Bliss (2 page)

Braising the veal would take a few hours, so she hoped he would stay out for a while. She smiled at the thought of him coming through the door, saying “Something smells good!” and rushing into the kitchen to gather her up in his arms, lick the cute smudge of flour off her nose, and then kiss her like he'd been gone a year. The reunions made his trips bearable.

Demi loaded the veggies into the nearly empty fridge. She didn't cook for herself when James was away. Her joy of cooking was in watching people savor her food, especially James. When he took the first bite, he usually gave her over-the-top praise—“Oh, my god, this is the best thing I've ever eaten!” She tried to outdo herself each meal, and had become a pretty good cook in the last few years. They still went out to restaurants. Yaletown, their neighborhood, was the epicenter of Vancouver's foodie culture. But James preferred her home cooking to trendy gastronomy or fusion artisanal whatever. Plus, when they went out, he ran into a hundred people, and they would end up staying out all night.

“You could do this for a living,” he said once while savoring her baked spring salmon. “I love you for your cooking and taking care of me.”

“I thought you loved me for my woo-woo,” she joked, pointing at her crotch.

“That, too. Why do you think I stick around?”

Demi told the story to Sophia in Toronto via Skype. “Aww, he loves you for your vag,” said Sophia. “That's
so sweet
.” It wasn't a compliment. Like most of Demi's friends, Sophia wasn't on Team James. A couple of years ago when she came back to Vancouver for the holidays, the three of them went out on New Year's Eve. There was a misunderstanding. James thought he was touching Demi's leg under the table and accidentally groped Sophia's. They were all hammered and it was an honest, harmless mistake on his part. Sophia got it wrong about his intentions.

Demi shook that memory away to focus on the task at hand. She put the bundle from the butcher on the counter and unfolded the waxed brown paper to inspect the two round, red veal shanks with rings of marrow-packed thighbone at the center. Each piece cost $99. James had money, so Demi didn't worry about splurging on this kind of thing. He paid for everything else, and indulged her on weekend trips, clothes, bags. If she wanted a big-ticket item—shoes or a piece of jewelry—she'd clip a photo of it on the fridge. When he got drunk, he'd buy it for her. Some of her friends made fun of her for catering to him, like some throwback Stepford wife, but they didn't get it. James lived to please
her
. If her friends were inside the relationship instead of mocking it from the outside, they'd know. She remembered how she used to judge Leandra for wanting exactly the life she'd ended up creating for herself (one exception: James was not a douche bag). If she and Leandra were still friends, they'd laugh about it.

First step in the recipe: dredging the veal. The flour canister was in the cabinet above the counter that separated the kitchen and the living room. As she reached for it, she noticed movement in the other room.

James appeared, like a ghost. His back to her, he stood in front of the rolling bar caddy by the TV. Demi opened her mouth to say something, but then ducked out of view, her body pancaked against the fridge so he wouldn't see her. He must have come out of the bedroom and gone straight to the bar. She peeked again.

He was bare-assed naked.

*   *   *

She watched him pour a scotch. He drank it straight down, refilled his glass, swayed, bumped into the TV, and then stumbled down the hall toward the bedroom. No wonder he hadn't heard her come in. He was wasted, and probably half conscious. It was three
P.M.
She knew his habits all too well. He self-medicated a lot. It was starting to be a problem between them. His drinking was her parents' (both sets) number two complaint about James, second only to their twelve-year age difference (he was thirty-three; Demi was twenty-one). The two times Demi brought James to dinner, her dad's killer glare would haven driven anyone to drink.

So what to do? Cook dinner while he slept it off? Or … Demi grinned. No, she'd lull him out of an inebriated half dream with a proper homecoming. Quietly, she undressed. It was a warm June in Vancouver, so she wasn't wearing much and stripping took seconds. Off with her clothes! Starting with her brand-new studded Valentino flats, followed by her Vince jersey tank dress and BCBG loose shawl/jacket thing. Demi liked to dress casual and cool—nothing too fussy. Her hair, blown shiny and straight, tickled her bare back. She left on the bra and panties. They were brand new, a matched silken set, green to match her eyes. The bra jacked her boobs up to her collarbone. They were among her favorite body parts, and she wasn't afraid to show them off. The undies were booty shorts with lace trim. Cute, but she could do better. She'd tape some lingerie photos to the fridge. Demi had buffed, waxed, and polished for tonight. Every inch of her skin was smooth and hairless. She'd been to see the waxing lady, a Russian who called her vag “cookie.” Demi once sent a photo of a Brazilian in progress to Sophia, with the caption: “Endangered beaver.” She and Sophia always sent crazy photos back and forth. It was their thing.

Heart pounding with excitement, Demi kicked aside her puddle of clothes, padded out of the kitchen and down the carpeted hallway to the bedroom. A glimpse inside confirmed that James was in bed, the sheet covering his lower half, the sheet pitched like a tent. He was perpetually hard. Demi couldn't suppress a giggle. James's muscular chest was exposed in all its glory. She could see one of the tattoos from his hockey days in university. Hockey players were her weakness.

“What're you doing?” James slurred. “Get your ass in here.”

Busted. He heard her. She could still make a dramatic entrance, though. Flinging the bedroom door open, she stepped into the room and said, “Welcome home!”

James's jaw hit the floor just as she hoped it would, but his eyes went wonky. He looked kind of horrified—or just massively fucked up?

Movement drew her eye toward the bathroom door. A person was coming out of there? Who the fuck could that be? Then, to her astonishment, a girl appeared on the threshold.

“It's not what you think,” said James.

“Oh, shit,” said the girl.

Demi looked from James to the girl, then back again. His head rolled to one side, too wasted to work up an appropriate shame face. The girl just stood there like this happened every day, which made Demi's blood turn to ice. The girl was like a teenage version of Demi, but with longer legs and bigger tits. Her bra was black, a tacky mesh lace with rhinestone hearts around the nipples. The panties were black, too, with a rhinestone arrow over the crotch and the word “FLIRT!” in script.

“I'm not really into threesomes,” said the girl.

Demi would have said the same, except she was incapable of speech.

“You're the girlfriend? James told me about you on the plane.” She had a Slavic accent. “I am Svetland. Nice to meet you.”

“You met on the flight?” croaked Demi.

In her head, Demi was screaming and beating the living shit out of James, but her body and mouth didn't move. What happened here? He got on a plane and grabbed some tacky model to bring back to their apartment while she was at work? This cheesy fembot was supposed to be an afternoon quickie for him that she would never know about?

How many others had there been?

Didn't he even care about getting caught?

He glanced at his phone on the night table, like it explained things. The phone? What did the phone have to do with Demi's … ohhhhh. Her brain cylinders fell into place
.
He was tracking her phone's GPS. She'd left it at work. He thought she was twenty minutes away, and that he'd have plenty of time to get rid of FLIRT! when the GPS dot started to move. Sneaky.

Svetland had retreated into the bathroom and came back out in a knockoff Versace dress, a barfy pseudo-Chanel bag thrown over her shoulder. Fake, fake, fake. In a perverse way, Demi was disappointed in him. He could do better.

The girl's shoulder brushed Demi's as she hustled out of the room. The contact made Demi feel suddenly, painfully exposed. She reached for her robe on a nearby chair and slipped it on. “How long?” she asked him. “And, more importantly, how many?”

“Are you really that paranoid and insecure?” he asked.

“Fuck you. Don't patronize me! I caught you red-handed.”

“If you give me five seconds to explain.” He rubbed his forehead, and Demi hoped he had a cracking migraine. “I was nervous about the flight, so I took a couple Ambiens and had a drink or two. I guess I passed out. It's pretty fuzzy how we got back here, but Svetland told me she practically carried me off the plane and got me in a cab. She asked me if she could take a quick shower here after the long flight, and considering all she did for me, I said yes. If it weren't for her, I don't know what would have happened to me. She got me home safe. Nothing happened. As you can see, I'm in no shape to screw anyone, including you. I wish I could, though. You look stunning.”

Demi was disgusted by the compliment. Did he think he could flatter his way out of this? She pulled the robe tighter. “That girl said the thing about a threesome.”

“A joke, obviously. Not too funny.”

Backtracking, Demi replayed the scene with the new info. Svetland's hair
was
wet. She had her carry-on in the bathroom, like she was in there to shower and change. James
was
a mess. He could barely keep his eyes open. She'd seen him dose liberally on flights before. Two drinks on top of an Ambien could drop a buffalo. Maybe she
was
being paranoid and insecure. If what he said were true, she owed them both an apology.
Now I look like a psycho
, she thought. She veered from one extreme (
it's a nightmare!
) to the other (
it's fine!
).

“You can't blame me for jumping to the wrong conclusion,” she said. “Finding a strange girl in the bathroom, anyone would freak out.”

“But you're not anyone,” he slurred, smiling slow and sexy, the same smile that enthralled her three years ago. “You're my soul mate.” Even wasted, he knew that meant the world to her.

Sophia would have vomited; Demi was so relieved to hear it, she rushed toward the bed and climbed in next to him. He opened his arms and she tucked herself inside them. James kissed the top of her head, stroked her hair, and said, “Shhhh.” She hadn't realized she was crying with relief—and not from his scotch-breath fumes.

“I just missed you,” she said. “We didn't have sex the night before you left.”

“I know.”

“All week, I've been worried you're bored with me.”

“Never.”

She snuggled closer to him, and put her hand on his muscular chest, right on top of his heart. Her fingers fanned to touch as much skin as possible. The sheet over his junk lifted.

Ignoring his flammable breath, Demi snuggled closer, and dipped her hand under the sheet. He saw what she was doing and shifted away from her, but not before her fingers grazed him.

It felt strange, gummy, not like normal skin. She started to pull the sheet away to get a look.

“No!” he said, holding it up.

They had a tug-of-war with the sheet. Demi was sober, and she had a better grip to start, so she had the advantage. She yanked it away, exposing James below the waist.

Demi screamed, “
Why the hell are you wearing a condom?
” His dick was dressed, like a little man in a pale blue slicker. They used them in their earliest days, but they got tested and she went on the pill. “You motherfucker,” Demi blasted, and launched herself out of the bedroom.

Her clothes. She needed her clothes, and then she had to get the hell out of there. Not only was he a liar and a cheater, he tried to turn it around, and made her feel like a thick-skulled, jealous nag. She had almost apologized!

Demi's knees buckled as she ran into the living room. She tried to keep calm. Her clothes and bag were in the kitchen. She threw off the robe and scooped up her dress. As she was pulling it over her head, James stumbled through the kitchen door, his blue penis bobbing like it had a life of its own.

“Get out of my way,” she said.

“We need to talk,” he said.

She struggled to get on her jacket. One of the sleeves was turned inside out. Legs shaking, she could barely step into her shoes.

“Listen to me,” he said. “You have every right to be upset. But it's not my fault. When I get fucked up, the drugs take over. I'm not responsible for my actions. And, believe me, Svetland is no innocent girl. She was all over me the whole flight.”

Rage ripped the roof off Demi's head. The bloody veal shanks were relaxing on the counter in front of her. She grabbed one in each hand, getting a firm grip with a thumb in each bone ring. Nostrils flaring, she said, “Move!” He backpedaled into the living room, hands up, eyes on her, dick bobbing. She thought,
That would make a great GIF for Insta.

Double fisting the veal steaks, Demi slapped him across his face with the meat. Unsteady on his feet, James went sprawling on his back in front of the TV. Demi advanced toward him on the floor and, with a blast of adrenaline-fueled fury, slapped his junk with the shanks. He rolled onto his side protectively. “Stop it, Christ!” he yelled, cycling his legs to get away.

Demi dropped the shanks and lunged back into the kitchen for her purse, quickly rinsed her hands in the sink, emptied out the catchall drawer cash stash, and banged out of the apartment. She pounded the elevator button, and said, “Come on, come on!” This didn't make it come any faster.

*   *   *

The twenty-minute drive to her office was dicey since she was practically blind from crying. Fortunately, her boss at the tiny marketing operation had gone home, and she was alone. The first thing she did was delete the Find My iPhone app from her phone, block James's number, and delete his contact info. Then she used her desktop to call Sophia in Toronto via Skype. When her friend's beautiful face filled the computer screen, Demi wailed.