The Night Before(51)

Another moan, this one manufactured. I know because his heart has quieted.

Then the same hand that—moments before—clenched my ass to pull us together, harder, deeper, now lightly pats my back. Three quick pats that say, We’re done here.

I can’t bear to face this newest failure. It is bigger than the others because this time I knew. This time I understood. Dr. Brody made sure of that.

Don’t invent him.

Don’t fill in the blank spaces with intimacy that does not exist.

Don’t mistake sex for power.

Jonathan Fielding. I made you my confidant. I made you my hero. I let you fill me with love then take it away. I clench my eyes tighter, but I cannot pretend I don’t see the injury I have inflicted upon myself. It’s painful. And so familiar.

Another pat on the back and this time he pulls his head away, so I have nowhere left to hide my eyes.

“Hey—I have an idea,” he says. His voice is lighthearted now. “Why don’t I order a pizza? I’m starving. We never got dinner.”

We lie side by side on top of his black-and-gray comforter. We lie at an angle across the bed. We have barely made a ruffle. I slip my arm out from under his body, pull out a leg from between his knees. He makes adjustments for me so I can leave him quickly and without any hesitation.

“Sure,” I say. “I’ll be right back.”

I roll off the bed, leaving him propped up on an elbow, watching. I feel his eyes on my body as I walk across the room. I enter the bathroom and don’t turn around until I can hide behind the door. He’s seen my ass now, in the light, and I can’t get that back. But he hasn’t seen the rest of me, and I guard it now with the passion of regret. Behind the door, I turn on the light and push in the lock. Then I run the water. A towel hangs on a hook and I grab it and wrap it around me like a life preserver. But I cannot be saved. I know that now.

I sit on the edge of his ceramic bathtub and let my head fall into the palms of my hands.

I try to sort out the moment it all got away from me. God help me, but I find Dr. Brody in my memory. Kevin. Asshole.

He used to tell me to close my eyes and see myself as another person. A woman doing the things I do. Feeling the things I feel. So I close my eyes now and picture her, that stupid woman, in Jonathan Fielding’s kitchen. I hear her tell her story to this stranger and I ask her why. She makes excuses, but finally faces the truth and makes her confession. She cannot wait for this man to know her. She cannot wait to see if he will love her. She needs to know now. She needs to make it happen. So she takes out her toolbox and looks inside. The story of Mitch Adler is now a hammer. Her body, a wrench. She knows how to use them.

I see her standing by the counter, wrapped in his arms. There is still time to walk away. He’s said as much. He’s offered to take her home. She tells me she can feel love just below the surface. A few more strikes. A few more twists. Almost there.

Can’t you just taste it?

Dr. Brody used to ask me what I would say to her if I could. I did say things. I remember them. I said them moments ago in the kitchen.

I told her the things I’ve learned about her, how she is repeating the past. How she knows this night will not end with love, but with sadness. I told her. She knew. She knew, but she did it anyway.

Jesus, Laura. You knew this would happen!

Kevin was not like this. Kevin saw me and he refused to let me self-destruct. I pushed and pulled and used every tool in that box, but he would not be deterred. Weeks passed before he lay down beside me, and when he did, it was not over in mere minutes. And he did not pat me on the back and order a pizza. Kevin pulled me in closer and said those words. Those words I wish didn’t exist because I wanted them so much.

I love you, Kevin said. And I believed him.

Tears come hard now. The weight of my grief is before me. Jonathan Fielding has just shined a bright light square in the middle of it.

I want that back. I want to feel arms pulling me tight. I want to hear those words and know they’re true.

The wanting swallows me whole.

“Are you all right in there?” I hear Jonathan say. I hear footsteps and shuffling.

“I’m fine,” I call back.

He asks me something about the pizza and I answer something about the pizza. The fucking pizza.

I turn off the water. My head throbs from the scotch and the adrenaline and toxins that have been set free from the story of Mitch Adler.

This is not the time to revisit the past. I pool water from what’s left in the sink as it drains and I splash it on my face. It stings, but I need it. I need to snap out of it. I look in the mirror. Run a finger beneath my eyes to clear the mascara that’s smudged. Then I run all ten of them through my hair, tugging at the knots. I tuck it neatly behind my ears and try out a polite smile. First my mouth, turning up at the corners, then my eyes squinting just a little. I try a slight raise to my brow.

I have a thought to go with the smile.

Maybe the mistake isn’t over. Maybe it’s still happening.

Part One—choose a man who can’t love you. Part Two—reconstruct him into a man who will love you. Part Three—make him love you by any means necessary. Part Four—fail and feel worthless. Repeat as necessary to stay trapped in your childhood.

And here we are.

But what if there is a Part Five? What if that part is what I’m doing now—returning to that place that is dark and lonely but also feels like home? Like where I belong. Or where I deserve to be.