Bliss (8 page)

“Nick. Nick and Sari.”

“Family name?”

“I don't know! Christ. Nick and Sari. Brother and sister from Singapore in one of the villas. How hard can it be to find them?”

The manager spoke to his counterpart at the Baray. “He says no one is staying there by that description.”

“Bullshit! I met Nick there last night,” she said.

One more round of Thai talk, and then the manager hung up. “I'm sorry, Ms. Hunting. They don't know these people.”

Leandra shook her head in disbelief. It was like
The Thailight Zone
. “This is bullshit,” she said. “We're going over there right now.”

“We?”

“Yes, you and me. I can't afford a taxi because your crappy hotel doesn't have digital safe locks!”

The manager agreed to take her to the Baray by taxi. Upon arrival, she stormed into the lobby in her sarong, spinning around until she found the woman in the red sash dress from the evening before. “You saw me and Nick last night! You were here.”

Mr. Mookba bowed to the red dress woman, and explained in Thai what was going on. The woman nodded along, looking shocked and saddened by the story. Leandra scrolled through her iPhone photos and found the selfie with Nick. “This guy! You must remember him,” she said. “He was here with his sister.”

When Leandra said the word “sister,” the woman blushed and shook her head. “Not brother sister,” she said. “Husband wife.”

“WHAT?” Leandra roared.

Then the story came out, as translated by the Sawasdee manager. The man and woman came to the Baray last evening. They said they were from Hong Kong, newlyweds on their honeymoon, staying at another hotel. They asked for a quick tour of the Baray, to see if they liked it enough to book it for an anniversary trip a year from now. Right before the tour began, the woman got a call. They kissed passionately good-bye and she left. The man took a tour. When it was over, he excused himself to the restroom. A minute later, Leandra walked in. The man came back into the lobby, and left with her.

It was all suddenly, disastrously clear. She'd been scammed. Nick and Sari were con artists. They saw her on the beach, a solo woman traveler, a first-timer to Asia, someone easily impressed and eager for companions. They painted a big red target on her back, hit hard and hit fast. It took less than seven hours for them to steal everything she owned. They'd never had such an easy mark.

How could a person ever recover from such a profound humiliation? It wasn't only that she was a sucker—the biggest sucker Nick and Sari, or whatever their names were, had ever taken. She'd orchestrated her own undoing by inviting him back to her room and being a besotted idiot. No wonder he bought her cheap street food! No wonder he wouldn't bring her back to his room. It was too much truth to swallow in one gulp. Shame engulfed her. She had fucked up monumentally with no one to help her. The sudden reality of how alone she was hit her like a tsunami.

Leandra felt dizzy. Her hand went to her temples, and then next thing she knew, she was on the mosaic floor, Mr. Mookba's face hovering over her, asking, “Can you hear me?”

A crowd gathered around her. She heard someone say, “Call the American embassy.”

“I'm CANADIAN!” she sobbed.

The manager got her into a taxi, and brought her back to the Sawasdee. He volunteered to make some calls on her behalf. She nodded mutely, in a state of shock. “The worst part is,” she said as the concierge held her hand, “I really wanted to feed those monkeys.”

 

4

only serial killers don't like pumpkin

A week after the breakup, driving home in the middle of the night from Opus, her favorite bar, Demi made a few lefts, a few rights, and then ripped into a parking spot like a race car driver. She tripped out of the car when her foot didn't land on the curb. And why would it? She parked two feet away from it. Should she get back in the car, pull out, and try to park again, or just leave it for four hours until she had to drive to work? She might get a ticket.

“Screw it,” she said.

She walked to the front door of the building. But the key didn't go in. She jammed it a few times to no avail. “What's wrong with this thing?” she said, glancing at the door and looking around.

Then it hit her. Nothing wrong with the key, but she was trying to use it on the wrong door. She'd driven herself to James's building on automatic pilot. She had sworn she'd never come back here, and yet here she was, standing at her ex's doorway. If he appeared right now, he'd think she'd come crawling back to him, drunk in the middle of the night.

Instead of sprinting back to her car to peel out of there, Demi paused.
What would happen if I buzzed?
Buzzing when buzzed, like bootie texting or drunk dialing. Not advisable. But she was here, and James was probably asleep in bed next to some rank slut. When he got up to see who was buzzing, he might trip and break his neck in the dark, so there was an upside. She slurred out a laugh, followed by a hiccup.

What would Sophia say?
“Get back in your car and leave!” Followed by, “Don't drive drunk! Get out of the car and walk!”

Yes, that would be the wise thing to do. Instead, Demi leaned her full weight on James's buzzer for ten solid seconds.

Cackling, she weaved back to her Audi, jumped in, and made her getaway, almost clipping a parked car in her rush. As she drove through empty streets toward her new building five miles away, Demi's smile turned thin and mean.

This is not me
, she thought.
He's turned me into a drunken jaded bitch
. So he'd cheated on her with countless hoes for the entire three years they were together. Was that inexcusable? James apparently thought so. It'd been a whole week since Demi left, and he hadn't called to ask for forgiveness. Not a peep from him. No missed calls or “let's talk” texts. She'd expected him to beg for mercy once or twice a day, across several different platforms and devices. She had blocked his number, but he could have found a way. Depending on her mood and the medium, Demi would have heard him out. She might even have considered taking him back, albeit on a short leash with a choke collar. But that selfish prick didn't give her the courtesy of groveling. Of all the ways he'd hurt her, his radio silence post-breakup might be the worst. It made her want another drink.

When in doubt, wine not. It's Wine O'Clock.
She laughed to herself. The ironic part: Demi hadn't been much of a drinker with James. Two wasted people in one couple was a recipe for disaster. Single Demi was making up for lost time. Her long-neglected friends were all too happy to celebrate the breakup with her, especially if she were buying the drinks. James had transferred some money into her bank account, like a parting gift. She was burning through it, in a blur. At some point soon, Demi would stop drowning her sorrows, get on dry land, and deal. Her parents—both sets—didn't know about the breakup yet. She wasn't ready for “we knew he wasn't The One,” followed by mature and responsible suggestions about how to live her life. She'd only just figured out
where
to live.

Her new apartment complex was called the Grace. She had toured a dozen apartments, and this one-bedroom was the only decent place in her price range that was available immediately. She'd moved in a couple of days ago with the suitcases she'd packed when James was at work. No furniture yet, so she slept on a mattress on the floor. Her schedule—going to work by nine
A.M.
, coming home in the middle of the night, wasted—wasn't conducive to bonding with the neighbors. She hadn't met any of them yet.

She parked tighter this time, her rear tire rising onto the curb, lifting the back right corner of the car off the pavement. Bone tired and queasy, Demi eased out of the car carefully this time. She made it halfway up the walk toward the front door when the world tilted to one side. Her legs buckled. The ground rushed up to meet her face.

It was a semi-soft landing. Demi crashed through some bushes on the way down. The sound of snapping branches and an oomph when she hit the dirt seemed to come from a distance, as if someone
else
had taken a header into the shrubs. Demi thought of herself as a down-to-earth person, but …
Fuck me, I just ate it big-time
. She wheezed out a laugh that sounded a bit like a dying seal.

She tried to push herself upright, but her hair was tangled in the twigs. The trickle on her cheek could be blood, or tears, or saliva. Struggling to move, she managed to roll over and see the brightening sky. The stars were gone. It was getting light out. Her best bet, her only feasible option, was to just lie here, close her eyes for a minute, and wait for her head to stop spinning. Like Demi, time collapsed. The next thing she knew, it was morning.

“Is she dead?” asked a female voice over her.

“Dead drunk.”

Demi opened her eyes a slit, and made out a pair of wrinkly faces hovering above, haloed with nimbuses of white hair. “Call the cops,” said the woman in an orange windbreaker.

“I know this girl,” said the other in Lululemon yoga pants and jacket. “She moved into Miriam's apartment last week. May she rest in peace.” They both made the sign across their chests.

Rest in peace sounded perfect. Demi would love to close her eyes and snuggle into her pillow of mulch. But the two oldies each took an arm, and pulled her upright. She hoped she didn't pull them down with her, and forced herself to focus.

“That's a very pretty windbreaker,” said Demi. “I don't want to heave on it.” The ladies instantly dropped her arms, and she fell backward, landing on the ground.

“Here's Wally,” said Yoga Pants, waving at someone Demi couldn't see. An ancient dude, the one who winked at her every day when she left for work as he set out on his snail-paced morning walk.

“She's cute,” he said, studying Demi through thick bifocals. “Except she smells like a distillery.”

“We can't just leave her here,” said Yoga Pants with a soft English accent. “The dog walker comes by every morning with those five poodles. This is their favorite pee stop.”

Demi sniffed and could pick up traces of dog piss. That did it. Her stomach convulsed.

“Incoming!” yelled the man.

Demi was impressed by how quickly the seniors jumped out of the way. Except for Orange Windbreaker. She was kind of doddering.

“My new arch supporters!”

“Sorry!”

“Let's get her inside,” said Yoga Pants. “She needs a shower and coffee.”

Wally said with a chuckle, “If I were her age, I'd volunteer to undress her.”

Demi liked the pervy old man. He kept it light. The three of them were on her again, pulling her upright to standing. Her stomach spasmed again, but she swallowed hard to keep it down. “Who's Miriam?” she asked.

They ignored the question. Instead, Yoga Pants asked, “What happened to you, dear?”

“Do you mean last night, or my whole life?”

“Oh, honey,” she said, double dose of sympathy, like she genuinely cared.

Demi looked into her warm blue eyes, and found an ocean of compassion in them. The affect was sobering, and Demi was suddenly, mortally embarrassed. “I'm fine,” she said, standing taller, steadier. “Just another Wednesday night.”

“Thursday morning,” said Wally.

“I'm going to pay for your shoes, and wash the sidewalk. I promise. I just need, like, a hose. Is there a hose somewhere?”

“Over there.” Wally pointed toward the side of the building. “I'll get it.”

“Let him clean up,” said Yoga Pants. “He loves a project.”

Hosing puke was a project? Like scrapbooking? “I need a hobby,” said Demi. “Hobbies are good.”

“Hobbies are essential to happiness,” said Yoga Pants. “Come on, I'll help you get inside.”

“What about our walk?” That was Orange Windbreaker.

“Go on your walk, really. I'm okay,” said Demi, bending down to pick up her bag and backing toward the Grace's front door. A handsome senior couple in matching workout gear, sunglasses, and hand weights stormed past them.
Great
, she thought.
The one day I meet all the neighbors
.

Hands shaking, Demi managed to turn the key and crawl up the two flights to her apartment. Alone finally, Demi stripped, and stood under a scalding hot shower until her skin turned bright pink. After two Tylenol and a coconut water, she set her phone alarm for two hours from then, and lay down on the mattress on the floor to sleep.

*   *   *

Demi rolled into the office at midday in her standard work clothes: Citizens of Humanity jeans, a close-fitting American Apparel long-sleeved navy T-shirt, and suede Vans. Maya Lundy, her boss and friend, was on the phone and waved hello. Lundy Events was a micro company, just the two desks in one room. You'd think Demi and Maya would get on each other's nerves from all that togetherness, and you'd be right. Their personalities chafed, but only occasionally. For the most part, their collaboration worked pretty well. Demi really looked up to Maya. She was forty-two, but they would go out for drinks and chat for hours. Sometimes, she babysat Maya's daughters. Not lately, though. When work slowed down—rarely—Maya told Demi about her days at Pepperdine, her years living in Venice. Demi would love to live in California!