You Love Me(You #3)(42)
“You’re not her sister.”
She huffs. “Fine. You won’t be the first overzealous man to dig his own grave.”
You see the best in people—always a dangerous approach to life—and this why we’re a good team, Mary Kay. I see the worst. I tell Melanda that I don’t care if I go to prison. I tell her that she’s the one behind bars, that her whole life is a loveless fucking lie. She rolls over—I’m getting to her—and I tell her that I am here to protect you from her and that no matter what happens, I have all the evidence. I know that she resents you and I tell her that she’s neither a feminist nor a sister and that you’re not gonna be her prisoner anymore.
And now she sits up and looks at me. “So Phil and I went out in high school.”
It’s so sad, how puffed up she gets by mentioning ancient high school history. “Ah,” I say. “So Mary Kay stole your boyfriend. No wonder it’s so toxic between you two.”
“Hardly,” she says. “I only tell you because obviously, I never moved on. Phil is… well, he’s a rock star…” Mick Jagger is a rock star. Phil DiMarco is a rocker. “And honey…” She puts her hand on her chest. “It’s sad that you think that she’d ever leave him for you.”
“Tell me the code to your condo.”
She grins. “Ah,” she says. “I got to you, didn’t I?”
“I’ll get in there one way or another, Melanda.”
“I know,” she says. “You’ll get into my condo. But you’ll never get between MK and Phil…” She smirks again. Vicious as an eighth-grade queen bee. “It’s so cute. You swagger in here because she finally told you about Phil. You break into my phone… you think you know us… I don’t know your deal, but you’ve obviously seen Beaches and Romy and Michele. You know that best friends talk about everything.”
“Give me the fucking code.”
“But you don’t have transcripts of our wine nights… our phone calls…”
I hate my skin for turning red. “Just tell me the code.”
“Pound 342,” she says. 342 as in You love me. Ugh. “You can write it down.”
I should just fucking kill her, Mary Kay. “Thank you.”
I turn to go and she baits me. “I wish you were there the night she told me about you.”
I say nothing.
“How you didn’t go to college… how you don’t have any friends… and I definitely wish you had been there the night she told me about what a bad kisser you are. Too much tongue.”
I won’t let her see my face. I know better, Mary Kay. She’s lying. She has to be lying.
“It’s so sad that you actually think you’re in competition with Phil…” My teeth are chattering. “And she’s right, Joe. You read too much.” No such thing. “You overdose on beef and broccoli…” You would never say that about me. “That’s the only possible explanation for why you could believe that she’d ever leave someone like him for someone like you. She’s too kind for her own good. Obviously she said something that put a pep in your step today but my God, honey, get a clue. MK is nice to everyone. She’s a librarian, a public servant. A people pleaser. It’s just a shame when guys like you take kindness so personally.”
She yawns like my mother and she reminds me of my mother, who would turn up the volume on Jerry Springer when I got home from school, when I wanted to tell her about my day. When I was dead to her because I was happy. That’s what’s happening right now, Mary Kay. You put a “pep in my step”—you told me I exist—and your friend wants me to stumble. She’s not smart like you and me—she can’t be happy for other people, not really—and she won’t ever learn her lesson and fuck it. Do I do it right now? Do I kill your best friend?
“Sweetie,” she says. “Could you move the TV in here? I have sensitive retinas and the glare from the window really is killing me. I’d also love a steak. I am simply dying for some real red meat, you know?”
I want to, I do. But no. I don’t have a plan and I’m not going down over Melanda.
I slam the door and on the way upstairs, my tongue pulsates in my mouth. Fuck you, Melanda. My tongue is just fine.
Isn’t it?
15
I did not give her my fucking TV and I am not going to get her a steak. Bad dogs don’t get treats. Everyone knows that. And that’s what she is, Mary Kay: a bad dog. Territorial and violent. She attacked me and I brought her home. I fed her. I tried to train her and she turned around and assaulted me again.
I definitely wish you had been there the night she told me about what a bad kisser you are. Too much tongue.
Now I’m pacing in my backyard (watching my estranged son run around on Instagram to remind myself of how fucking good I am. He’s toddling. He’s cute. I made that). I trip on an exposed root in the natural landscape and I hate Bainbridge Island because there is such a thing as TOO FUCKING QUIET. We’re not in the desert and no one has to be on the factory line at 7:00 A.M. so why is everyone but me asleep?
I wasn’t gonna hurt anyone. I’m a good goddamn guy but I’m a lonely guy, bullied and used. She attacked me! It’s her fault that she’s in that basement, that I’m in this mess, and did you really make fun of my kissing? Did you mean it when you said you never thought you’d meet someone like me? Or is Melanda right? Was that your kind way of telling me I’m not good enough?