On Rotation(45)

A hand pressed against the small of my back.

“Thanks for waiting, Angie,” Ricky said, but his eyes weren’t on me. Slowly, his hand drifted up my back and his arm draped over my shoulders in a show of ownership so blatant that Hot Tattooed Guy raised his eyebrows. My hand still hovered in the air as Ricky guided us toward the counter, only dropping his hold when we got to the front of the line. Numbly, I ordered the kimchi ramen, trying to process what had just happened. Next to me, Ricky was like a stone wall, expressionless and stubbornly silent.

“I’m supposed to pay for dinner,” I tried after we’d ordered.

“No,” he said, not looking at me.

“No?” I leaned against the counter, crossing my arms. “What do you mean, no?”

“I mean you’re not paying,” Ricky said, like that was it.

Okay, so now I was pissed off. Maybe when I was nineteen the jealousy schtick would have been cute, but I was twenty-five now and had enough experience to know that it was everything but. Possessiveness wasn’t the same as love. It wasn’t the same as commitment. It was easy to want my exclusive attention, harder to give anything worthwhile back. And Ricky wasn’t giving me shit. He wasn’t my boyfriend. We weren’t even dating. Just because he didn’t want me didn’t mean that no one else could shoot their shot. If I wanted to have a quickie with Hot Tattooed Guy in the pyramid sauna, I would be well within my rights to do so. Maybe this was what Michelle had meant by limbo; up until today, I had felt like Ricky and I had walked a perfect balance, and now, he was mucking it up.

“Fine,” I said finally. “I guess I’ll find a table then.”

I pivoted away, marching into the dining room. In my peripheral vision, I could tell that Hot Tattooed Guy was following me with his eyes, but I was already over him. I was over men, period. I gathered our utensils and arranged them on a free table, biting furiously at my inner cheek.

A few minutes later, Ricky showed up with a tray. I didn’t look up from my nails as he set it down gently and returned to the counter to get the next one. When the table shifted with his weight, I kept my gaze fixed on my food, accepting it with a brief “thanks” before picking up my metal chopsticks. Well, I thought, slurping up my ramen, Hot Tattooed Guy was right; the kimchi ramen was a good choice.

“You’re mad,” Ricky said finally.

“I’m not,” I lied.

“You are.” He put his elbows up on the table, glaring off into the distance. “Come on, Angie. That guy was clearly bad news.”

My anger flared, red hot and dizzying, and I put down my chopsticks.

“What do you mean, bad news?” I asked.

Ricky sputtered. Across the room, Hot Tattooed Guy had rejoined his crew of jacked Asian boys, and they were laughing boisterously together.

“Don’t act naive,” Ricky said. “He wants only one thing from you, and you know that.”

I leaned forward on the table, popping a soybean into my mouth.

“Maybe,” I said, “I just wanted one thing from him too.”

The tortured expression on Ricky’s face should have been satisfying. Instead, it was gut-wrenching. I hated that I had hurt him, even though I didn’t know why. How annoying. We ate in frustrated silence, heads bowed. Just minutes ago, we’d been having fun. My brain was already creating outlandish scenarios where Ricky would sweep the plates off the table, grab my hand, and declare his love for me. Not that that would ever happen. He would just play with me like he was doing now and tell me that he hadn’t meant it that way if I slipped up and tried to assign any amorous intent to his actions.

“Look,” Ricky finally said. “I’m sorry.”

I glanced up from my bowl. Ricky still couldn’t quite meet my eyes, but his jaw was set with conviction.

“I was out of line.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “If you want to go hook up with that guy, you should. It’s none of my business.”

I slurped my broth slowly, watching him over the lip of my bowl.

“You’re right,” I said, setting it down. “It was none of your business.”

Ricky scowled around a large bite of japchae, glancing back at Hot Tattooed Guy’s table.

“I’m just saying,” he muttered, like he couldn’t help it, “you could do a lot better.”

That was it for me. Setting my chopsticks down, I pushed my tray away and stood. Ricky’s eyes darted back to me, alarmed.

“You haven’t finished your food,” he said.

“I’m not hungry anymore,” I lied. “And I think I need another dip.” And some space. Away from you.

It was as if Ricky could hear my inner dialogue; suddenly, he looked down at his plate, twirling a chopstick between his fingers.

“Oh,” he said. “Okay.”

I nodded stiffly, not sparing him another glance. Then, I made for the locker room, careful not to spoil my dramatic exit by slipping on the wood floors. So much, I thought, for a relaxing day at the spa.





Fourteen




I did not get to take another dip in the baths, because the moment I entered the locker room, I heard the obnoxious blast of my ringtone, the sirens from Kill Bill, piercing over the ambient background music.* Mortified, I jogged to my locker, bowing my head apologetically to the other spagoers. A middle-aged, topless woman glared at me as she toweled off her back.