Little Secrets(59)
Izzy squeezed out of the bathroom, and was back a moment later with a hardcover of Wild by Cheryl Strayed. She showed Kenzie the inscription, which read, When you’re finished sowing your wild oats, I’ll be here.—Mike
“You should read this book,” Izzy said. “It’s about a woman who does drugs, cheats on her husband, goes on this crazy long hike, all these things to get away from feeling the pain of her mother’s death. It really resonated with me. Made me think long and hard about why I do the things I do, and I realized I was sick of myself. I’m giving Mike a chance, Kenz.”
“I’ve read it.” Kenzie turned back to the mirror. “And I’m happy for you. But I like Paul. And I can date rich guys just as easily as poor guys.” She was aware that she sounded exactly like her grand-mère.
“Nobody’s saying you can’t date an older rich guy,” Izzy said. “I’d rather be rich than poor. But I’d rather be happy than rich. Find one who’s single, Kenz.”
“His wife isn’t my problem. I don’t even think about her. As far as I’m concerned, she doesn’t exist.” Kenzie shrugged. “Besides, they all cheat. And one day, when you’re old and fat and married to Mike with a couple of kids and a mortgage payment, he’ll get bored and cheat on you, too. All you’re doing by jumping into this relationship is making yourself vulnerable. You were the one who schooled me on how to do this, remember? But whatever. You do you.”
Kenzie might as well have slapped her. She could see it in Izzy’s face, the way her cheeks drooped, the way she broke eye contact. Still, she was gorgeous, even dressed casually. She could have had any man she wanted, any lifestyle she wanted. What a waste.
Kenzie’s relationship with Paul lasted another three weeks after that conversation. It ended the night his wife came banging on their door at midnight the night before graduation. Mrs. Paul—because Kenzie had no idea what her name was—was drunk and looking for her husband. When Kenzie opened the door, the woman tried to bust into the apartment.
“You fucking whore where’s my fucking husband you fucking slut where’s Paul?” she’d screamed, the words coming out near incoherent and all in one breath. Her makeup was smudged, her eyes bloodshot, and her perfectly manicured fingernails were like claws swiping at Kenzie’s face.
Kenzie tried to close the door, but the woman had wedged herself between the door and the jamb.
“I don’t know any Paul. I just live here!” she said desperately, attempting to pass herself off as someone who wasn’t sleeping with the woman’s husband.
Paul’s wife was at least six inches shorter than Kenzie, but she was enraged and fueled by alcohol. She pushed her face against the door like she was Jack Nicholson in The Shining. Kenzie had no doubt the woman would try to kill her, or at the very least kick the shit out of her in a drunken rage.
“Izzy, help me!” she shouted over her shoulder.
“You tell your roommate to leave my husband alone!” the woman screamed at Kenzie. Her face was a deep shade of purple, her hair damp and sticking to her cheeks in matted clumps. She rammed her body against the door again. “She’s a cunt and you’re a cunt and I hate girls like you, you fucking whores!”
“Izzy!” Kenzie shrieked again. She was barely strong enough to hold the door shut, and she needed her roommate to help her push back. “Izzy, get out here, now!” To the woman, she said, “Stop pushing, I’m not going to let you in!”
The door to Izzy’s bedroom opened and Izzy came out, her hair in a bun, wearing glasses, dressed in a baggy sweatshirt and sweatpants. Without makeup and heels, she looked like a teenager, especially with her eyes so wide and frightened. Paul’s wife, still pushing, saw her peering behind Kenzie in the living room, and her face suddenly sagged. She believed it was Izzy who was seeing Paul. Whatever information she had, it wasn’t a photo. Or a name.
“Oh hell, what are you, nineteen?” The older woman’s voice caught in her throat, and she started sobbing. “You’re a child oh god I can’t believe he did this I can’t believe—”
“Tell her to get out of here!” Izzy said to Kenzie, which was the worst thing her roommate could have said, because the woman’s sobbing turned back into rage. “We’re going to call the police, you crazy bitch!”
“I’m a crazy bitch?” the woman howled. “You call the police! You call them and I’ll tell them what you did! You should be arrested for being a dick-sucking whore!” Her face was mottled, and she was so mad she was spitting. Her vodka-scented saliva sprayed Kenzie’s face, and she rammed against the door again, this time almost making it inside.
“You think I don’t want to suck my husband’s dick?” she screamed into the apartment. “I’d suck it, but he’s never home! I hate you! Rot in hell, you bitch! If I see you on the street, I’m going to throw acid in your face, you slut!”
Thoroughly freaked out, Izzy ran back into her bedroom, and Kenzie heard her door slam shut and the lock turn.
Kenzie gave the door one last shove, and the woman was flung into the hallway. One of the neighbors had called the superintendent, and Gary was coming out of the elevator in his pajamas and bathrobe, a baseball bat in one hand, his cell phone in the other. When he saw it was a woman, and a petite one at that, he lowered the bat.