Falling Under (3 page)

I sigh. Just what I need, another tour of the bars of To- ronto in search of a soul mate for Bernadette.

Chapter Four

“Q
uick! Flirt with me!” Bernadette hisses in my ear. “What? Why?” As if I don’t know. Some ex-girlfriend or

other must be nearby. Being a decoy-slash-stand-in love in- terest is one of the dubious honors of hanging out with Bernadette.

“Come on!” she says.

“Flirt? Are you sure?” I say. “What for?” I like to play dumb just to bug her.

“It’s Janet!” she says, and bats her eyelashes at me while simultaneously stepping on my foot. “Please?”

I don’t know Janet, but I have infinite patience for the foibles of my best-and-only friend. I smile down at her and move closer, which is the extent of my ability to flirt—with men or women.

“Thank you,” she says.

I spot a vaguely familiar woman over Bernadette’s shoulder—blond hair, close-set hazel eyes, and the tightest white T-shirt-without-a-bra I’ve ever seen.

She approaches.

I know my job. I move in closer and start talking to Bernadette as if I don’t see the braless wonder sidling up to her.

“So, Bee, I’m thinking you should quit your corporate job and dedicate your time to your causes.”

Braless taps Bernadette’s shoulder. “Hi,” she says.

“Just a sec,” Bernadette says, and turns to the woman. “Hi.”

“I saw you at Pope Joan a few weeks ago,” Janet says. “Right, right.” Bernadette says, and smiles. They start in

with the small talk.

Janet, Janet... I’m trying to remember the scoop. Ah ha! Janet was the one with the double life, the husband and kids in Oakville and the girlfriends downtown on the weekends. She lied to Bernadette for four months before the truth, ahem, came out. That breakup was bad, and now that I re- member, I’m motivated.

“I love your vest,” Perfidious Janet is saying when I tune back in.

“Thanks,” Bernadette says. “Feel appeal, you know?” Janet reaches her treacherous hand out toward the vest.

This is definitely my cue.

“Excuse me,” I say. “That feel appeal is for my benefit, not yours.”

“Mara!” Bernadette says, and looks at me like she’s shocked.

I put my arm around her waist.

“What?” I say. “I don’t want some woman touching you.” Possessive I can do.

“I’m sorry about this,” Bernadette says to Janet, and tries to push me away. “We’re having a misunderstanding here.”

“Hey,” Janet says. “It’s okay, I’ll leave you two alone.” And she walks off.

Ha! Mission accomplished.

I grin at Bernadette. “How was that?” “Awful!”

“Hunh?”

“We’ve seen her in three bars so far tonight!” “And?”

“And she finally gets up the nerve to approach me and you drive her off!”

“But isn’t Janet the one with the husband?” She frowns, then starts laughing.

“What?”

“You would make a terrible lesbian,” she says. “No, I wouldn’t!” I say. “Why would I?”

“You can hardly distinguish one woman from another.” “Oh. Uh oh. That wasn’t Janet?”

“No. Janet already walked by.” “Oh.”

“And that,” she says, and looks in the direction of the retreating woman, “was supposed to be the love of my life.”

Oops. “You better go after her.”

Bernadette bites her lip and looks over her shoulder. “Are you sure?”

“Of course,” I say. “Go.”

“You’ll be all right? Just for a minute?” “I’m fine. I’ll sit right here at the bar.”

She beams. “Thanks!” she says, and starts off into the crowd.

I sit on a stool and order a diet pop. I swirl the ice cubes around in the glass and take small sips. In my peripheral vision, I notice someone hovering. A large woman with hockey hair is staring at me like she either wants to kill me or fuck me. Considering the locale, I’m guessing it’s the latter.

I sigh. Not my type of lesbian. That is, if I
had
a type of lesbian.

I make the mistake of meeting her eyes, and she winks. I smile, but shake my head.

She lifts her eyebrows,
You sure?

I nod. She shrugs and ambles off.

I try not to stare at Bernadette, who is now on the other side of the bar. Hopefully she’ll work her mojo fast—get a phone number, make a date—so we can get out of here.

“Hello,” says a deep voice to my left. Uh oh. “Yes?” I say, and turn to look. “Hi,” he says.

It looks like a he, but around here you can never be sure. “Hi,” I say.

“How’s it going?” “Um.. .”

“Hey, I’m not trying to—” “It’s okay.”

“—hit on you or anything,” he says.

Definitely a he, which is good news, all things considered. “That’s fine,” I say.

“You looked kind of bored,” he says. “And I’m kind of bored, so I thought—”

“We could bore each other?”

He laughs. “Just figured we could pass the time with some conversation,” he says.

Relax, I tell myself. Gay village equals gay man. “All right. What are you passing time for?” I say. “I had to get out of my apartment. You?”

“My friend is chasing down the woman of her dreams.” “Important task.”

“Maybe, maybe not,” I say. “Regardless, I’m left holding down the bar.”

“My name’s Hugo,” he says, and holds out his hand. I shake it. “Mara.”

“Hello.”

Hugo is not your typical gay boy with the spiked hair, fake tan, and tight shirt over buff abs. He’s got regular skin tone, slouchy preppy-guy clothes, ear-length corkscrew curls, and lovely big eyes. He’s rather cute, actually.

“So,” I say, “how come you’re hiding from your apart- ment?”

“Oh, I’m not hiding, it’s just that I have a new puppy and I’m trying to train him.”

“Train him?”

“To be alone for a couple of hours without chewing the furniture, peeing on the floor, howling nonstop, that kind of thing,” Hugo says. “You see, he has separation anxiety.”

“Oh no.”

“He’s a rescue and he’s had a rough time.” “Aww. What’s his name?”

“Pollock.”

I laugh. “You’re kidding. Like the artist?”

Hugo nods. “Why?”

“His coat. It has this crazy speckled pattern. I brought him home and I was sitting there trying to think of a name, and I’d just seen
Pollock
the movie, so.. .”

“So it was in your mind.”

“Yeah. I said the name out loud and he stopped, looked at me and cocked his head. I said it again and he gave just one woof, and that was it.”

“It’s a good name.” “Thanks.”

Hugo and I sip our drinks and continue to talk. I’m not great at talking about myself, so I ask him questions. I dis- cover that he is a vet but started out in insurance, and that he moved to Toronto two years ago to open a practice.

“Why the change?” I ask.

“I hated the industry I was in, didn’t like the people I worked with, started not liking myself.”

“Ah.”

“And I always wanted to be a vet.”

“It’s funny, you seem like a people person.”

“I am. I’m a people person and an animal person.” “Hmm.”

“My turn,” Hugo says. “You are... let me guess...a stockbroker.”

I snort.

“Okay, wait, don’t tell me. I swear, I’m really good at this.” “Sure you are.”

His eyes scan my face and then slide down and back up my body.

Something happens in my belly: a zing, a jolt. Whoa.

He looks at my face again and his eyes narrow. “A painter?” he says.

“What?”

“Are you a painter? An artist?” “Yes! How did you ... ?”

“I’m right?”

“Yeah, but how.. .”

“Ha!” He raises a victory fist. “I told you, I’m a people person.”

“Come on.”

“And you lit up when we were talking about Jackson Pollock.”

“Okay.”

“Plus, you have paint on your thumb.” “Ah. Crafty. I’m impressed.”

He grins. “And I’m naturally lucky.” “Lucky you.”

“So, Mara-the-painter,” he says, “what do you paint?” He’s flirting. I swear he’s flirting. Not gay then. Bi? If so,

I can direct him to the bisexual support group I gave money to last month, but I don’t want to sleep with him.

Who said anything about sleeping with him! No one. Right. Whew, close call.

Bernadette materializes at my side.

“You all right?” she asks, and darts her eyes toward Hugo.

“Sure,” I say. “Fine.”

“I could use a few minutes more,” she says.

“No problem,” I say, and she leaves. “Your friend?” Hugo asks.

“Yeah.”

“Not your girlfriend?” “Nope.”

Uh oh, I like him. I may be a hermit, but I know chem- istry when I feel it.

Hugo... looking at me. Yep.

Me... looking back. “I like you,” he says. “Oh,” I say.

“No really, I like you.” “You just met me.”

“Sure, but I trust my instincts,” he says. “Tell me you’re not gay.”

“Nope.”

“Nope, you won’t tell me you’re not, or nope, you’re not?” “Not.”

“Me neither,” he says.

“Really,” I say. “Why are you here then?”

“I live nearby, and I have no issues with the neigh- borhood.”

“Okay.”

“And the bartender makes a great Bloody Mary.” “Fair enough.”

The air between us is suddenly thick. I understand noth- ing about love, but I know what to do about lust.

“Let’s go then,” I say. “What?”

“Your place. Let’s go.”

His eyes widen. “You’re kidding,” he says. “No.”

“I was thinking more along the lines of your e-mail ad- dress and then maybe dinner.”

“No.”

“Hmm,” he says, an odd smile on his face. He sips his Bloody Mary and studies me. I become conscious of every limb and every breath.

“So what you’re saying is that you’ll fuck me, but you won’t have dinner with me?” he says.

“Essentially.” “Interesting.”

“And I wouldn’t mind meeting Pollock.” “No deal.”

“Why not?”

“I try not to expose him to people who aren’t going to stick around.”

“You mean.. .”

“Because of the separation anxiety.” “Why don’t you think I’ll stick around?”

“ ‘I’ll fuck you, but I won’t have dinner with you?’ ” he says. “Oh, that.”

“Yeah, that.” He waits a moment, and then says, “Oh come on, just give me your e-mail address.”

“I can’t.”

“You have a boyfriend?” “No.”

“So, what’s the problem?” Problem? Like
one
problem?

Love always starts out well. There’s the chemistry, the lust, that gushy, dizzy, cuddly, brunch-eating phase, the wonder, the miracle of togetherness. And then familiarity creeps in, followed by disappointment, disillusionment, fear. Inevitably there is silence, screaming, betrayal, the wrench- ing, ugly truth when you look at each other and know that your love has turned to disgust, despair, boredom, hate. All happiness gone, all rotten, all rotting.

That’s one problem.

Hugo and I, we could be happy. Maybe we would be happy. But happiness is dangerous, is treacherous, and one day I would lose him. I would pull out my soul and serve it to him and then he would be gone, murdered, kidnapped, felled by cancer, a heart attack. I see it: five in the morning, me answering the doorbell, police on the doorstep, Pollock or a baby in my arms, and then the news that Hugo is gone. Gone forever and my heart gone too.

I see it, I can’t help seeing it. And that’s another prob- lem. I cannot trust him, but worst of all, I cannot trust myself.

That’s a real problem.

Hugo is looking at me, his gaze open. Terrifying.

What was the question? “What’s the problem?” Right. I can hardly breathe. “Uh.. .”

“Are you all right?” he asks. “Um.. .”

I’m dizzy, ill.

“Hey, it’s just dinner,” he says. “Or coffee. People do it all the time.”

“I know, but.. .”

“Okay, okay, I’m not some creep who can’t take no for an answer.”

“Sorry,” I say.

“You know what, though?” he says. “I’m here a lot. I’ll probably be here every night this week, so.. .”

“Right.”

“So we could do this again, just casual.” “Mm,” I say.

“Just you helping me pass the time while I train Pollock.” “Maybe,” I find myself saying.

I can’t manage “no thanks” but I can say “maybe”? I’ve got to find Bernadette and get out of here.

“Um, it was nice to meet you, Hugo.”

Miraculously, Bernadette shows up at this exact moment.

One look at me and she is all concern. “You all right?”

“Fine.”

She glares at Hugo, who throws his hands up in a gesture of innocence.

“Let’s go,” she says, and pulls me by the arm.

I look over my shoulder one last time, but Hugo has receded into the crowd.

Outside we hustle toward the car.

“What did he say to you?” Bernadette asks. “Nothing.”

“Hello! You look like you’re going to cry and your skin is pasty. What happened?”

I open the passenger door and get into the car. Bernadette grips the keys and stares at me.

I sigh.

“All right. He asked me to dinner.” “And?”

“Said he liked me.” “And?”

“And that’s it.”

“Oh,” she says. “That’s heinous.” “Bee, don’t.”

“What?” “You know.”

“I didn’t say anything,” she says.

“But you know I can’t...I mean, I’m not . . .” I reach my fingers up to massage my temples. “Plus, I offered to go home with him,” I confess.

“Before or after he asked you out?” “Before.”

“Ah ha! You like him.” She starts the car. “Mara?” I look out the window.

“Mara, listen, you’ve got to get over this.”

We drive to my house in silence. We disagree on certain issues. And some things are not meant to be gotten over.

Chapter Five

I
n second grade, Clarissa Samuel un-invites you to her birthday party at Ontario Place even though she’s already invited the whole class and your mom has already called her mom to say you’re coming.

You tell Clarissa that amusement parks are for babies anyway and you bite your lip and make it bleed so you can go to the nurse. No way are you going to cry in front of Clarissa Samuel.

Instead of going to the nurse, you dash into the girls’ bathroom and lock yourself in a stall. You squeeze your eyes shut and grit your teeth. You will stop crying.