I Love My Side of the Story (10 page)

“No, she’s fine. See, I was hosting a
show for E, which I guess Jake saw, and he asked about me… so my friend said
sure
. But she didn’t know him well, so I
can’t blame her. I’ll tell her all about it, though, that’s for sure. Are you
an actor?” She tilts her head and her hair hits the bar; that’s how long it is.

“I am.”

She smiles. “I bet you’re good too, huh?
You look like the real deal.”

I shrug, but I’m grateful. David’s
right… why be modest? Jake’s not modest and he has a career. Plus an audition
with my girlfriend. I try it out for a whirl, “I am, actually. I’m pretty
good.” Awkwardly, I look at my drink. My head’s fogging up, and I didn’t like
the way that felt. I think I’ll stick with modesty.

“What’s your name?” she asks, her leg
swinging slightly, up and down. Up and down.

“Josh,” I answer, looking at it.

 
“I’m Shauna. So… your turn. Why are you
here… alone.”

“Same reason you are,” I say, still
looking at her leg. “Jake Lombardi.”

“How do you mean?”

I look away, take a drink, shoulders
hunched, head down. “He’s auditioning for a film my girl’s casting. He’s got
credits. He’s got a better agent. He’s…” The knife in my gut shuts me up from
saying more.

 
“She’s a casting director?”

I kiss my drink goodbye, say, “Yep,” and
drop the emptied glass on the bar with a clunk.

She leans in. “Don’t worry. You’ll show
her you’re better than he is, during your audition.”

I grunt, “I’m not auditioning.”

She sits up straighter and those size
double D’s of hers sit up, too. She’s making it really hard not to pay
attention. “You’re not?”

“Nope.”

“Because you don’t want to…or…”

“Oh I want to. She’s not calling me in.”

“What the fuck?”

I put out my hand. “Hold on. She’s
probably just afraid it’ll come between us.”

We remain silent until she offers in a
voice so comforting, it soothes the ache in me, “Couldn’t it help you, if you
got the part? I’m in the business, remember? I know how hard it is. If you
booked this job, couldn’t it help
both
of you?”

I blink. “Yeah, but what if I didn’t get
called back? She’s probably afraid I’d feel like I’m less than her or
something.”

“Like you feel now?” she asks.

I look down at my empty glass and
mumble, “I don’t know.”

“Does she
know
how good you are?”

I shrug, swallow down the pain. “I don’t
want to talk about it anymore.”

“Okay.” Then she says slowly, “We don’t
have to talk.” I breathe in vanilla and look at her.

“You smell good.”

She laughs, says, “Yeah? So you do.”

We stare at each other as the air
sparks. She pulls at the side of her bottom lip with her teeth, the way women
do in the movies, and the effect is immediate; my cock pushes against my pants.
I picture Jake with Amber. This is perfect. “So, you and Jake, huh?”

“No,” she says, shaking her shiny hair
and correcting me. “Me and you.”

I run my eyes over her. “Shauna…”

She tilts her head, checks me out, too.
“Josh?”

“You wanna get out of here?”

“Yes please.”

I stand and say, “Let’s do it.” Reaching
into my pocket for cash, I throw three twenties on the bar. “After you.” I
watch her slide gracefully off the barstool and saunter to the front door,
making her way through the crowd. I’m just focusing on walking in a straight
line. Outside, we wait for a cab, not touching. “Your place.” I tell her.

“Perfect,” she says. “Can’t wait.”

A cab pulls up soon enough. I open the
door and slide in after her. When she leans back after giving the driver her
address, her dress rides up …and it looks like she has three legs, not two. I
blink. Still three. The car jerks forward and I sway. “How are you feeling?”

“Great.” Watching the road as we drive
through Manhattan, I think of how Amber and I are going to be even now. This
will make it right. I feel something pressing on my leg. I look down and see
Shauna’s hand caressing me, working her way up. I turn my head and she’s so
close to me I can smell her breath; mint and red wine. I can’t help but think
of Amber’s breath – how I love it when it’s natural. I look and see the
highest part of Shauna’s thigh exposed from her scooting close to me, her dress
ridden up. I reach down to touch her. As soon as I feel her soft, smooth flesh,
a pain jabs my heart like someone stabbed it with a dull spoon at fifty miles
an hour.

 
“Stop the cab.”

The cabby clocks me from the rearview. I
pull away from her and squeeze myself against the door. “Oh, shit.” she says.

I look at her “I’m sorry. I can’t do
this. I’m sorry.” I hand the driver enough to pay for her ride, and then some.
“Thanks man. Sorry. Thanks.”

As I get out, she says, “Josh?” I stop.
I force myself to look at her, since this is my fault. I’m the asshole. “She’s
lucky to have you,” she says.

I stare for a second. “I don’t know
about that.”

I close the door. She gives a small wave
from inside. I tap the roof as it drives off.

My heart is pounding. I watch the cab
until I can’t see it anymore. That was too close.

The Day of The Move In. Ugh.

I wake up and check the clock. The
movers will be here in less than fifteen minutes. If they’re on time. I throw
my feet off the bed and grab onto my head, the quickness of movement throwing
me into ripping pain. I groan, go find Advil; sucking down three with some
water. A text tone beeps dully from inside wherever I left my pants. I find
them in the bathroom, lying with the belt still looped through. I look in the
mirror. I’ve got a t-shirt on and my dick hanging out, limp as it’s ever been.
Bending down is agony and, yanking my phone out from the pocket, I wonder how
my head is ever going to feel right again.

Amber: Good morning... Eta?

I toss the phone on the counter and pee,
thinking about us, and what happened. And what almost happened. I shake my
dick, pull on last night’s pants, and pick up the phone – text back:
Still waiting for the movers. Not sure.

I want to not care what she says, go
about my business… but I’m not Superman. I wait for it, wondering what’s on her
mind, tension building as the seconds pass. A flash memory of Shauna’s hand on
my crotch increases my anxiety. The next instant though, Jake’s smirk replaces
it and my stomach lurches. All of a sudden, I’m on the floor, holding the sides
of the toilet and telling it what I think of Jake Fucking Lombardi. Then the
text comes through.

Amber: K. Take your time.

Standing up, flushing my nerves down the
sewage system of Manhattan with the push of a button, I brush my teeth quickly
and analyze the fuck out of her text. No happy face. No ‘love you.’ Just an
unusual sliver of permission to take my time. I am about to reply with a
thank you
when I hear a knock at the
door.

I trudge over, open the door and see two
guys – Ed, a big guy who looks like he could take The Rock in a brawl
– and Lionel, a littler one who couldn’t. “Hey. Good to see you guys.” We
shake hands and they come in and assess the place.

“This is gonna be a piece of cake,”
Lionel says.

I raise my eyebrows. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Ed says.

Then Lionel says, “Well,”

And Ed finishes, “let’s get started
then,” like they’re one person.

I dive in and help – I can’t just
watch, I’m not made like that. Thank God someone invented pain meds. And I feel
a better after the puking. We pack up everything in my kitchen area and when we
get to my bedroom stuff, Ed says, “Had a bit last night, eh?”

“You can tell?”

“Never seen anyone sweat so much so
quick.” He laughs the laugh of someone who’s been there. “Plus you smell like
whiskey.”

“You’re shitting me,” I say, dropping
the clothes in the half-filled box at my feet.

“Nah. I ain’t shittin’ you.” He slaps me
on the shoulder and heads to help Lionel lift the couch for the laborious trip
down four flights of stairs.

Hands hanging at my sides, I bite my lip
and make the decision. “You mind if I shower while you guys are here? I can’t
let my girl smell this.”

 
“I don’t care. You care?” Ed asks Lionel
as they grunt under the weight of my furniture.

 
“Nope,” says Lionel, who is stronger than
he looks, apparently, because he’s grunting less than Ed. Or maybe Ed grunts
for both of them.

Ed stops abruptly, says, “Hold up.
You’re moving in with your girl today?”

“Yeah,” I answer.

He whistles, “I’d have gotten drunk,
too.” They both laugh. He motions to get moving and they squeeze the door. I
hear him call from the hallway, “I’ll get you a Gatorade from the truck.”

____________________________________

By the time we’re done packing, even
after I shower, I’m sweaty again, but not half as bad. Normal ‘been working all
day’ sweat, now. I’m grateful he told me because I still feel foggy and only
half of it is from the hangover. “I’ll see you over there, guys.” They nod and
I leave them to finish, run down the stairs to catch a cab to Amber’s place;
now my place…whoa. After about ten blocks, the cabbie gives me the usual once
over in the rearview, bringing back the memory of last night. My skin crawls
with the heebie-jeebies. I have to get out of here.

“Can you stop at the corner there?” When
I pay him, it occurs to me that I haven’t been able to finish a cab ride
lately. What the fuck. As soon as I’m out, I walk at a fast clip, feeling the
pavement firmly holding me up as I move into this new chapter. I feel every
step taking me closer to living with the woman I love, the woman I had every
intention of marrying. The woman who’s made me doubt that. I’m trying to shake
the heavy feeling in my gut but I’m failing miserably. Emphasis on miserable.
The people I pass – out for a Saturday morning brunch, shopping, jog,
whatever – only make me feel lonely. So many people in this city and I
don’t have anyone to talk to about this. I can’t talk to Matt. He’s too
negative; he’d say
leave the broad
.
And Gary? Gary might be better because he might have a grain of wisdom deep in
that patient and quiet mind of his, but truth? I’ve never seen him with a
girlfriend, so what could he really know about the ups and downs of
relationships? David… I could talk to David. But we’re not that close. I only
know him because of Jess, and what if he told her and she told Amber. I don’t
know him well enough to know that he wouldn’t blab. A fire engine speeds down
the street and makes me wince.

I stop in front of her building, now
mine, and look at the address numbers, the glass on the old door, the worn
silver handle. This is it. I look up. She’s waiting for me. What’s going to
happen? I’m really fucking nervous. I open the door, and opt for the stairs
over the elevator. I tell myself it’s because I want to feel this transition
happening, but I have a suspicion it’s because I need more time. I’m freaking
out. Grabbing onto the railing to propel me forward, part of me wants to turn
back. As soon as I stop in front of her door, our door – I have to put
one hand on the wall to steady myself. Should I knock? Yes.

 
She opens the door, stands there with a
pile of clothes heaped in her arms. The second I see her, I feel white-hot
anger and defensiveness.

“Hi,” she says, looking shell-shocked.

 
“Hey.” Even to my own ears, I hear how
cold that was. But I can’t help it.

“I gave you a key,” she says quietly.

I forgot. “Yeah.”

“Are the movers coming?” she asks.

“Yeah.”

“I expected you here earlier…” she
trails off.

I shrug. “I didn’t say I was coming
earlier.” Off her expression, I add, “I had to help them.”

“Honey, we paid them to do the job so
you wouldn’t have to.”

I shrug again. She wouldn’t understand.
A guy is not going to watch two guys do his life’s heavy lifting. And I hate
that she only calls me honey when she’s reproachful or controlling. It’s
Baby
or
Josh
every other time. Motioning with my chin, I ask, “What’s
that?”

“Making room for you,” she smiles and
looks at the enormous pile of clothes. “These are going to Goodwill.” Her smile
hurts me. I can’t believe she fucking lied. I can’t. Everything I know about
Amber says she isn’t a liar. We stand there awkwardly.

“Let me grab that for you,” I step to
her.

“Oh, that’s sweet. Thank you.” Her thank
you is hollow.

“Kiss?” she asks.

“Yeah. Of course. Sorry.”

I lean in and give her a peck, and use
relieving her of the heap as an excuse to separate us. I turn and walk with it
to the side of the hallway, sure she’s going to tell me not to leave it there.
With each step, my body tenses, waiting for the inevitable instruction. I feel
her staring at my back. Don’t say it. I drop the clothes in a corner to be
packed later. When I hear her walk away behind me, I relax. My lungs expand,
making up for lost time, and I exhale loudly, now that I’m alone. Thank you,
Amber. What you didn’t just do, gave me space to love you again.

__________________________________

After the movers and I unload my stuff,
it’s obvious a lot of it has to be donated to Goodwill. There isn’t enough room
for my most of my belongings. I have to make fast decisions on what I want to
keep, which isn’t easy. What do I need now? What will I miss? Amber decides we
should keep my couch instead of hers, so at least I’ll have that here. But
pretty much everything else in term of furniture ends up being hers, which is a
decision we both make. Her table and chairs, bed, dressers – all of it…
it’s nicer than mine. I never put much stock or money into things like that,
but Amber’s a nester and she has great taste.

“We’ll be back,” Lionel says, mopping
his forehead with a paper towel Amber hands him.

“Okay. Thanks. You guys are doing a
great job,” she says, and leaves to work on the bedroom.

Ed waits until she’s out of earshot, the
three of us by the open front door. “How you hanging in there? You want to
hitch a ride with us?” He elbows me, joking.

“I’m good, thanks.” I grin, grateful for
the levity.

Lionel nods and passes by to wait in the
hall and Ed says, “She’s a sweet one, your girl. I don’t know why you had to
get drunk.”

“Just had cold feet,” I say.

A belly laugh bursts from him, and he
whispers, “You
got
to, man! Gettin’
cold feet is in our DNA!” He smacks me on the back and, still laughing, shuts
the door behind him.

Behind me I hear Amber’s footsteps.
“Honey, do you really think that should go there?”

I turn and see her point to my poster of
the best movie ever made –
Taxi
Driver.

Her t-shirt falls to the side and
exposes her naked shoulder. The second I see it, I feel myself start to get
hard. “What do you mean?”

“Well, it’s the first thing people will
see when they walk in.”

We both wipe the sweat from our
foreheads at the same time, because the sexual tension is heating up. I’m having
a hard time focusing on what she says. “Yeah?”

She smiles. I imagine pulling down her
shirt, kissing her neck, carrying her into
our
bedroom…until she says, “Wouldn’t it be better in the bedroom closet?”

I’m stunned. My dick goes limp again.
Now I’m pissed. “IN THE CLOSET?” I shove my hands in my pockets in memory of my
hard-on and shake my head.

 
Then, unbelievably, she says it again!
“Yeah.
In the closet
.”

 
“Wow. Okay. Fine, Amber.”

“You can appreciate it every time you
start your day.”

Are you fucking kidding me. Who says
that?!!

“Nice. Whatever – honey.” I pick
up the poster and look at her. I’m waiting for her to say she’s kidding, it’s
okay, you’ve gotten rid of enough…something.

“You know Josh, whenever people say
whatever
, it sounds like they’re saying
fuck you
, just so you know.”

“Yeah?”

She says, “That tone just implied you’re
fine with it sounding that way… and that I’m right!”

Shoving the poster behind her skirts in
the closet, I mumble, “Why wouldn’t you be right? Why would this day be any
different from any other?”

“I heard that!” she calls out.

I’m so pissed that I walk out and don’t
know what to do with myself. I pick up a box, but then I don’t know where to
put it. My head is spinning. I feel hot. My hands grip harder onto the cardboard
corners. I pass her into the bathroom, still holding the box.

“That box is marked ‘kitchen,’” she
says, quietly.

Give me a
fucking minute before I throw this box and myself out a window
, is what I
want to yell. But I don’t yell at women. I open the door. “I picked it up and
realized I have to take a dump. Is that okay with you?” Then I shut it, lock
her out, close the toilet lid and sit down. I shut my eyes and breath.

From outside, she says, “Oh, happy day.
I’m having so much fun! You???!!”

I keep my trap shut, put my head in my
hands to steady the fury. The security buzzer goes off. The movers are back. I
don’t want them to witness this shit. It buzzes again. DAMMIT. And again. BUZZ.

“JOSH ARE YOU GOING TO GET THAT?” Oh, so
I’m the only one with a no-yelling rule.

I stand up, walk past the abandoned box.
“Yeah, I got it. I thought you were going to get it. It’s your house!” I mutter
as I open the door and see flowers that could shade Maryland, supported by a
pair of skinny legs and two guy-hands.

The red-haired teenager who lives next
door pokes his head out. “You Josh?” I nod. “These are for you. From your
baby
.” That last part he sings, mocking.

I take the flowers and don’t tip him. As
I close the door on his virgin-face he says, “Hey!”