Panic Attack (25 page)

Marissa was at her desk in her room, staring blankly at her PC monitor, mindlessly scrolling through her iTunes playlist, trying to picture her dad and Sharon doing it. The idea of her dad having sex with
anyone
was hard to believe, and not just in the way all kids get disgusted by the idea of their parents having sex. With her dad it was actually hard to believe. He was such a serious, analytical person; Marissa just couldn’t imagine him letting loose, having that kind of passion. Especially recently, the last several years, he’d seemed totally asexual. It was particularly hard to imagine him having an affair—
a one- day stand
— with Sharon Wasserman, of all people. Sharon was so laid- back, so outgoing, so cool, so totally unlike Marissa’s father. And Sharon and Mike had always seemed like the perfect happy couple. Why would Sharon throw all of that away?

“Where are you?”
“The city,” Hillary said, “having drinks at Wetbar with Brendon. What’s up?” Brendon was some supposedly very cute guy Hillary had met one night in

the city whom Marissa hadn’t met yet.
“Did you hear what’s going on?” Marissa asked.
“What’s going on with what?”
“I guess not then.”
“What is it?”
“I have some bad news for you,” Marissa said. “Well, not bad news . . . weird

n ews.Fucked- up news.Veryfucked- up news.”
“Can you tell me already?” Hillary sounded very concerned. Figuring she might as well just come out with it, Marissa said, “My dad and

your mom had sex.”
Saying it out loud, it seemed even more absurd, almost laughable. There was a long silence, then Hillary said, “No way.”
“Way.”
“This is a joke, right?”
“Swear to God, I just found out. It’s so fucked up. My dad found out about

my mom and Tony too. My parents looked like they wanted to kill each other.” “I don’t believe you,” Hillary said, sounding a little edgy.
“Why would I call you up to lie about—”
“I don’t know, but it’s not funny.”
Marissa tried to sound ultraserious. “I am not lying.”
“I have to go,” Hillary said coldly.
“Hill, come on, don’t—”
“Bye,” Hillary said and ended the call.
Marissa was pissed off that Hillary had hung up on her like that— talk about

shooting the messenger— but she could understand her reaction. The affair was hard to believe, and it had to be even harder for Hillary to accept because her life had always been so perfect. Her parents had always gotten along so well, and her family had always been one of the least dysfunctional families in the whole neighborhood.

She went to the edge of the landing and kneeled down to get an unobstructed view of the front door, where her father was talking to— holy shit— Mike Wasserman, Hillary’s dad. He sounded like he was threatening her father— oh no, this day was going from bad to worse. Marissa hoped her dad wasn’t going to get even more beaten up; who’d beaten him up the first time, anyway? Did her mom do that to him? She’d seemed angry enough to beat him up, that was for sure.

Marissa returned to her room and clicked on a random song on iTunes— ironically and annoyingly, Hinder’s “Lips of an Angel,” a song about a guy cheating on his girlfriend.

She turned down the music and called Xan.
“Hey,” Xan said.
It was so great to hear his voice, the voice of a rational person. “I know you’re busy painting, and I’m sorry to bother you, but there’s some

She told him about how her father had found out about her mother’s affair with Tony the trainer and then had confessed his own affair.
“It’s been a total mess,” she said.
“I’m so sorry,” he said. “Man, that really sucks.”
“I’ve never seen my mother so hurt, and you should’ve seen the look on my father’s face. He looked like he was enjoying it. It was so fucking sick.”
“Oh, shit,” Xan said. “I’m really sorry, Rissa.”
“I know how busy you are,” Marissa said, “and I really don’t want to burden you, but I really don’t want to be alone right now. Is it okay if I . . .”
“Yes, definitely, come over. Unless you want me to come there?”
“No, no, trust me, here is one place you do not want to be. But are you sure it’s okay? Becau—”
“Yeah, I’m positive,” he said. “You need to get away from all that craziness, and I want to be with you now.”
“Thank you,” Marissa said. “You’re so amazing.”
As she packed an overnight bag, she couldn’t stop thinking about Xan, how thoughtful he was and how lucky she was that she’d found him. If Lucas hadn’t hooked up with that other girl that night at Kenny’s Castaways, Marissa might never have met him, and she didn’t even want to imagine what things would’ve been like then. Right now Xan was the best thing in her life, the
only
thing, really.
Her attachment to Xan was weird because Marissa usually didn’t fall for guys so quickly. In the past, when she was starting to get close to a guy, she’d be the one who’d freak out and say, “I need some space” or “I want to take it slower” or “I don’t want to be exclusive,” anything to avoid getting into an actual relationship. But with Xan she didn’t feel trapped or pressured at all. Hanging out with him felt so normal, so natural, so right. Aside from being extremely cute, he was easygoing, sincere, attentive, kind, generous, and funny, and she had so much in common with him it was insane. She loved that he was an artist and that he liked to talk about art. Sometimes when she was with him she felt like he knew what she was thinking ahead of time, like their brains were wired the same way. But the most amazing thing about Xan was that they’d known each other for over a week now and no red flags had gone up; she hadn’t had any what she called uh- oh moments. In just about every other relationship she’d ever been in, the guy would always seem great at first, maybe for the first date or two, but then there would be an uh- oh moment and he’d drop some bombshell, like she’d find out he was a hockey fanatic, a compulsive gambler, a drug addict, a Republican— something horrible.
The morning after they met, she did what every girl in the world did after meeting a new guy— she Googled him. She hoped to find old pictures of him or information about his art, hopefully even a blog. He’d told her his last name was something like Ivonov, but a search for “Xan Ivonov” didn’t bring up any information, nor did a search for “Alexander Ivonov.” Maybe she was spelling Ivonov wrong or, since he was just an aspiring artist, there was no information about him online yet. She was trying a few other spellings— Ivonof, Ivonoff, Evonof— when he texted her, asking her if she wanted to spend the day at the Met. Was that the perfect first date or what? She had such a good time, taking him around, showing him all her favorite paintings. When he went on about how much he loved
The Storm,
she knew he was just saying this to impress her, but that was exactly what she loved about him, what made him stand out versus other guys. He made that extra effort; he actually cared.
During the week, he wanted to get together practically every night, something that would normally make her feel trapped, but she
wanted
to spend every second with him. When they weren’t together she felt an incredible void and couldn’t stop thinking about him, and then when they were together it felt so intense that she didn’t want their dates to end. The timing of meeting Xan had been so perfect, because she’d needed to get away from her parents, distance herself from all of the fucked- upness at home, and he was the perfect distraction.
But she didn’t want to sleep with him too fast. She wanted them to really get to know each other first, wait a few dates at least. When he invited her back to his place for the first time, she was ready for something to happen and had a pack of condoms in her purse just in case.
She knew he was worried and insecure about her seeing his artwork— it was so cute to see him get like that— and she kept reassuring him, telling him that his stuff was probably amazing. And she really did expect his work to be incredible. She’d been imagining that he was this major undiscovered talent, the next big thing, and would be hugely famous someday, so when she entered his apartment and saw his paintings it was hard to not feel a big letdown.
His work was extremely mixed. Some of it was very amateurish, bordering on plain awful, but a few of the paintings showed that he at least had some basic talent. His main problem was that his work was unfocused, that he had no singular vision. While he’d told her that he worked in a variety of styles, she was surprised by how vastly different the paintings were. His style ranged from realism to modern to abstract to postmodern, and his use of oils and acrylics seemed almost random. The painting he was currently working on was a total mess; it looked like he’d splattered the paint nonsensically onto the canvas, like a child’s imitation of Jackson Pollock. The pictures looked so different from one another, in their styles and subjects, that his greatest talent as a painter seemed to be his ability to mimic other artists’ techniques, and he didn’t even do that very well. It was no wonder that she hadn’t found any information about him online.
Of course, Marissa was careful to keep all her opinions to herself. She knew that, especially given how insecure Xan was about his artwork to begin with, voicing her true opinions would be an instant relationship killer. So she was very positive and upbeat, going on and on, exaggerating the few positives about his work and ignoring the many negatives. She knew she was taking it way too far— comparing his work to Picasso and Johns was about as overboard as it gets— but at least he didn’t seem to catch on that she thought his work was mediocre. Assuming that things with Xan worked out and they continued dating, she’d have to tell him her true feelings about his paintings eventually, but she hoped by that time he’d realize for himself that he didn’t have much of a future as an artist. Besides, the important thing— and one of the things she found most attractive about him to begin with— was that he was passionate about his art. So many people didn’t have passion for anything these days; they just went along with their narrow, selfish lives without really caring about anything. But Xan was different. She knew that if he transferred the passion he had for art to something else he’d be hugely successful.
When they started kissing on his couch, she wanted to make love to him, but he wanted to wait until he met her parents. She thought this was very sweet, but she was also terrified that her parents would mess everything up for her. Her mother had been so depressed and moody lately, and her father had been incredibly annoying with all his rules. He’d told her it was “time for some tough love,” but she felt like he was just doing it to annoy the hell out of her and make life at home so unbearable that she’d be forced to move out on her own and get a job. He was such a hypocrite, acting so high and mighty all the time, telling her that she was “passive- aggressive” and “acting out” and— the most ridiculous of all— “exhibiting attention- seeking behavior.” Meanwhile, who was going around shooting people? Who was the new Bernie Goetz? Who was the one who’d made a fool of himself in that interview for Daily Intel?
Marissa was expecting dinner to be a total disaster. She knew her father would interrogate Xan, and she was afraid her mother would be in one of her down moods and just sit there and not say anything. But, thanks to Xan and his charm, dinner went amazingly well. Xan handled her father perfectly— taking him seriously, not getting too defensive— and by the end of the meal they were talking like old friends. Her mom was surprisingly conversational and seemed to like Xan a lot, too. Actually, she seemed to like Xan a little too much, getting a little too flirty with him. At least a few times Marissa caught her mother making googly eyes at Xan. She didn’t know what was up with her mother and younger guys these days. Weren’t men supposed to have the midlife crises? What was she going to do next, start buying sports cars?
After dinner, it was great to finally be alone with Xan in a bed. As they undressed each other and during foreplay, it felt different than it had with previous boyfriends. This wasn’t just hooking up with some random guy. This was the beginning of something special.
But unfortunately, just like seeing his artwork, the sex itself was a major disappointment. It wasn’t due to a lack of passion, because Xan was definitely trying. If anything, he was trying too hard, making so much noise. It was embarrassing with her parents so close by, and it was hard for her to relax and focus. She whispered “Shh” a few times and said, “We have to be quiet,” but it was like he couldn’t control himself, and there was a limit to what she could say to him. She sensed that— like his art— sex was something he took very seriously and that any suggestions she made would be misinterpreted as criticism. She definitely didn’t want to offend him their first time doing it. Besides, Xan seemed very inexperienced— he’d only mentioned a couple of past serious girlfriends— and she didn’t want to make him feel self- conscious, like he was doing something wrong and needed coaching. She figured that once they got to know each other’s bodies, and some of his nervous ness and awkwardness faded, the sex would improve. Meanwhile, everything else about the relationship felt so perfect.
She left the house without bothering to tell her father where she was going and took the subway to Xan’s in Brooklyn. On the way to his building, she imagined that she was living with him. She knew she was getting way ahead of herself, but so what? It was fun to fantasize. Xan’s place was small, but it would be a good starter apartment, and with a little decorating and better use of the space it had a lot of potential. Living with a guy would be a blast, and she had a feeling that Xan would be very laid- back and easy to get along with. She had enough money to pitch in for rent for several months at least, and eventually she’d find some kind of job or go back to school or do
something
. When the timing felt right she’d gently persuade him to find a career outside of art. She wouldn’t really care what he did for a living, because to her who he was was more important than what he was. She’d never been materialistic. She didn’t want to marry some doctor and be miserable her whole life— she’d watched her mother make that mistake.
Xan buzzed her up to his apartment. Although it had only been a few hours since they’d seen each other, it felt like it had been days, and it was great just to be with him, to hug him, to feel close to somebody.
They got right into bed and lay side by side facing each other, kissing and giggling with their noses touching.
“So it sounds like it was pretty crazy over there, huh?” Xan asked.
“You have no idea,” Marissa said. “I walked into the kitchen, and they looked like they wanted to kill each other. My dad’s whole face was bleeding, my mother must’ve hit him or something, and then my dad said that
he’s
been cheating, too. When my mother comes home it’s gonna be a total disaster.”
She went on, venting, rehashing what had happened at the house. Xan didn’t say much. Occasionally he said things like “It sounds rough” and “I’m so sorry” and “Man, that sucks so bad.” But just having somebody to talk to, somebody who actually cared about her, made her feel so much better.
“I’m so lucky I have you in my life right now,” she said as they rubbed noses again. “I think I must be the luckiest girl alive.”