Crushing Crystal (6 page)

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Authors: Evan Marshall

BOOK: Crushing Crystal
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“I know exactly what you mean,” I mimicked his tone. “So, did you ever get married?” I asked him.
“Nah,” Matt answered. “Guess I just never found the right one.”
When Matt smiled, I wondered whether he was thinking that I was the right one. Or maybe it was just me desperately hoping that was what he was thinking.
“You want a hot dog?” Matt asked.
Definitely just me hoping.
“Sure, I love hot dogs,” I piped.
Settle down on the hot dogs. No one gets this excited about snack food.
I decided it would be a good time to take a break from the vegetarianism. And what better way to ease back into the world of meat than with rolled, um, what the hell is in a hot dog anyway? We walked to the empty concession stand, and Matt ordered two hot dogs for us. He leaned in toward me to tell me a secret. As his hand brushed the hair away from my ear, I think my scalp may have actually had an orgasm.
His ice cream-and-beer breath delivered the following words. “Malone, if I could do things over, I'd've stayed with you that summer,” Matt said. “Europe sucked without you.”
Sweat. Panic. Exhilaration. Nausea. Euphoria.
Yeah, well the past is the past,
I contemplated saying.
Oh well, it all worked out for the best,
I rehearsed.
Before I could respond, Matt asked if I wanted mustard on my hot dog.
“No thanks.”
He squinted and smiled. “It's so good to see you again. Relish?”
“Absolutely.”
We closed the restaurant that night. Then we closed a piano bar where a young music student played songs from
The Big Chill
as geezers like us happily crooned along. Since the movie is about Michigan alumni, one of the unofficial admissions requirements is that every incoming freshman must be able to sing at least two songs from
The Big Chill.
As Matt and I walked back to my hotel room, he said there was something he still owed me from years ago. “What's that?” I asked, hoping to hell it was some sort of physical contact.
“This,” he said mischievously, pushing me into a doorway of the Chemistry Building and unbuttoning my pants. He tore my underwear with his teeth and began to rip them off my body, gripping my hips with his hands. This was the first time I'd been with a guy when the first kiss was on my stomach. Definitely different. Definitely unreal. Definitely worth remembering, so I closed my eyes and began frenetically taking mental notes, urging parts of my body to savor each sensation so I could later recall the experience.
“You've never forgiven me for ruining your briefs that night, have you?” I teased.
“No I haven't,” he smiled, clutching a torn strip of my red panties in his teeth like a matador holds a rose. “And tonight is my revenge,” he said, flinging the silk scrap over his shoulder.
Whoever said revenge was sweet knew what she was talking about.
I have never had sex like this before, not even with him. I felt physical sensation everywhere, including my elbows. The feeling of his unshaven face scratching my breast, and the cold night air that instantly snapped onto his residual saliva was the height of erotic pleasure. I think I may have momentarily fainted at the feeling of his flat palms against the bare small of my back.
The leaves crunched beneath our running feet and we exhaled clouds of cold night air as we hurried back to my room at the Campus Inn. The elevator ride was painfully long despite a wonderful and urgent seven-flight kiss. When he grabbed a fistful of my hair, I knew, most definitely, that I was there. Like some sort of erotic existential affirmation. I stopped myself from thanking him only because it would seem too needy. Something about a woman weeping with gratitude as she's about to get pounded into a hotel headboard seemed just a smidge pathetic, even to me.
I woke up to a sword of light peeking through a crack in the curtain. For a moment, I'd forgotten where I was until the familiar arm draped over my stomach led a trail to Matt's sleeping face. Though I had no regrets about my night with Matt, I immediately regretted the circumstances. I can usually contain my tears, and decided that I would need to for fear Matt would wake up and press for answers I was not ready to give him. My eyes remained dry and my breathing completely normal, but as I lay beside Matt watching him sleep, I sobbed. Partly because I felt horrible that I was simultaneously lying to the two men I loved most. Partly because I was just plain exhausted. But mostly because I thought that the following morning, this would all be over. I assumed I'd wake up next to Reilly Monday morning and life would go back to normal. A moth in the darkness without flicker of light anywhere. Back to reality.
“Hey, Malone,” an adorably sleepy voice interrupted. “What's on the agenda for you today?”
I'm being dismissed.
“I'm just going to pick up some T-shirts and hang out on campus for a few hours,” I said casually. “What about you? Anything exciting planned?”
He stretched his body, yawned and smiled. “Nothing I can't blow off to hang with you.”
“Okay,” I said too quickly.
“You know what I'm in the mood for right now?”
Me?!
He reached his arm around my waist and pulled me closer toward him. “You. A shower. Then a sandwich at Zingerman's. Let me see if I remember. Pat and Dick's Honeymooner. Number twenty-seven. Extra honey mustard, right?”
I was blown away. Fourteen years and still remembered my sandwich.
“Yeah, hey good call.” I turned away so he wouldn't see me smile.
Matt and I stopped at Ulrich's, the campus bookstore and bought Michigan T-shirts and sweatshirts. I picked up a pair of boxer shorts and held them up. “See, I could have just bought you these and we would've been even,” I teased.
He smiled and raised his eyebrows. Then he looked at his watch.
“Not on your life,” I laughed. “It's broad daylight.”
“Like that's ever stopped you before,” he said.
I smiled, a bit embarrassed. Matt was referring to the time we drove to his house while his parents were out of town for the weekend. We had sex about a dozen times in a twenty-four-hour period. Twice in his bed. Once in his parents' bed. Twice in their shower. Once in the kitchen. Once on the staircase directly under a framed painting of Jesus with a twisted palm beneath it. Three times in the family room. Once more in his bed. Then on the drive back to Ann Arbor, we pulled over in the middle of the afternoon and had hair-pulling drunken sailor sex on the periphery of a cow farm.
Fourteen years later, we were together again, holding hands as we crossed the street of our old campus. Matt looked at the arch of the West Engineering Building. “I was done for the night we kissed here. Remember that, Malone?”
Smooth and calm, Malone. You can do this.
“Oh yeah,” I faked recalling. “I
do
remember that.”
Good girl.
“Malone. Prudence,” he stopped. “This is gonna sound weird, but this weekend, it was like, you know, the best.”
Go on.
“I'm not usually into fate, but running into you this weekend, I don't think it was a mistake, you know? I let you go once and this weekend was a wake-up call, like, look you dumb fuck, here's a second chance, don't drop the ball man, you know what I'm saying?”
“God, yes” escaped.
He put his hands straight into his pockets, which made his shoulders rise toward his ears, creating an impish little boy look. I must take mental photographs for my hot sex scrapbook.
“I guess what I'm trying to say is this.” He paused. “Malone, the first time our timing was off, you know? We were young, we were both headed to different coasts, but I loved you, and”—he paused to gauge my reaction to his proclamation—“and, I guess what I'm really trying to get at here, is I still love you and I don't want things to end between us here.”
You don't? Jesus Christ, Matt, if you think we had bad timing the first go 'round, you have no idea what we're up against now.
Matt got down on his knee right there on the sidewalk, and smiled at me tentatively, not his usual cocky grin. “Prudence Malone, will you marry me?”
Mmmmmmmarry you? Did you just say you want me to marry you?
“Okay,” slipped out. “Yes, yes, Matt, I will marry you,” I smiled.
Just as soon as I figure out what to do with my not-so-dead husband, Reilly.
Chapter 6
C
indy was supposed to leave early Sunday afternoon, so I was surprised to find her waiting for me in Eve's hotel room. It was clear the moment I walked in, I was in trouble. Cindy tapped a small pad of paper on the glass-top desk where she was sitting. Would she take notes? Issue a citation?
Eve was in the soft chair, but did not look one bit casual. It was an intervention.
“Get in the car,” Cindy commanded.
I laughed. “What are you talking about?”
“Get. In. The. Car,” she said. “We're both taking you to the airport.”
Why am I frightened that we're not going to the airport at all?
“Okay, but do you mind if I ask what this is all about?”
Gee I wonder, half-wit.
“Look, I'm not one to piss around, so why don't we get right to it,” Cindy said, while Eve held my arm and led me to the car. I was being taken down to the station. Shit, why couldn't I enjoy the first two hours of my engagement? “You slept with Matt last night, didn't you?”
“Why are you asking me this?” I stalled, knowing this would not be the time to suggest a celebratory round of drinks. “That's kind of a, wow, I don't know. Why do you want to know?”
Driving down Washtensaw, we left Ann Arbor under a tunnel of autumn leaves and hit the stark freeway. “I ask because I want to know. Did you sleep with Matt Reynolds?” I said nothing. “Okay, that's clearly a yes. Why then did you sleep with Matt Reynolds?”
“Come on, Cindy,” I begged. “It's not like he's a strange guy I hooked up with at a bar. It's Matt.”
Eve was softer in her direct, but still she too was pissed at me. Why were they angry at me? They each seemed personally betrayed by my fling-turned-engagement. And they only knew half the story. “What about Reilly?” Eve nodded in the rearview mirror. “Did you ever consider that this would kill him?”
“You guys, you don't understand. This is Matt. Matt Reynolds. I love him. I. Love. Him. Not only do I love him, I love the sound of saying ‘I love him.' That's how much I love him.” I rested my head on the front passenger seat. “I really love this guy.” I thought my friends would come around on that. Who couldn't understand losing one's head for love?
“Okay, but you're married,” Cindy said to the road. “If it's such true love then go home, divorce Reilly, then sleep with Matt.”
“Come on, Cindy, that's unrealistic. You're in the heat of the moment and you stop and say, ‘let's put this on hold for a few
months'
?”
“Yes!”
I was incredulous. “Come on Eve, surely you're with me on this one.”
“Well there is such a thing as self-control, Prudence,” she replied.
Maybe this is why your life is numbingly dull,
I did not say aloud.
“I mean how would you feel if Reilly cheated on you?” Eve continued. The truth dropped on me like a ten-pound bag of sand. I wouldn't care
.
 
 
Where Eve and Cindy left off, Guilt took over
. Hey Slut,
she announced from the seat next to me on the plane.
You didn't think I could stay away for long, did you? Okay, where shall I start?
Cindy had obviously given her the yellow pad of paper from the hotel.
Not only did you cheat on your husband, you promised to marry another guy who, incidentally you lied to and told you were a widow. What kind of a shallow twit are you? Is this the way to treat people? Reilly is a good man and you killed him. This takes the cake for the most selfish thing you've ever done in your life, except of course for the C
LOSED
F
OR
B
USINESS
sign you hung on your uterus.
But I love Matt,
Passion defended.
This is my one true love. How can I go on living with Reilly when I know I'm in love with someone else? And what's more, Matt loves me too. We can finally have a chance at happiness. I have one shot at happiness, why shouldn't I take it? It's not like Reilly and I have children.
No, it's not, is it?
Guilt asked smugly.
And whose idea was that? Who cut off all possibilities that Reilly will ever have children, cruel double entendre completely intended.
Reilly is a good man. He deserves a wife who loves him. That is not me. I am really doing him a favor.
This was a duet played by Passion and my Inner Male.
You should have gotten out years ago, but it's not too late for Reilly to find someone new if you let him go now.
I hate to bring this up during your time of euphoria, Prudence, but where exactly has Matt been for the last fourteen years?
Common Sense asked.
He got rid of you like gum on the bottom of his shoe and now suddenly he wants to marry you? Where is your loyalty? Where is your commitment? Where is your head?!
People change,
Passion explained.
Let Matt be who he is today. Forgive him for yesterday and enjoy a happy life together.
 
 
It became too busy in my head so I decided to call Matt's home in Los Angeles from the plane. I knew he wouldn't be home, but I was dying to hear what kind of outgoing message was on his answering machine. I slid my credit card through the plane phone and swore I heard my Mastercard giggle as it was enveloped by the slot in the receiver.
“Hey, it's Matt. I'm out right now. You know what to do,” his machine announced. God, this man is hot.
You know what to do.
But I didn't. I had no idea what to do. What exactly does a woman with a fiancé and an undead husband on opposite ends of the country do?
“Hi. It's me. Malone,” I shouted into the phone. “I just wanted to say hi, so, um hi.”
My status as sexiest woman he's ever known is in a precarious state right now.
“Call me when you get home, okay?”
 
 
C
ORPORATE
R
EDEMPTION
shouted the headline of
Time
. The cover shot was of Paul Lofton, the tire manufacturer who donated $75 million to a scholarship fund in Malaysia last month after his father died and left the company to him. That in and of itself was newsworthy, but the new heir of the black rubber empire said the donation was not charity, but rather redemption for years of exploitation of the good people of Malaysia. You'd think at that point his board of directors would call an emergency session where they subsequently stripped the flesh off his body and grilled it for a weekend barbecue. You'd think the company's lawyers would go ape-shit at the prospect of being sued by everyone from Malaysian workers to stockholders. Actually, the attorneys did go berserk, but with no good reason because no one ever filed a claim. No, instead of being branded a hillbilly Jesus freak, fired by his board and sued by everyone, Paul Lofton became a corporate folk hero. He's called Johnny Tireseed. I remember the quote from the
Wall Street Journal
story. “We d'unt done nothing illegal, but we still w'unt right. Today's the redeemin'.” I saw him interviewed on Larry King a week earlier. “A mistake d'unt gotta be a mistake if you put back what you done took. The Lord sees it that way anyhow,” he said.
Lofton was a dullard but he earned great public admiration for his straightforward honesty. I had to admit, he did seem sweet. Perhaps in his simplicity, Lofton figured out what public relations experts have struggled with for years. How to look like a hero after years of wrongdoing. If only it were that easy with Reilly. All I'd have to do was find Reilly a new wife to replace me once I left. Marital redemption. Maybe I could be on the cover of
Time
, I laughed and closed my eyes. Thirty seconds later, Operation Wife of Reilly was conceived.
 
 
When I arrived home Sunday night Reilly was already in bed. I tiptoed into the bedroom hoping not to wake him.
“Welcome home, Prudence,” he whispered.
“You're still awake?” I asked, leaning across the bed to kiss him.
“How was Ann Arbor? I saw the highlights on television and it looked like a hell of a game,” Reilly noted.
You don't know the half of it.
“It was a lot of fun,” I dismissed.
After brushing my teeth and washing my face, I crawled into my familiar bed with Reilly and asked if he was asleep yet.
“Not yet. What's on your mind?”
“What if something happened to me and you wanted to remarry. What would you look for in a wife? I mean, describe your ideal woman.”
Reilly sighed, exasperated. “Prudence,” Reilly said while turning on his lamp. “You're my ideal woman. That's why I married you. Enough with this morbid talk. With all the traveling I do, I'm far more likely to go down in a plane wreck. You don't see me grilling you about who you're going to remarry.”
I didn't get to sleep until two that morning. Half the time I spent thinking about Matt and our blissfully happy future together. The other half was thinking about how I was going to find a new wife for Reilly, inarguably one of the most decent people I've ever known. Good. Kind. Smart. And wonderful. But not the love of my life. Not Matt.
 
 
That night I realized that my whole marriage to Reilly was a reaction to being dumped by Matt. We met at Wharton where Reilly was also earning his MBA. I was a waitress at one of the restaurants near campus where he used to eat his breakfast and read the
Journal
every morning. There was something about a guy that ate at the same place every morning that was extremely appealing to me at the time. We also had a few classes together where he showed himself to be extremely diligent and committed to making things work. We were both assigned to the same mock project management team in class, and ran into some serious financing and cash flow issues. Other problems were also threatening Acme Widgets' viability; the company was on the brink of bankruptcy. By midnight, the three other students in our group threw in the towel and said they'd think about solutions the next day. I was so impressed with how Reilly stuck with the task at hand, and finally came up with a workable strategy for the fake company. It was five in the morning, and he looked like he'd been through the spin cycle of the dryer, but the man finished what he started, just as he promised he would. Anyone with that kind of determination was the guy for me, I decided. A month earlier I had put together a list of the five character traits I was looking for in a husband: Stability, consistency, reliability, dependability and sensibility. Reilly was better than a new washing machine.
He was also cute, funny and had a daffy charm about him. Over the months I grew to really love and respect Reilly. When he asked me to marry him, I saw no reason to decline. I convinced myself that passion is something that would build over time, but was later informed that it was actually the other way around.
What we lacked in chemistry, Reilly and I made up for in our ability to work together as life partners. Things were not bad with Reilly. In fact, I was quite comfortable with our life together. But when I compared our relationship with the weekend I had with Matt, I realized I loved Reilly like the brother I never had. I loved Matt like the husband I never had.
Of course, Reilly is not the Patron Saint of Husbands either. Our first big blowout was a month before our wedding when he surprised me by telling me that his parents were paying for our honeymoon as a wedding gift.
“That's unbelievably generous of them!” I said. “It's so extravagant, though. A month in Italy is not cheap.”
“Well,” Reilly hesitated. “I know we talked about Italy, but my parents booked something a little different for us. They meant well and I think we can make a good time of it.” I didn't want to “make” a good time of it. It was a honeymoon. If ever there was a time I didn't want to work, this was it. Italy was my dream. Italy would just
be
wonderful. I wouldn't have to make it that way.
We didn't just “talk” about Italy as Reilly so politically put it. We made an itinerary. We had reservations at local pensiones. I was even taking a conversational Italian minicourse on Monday nights after work. I had always romanticized the thought of taking a gondola ride with my husband in Venice, seeing the great museums and eating like a glutton in paradise. Suddenly, that plan was out, and his parents booked a two-week stint for us at Club Wed, a cheesy little honeymoon paradise in Aruba.
Club Wed was so trite it was gag-worthy. Heart-shaped pink bathtubs. Top Forty love songs blasted over the resort sound system. And all the staff members introduced themselves as “Cupid Joe” or “Cupid Mary” or “Cupid Whoever.” Even the maid knocked on the door each morning and announced in a thick Brooklyn accent, “Cupid Juanita is ready to clean. Y'decent?”

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