Authors: Alex Lucian
Tempting (19 page)
“
H
ere
.”
My father handing me a beer was the most gracious he’d been in all twenty-one years of my life.
I accepted it almost unwillingly, looking at the brown bottle as if it held poison.
“I’m pleased you’ve changed your major.”
They were six words, but they were the most my father had spoken to me in years. And the first time, in recent memory at least, that the words weren’t coated with revulsion.
I’d need to drink to process this. I tipped the beer back, absorbed the bite of the fancy shit and then held the bottle out in front of me as I swallowed. I knew, because this was a craftsman brew, that this bottle alone cost two to three bucks. And to think of the cases my father had in garage, to imagine the hundreds of dollars he owned in beer, made me a little ill. I had scraped change together for my Charlie card for the subway more times than not, often bumming a ride off of Leo’s card when funds were low. And one of these beers could have paid my daily fare to class.
“What did you change it to?”
Finally, he said something that required an answer. Often when my father spoke, it wasn’t to receive an answer but to simply express his thoughts, because his thoughts were of value.
I was going to milk him for all he was worth.
“Journalism.”
I saw the twitch of his lips and continued before he could tell me it, like creative writing, was another unworthy degree. “It relies heavily on English still, yes, but it can transition me to a number of careers.”
He stared forward, at the fireplace before us. “What? Like newspapers? You do realize that traditional circulation for mediums like magazines and newspapers is declining, right?”
I’d braced myself for this conversation the moment I’d arrived home the Friday before. The fact that it had taken my dad six days until Thanksgiving Day to bring this up, a day before I was to return to campus, was telling. He’d kept silent for six whole days, letting me sweat his reaction while my mom busied me with her new curtains and latest dessert recipes she’d tried. All the hobbies she’d filled her life with since becoming an empty nester, married to a man who spoke little.
No. My father waited until Thanksgiving Day, hours before we were all to gather around the table for our first meal together, to discuss my future and how his wallet factored heavily in my plans. It was so like him, to let me walk around on eggshells, waiting for him to ask. He loved the control it gave him, the fact that I needed him was a power trip.
And because I knew him and because I was still trying to heal from the heartache that was thanks to another man who had taken my news not so well, I nearly slumped in my seat, letting him tell me in so few words how stupid I was to choose a degree like journalism.
Instead, I straightened the spine he’d forced upon me—that line of steel—and said, “You’re right. With the evolvement of print publications moving to a digital format, there’s been a decline in newspaper and magazine subscriptions, but that’s because that content is now easily accessible online. The internet is the new frontier for journalism, and demand is high. And that’s still only one route I can take with a journalism degree.” I paused, waited for his rebuttal, but when he remained silent I continued. “Because journalism focuses on critical and analytical thinking, I can transition into other fields. Many public relations firms hire people with a journalism background. I can work in advertising, as a copywriter, or I work as a market researcher. These are all occupations that have need and won’t become obsolete.”
I waited, for him to say something, anything.
“Well, I suppose it’s better than going to school to learn something you already know how to do. You shouldn’t have to study creative writing; you should be born inclined to be creative.”
It was how he delivered what amounted to praise from him, with a bite reminding you how absurd he thought you were.
But because he hadn’t asked me a question, I knew that was my sign to not continue. He’d heard enough. And, blessedly, he’d decided to support me.
Some people spoke the loudest when they said nothing at all, and my father was a prime example of that.
T
wo hours
later and a belly full of three very expensive bottles of beer, I received a text from Leo.
Leo: Wanna escape?
Adele: Pleeeeease.
L
eo showed
up at the door, snow in his brown hair. He hugged my mom and Celeste, and shook hands with my father. My father had always admired Leo, though I knew that was because Leo was athletic and his family was, like my father, well off. When I thought of my father’s study and its expensive furnishings, I imagined that had he seen my apartment in person, he would have considered it squalor.
Leo held his arm out for me to grab hold of and I looped my arm in his.
When we were halfway down the block, our boots covered in snow, Leo said what I’d been waiting for him to ask.
“About the kiss…”
“Yeah, about that…”
He rubbed one gloved hand over his hair, brushing the snowflakes away. “I’d always wondered, you know? About you and me. If it was meant to be.”
I stopped walking, turned to face him.
Please, please don’t tell me my kiss made you realize you loved me in
that
way
, I thought.
“And when you kissed me, there was just … nothing.”
I was silent for a beat, absorbing that. “There was nothing for me too.” I tucked my hands into my coat pockets. “I was drunk, and I know that doesn’t excuse my behavior. But I guess…” my voice trailed off and I looked down the road, thinking. “I guess I wanted to kiss you and have it be you, you know?”
I turned back to him and he nodded. “I feel the same way. After the shit with Darcy and the girls since, I’m just over it. I’m not cut out for this game.” He lifted his shoulders and dropped them a second later.
“It’d be easy if kissing you solved my commitment issues.”
“It’d be easy if kissing
you
solved my bad luck.”
I stepped forward and wrapped my arm around his back. “Aw, Leo. You don’t have bad luck. Just bad taste.”
He laughed, his head bobbing back. “Just that. No bigs. I’ll just train my dick to zero in on a different type.”
“See? Easy?” I laughed along with him and squeezed him to me.
He sighed and wrapped both arms around me, pulling me in for a hug. “To be honest? I’m kinda glad you kissed me. Because I was never going to work up the nerve to do it, even as I wondered.”
I leaned my head back to meet his eyes. “What? That’s crazy. Why not?”
Gesturing with a hand from my head downward, he said, “Because you’re intimidating as fuck. When you want something, you don’t just go after it—you stalk it. You grab it by the balls and demand its attention. You’re like that bitch from Fatal Attraction, without the crazy.”
I laughed, nearly slipping on the snow under my feet and held on to him. His eyes grew serious. “And you’d never looked at me that way.”
“Yeah,” I said solemnly, shrugging. “That doesn’t mean I know my type either.”
“What about the guy? With the ring.”
It was the first time someone had mentioned him to me since I’d left him, but that wasn’t exactly surprising given the very secretive nature of our relationship. I hadn’t even told my best friend about him. But bringing him front and center in the conversation brought all of the baggage along with it and I rubbed my chest absently.
It turned out a week away from Nathan, even while ignoring the legions of emails he’d sent me since then, wasn’t enough time to turn me back to normal, to heal the hairline fracture on my heart. It was what I imagined the pain must be from, because nothing else made sense.
I pulled back from him, so we were at arm’s length. “So.” I exhaled, watched my air cloud up. “That night I left the bar with that guy? Well, he was my professor.”
Leo didn’t say anything, but looked at me expectantly, waiting for me to finish.
“Well, you were on the money with the Fatal Attraction comparison, because I’d known he was my professor when I’d taken him home with me. And he hadn’t known that I was his student.” Just admitting it aloud highlighted how very villainous that action was, but I continued. “And when he found out, he pushed me away and was very insistent that we not continue. But you know me; I’m not easily deterred. It turned into a month of back-and-forths and another month of accepting that we couldn’t get enough of each other. Until last week.”
He nodded, taking it all in. “What happened last week?”
“Oh, fuck. This is a long story. But basically, I changed my major.”
Leo’s eyes widened. “What?” he asked incredulously.
Nodding, I said, “I know! A lot has happened! Anyway. I changed my major because I’m sick of choosing rent over groceries that don’t have a shelf life of a hundred years. All that ramen was really wearing me down. And—long story short—my dad offered, because my mom worries, to support me financially if I changed my degree to something more practical.” I heaved a breath, the words having come out in a rush. “And because the professor and I had kept sneaking around, I saw this as a way for us to date publicly, especially since I wouldn’t be his student anymore.” I looked around, almost expecting someone to be listening in to our conversation. “But when I told him, he called me stupid and I happened to be wearing his dead wife’s ring at the time, so that didn’t help things and well, I haven’t talked to him since then.”
“Holy shit, Adele.”
“Right?” There wasn’t much else for me to say, so I just waited while Leo processed.
“Have you heard from him since?”
I pulled my phone from my pocket. “He’s emailed me almost every day since.”
“Have you replied?”
I shook my head. “I haven’t even read them.” I opened my phone, scrolled through the eleven missed calls—all from him. I probably would have answered if I hadn’t been asleep, the sheer number was cause for alarm. But when I’d seen the subject line of his follow up email this morning,
The mortification of a hangover. And another apology
, I’d deduced that he’d drunk dialed me repeatedly. I still hadn’t read the email.
“Why haven’t you read them?”
There was no easy answer to that, because there were many reasons why I couldn’t:
Because despite how much he’d hurt me, I still wanted him.
Because wanting him made me feel as stupid as he’d said I was.
Because stupid or not, I wasn’t over him.
Because I had a feeling that reading his emails would either break my heart completely or propel me back into arms.
Because either option was gut-wrenchingly terrifying.
“Maybe you should read them. Take it from me, Add—guys aren’t always the best at communicating. You and I have said a lot of things to one another in the heat of the moment that we’ve regretted later on.” He raised his eyebrows, hinting at the whole drunk-sloppy-kiss thing. “And even if he apologizes to you, it doesn’t mean you have to forgive him.”
“Maybe,” I replied unconvincingly. “Or maybe I’ll keep chilling out here, on the island of denial. Population of one.”
He tugged me forward for another hug. “Just think about it. Maybe he’s as sad as you clearly are. Either that or he’s already on the rebound.”
I shoved him playfully away. “Whatever, Leo.” The thought itself stung a little and piqued my curiosity enough that I considered what he was saying.
As we walked back to my home, I realized that talking to Leo was just what I needed to shove me to the right direction.
After settling on the leather recliner next to the fireplace, I pulled my email up on my phone and took a deep breath before I clicked the first one, sent this past Sunday.
To:
Alice Carroll
Date:
Sunday, November 22, 2015 04:32 PM
From:
Nathaniel Easton
Subject:
Please
I hope to see you in class tomorrow. I called you again, and didn’t receive a reply to my email on Friday. I don’t blame you for being upset, I was callous and patronizing. My shock at seeing you with the ring on isn’t what did it, and someday I hope to tell you why you changing your major affected me so much. But not here. Not like this. Right now, I’m hoping you’ll at least read an email from me.
And when I say this, it’s not because I’m angry about it anymore, but I believe you still had the ring on when you left my house. Above anything else it may have been, it was a gift from my grandmother on my mom’s side, and she was one the few family members I had a truly close relationship with. I’d appreciate it if you could bring it to class with you tomorrow.
My brain hasn’t stopped moving, Adele, not since you slammed the door and left. I don’t think it’s slowed in the last 72 hours. I know it certainly hasn’t allowed me to sleep. Please, just let me know you’ve at least seen these.
Sincerely,
Nathan
(I’m hoping that my formality will appeal to you. I’m not trying to be a pretentious prick.)
• • •
To:
Alice Carroll
Date:
Monday, November 23, 2015 02:16 PM
From:
Nathaniel Easton
Subject:
(no subject)
While the return of the ring is something that I’m appreciative of, it was sorely tempered by your empty chair mocking me during class today. I can feel you still punishing me for what I did, in the way that you didn’t even write my name on the envelope, how the only item sandwiched in between the plain white paper was the ring itself. No note, nothing. Maybe you didn’t intend for it to hurt as much as it did, but let me assure you if that was your goal, I felt it like you’d hammered a single, rusty nail into my heart. In fact, I was late to class for the first time all semester, because it took me ten fucking minutes before I could even take the ring out of the envelope. Maybe that seems strange to you, but to me, it felt like I was accepting your goodbye in doing so. By the time I arrived, only half the class was there, and the remaining students who filled the seats barely paid attention, their heads already on break, already back home.
But you and I? We don’t count down to moments like that, do we? I don’t know what your house looks like, or how many siblings you have. I don’t know if there are friends that you will connect with while you’re in town, but God, Adele, I
want
to know those things. There’s a possibility in relationships such as ours, to know someone on a bone-deep level, to recognize the soul of the other person, but not have a single notion of what the ins and outs of their life is. Let me know both sides of you. Please?
Nathan
• • •
To:
Alice Carroll
Date:
Tuesday, November 24, 2015 09:59 PM
From:
Nathaniel Easton
Subject:
(no subject)
Every day, I wake up and I think, maybe she wrote me back today. Can you believe that I actually thought that I could give you space? Not email you, let you breathe without me begging for scraps.
Every morning that I’ve ended up sending you some woefully inadequate words, I’ve started the day with resolve. Women need space sometimes. And that’s okay. If I were you, I’d have a hard time forgiving me too. But I’m weaker than that, Adele. I can’t make it through the waking hours with an ache like that, the one sitting like an anvil in my stomach that I carry around with me all day long. And it doesn’t abate until I try, just
one
more time.
Most cordially,
Nathaniel Robert Easton
(I wish I knew your middle name, will you please tell me? That’s all you need to put in an email. Just your middle name in the subject line, and I might be able to breathe again.)
(Also, I’m trying very hard not to drink every day that I don’t hear from you. It doesn’t always work, so if that happens, I’ll most likely try to call you again. Could you please pick up this time?)
• • •
To:
Alice Carroll
Date:
Wednesday, November 25, 2015 10:15 PM
From:
Nathaniel Easton
Subject:
(no subject)
I forgot to include this in my email yesterday: What did you switch your major to? I can’t even fathom that I forgot to ask that. And as much as I’ll try not to sound like a boring professor by saying this, I’m sure it will come out that way. You’re so talented, Adele. I hope you don’t give up writing, because that would be a tragedy.
And as much as I thought I’d be able to abstain tonight, this topic of discussion and the thought of spending the day with my family tomorrow has me pouring myself some whiskey. I’ll try not to call you too many times, but I can’t make any promises. When my defenses are down, you’re always the first thing I want. Unapologetically.
N
• • •
To:
Alice Carroll
Date:
Thursday, November 26, 2015 01:16 AM
From:
Nathaniel Easton
Subject:
(no subject)
YOu never answer my phone callsd. and I cann’t even be mad. Because I was suuuuuuch a fucking dick. Can you beleive that I’ve never been SUCH A DICK to anyone before?
I don’t know why. Maybe I do. Maaybe it’s because you’re you. You are so far under my fucking skin, adele, and I’m glad. I like you there. Please don’t try to remove yourslef.
BUT I had to try a couple tiems, just to be sure you weren’t going away. Dont go away, please.
please
please
please
and Ive never asked someone so nicely to taslk to me again. You’ve turned me intlo a pussy. I miss you. A fucking lot. So it’s okay.
• • •
To:
Alice Carroll
Date:
Thursday, November 26, 2015 10:16 AM
From:
Nathaniel Easton
Subject:
The mortification of a hangover. And another apology.
I woke this morning, wanting to die in my bed, yet still wishing I could roll over and see your face. Apparently even the mother of all hangovers doesn’t erase that particular desire.
It seems as though I need to apologize to you for yet another set of embarrassing actions. Only instead of anger and inexcusable vitriol, I must beg your forgiveness for my behavior last night. Upon looking at my phone, I see that I attempted to call you just about a dozen times and wrote you an email that includes misspellings, grammar and punctuation errors that make me want to stab myself in the eye (they really should revoke my status as a professor of the English language after that).
I just can’t move on from this, it appears. I’m starting to hate myself for how much I must have hurt you. But you know what else I’ve learned about you from this extended, awful silence? I’ve learned just precisely how strong of a woman you are. I knew it before, but knowing something in theory, and then
experiencing
that steel, being held at bay with it, is another thing entirely.
Any woman worth her salt should make a man beg and grovel and work harder than he’s ever worked before in his
life
to gain her forgiveness, especially if he’s spoken to her the way that I did to you.
So I will. I’m about to leave for my parents' house. The only one I’m looking forward to seeing is their giant Schnauzer, Randall. And that’s because he’s probably the only one who will greet me with happiness.
• • •
To:
Alice Carroll
Date:
Thursday, November 26, 2015 05:42 PM
From:
Nathaniel Easton
Subject:
The ghost of Thanksgiving Past
Maybe Charles Dickens wrote that story for the wrong holiday, because there’s no fucking way I could’ve waited until Christmas to learn this lesson.
I know that I’m not Ebenezer Scrooge in the literal sense, but he and I share many similarities. In fact, it truly didn’t hit me until I was driving home from my parents' cold and empty mansion. My car was so quiet, since I tend to not want to listen to music when I’m driving in the snow, and hand over my heart, I heard someone speak to me.
I’ve never believed in angels, and my view of God or a higher power is the slimmest version of being a theist, but it was almost like I knew what they were saying to me before the moment the voice hit my ears.
You need to give more, Nathaniel.
That’s what I heard. I don’t know if it was a memory, something Diana told me once upon a time, but it sounds like something she might have said. I’ve never wanted to tell anyone this story, Adele. Not in four years. Only my father, Diana’s brother (who hates my guts, incidentally), and now you, know this. And me not wanting to tell it is pretty irrelevant. Because the moment you slammed that door at my house, I knew exactly how much I’d fucked up. I had ripped the still-beating heart out of the one person who had made me find my own again. So that’s why I’m telling you this. Because I trust you enough to show you what’s inside of me, what’s been gnawing at my guts and my heart for over four years. You may not even want it anymore, but I’m giving it to you nonetheless.
Forgive me if I’m mistaken, but I don’t think you need a background on my relationship with Diana. It was a good one, a solid one that made me happy, made her happy, too. We’d been married for three years, four months, and twenty one days on the day that she died. It hadn’t been anything but a normal day, other than the way it ended. I had some friends, at that time, and we often got together to play poker and drink some beer. Nothing crazy, just blowing off steam. It had been a few weeks since I’d seen them, and Maurice sent me a text before Diana got home from work, asking if I could come out to his place. He lived about forty five minutes from us, from the house you know, and it had been raining all day.
Diana was disappointed I was going to be gone all evening, but she didn’t forbid it, because that wasn’t her way. She just gave me a kiss and told me to be safe. Once I was with the guys, I had more to drink than I should have. Honestly, I didn’t even realize it until I went to grab another beer and it was the last in the six pack. I knew myself well enough to know I shouldn’t have been driving, but nobody else lived remotely close to where we did, so I called her, asked if she’d come and get me.
It was about eleven when I’d called, so I knew she was probably in bed. She was pretty quiet after I asked, quite apologetically, may I add. But she agreed, because she didn’t want me to attempt the drive on the slick, wet roads in my condition. I was saying “I love you,” when she hung up, and the guys ribbed me about having to sleep on the couch when I got home. They all left, leaving just me and Maurice. I told him to go to bed, I’d wait on the porch for Diana, since it was warm, despite the rain. In my buzzed state, I remember sitting on his porch swing and thinking it was the greatest night ever.
An hour passed, and she still wasn’t there. I wasn’t terribly worried, given that I’d probably woken her when I called. But when I stared at the phone until the numbers clicked to the next hour, I pounded on the door until Maurice woke up. I’d called Diana’s cell about twenty times by the time I got back home, the house completely dark upon my arrival. It was six hours later that a police officer knocked on the door.
Maurice told me that I spoke with the cop, but I don’t remember anything from the conversation. In truth, I don’t remember much until I had to identify her body in the morgue and they told me what had happened. A drunk driver had T-boned her car, and the force of the impact made her small car skid so far off the road that the front of the car slammed into a tree just off the curb. The drunk died on impact as well, but that wasn’t much of a comfort to me. All I knew was that my wife, the woman I loved more than my own life, who always told me to be safe when I left the house, bled out in her driver’s seat, her face cut so badly from the glass that they needed me to identify her. And the only reason she was there was because of me. I killed her, just as much as that man had. And when I grabbed her lacerated face in my hands, my tears coating her cold skin, I wished I had died right along with her. I've always thought that I kind of died with her.
That’s what I’ve carried with me, every day since she died. The knowledge of my complicity. It was nothing that could ever be punishable by law, and the papers never even picked up that she was only out because I’d called her. But every day, I had to remind myself to breathe, remind myself that it was no one’s fault but mine that I was alone, and would probably die that way. Until you, my beautiful, vibrant Adele. I felt like I was touching fire when I held you that first night. And every night since. And I’ll never stop trying, not until you look me in the eyes and ask me to. So this? This is as much as I can give you. You have it all, and I hope you want to keep it.
Yours,
Nathan