Body Check (15 page)

Heat flashed up Janna's neck to her face. “I—assume so,” she replied, flustered. She hadn't even thought of that.

“You assume but you don't know,” resumed Theresa, Perry Mason-style.

“Theresa, what was I supposed to say?” Janna's eyes began following her friend as she resumed her pacing. She was beginning to feel incredibly stupid.

“How about, ‘Are you planning to continue to sleep with other people, Ty?' ” Theresa's expression was resolute. “You have a right to know, Janna.”

“I know, I know, I know,” Janna replied, feeling harangued. She sipped her wine. “I guess I was just so—I don't know—
stunned
by what happened I didn't think to ask that.”

“Well, the next time you two decide to christen a kitchen floor, I think you should.” She perched on the arm of the couch. “Guys are different creatures, Janna. Their definition of ‘casual' and our definition of ‘casual' are radically different.”

“Really?” Janna replied sarcastically. “I had no idea. Tell me more about relationships, Miss Twelve Years in Catholic School.”

Theresa pulled a face. “Look, I'm not trying to piss in your Cheerios, okay? I just don't want you to get hurt.”

“How can I get hurt?” Janna asked plaintively. “We
both
agreed to keep it casual.”

“Yeah, but you're lying.” Before Janna could protest, Theresa was off again. “I
know
you, MacNeil. I know when you really like someone, and you really like this guy.”

“So?” Janna sniffed defensively.

“So given the choice, you'd really rather have a
relationship,
but since Captain Kitchen Sex wants to keep it casual, you've agreed, because having something with him is better than nothing.”

“Sister, you are
so
wrong,” Janna insisted. “For one thing, I don't think Ty Gallagher and I could
have
a relationship: The man lives, eats and breathes hockey. It would never work outside the bedroom. For another thing, I don't want to jeopardize this gig with Kidco. They're paying me a lot of money, you know. I really have to make sure that work remains my priority. I know you don't believe me, but a casual fling with Ty Gallagher suits me just fine. I've got enough on my plate without having to worry about keeping some guy happy.”

“Hhmmph,” Theresa harrumphed, clearly not buying it. “You want to believe that, that's fine. But don't come crying to me when you find out he's shooting his puck into some other woman's net.”

Janna cringed. “Oh, that was bad. Bad, bad, bad.”

“Cut me some slack, I had an awful day at work.” Carefully holding her glass aloft, Theresa let herself tumble sideways off the arm of the couch onto one of the cushions.

“Speaking of which,” said Janna, “I need to talk to you about something business-related.”

“And that would be?”

“Do you think you could arrange for one of my guys to do a cameo on
The Wild and the Free
?”

Theresa blanched. “A cameo? What are you, nuts? These guys aren't actors, they can't speak lines.”

“It'll be three lines max, Theresa. You know that.”

Theresa paused, thinking. “What about Lubov?”

“Lubov?!” Janna exclaimed. “As you know, he can barely speak English.”

“I bet I can teach him,” Theresa purred.

“Your obsession with Lex is becoming unhealthy, you know.”

“I've told you repeatedly that I want to go on a date with him but you refuse to listen.”

“Hey, you had your chance at the Chapter House,” Janna pointed out.

“Hardly!” Theresa retorted. “That toothless
gavone
Michael Dante wouldn't let either of us get a word in edgewise!”

Janna remained unmoved, so Theresa put on her best let's-make-a-deal smile. She began massaging a crick in her neck. “If you won't help me, then I just don't know if I'll be able to help you.”

Janna clucked her tongue. “Fine, I'll tell Lex you're interested
if
you get me the cameo. We'll go down to the locker room before the game Friday night, okay? After that, you're on your own.”

Theresa leaned forward eagerly. “You'll butter him up beforehand, though, right? Let him know it was really him I wanted to talk to that night at the bar, etcetera, etcetera.”

“Sure. Fine. Whatever,” Janna agreed, too tired to argue.

Theresa smiled. “What would I do without you, Jans?”

“Gee, I don't know, Ter. What would you do?”

“Starve. Be bored. Have no way to get into hockey games for free.” She reached out and tweaked Janna's cheek. “You're the best, MacNeil. Who knows? Maybe you and me and Lex and the captain can go out for a
casual
dinner one night.”

“Right, and maybe my boss is going to go veggie and start running five miles a day. C'mon, let's go check that moussaka. I'm starved.”

 

 

Chanting “You can
do this”
was usually her work mantra.
This
morning, however, Janna was trying to fortify herself in order to break up with Robert. They were meeting for coffee at the Happy Fork Diner. No Starbucks for Robert the artiste, no sir, God forbid. He'd nearly bitten her head off when she even dared to suggest it, spewing something about Corporate America, how they force you to say “tall” when you really want “small,” pesticide-coated arabica beans and God only knows what else. Once, his vehement politics would have had her swooning, he was just
sooo
committed. Now it drove her to the point of coma, she was so bored. She let him pick the place, she picked the time, and they left it at that.

She'd never broken up with someone before, at least not someone with whom she'd been involved for three years running. Granted, she had been the one to pull the plug on her relationship with Tony Alhandro in college, but that didn't count, because it was college, and anyone who claimed to be a Marxist while owning a gold Amex card courtesy of Mummy and Daddy deserved to be dumped anyway. But still, it did make Janna wonder why, up until now, she always found herself attracted to these lefty, artist-types. Could it have to do with deliberately choosing men who were different from her driven, working-class father? Or did she subconsciously pick men she could feel superior to economically? Maybe there wasn't a grand reason behind it at all. Maybe she was, as Theresa so delicately put it once, a “freak magnet.” But if that were true, how did one explain the appearance of Ty Gallagher on the radar screen?

She pushed through the heavy swinging doors of the diner, grateful for the rush of warmth immediately enveloping her, and the fact that Robert wasn't there yet. It was cold outside, the morning forecast calling for possible flurries. Spotting a booth in the back, she hurried toward it, quickly slipping off her trench coat and sliding onto the maroon Naugahyde bench.

Within seconds a dark, heavyset man with a distinct unibrow appeared and grunted what sounded to her like “Coffee?” Janna nodded and he plodded away, returning a minute later with a sloshing cup of viscous black liquid and a menu the size of a small headstone. Janna told him she was expecting someone else and would wait to order. His response was to hurl some sugar packets down on the table and trudge over to the next booth. Janna sipped the contents of her cup, which had spilled over onto the saucer.
Oh. Yuck. This might have been coffee yesterday,
she thought disgustedly,
but today it's diesel oil
. After she was done breaking up with Robert, she
would
head over to Starbucks for a double cappuccino, no two ways about it. There were some things a body simply couldn't do without.

Perusing the menu, she kept one eye cocked on the door. The diner was loud and crowded. The mousy-looking guy in the booth behind Janna was screaming into his cell phone about “the operation not being successful.” In the booth across from her, an older couple were eating dry English muffins and reading the
Post
.

Just when she was on the verge of developing extensive biographies of her fellow diners to entertain herself, Robert came in. Janna felt her guts plummet to her feet. He ambled toward the table, his secondhand overcoat swimming on his licorice-thin body, his black beret tilted at what he probably thought was a rakish angle. Mortification seized her. Was this really the man she'd been seen around town with for the past three years? What had she been
thinking
?

“Ma cherie
.
”
He leaned down and planted a chaste, affectionate kiss on her cheek before hanging up his coat, the strong scent of cigarettes wafting from him, the result of the
très expensive
Galoises he insisted on smoking. He didn't have money for a decent coat, but he'd spend money on imported French cigarettes. Amazing.

He slid into the opposite side of the booth from Janna and craned his head around, searching for the waiter. “
Garçon,
a cup of coffee, please,” he called out.

“Can you cut the Chevalier imitation for just one minute?” she asked, irritated.

“Someone seems cranky this morning.”

“Someone is.”

Amazingly, the waiter appeared within seconds with a cup of coffee for Robert.

“Ah,
merci
.” He smiled at Janna, a clueless smile she wished she could rake off his face. “Are you ready to order, my sweet?”

Janna shot him a look that could curdle cream and glanced up at the waiter. “I'll have a chocolate chip muffin, please,” she said politely, handing back the oversized menu.

“And I'll have a croissant,” said Robert pleasantly. The waiter disappeared. “So, what's on your mind?” Sympathy lined his face. “You look tired.”

“I am. I've been working really hard.” Just seeing him sitting there, so unsuspecting, filled her with guilt. “You look tired, too,” she observed, stalling.

“I was burning the midnight oil. You know me, I work best at night, as is the case with many artists. But”—his face broke into a self-satisfied grin as he reached into his back pocket and he pulled out a folded wad of papers—“the lack of sleep paid off. I wrote three new poems, which I intend to read at the Poetry Slam tonight. In fact, one of them is about you, it's called ‘Angel in Practical Shoes, A Canto.' Want to hear it?”

“No, I don't.” She'd heard his poetry before, and admittedly, it wasn't that bad. But this was neither the time nor place for him to recite a poem about
her
, especially in light of what she was about to do. In the meantime, she had begun shredding the napkin in her lap. She hesitated, looking for the right words. Then she realized: there were no right words. No matter what she said, he'd be upset. Better to just get it over with.

“Look, Robert, I don't think we should see each other anymore.”

“Um, okay,” he managed after a considerable pause, looking and sounding confused. “Can I ask why?”

“It's just not working for me, all right?” Shred, shred, shred. “I think you're a great guy, it's just time for me—for both of us—to move on. You know?”

You're so right, Janna wanted him to say. But he didn't. Instead, the color drained from his face and his eyes looked sad as he asked in a beaten voice, “Did I do something to offend or upset you? Because if I did—”

“You didn't do anything,” Janna jumped in to assure him. “It's me, all right?” Shred, shred, shred.
Spout another cliche why don't you?
“It's me.”

Glassy-eyed, he appeared not to be listening. “Have you found someone else?”

“Of course not, don't be silly.” She wished she could tell him the truth, but she was afraid: Robert was an intense guy. Janna could imagine him intensely stalking her if he found out about her and Ty.

“You're just unhappy,” he said woodenly.

“Yes.”

Looking numb, he slipped his papers back into the rear pocket of his jeans. Then, without any warning, he hung his head and began to cry. Out of the corner of her eye, Janna could see the old couple at the next booth discreetly peering at him over their newspapers.

“Robert,” she implored frantically, “get a grip, will, you please?”

“
Mon dieu,
how can this be happening?” he wept. He raised his teary face to Janna. “You're my muse! Without you my creative impulse will die, it will wither on the vine!”

And then you'll get a real job,
Janna thought. Instead she said, “That's not true, and you know it. You'll still be able to write.”

“Ability is one thing, desire another,” was his bitter response. “Without you, I won't
want
to write.”

Janna was silent. This could go on forever, him pointing out how she was ruining his life and her insisting that really, she wasn't, even though it was possible she was. He'd grown up poor, he'd chosen a profession where he'd no doubt remain poor, his mother was the poster girl for Thorazine, and now his girlfriend was dumping him. The impulse to completely contradict herself and take him back was strong, but Janna squelched it, reminding herself that pity was a poor basis for a relationship. It had to end here, now. She kept quiet.

Robert's face, which had been contorted in agony, now shone with incredulous anger. “You don't care, do you? You don't care if you kill my creative spirit.”

Janna thought a moment. She knew the right answer. “Not really.”

“I knew it! I knew you'd turn into one of
them
eventually.”

“One of them?”

“It's finally happened, hasn't it? You've utterly and completely sold out.”