head resting on my chest, her body laid out beside me, turned toward mine. I close my eyes, enjoying the feel of the hot water as it loosens my muscles and warms our skin. The mirror-fogged room is quiet, peaceful-both of us content just to be.
Until Dee whispers, “What’s the worst thing you’ve ever done?”
I open my eyes, tilt my head so I can see her face. “You ask the weirdest questions.”
I see her smile. She explains, “Good deeds are easy to talk about. But bad things tell you more.”
New Book: Back Home to Marry Off Myself
Loredana’s father left the family for his mistress, leaving them to fend for themselves abroad. When life was at its toughest, her father showed up with “good news” after 8 years of absence: To marry off Loredana to a paralyzed son of the wealthy Mendelsohn family.