Out of Grief (8 page)

“Take your time.” Wow, this brunch was going down hill. I was glad I spent so much time on my outfit. Next time I’d pull out my tattered jeans. I picked up the novel to sign it. And I thought about Emily and last night. Good thing I hadn’t told my mother about her.

I pulled a pen out my back pocket and wrote, “Maryanne, Thank you for reading and sharing. Sincerely, Nikki K.” Then I slipped a twenty next to her bookmark.

“Nikita, tell me about this date you had.” my mother said as she returned to the table.

“Not much to tell. She’s a nice woman, and we’re going to be friends.”

“Would this have happened if Quinn did not call you during your date? And why on earth did you answer your phone on a date?”

“I wasn’t going to. She kept calling. Emily said to answer it.”

“And where did you meet this Emily?”

“What difference does that make now? That’s not going to happen.”

My mother reached across the table and took my hand. “I will tell you this, because you should hear from someone who loves you. You must stop yearning for that which you cannot have. Your heart deserves more.” She squeezed my hand before dropping it to wave the waitress over. “Two of your delicious cappuccinos, please, with extra foam.”

I understood that was my cue not to discuss what she just told me, but to think about it. So, I returned my attention to the last bits of salmon on my plate. She was right. Everyone was right. But how did you stop loving someone?

Chapter Nineteen

I googled the causes of spotting during pregnancy, and got stuck on the first answer. “Sex,” the article said; there is more blood flow to your cervix during pregnancy, so it’s not unusual to notice spotting after intercourse. I kept reading, and determined that she was either having sex or had a yeast infection. The latter of which, she would have had no problem telling me.

But why wouldn’t she have told me she was having sex? I wasn’t sure what angered me more, the fact that she was keeping things from me, or the fact that she cut in to one of my few chances to actually have sex. And really, it wasn’t like I could call Emily and have a chance of getting back to where we were on her couch. No, that ship had sailed.

It was back to me and my … oh, was that it? She was masturbating and ashamed? Well, that would make things better. I mean, the thought of someone touching Quinn was always tough for me. But the thought of Quinn touching herself.
No, no, no!
I couldn’t go there … could I? The thought of Quinn’s long, delicate fingers stroking through her drenched lips, head thrown back, eyes closed … damn it! I was wet, just thinking about it.

I had just settled in for my Sunday night guilty pleasure, Dexter, when my hip started buzzing.

—Bad time to call?—

Now you ask? Hmmm. —No. Call away. —

I hit record, and turned the TV off. I answered the phone when her ringtone (the theme song from Friends) began to play. “Hey.”

“Hey, yourself.”

“What’s up?”

“Nothing, just bored. Missing you.”

It was always nice to hear, even when I was pissed at her. “Oh.”

“I think my hormones must be out of whack with the baby and all. Sorry if I’ve been difficult.”

Was difficult the word I would have chosen? “Yeah, I hear you shouldn’t mess with a pregnant woman.”

“Probably good advice.” She laughed.

There was a silence. Not the comfortable kind we normally had. “So, are you planning on telling me what’s really wrong?”

“Who said anything was wrong.”

“With the spotting, Quinn. Did the doctor say what caused it?”

“Oh, that. It’s not important.”

“I think my date from last night would beg to differ.”

“You had a date?”

“Had being the operative word. She dumped me like a hot potato after you called. And you know god damn well I had a date.”

“Sorry?”

Since when was sorry a question? “So, I think you owe me some details.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Why not?”

“Look the important thing is that the baby is okay. Let’s just leave it at that.”

“You know there’s nothing to be ashamed of. Everyone does it.”

“Does what?”

Does what, Nikki? Go ahead say it. “Touch themselves.”

“What? Wait … you think that’s what made me spot?”

“It didn’t?”

“No!” she squealed. “I don’t … I mean, I … well, I just don’t do that.”

“Like ever?”

“I can’t believe that’s what you thought?”

“Well, Google said that sex could be a factor, so I just—”

“Assumed I’d have to be having it with myself?”

“Okay, I can see where that might look bad. But I assumed that you aren’t seeing anyone this soon after Stephen, so I thought maybe you were taking matters in to your own hands, so to speak. And it really is no big deal?”

“Why is this so important to you?”

“Because last night was the first time in a long time that I was not going to have to take care of myself, and then you called.”

“So you actually—”

“Masturbate. Yes. Everyone does. I can’t believe you don’t.” God this was exasperating.

“I was going to say that you were really going to sleep with that Emily girl?”

“Was being the operative word here.”

“Wow. That was fast.”

“So not the point, and don’t change the subject.”

“I don’t know why you’re getting so mad. You didn’t have to pick up the phone.”

“It didn’t sound that way when I did pick it up. Besides, how many times were you going to call before you gave up? My hip was starting to feel like I had packed a vibrator in it.”

“I’m sorry. I was frightened. Next time I won’t bother.”

“Don’t be that way, Quinn. I am concerned. I’m trying to find out what caused it.”

“You already know what caused it.”

“You just said you don’t do that.”

“By myself. I don’t do it by myself!” she screamed at me.

“And who’s moving quickly now? What’s the deal? I thought you were in mourning.”

“Stephen blew his brains out in our home, Nikki. I think I’m entitled to move on.”

So it was possible to move on. Hmm. I tried to soften my tone, and take the conversation back to a normal level. “So you’re seeing someone. Okay. What’s he like?”

“It’s not like that,” she sighed.

“Color me confused. What’s it like?”

“I had an itch. He scratched it. End of story.”

Okay, you won’t masturbate, but you’ll have casual sex. So not like the Quinn I know. “Who are you and what did you do with my best friend?”

“Says the woman that was going to sleep with someone she wasn’t head over heels for,” she shot back at me.

“Oh, you’re allowed to have an itch, but I’m not?”

She had no quick retort, and in the silence, a sense of déjà vu swept over me. It wasn’t the fight itself. Quinn and I had had fights before. Few and far between, but every once in a while. And I knew why her sleeping with someone else upset me. But why was she getting so freaked out by the thought of my almost sleeping with someone?

And she was upset, I could hear her. She was crying, softly, but I could hear her sniffle every once in a while. So I broke the silence. “What are we doing here, Quinn?”

“I hate when we fight.”

“Me too,” I admitted.

“Can we chalk it up to hormones?”

The tentative nature in her voice, told me she was grasping at excuses to avoid talking further. But maybe it was hormones. Maybe she was having one of those crazy pregnancies I used to hear my cousins talk about. Maybe I was so desperate to hang on to any shred of hope that I was turning this in to something more than it was? I mean, we were about 300 miles from each other. I couldn’t see her face. Couldn’t acknowledge she was crying by wiping her tears away. All I could do was agree, and that might somehow make her feel better. “Hormones suck,” I managed to say.

“They really do.”

Chapter Twenty-One

The truly good creative writing teachers that I had encouraged me to find my voice, to tell my story in a way that was unique to me, and not to copy other writers. The lesson was learned when most agents wanted to know what published author you wrote like, and to be honest, some of us did have similar voices. I wanted to be one of those teachers. But I was afraid, as I was ploughing through the ten-page short story on sexting; perhaps I was encouraging too much freedom. Did transcribing an actual sexting session, which this had to be, count as publishable fiction? Nonfiction? Pornography? My head was starting to hurt.

My phone rang. When I saw Marta’s name come up, I shot off my couch. I was late. I had to be. I grabbed the phone. “I’m on my way. So sorry.”

Luckily, I could just go down to Marta’s in a matter of minutes. I grabbed the box of licorice I had picked up for her at Whole Foods and raced out.

“I’m so sorry, I lost track of time grading stories,” I explained as Marta opened the door, and I was assaulted by the smell of marinara sauce.

I leaned down so she could kiss my cheek, her usual greeting. “I didn’t put the pasta in yet, so nothing is ruined.”

“Can I do anything?”

“Not now. Oh, you found them.” Her eyes lit up at the site of the Panda Box. “You are an angel.”

“It’s right by my editor’s office. No problem at all.”

“So you are reading stories?”

I took my usual seat furthest from the stove, so I could watch Marta bustle around her kitchen and not be in her way. A cold Sam Adams sat next to my glass on the table. “Right now I think I’m reading erotica, or someone’s version of it,” I said.

“Oh, my!” Marta set a bowl of salad in the center of the table as the water boiled. “Is it any good?”

“It’s a sexting story.”

“What is sexting?” She filled a bowl with salad and handed it to me.

“When kids text each other sex messages.”

“I don’t understand today’s youth. Why would you do that with a phone?” She threw the pasta in.

“More importantly, why would you make it an entire story?”

“Have you heard from your Quinn since your disagree-ment?”

“We talk or text almost every day.”

“So things are better?”

“I don’t know. I mean, I love her with all my heart. Just sometimes, I wish I didn’t.”

Marta laughed.

“What?”

“You wish no such thing.”

“No, seriously.”

“Nikki, you don’t wish that you did not love her with all your heart. You wish she loved you the way you love her.”

“I’m pathetic, aren’t I?”

“You are hopeless perhaps, but not pathetic.”

Marta threw a strand of spaghetti against the cabinet. When it stuck, she turned the flame off and emptied the pot into a colander in the sink.

“I pray every day that you will find happiness, Nikki.”

“You pray for me?”

“Yes,” she said, setting a heaping plate of pasta in front of me. “I pray for everyone I love.”

“I love you too, Marta.”

Chapter Twenty-Two

Sometimes I wondered why I had bothered coming back to New York, if Quinn and I were going to talk every day. And yet I loved the connection. Before Stephen killed himself, we talked every couple weeks. At first I thought it was because she was lonely. Her mother and sisters hadn’t checked on her in months. But as we talked more and more, it was like we were young again. We were inseparable growing up. Granted, she spent more time at my house, since my parents were far more encouraging of our friendship. No one knew me better than Quinn, and I’d like to think that no one knew her better. Even after I confessed my love for her right before we left for college, and she told me she didn’t want to lose me in her life, but she couldn’t ever be my lover, things stayed the same between us.

Lately though, things were a bit weird. I wished I could put my finger on it. Maybe my mother was right—maybe Quinn depended on me too much. But my mother’s childhood friend had burned her, so she was wary of close friendships. For that reason, I couldn’t always take her advice when it came to friends. She had oodles of friends since then, but she was always cautious.

The only thing about talking everyday was that I thought about her all the time now. When the contact wasn’t constant, I had time to think about other things. I was just digging in to a piece of coconut custard pie Marta had sent me home with when the phone rang.

“What’s new?”

“I’m getting to be the size of a house.”

“I find that hard to believe. I’m sure the doctor thinks you’re fine.”

“Nothing fits.”

“So get some new clothes. You’ve never been shy about shopping.”

“I don’t want to buy fat clothes.”

“Don’t think about it that way, or do what I do. Buy online.”