Boston (15 page)

More voices—I’m surprised. I take a deep breath and come back into the room. Annalise is here, too, and then Erik is at the door? What the fuck? How did this turn into a party?

Erik has a pile of papers in his hand. He probably printed out something useless so he’d have a chance to come and ogle Annalise again, I think, not feeling charitable at all. Sure enough, he clears his throat and says, “So, sorry to interrupt, but I was on my way to work and wanted to drop off the amended contract for Annalise and Chelle for book number two. Here it is!”

Has this guy forgotten that something called the “Internet” exists? I roll my eyes, but Annalise seems charmed. “Oh, thank you!” she squeals and touches his arm. “This is amazing. It’s so much nicer to get a real printout than have to read tiny words on a screen.” For real? Maybe these two will be perfect together.

Annalise smiles at me. “Abby, a bunch of us are going to grab a drink at O’Reilly’s this evening. Want to join us?” Boston looks at me, his eyes dark. I can’t read his expression. “Boston’s going, too,” she adds, giving me a little smile. Her gaze moves to Erik, and she drops her eyes and flushes. “Um, Erik,” and she seems to get a little redder while saying his name, “you can come, too. If you want, of course. I know that maybe the bar isn’t your usual place to hang out and all, but if you feel like stopping by and stuff—”

“I’d like to,” he interrupts.

Annalise’s smile vibrates through her. “Great!”

“Great!”

“So meet back here around seven?” Annalise suggests. “And we can drive together?”

“Great!”

I gag in my head, dying to say, “Get a room!” But I can’t do that. Annalise would probably wither up and die with embarrassment, and Erik? I’ve never seen him this socially awkward. It’s kind of funny. I’m not the tiniest bit jealous, so I don’t know why I stand closer to him and adjust his lapel and tell him, “It’s been a long time since we just hung out.” Then I link my arm through his and smile into his face.

I feel more than a little mean at the way Annalise’s smile fades so fast, and the guilt hits me hard in the chest, like a softball of ugly. But it also gives me this insane energy, and then I give him a hug and a kiss on the cheek. I’m a bad person, but this is a new superpower and I can’t help exercise it. For the first time in my life that I’m aware of, a person like Annalise is jealous of a person like me. It’s incredible. It’s insane. It’s irresistible. It’s wrong for me to use Annalise’s emotions against her this way, for my own selfish reason: It’s Boston’s reaction that I want to understand, control. Is he jealous at all? Does he care? Is he sorry we slept together?

I almost don’t want to go home to clean up and shower and put on nicer clothes. Of course I end up doing it. I mean, this is not the third world. I don’t have to choose between a shower or drinking water for the week. It’s just—I’m all confused inside. Maybe part of me feels that having Boston on my skin will give me extra confidence at the bar, like,
“He’s mine, ladies. You can even tell because sex residue is on me. Smell the pheromones with your unconscious nose-mind and leave him the hell alone.”
Maybe I’m afraid to leave his side, worried that any tenuous bond we now have will disappear once he leaves my sight and we’ll go back to being nothing to each other.

***

By the time seven p.m. rolls around, I’m a ball of nerves. I need to talk to Boston, but I’m afraid to. And when Erik and Annalise show up, I feel sick to my stomach with anxiety.

“Everyone ready?” Annalise sings out, her cheeks pink. Her eyes are flashing and she has a smile on her face.

I give her a small hug, and a more affectionate one to Erik. I look at Boston as I let go.

He has a scowl on his face. “Let’s get going. Erik, you know how to get to O’Reilly’s?”

“I’ve never been.”

“Oh, then I’ll ride with you to direct!” Annalise suggests, then falters. “I mean, unless you prefer to GPS it.”

“No, that’s great! I could use the help.” Erik acts like he didn’t once use a compass and the sun and a pair of sticks to find his way out of some weird jungle in Brazil during a humanitarian mission, a feat that was written up in the local paper. I roll my eyes as Erik continues, “So, Annalise is my passenger, and then Abby—”

“Abby is mine.” The words are rough, and I jump at Boston’s expression. His arms are folded over his chest and he’s glaring at me. My insides sizzle and my eyes lock with his.

Erik’s voice is distracted. “Come on, Annalise. I’ll walk you to the, over to the car.” Jesus. Someone should bottle their Awkward and sell it as a curse to put on your enemies.

Boston leads me to his truck, and guns the engine a few times to keep it from sputtering out. He’s silent as he looks into the rearview mirror. I look, too; there’s Erik ushering Annalise into his black Porsche. When the door shuts, I can hear in my mind the solid thunk of German engineering perfection hitting home. I know how the seat enfolds you like arms. I wonder if Annalise is as shy of it as I was at first, before it just became just a car again, just a ride.

Speaking of Awkward, I guess Boston and I could offer a competing product ourselves. I don’t know what to say to him, so we sit quietly on the way to the bar. It’s a long fifteen minutes before we arrive and he finally speaks. “We’re here.”

Inside, the music is loud and the people are loose for the weekend, but the atmosphere makes me shrink. The looks are a little too bold, the vibe too angry and too exultant and too frantic, all at once. I’m used to something else. There’s a sharpness here, I think: The knife edge of human desperation is closer to the surface, ready to bubble out at the slightest crack in the veneer of civility, and I fold my arms over my chest. I’m used to wine bars or clubs with more fizz and color-pop.

Boston greets some friends with handclasps that turn into rough half-hugs and slaps on the back. It’s not the Cliff/etc. crew, but others. Their eyes search me, asking questions. Boston’s voice betrays nothing romantic. “This is Abby. She’s my bestselling author partner. The one who wrote the words that made my body famous.” The guys slap him and say vulgar things that make me laugh and blush, but welcome me into the mix.

When Annalise comes in with Erik, she’s pulled into the center of the storm with hugs, effusive greetings, hands that linger, eyes that roam; she laughs and smiles and stands tall, confidence oozing.

Uneasy, I glance at Erik and find that he’s looking at me, eyes questioning. I take a deep breath and give him a small smile:
It’s okay. We can do this.
I feel a sudden solidarity with him, my old fiancé, my handsome brilliant professor who can find his way out of any maze, verbal or verdant, yet who is lost here, next to me, lost in the search for love. I feel a fierce protective compassion for him because I want him to be happy. I do still love him, and I can’t say it’s like a brother, because that would be creepy after all we’ve shared. Yet it’s no longer the passion of a lover. It’s a muted love, a gentler emotion, and I take his hand and squeeze it, as much to comfort him as to comfort myself. I’m lost, too; I don’t know what to say to Boston, what to do, how to act. I need a compass.

Boston doesn’t ask what we want to drink. Beers arrive, we toast. I can’t remember anyone’s name.

I start to match faces and names and to build their personalities in my head. Matty owns a garage (like Bertie Younger!), Annalise makes easy jokes with him about shafts and lube, and I find myself laughing and even joining in, because I love raunchy humor. Brian is a cop, and he’s a fitness freak like Boston. He teases me when Boston describes the donuts I used to bring for breakfast, and I sass him about not being a real cop if he can’t handle a donut. Erik is doing okay, too. People seem interested but not intimidated by him, and like usual, he charms.

I stand next to Boston and sometimes his arm brushes mine, a few times too often to be pure accident, and each time, the touch sends me into sudden adrenaline overdrive, and feeds the slow thrum of arousal in my core. I lean closer than necessary to hear him talk, when he talks to me; I want to feel the warmth from his body mingle with my heat. I want to feel that crazy tingle that grows as our faces approach. It’s addictive, but he turns his eyes away as often as he lets them linger, to talk to his friends and laugh about something, and I blink hard, hoping I won’t tear up.

I abruptly put down my drink and go to the bathroom. There’s a long line, and I wait behind two giggling girls in bra tops and six-packs and hair down to their high bubble-butt asses. The woman who comes out has long legs and cat eyes and raven hair and shiny six-inch heels.

The bathroom is a tiny box, the air thick and yellow from a dim overhead blub. The trash can is a dented metal square and it’s overflowing with wadded-up paper towels and lipstick-blotted tissues. A shiny Tampax wrapper floats on top of the detritus like a cake topper, and the floor is dotted with water from dripping hands. I examine my face in the mirror, leaning in without letting my stomach touch the wet sink. There are a few long black hairs twirled around the drain and it’s a little gag-worthy, even though it’s just hair. It smells like shit and hairspray and cheap perfume, but the music is muted and feels a mile away, and the thin door gives me something I need to be right now: Alone.

The crack in the mirror splits my face in two, and I arrange myself until the scar runs down my forehead and nose and ends at my left cheek. Each half of my face looks thinner and taller. When the banging on the door gets insistent, I come out, not making eye contact with the line.

Boston’s friends are getting louder, and nobody notices when I come up behind them. Erik and Annalise are not there—did they leave? I frown, and snatches of conversation grab my ear:

“Fuck, Parker, you lost Lise? Shoulda held onto her. Looks like the professor is going to tap that.”

Laughter, someone pretends to punch him in the arm. “Dude, Lise made out. She traded up.”

Good-natured ribbing, someone roars.

Someone: “So what’s with this Abby chick, anyway? You sleepin’ with her or something?”

Boston, terse: “Don’t talk about Abby.”

Voice: “She’s not his type.”

Voice: “She’s got promise. If she hits the gym a few times a week for a few months, you know.”

Voice: “I’d fuck her.”

Laughter, toast.

Another guy: “Naw. He’s waiting for another chick like Annalise, man.”

Laughter.

“You’re gonna wait a long time to find another girl like Annalise, Parker. You dumb fuck.”

And then his voice, Boston’s voice: “I know.”

“She’s the best a guy could get, man. Annalise is gorgeous and nice, too. The whole fuckin’ package. Dude, you messed up.”

Boston, again: “Yeah. I know.”

Crushed, I whirl around and push to the exit. I knock into a dozen stomachs and asses before I reach the door through my wet eyes and a repeated, “Sorry, sorry, excuse me.”

Outside, there’s nowhere to go. Traffic is busy, but there aren’t cabs that I can see. Erik and Annalise are outside, and it looks like they’re saying goodbye to a group of her friends.

Erik sees me, my face, and frowns, touches Annalise’s shoulder, points. She nods.

“Abby?” His voice is urgent. “What’s wrong?”

I shake my head. “Nothing.”

He gives me a look. “Did he say something to you?” His voice raises a little bit.

“No.”

“I’ll be back.” Eric heads to the bar.

“Abby?” Annalise’s expressive brows shoot up. “What’s wrong?” She sounds like she cares, and when she wraps her arms around me, it feels comforting. “Oh, honey,” she whispers. “You just gotta give him some time. That’s all. And let him know you really care. He needs to know that, too. Not everyone can see it, but he’s not as confident as he looks on the outside. He needs TLC.”

I blink at her. She smiles. “He’s not the easiest guy, but once he lets you in, I promise, it’ll be worth it.”

My words tumble out. “Annalise, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for before. When back at Boston’s, I was acting flirty with Erik. I don’t even know why I did that.” I look into her eyes, begging for something.

“Oh, Abby. It’s all right. Erik and I are good.” She flushes and giggles. “We had a little talk out here, and we’re…” She nods her head and smiles. “So.”

“But I need you to know. I’m not into him at all anymore, and I was only doing it because I wanted to make myself feel better about—stuff. I’m not trying to get him back.”

“I know you’re not.” She touches my arm.

“So you forgive me?”

She nods. “At first I was upset, because I—well, I never thought, in all the world, that I could get a guy like him. Like Erik.” Her voice is reverent. “I mean, he’s everything I’ve ever dreamed about. But I never even went to college at all, like not even a semester at community. And I figured he would want someone more like, well, more like… you.” She swallows hard. Her blue eyes are wide. “I thought maybe you wanted him back, and that of course he’d go back to you.”

I’m stunned. “But, Annalise, you’re great just the way you are. And I don’t want him back. And he doesn’t want me. We’re done. Anyway, it’s obvious, to me and anyone with eyes, that Erik flipped for you the immediate second he met you. Seriously.”

Her smile is wide and happy. “He did?” But she kind of knows it; she definitely knows it, and I do what friends do: I help encourage her joy.

“Totally. I mean, I was all, God, he’s going to ask her to marry him right on the spot. Somebody get a ring and a preacher!”

She turns pink and nearly floats, and confides in a whisper, “I would have said yes if he did. God, Abby, I was so into him from the first time I met him. I never believed in love at first sight, but when I saw him, it was like lightning to my heart.” She puts a hand on her chest.

Erik’s face is worried as he joins us. “I told them we’re going, and I told Boston to get his ass out here.”

“You did not—” I take a very deep breath and let it out. “You guys taking off?”

Erik looks embarrassed. “Yeah. We were going to say goodbye to you and see if you needed a ride,” he adds. “I’d never leave you in a place like this—here, alone.”

Annalise makes a face at this but nods at me. “You need us to drive you anywhere, Abby?” She wasn’t lying: She’s not mad at me at all. Whatever happened out here between her and Erik, it gave her confidence.

“I—” I break off, looking back at the bar, then at Erik.

Annalise has a subtlety about her that I suddenly appreciate. “I’m just gonna go say somethin’ to my friend,” she announces, gesturing at another group of women. “I’ll give you two a minute, ‘kay?” She trots off in her heels, and we watch her ass bounce.

Erik takes my hand. “Seriously, Abby. Are you going to be all right?”

“Yes,” I say, “I’m fine.” And I realize, in a certain way, that it’s true. I’m fine in the sense that I don’t need Erik anymore as a protector, and I’m fine with him moving on with Annalise. Happy, even. I like her, and she seems to like him. Maybe it won’t be easy, but they are so into each other that I can’t imagine it not working out.

“I’ll go back inside in a minute if Boston doesn’t come out.” I point toward the door.

“Okay.” Erik looks into my eyes. “Okay.”

But his gaze moves past my cheek, over my shoulder, and a small smile graces his face. I shake my head and chuckle. “Oh, Erik. You fell hard.”

He laughs and flushes. “Guess so, Abs.”

“I’m glad. Good for you. Like you said: something different this time around.” I reach up and touch his cheek. “Goodbye, Erik.”

He nods, his skin soft again my fingers. “Goodbye, Abbilene.”

And I know this is more than just two people saying adieu after a night of drinking. This is the last time I’ll touch his cheek, the last night I’ll ever hold his hand, even for a split second. He’s not going to check up on me anymore at my jobs, or bring me hand-knit caps from his mom. There aren’t going to be any more recitations about poetry in front of friends or invitations to France. At least, not for me.

A voice behind me startles me into a jump and I snatch back my hand. “Abby?” It’s Boston, and he sounds pissed.

I whirl around, heart racing. “Yeah?” I sound belligerent, too.

Annalise is back and Erik puts his arm around her; confident all of a sudden, she leans into him, and they look very right together.

“Good night,” they both call and walk off to his car, and as they go, he whispers something into her ear and touches her butt, and she shrieks and giggles.

“What the fuck was that?” Boston’s voice is tense.

“What was what?”

“Jesus, Abby.” He sounds disgusted. “After our night together, you’re trying to get back with Erik? You’re either with him or you’re not. You said you were broken up. So why are you out here holding his hand and touching his face, all loving and shit? Annalise is still my girl, Abby, and don’t you go messing with him just to make her jealous. That’s not right.”

I blow up. “That’s the last thing I’m doing, you—you asshole!” I feel sick inside.

“It’s not right.” His voice is hard.

“I wasn’t.” How can I explain that maybe the moment looked tender and romantic, and it was both, but not in the way he thinks? Annalise understands; why can’t Boston? All of my words have fled and I can’t explain anything, not to someone whose eyes are glittering with a pain I don’t even understand. “You know what? I don’t need to explain anything to you. Besides, what do you care what I think? You’re just waiting for another girl like Annalise yourself, and it’s obvious that you think I’m not good enough for you. So why bother trying to get into my head?”

“What are you even talking about?” He runs one hand through his hair and tilts his head, the anger replaced with something else.

“I heard you, before.” My voice is flat. “What your friends said about me. And what you said. After everything that we’ve—how could you just let them say that?”

I turn away from him, staring at cars and a group of people making their way across the street, screeching and falling on each other. One of the women has a feathery boa around her neck and I think it’s ugly, although she has fantastic purple boots. It smells like pizza from a grungy joint next door, and the grease is heavy and stagnant in the air.

“I’m going to go,” I add. “Are there any cabs around here?” My voice is demanding and petulant, because I really just need to get out of this place, fast.

“Abby.” His voice is softer now, with a catch. “Abby, I’m sorry.”

I don’t answer, don’t move.

“Abby?” He comes closer, touches my shoulder.

I flinch away. “Don’t.”

“Why are you so upset?” He sounds frustrated.

“Boston.” I turn. “Your friends think I’m ugly and not good enough for you. And you didn’t correct them. You laughed. You laughed.” My voice is anguished.

“You have no idea what my friends think,” he says, his voice urgent. “Or what I think. Because you never let me talk to you about it. I don’t think that about you. My friends like you. They told me you’re hot, not that it matters. The shit people say in bars is empty talk. You can’t take that stuff seriously! It means nothing. ”

“It meant something to me.” My eyes blur and his edges fade through my tears. “It meant something to me. And that should matter to you.”

“No! Abby. Jesus, have some confidence in yourself.” His voice is full of frustration. “Don’t you know how beautiful you are? How can you freak out just because some idiots were making shitty guy jokes? Look, we talk trash all the time and it means nothing. The guys think you’re hot. They were just raggin’ on me for Annalise. God, sometimes they tell me my face looks like a dog’s ass. They used to say that Lise wasn’t fit enough. We say the roughest, stupidest shit we can to rile each other up, just for fun. It’s all just nonsense.” Now he sounds pleading. “Abby, really. Get over this, okay?”

“Get over it?” Now I’m furious. “They said I was fat and ugly, and you were all, yeah, yeah, so true, yeah.”

“It’s bar talk! And that’s not even what they said. You’re exaggerating.”

“Oh? I am? Well, you’ve said plenty of stuff that’s not bar talk. How about mocking me when I eat Oreos and donuts? Telling me I had to get fit when we first met? How about all that stuff, huh?” I challenge him, feeling the sparks in my eyes, hoping the hurt doesn’t show there, too.

“Well, what about all the times you told me I spell stuff wrong and lectured me about my grammar on the website? About me having to see Erik around all the time with his Porsche and his brain the size of the moon? Do you think that’s easy for me? But if I can get past my issues, you can get past yours. Right?” And now he sounds pleading in addition to annoyed.

“Well, the stuff about the web and the grammar? That was just to help! Because I care about you.” My voice is fierce. “I’m sorry if I give a shit about your career and your future, okay?”

“Yeah? Well, I give a shit about your future, too, which is why I try to get you to switch to green juice instead of donuts. It’s healthier, and you’ll live longer. Period. It’s not because I think you don’t look good, Abby. You look fucking amazing. It’s because I care about you.”

“Oh, yeah?” I’m confused and angry, and then the voices in the bar come back to me, making a new wave of nausea surge in my gut. “But you still want someone like Annalise. They said about her trading up and you were all, yeah, yeah.” I make my voice ugly and mimicky.

“Abby, if you actually believe that she traded up, then what the fuck did you do? You must think you traded down.” His voice cracks and he clenches one hand into a fist.

“I never said that!” I shout at him, horrified.

He shrugs, but his eyes are angry.

“I don’t think that!” I sob. “Can’t you tell from the way I praise you and love spending time with you? Can’t you see it? I think you’re smart and wonderful and clever and I lo—” I break off. “How can you think that about me? Anyway, you didn’t defend me in there. And you know what? They’re right, actually. I don’t have the willpower and drive and ambition to change myself like she did. And maybe that’s what you deserve, a person who can.”

I’m sobbing, and then I see a spot of yellow magic in the midst of the traffic: A lone cab, like a
deus ex machina
, there just in time to whisk me away. I grab for it like it’s the last life raft.

“I’ll let you know about the publicity tour events,” I choke out as I slide into the backseat. “I need a break before we work more on the next project. If we even do it, after all.”

“Abby! Don’t walk away from me.” His voice is hard. “You can’t say those things and just take off. Not after last night. We need to figure this out.”

“No. Just leave me alone,” I snap, my hand on the cab door.

He crosses his arms over his chest and looks mad. “Abby,” he says. “You are acting really stupid, do you know that? When you’re ready to talk to me, I mean, really talk? You call me. And you tell me exactly what you feel for Erik, and what is going on with him, and with me. Take your time, if you want, but not too much time. Because I don’t know how much more of this I can handle.”

He turns and walks away, and as I get into the cab, I see him shove his face into his hands and then shout, before he goes back into the bar.

***

It feels weird to be in my own house for breakfast the next morning; I’m so used to my drive to Boston’s. I miss our laughter over eggs and green goop. I miss typing on my laptop in front of his window, sometimes looking up to see the green dappled shadows and spangled sunlight. I miss sitting on the couch with him late evenings, drinking a cold beer and talking about things while our skin hums with the electricity of being near each other. I miss his mouth, his wicked smile, the way he made me moan in pleasure with the slightest touch of his fingers. God, his touch.

I’m a complete idiot, and I should call him and explain what’s going on in my heart, but for some reason, the words stick in my throat. I don’t know what to say, so I end up saying nothing. Also, I feel like he owes me a huge apology for not sticking up for me in the bar, and not saying that I’m prettier than Miss America when I stood there sniveling on the sidewalk waiting for that cab. And for calling me stupid. Stupid!? I have my pride.