I wanted her already. Her body under mine. Her voice saying my name. Her all-consuming hunger for life. The first months would be the hardest. I knew that from losing Jessica. How could I compare the blip that was Monica to the ten years I’d spent with my bitch of a wife?
Even if I hadn’t believed it at the time, Jessica had run her course. That was the difference. My time with Monica had been cut off at the knees.
I already wanted to know what she was doing. Instead, I went into the shower and tried to scald the thought of her from me. I undressed in the bathroom, leaving my clothes on the floor like a slob.
My phone dinged once, then again. It was in my jacket pocket, draped over the vanity. Fucking Asia. The whole continent should fall into the sea, and by the urgency of the dinging, it sounded as if it was. By the time I got there, it had gone off another ten times, and a rhythm was appearing. The texts were coming furiously. The thing must be broken or stuck.
I finally got it out of my pocket.
The
_sk
y_
split
_ap
art
_t
ears_
fal
lin
g_
into_
the
_un
It went on. And on. It was Monica, singing me a song. I sat on the toilet, dripping, staring at my dinging, buzzing phone, and the seeming nonsense streaming across my screen. I could put it together if I concentrated. The effect was hypnotic.
The dinging stopped, then something came in a full sentence.
I_am_here_under_the_rains_the_sky_split_apart_tears_falling_into_the_unbreakable_sea_I_am_wider_for_the_rain_fixed_under_the_cracked_sky_waiting_for_you
A fist gripped my chest, tightening when I thought about what to do next. My neck and arms hurt as if the nerves were being squeezed. I broke out in a sweat. Ridiculous. I tried to get control of myself, but it was hard to breathe. I leaned back again. I must have been coming down with something.
I did the only right thing and blocked her number.
Chapter 27.
MONICA
I didn’t hear back.
How long had he waited for me? Two weeks or more? I felt as though that would kill me, but I’d do what I had to, even if it meant I didn’t sleep the night before a huge meeting and I felt like hell. I checked my phone constantly. Nothing. I had to remind myself to breathe.
That was why I’d been celibate, to avoid staying up all night before meetings. Of course the meetings had come just as I was getting more drama than I could handle without a therapist.
I am music.
I am music.
I am music.
In a sense, I was a wreck. The night was emotionally devastating. I never heard from him after my song. I believed I’d have him back, eventually, if he didn’t find someone else in the meantime, but I was upset. I’d never been dumped, and the powerlessness and vulnerability was physical. My veins felt sucked dry, and my rib cage seemed to have shrunk too small to contain my lungs.
A good cry might release some of my anxiety, and I’d been tempted to let it come, but I didn’t want to risk being unable to stop. I put all of my emotions in a box and taped it shut with words.
I’m fine.
I’m fine.
I’m fine.
I couldn’t play my viola. Much as I tried to keep the notes strong, the dynamics kept dragging toward sad. I had better luck with the piano, pounding the keys until I was sure the cops would come.
I got control of myself. I didn’t know how long it would last, but if I could keep myself together through the meeting with Carnival, I’d be satisfied.
A text came through. I jumped, anxiety flowing out of me in a torrent and sucking back in when I realized it was Darren.
—Are you guys decent?—
—No, but I’m dressed and alone—
A knock on the door was the response. I opened it to a perfect, clear fall morning, and Darren with his laptop.
He jerked his finger toward my driveway. “He left his car?”
“No, I—” I noticed a note on the porch swing.
Monica:
Please know I’d arranged for this replacement before last night. Just take it, and we can call it even.
-Jonathan
I had an old black Civic with more dings than a bell choir rendition of “Deck the Halls,” and what sat in my driveway was a pristine white Jaguar roadster. Convertible. Top down.
“Asshole,” I said.
“Dr. Thorensen’s parking in your driveway again?”
I reached in my mailbox and found a navy blue Harry Winston box tied with a white ribbon.
“You are f**king kidding me,” Darren said, plopping into the porch swing.
I opened the box. Inside was a heart-shaped silver key ring and a white car key. “I don’t think I am.”
“That for the hickeys all over your neck?”
“I should buy him a car for these hickeys.” I pressed the button. The lights flashed, and a soft pip emanated from the car. Darren left his laptop on the swing and stood next to me, looking at the thing over the porch rail. “It’s gorgeous. Too bad it’s going back.”
“What? That car—”
“We broke up.”
“Again?”
I sighed. “He feels so right. When we’re together, everything is perfect. But his past, it’s ugly. It messes him up. I don’t know how to get him out of it.”
“Probably not your job.”
“Yeah.” I sat next to him, and he put his arm around me. “I don’t know what to do.”
Darren didn’t say anything but pulled me closer. I felt exhaustion in my bones and a deep pit of sadness in my chest. I wanted to cry so badly, but I couldn’t go to my meeting at Carnival puffy eyed and dehydrated. If I accepted Darren’s comfort, I didn’t stand a chance of keeping my shit together. I stood up.
“Let’s go on Mulholland,” he said. “Or hit the 405 at, like, noon.”
“I have a meeting in Beverly Hills in an hour and a half, and I think I should leave early in case I wreck on the way. I’ve never driven anything like this before.”
“Can I sit in it for ten minutes? Come on, don’t hold out on a guy.”
Men, even cute, sensitive, bisexual ones, were still men, and cars and guns were somehow hardwired next to sex and food.
“Whoa, Monica!” Dr. Thorensen leaned over the fence, staring at my car. “Take out a HELOC?” He raised an eyebrow at me, smirking. A lock of light brown hair fell in his eyes. He was in his late thirties and looked as though he was in his late twenties. Single. Straight. My friends melted whenever they saw him walk down his driveway.
“Dr. Nordicgod speaks,” Darren whispered, obviously not immune to the good doctor’s charms.