The Opportunist (11 page)

I thought about my own dreams as I bit into my bagel. I wanted to be an attorney and put bad people in prison. Now, I was the bad person because I was plotting and scheming for a stupid boy. I hadn’t even thought about my dreams lately. It was like Caleb had rooted out my ambition and replaced it with a lusty obsession. God, I was really going downhill. I finished up my coffee and tossed money on the counter. If this obsession was draining my ambition now, what would happen if I actually got him? Would I be so enraptured with Caleb that I would be satisfied with being his girlfriend and nothing else? That would mean following in my mother’s footsteps and she had warned me against falling for a man before accomplishing my dreams.

I was halfway to convincing myself to forsake my Caleb obsession when I arrived back on campus. I parked my car in the student overflow lot and trotted toward my dorm building feeling resolved. I needed to stop this foolishness now before I ruined everything I was working for. As I climbed the stairs, I heard voices echoing from the third floor landing. I slowed when I realized that one of them was Jessica‘s. She was cooing, talking in that sweet, girly voice that advanced flirters used to charm men. I walked slowly trying to catch as much of what she was saying as I could.

“Not today. I have my…you know…”

I climbed the last few stairs and turned the corner. Jessica was on her tip toes with her arms wrapped around Caleb’s neck. They were nose to nose and he was looking down at her adoringly. I stopped abruptly and they both turned to look at me.

“Olivia!” she said sounding embarrassed. “Hi.”

“Hi,” I said looking at Caleb. He looked right through me—like I wasn’t even there. He turned back to face Jessica.
Ouch
. Jessica was freshly showered with her hair wet and pulled back in a bun. She looked significantly more polished than when I had left her hours ago. It dawned on me then. Caleb must have hinted at sex. Jessica, who had received strict instruction to abstain from hanky-panky for the next fourteen days, was trying to deter him with a story about her period.

I shuffled my feet embarrassingly.  Her face was red and she was looking at me pointedly.

 “Um…” I pointed to the door, which they were blocking and raised my eyebrows to demonstrate my annoyance.

“Oh, sorry.” Jessica giggled and pulled Caleb out of the way. She made sure to wink at me as I squeezed past and I made sure to brush Caleb’s back with my arm. He jerked away from my touch and I smiled in satisfaction.

Jackass.

I walked quickly to my room with the faint stirrings of anger beginning to rise in my chest. How could she be all over him like that, after what she’d just done? I jabbed my key into the lock and turned it so hard the tips of my fingers hurt from the force. Hours after aborting her baby and she’s already wrapped around him like string cheese. She was an idiot and I had to have him—simple as that. I would learn to balance him with my ambition. I could have both and I would. I burst through my door with determination and told Cammie to shut up before she had the chance to open her mouth. I threw myself on my bed and pretended to read a textbook. By the end of the week, Jessica and Caleb’s relationship would be in tatters and I would have my second chance.

Chapter Eight

The Present

“Olivia? Will you come?”  Caleb’s voice hangs on the other end of the line, waiting for my response. I sigh, looking around my apartment and plucking at my sweater. He wants me to come over for dinner and I feel like that would really be crossing the line. It’s not like I am virgin to crossing lines but I am
trying
to be a decent person. If I can keep things away from his personal life then I can make-believe that he is instigating the whole shebang.

“Seriously, Caleb, I don’t think it’s a good idea.  Your girlfriend would have a breakdown if she found out. Why can’t we meet at a restaurant or something?”

“My cooking is better than any restaurant you’ve ever been to. Besides there’s more chance of her spotting us out at a restaurant than at my place.”

Unless she’s stalking you like the last time….
I think bitterly.

“She didn’t have much of a problem finding
my
apartment,” I say sourly. “Besides, I barely know you. How prudent would it be for me to show up to a stranger’s house for dinner? You could be a rapist for all I know.”

“And make sure
she
doesn’t show up this time.”

Caleb laughs. “Really? I thought it would be nice if she came.”

We make arrangements as to what day and time and I hang up feeling anxious. I stuff my face into a pillow and groan in shame. I am in over my head.

“Those are just words, baby girl. Besides, you had just rejected another confession of my love for you. Give a man his verbal abuse, huh?  Now, when are you free for the taking?”

Jim. Jim. The same guy I used to make a statement about my sexuality. The one I dropped like a dirty sin the moment I stole Caleb.  He remained faithful. I received a call every time his work swept him past my zip code and we would have a whirlwind night of dancing or eating or whatever other guilty pleasure suited us. Then, he would leave and I was fine with that.

Tonight was just going to be Jim and me and a good time. No obsessions. I slip on a pair of black pants and a green off-the-shoulder shirt, and pull my hair into a ponytail.

Jim picks me up outside of my apartment.  I hop into his car, a restored 1969 Mustang painted green with yellow racing stripes, and smile at him across the seat.

“You’re like a Percocet on a bad day, Libby,” he says, surprising me and kissing me straight on the mouth. I pull back and shake my head.

“Mmmm, I love it when you compare me to prescription drugs.” I plug in my seat belt and begin messing with the radio. Jim likes Phish and that’s practically a sin in my books, since they’re just Grateful Dead wannabee’s.

Jim winks at me and perches a cigarette between his lips. Usually, I don’t tolerate smoking—it makes me feel gritty and it doesn’t help that my mom died of cancer. But, there is something about the way Jim smokes that makes me want to watch him. I look on in anticipation as the wick of his lighter spits out a tiny tongue of fire. He lowers his cigarette to the flame and inhales. I can almost hear the tip of his camel hiss in delight as it accepts the fire. This is my favorite part—he takes a long drag, his eyelids flutter like a junkie, then he pushes the grey smoke out of his nose and it curls into the sky, like a graceful, ashen, ghost. Beautiful. 

I sit back satisfied. Jim is darkly handsome. He is wearing eyeliner and jeans that cling to his body like lizard skin.  His hair is shaggy and dyed black, which makes his sharp blue eyes seem almost lavender. I always thought the British accent belonged more on him than on Caleb. I fan away smoke and hum along with the final bars of an oldie my mom used to love.

“Why are you so happy tonight?” he asks, tapping an inch of cigarette ash into an empty can of Red Bull.

  “There is something devastatingly wrong with the universe when you are happy enough to hum.”

 He scoots his car into traffic almost hitting the bumper of the truck in front of us. 

“I dunno. I just am.”

  Jim raises an eyebrow.

“Come on, Libby. I know when something is up.”

I pause. Then I say, “Caleb’s back.”

There was shocked silence. Gladys Knight was on the radio. Jim’s fingers are absently tapping the steering wheel to the beat of the song.

“He’s back.” This comes as a statement instead of a question. I can hear the distaste in his voice and I don’t blame him. Caleb had always been a thorn in Jim’s flesh, especially when I eventually chose Caleb over Jim.

“Olivia,” he turns the radio off and stubs out his cigarette, which means I’ll get to watch the whole lighting process again in a few minutes. “In what way is he back?”

“I don’t know what it is with you and that asshole. Four years and a bad breakup later and you’re still in a fucking chemical romance with basketball Ken.”

I don’t want to hear it. Not from Jim. Not from Cammie. In my wildest dreams I never imagined this twist to my story. A thousand girls could tell me that they would have done something different than what I did the day I pretended not to know Caleb, and I wouldn’t care. This was my re-do.

“It happened by accident. I didn’t go looking for him, so just shut the hell up about it.”

We pull up to the front of the club and I hop out before the valet can open the door. I wait for Jim as he unwinds his long body from the car and tosses his keys to the attendant. He is pissed. I can see it on his face. More than once he’s accused me of using him as a fall back when Caleb’s not around.  I walk in front of him, ignoring the beating his eyes are giving me. I feel kind of badass tonight, so it’s not hard. It’s none of his damn business anyway—meddling, eyeliner wearing, punk. Jim hates weakness, and by God, Caleb is mine. But I have faith that by the time we start dancing, he will get over it.

The Wave is filled wall to wall with vibrating bodies. Jim grabs my hand and pulls me through the throng of dancers until we reach the bar. Most of the girls turn to look at us. What is a razor edged rocker doing with a softie like me? I bristle under their curious eyes, fanning out a couple of dirty looks.

Jim lays a fifty on the slimy bar and orders four shots of tequila.  I ready our limes, and smile at him.

He orders two more shots and we clink our glasses together. We linger at the bar for a few minutes watching the dance floor. We are still too sober to let loose.

“Let’s go do some dance floor humping,” he says, tossing his lime peel into the trash. I follow him into the wiggling crowd as the tequila finds my head. 

We dance until my feet feel numb and my hair is damp with sweat. Jim touches me more than he usually does. I equate it to Caleb’s return. Men always need to piss on everything they feel is theirs.  I let him pull me close. I am too drunk to care. It reminds me of the scene in
Dirty Dancing
where Baby crashes the employee party clutching the watermelon. We are dancing face-to-face, dirty. Jim doesn’t believe in the bumping and grinding, the token dance of teenagers. He calls it dirty spooning. We dance face to face. I find something very honest in that.

On the ride home I keep my eyes closed and let the wind blow over my face. We don’t speak much. Jim plays an old Marcy Playground CD that we used to listen to in college. Sex and Candy. I giggle when he sings loudly to the words.