Pounding the Pavement (31 page)

Who I am kidding? I’ve been so traumatized by the events of my day, I’ve officially gone delusional. I’ve painted Amanda in a light so glowingly fierce, it would have seared the pale sheath of skin right off her bones.

Amanda isn’t the person I need tonight. She never was.

I reach for the phone on the coffee table and start dialing.

“Hello?”

“Jake, it’s me. I want you to come over.”

“Oh, yeah?” He hesitates. “Sure, why not? I’ll throw my journal into my bag, and maybe my credit card statements. Anything else you’d like to sort through?”

“Please, don’t be mean to me.” I swallow to keep my throat from constricting. “I’ve had a rough day.”

“Yeah? Having a job wasn’t all it was cracked up to be? I could have told you that.”

“I got fired.”

“Ha-ha. Very funny.”

“No. I’m serious.”

I can hear the sharp whistle as he sucks in his breath. “Really?”

“Yeah.”

He pauses. “I’ll be right there.”

He shows up at my door an hour later. When I see him standing in my hallway, wearing the same gray, waffled long-sleeved shirt he wore the first day I met him, my heart stops. I have no intention of asking about his day nor do I wish to fill him in on the details of mine. Without a word, with the door still open, I thrust myself against him, grind myself up against his hard ribs, and force my
tongue into his mouth. He lifts me off my feet—I kid you not! Me!—and carries me off to the bedroom. Maybe he closes the door behind him, maybe not. Who cares?

My bedroom is a whirlwind of discarded clothes, of sheets and pillows kicked off the bed. And when the angry storm has subsided, I look up to find Jake’s smooth, naked body hovering above me. With a gentle smile, he brushes my hair away from my face and kisses me lightly on the lips. I grip his arms tightly, digging my nails into his shoulder blades, as he lowers himself carefully and deliberately.

Jake cups my face with his soft, strong hand and nestles his head against the crook of my neck. I close my eyes and feel his fingertips graze the back of my ear.

“I love you,” he whispers.

We stop and pull apart immediately. And we both wait fearfully for my reaction.

I burst into tears.

    I wake up the next morning to the pounding of my own heart. For a few moments, I try to string together a hazy recollection of events and vaguely recall having been awakened earlier to Jake’s soft lips pressed against my cheek, his whispered promise to call me later. Everything else is a blur.

The mystery of the fog that clouds my memory terrifies me. It’s not that I don’t know what happened last night—although the specifics remain painfully unclear—but what bothers me most is I still have no idea how I feel about it.

The shrill ring of my phone does nothing to arouse me from my baffled stupor. I pick up the receiver only because that’s what my hands have been programmed to do. It is as if I’ve used an automated finger to click the answer button, a recorded greeting to say hello.

“Sarah, I am soooo sorry,” says Laurie.

“About what?”

“I heard about Marianne Langold. I told you she was a bitch!”

“Oh, that. Don’t worry about it. It’s fine.”

“What do you mean, it’s fine?”

And then it slams me and knocks me down—each awful, vivid detail of everything that happened the night before. I press a cool palm against my fevered forehead and cringe.

“Oh, no …” I groan.

“What?” Laurie demands. “What’s the matter?”

I try my best to explain my night with Jake, euphemizing my way through the moments that would normally make me blush.

“And then …” I wince at the thought of repeating it. “And then he told me he loved me.”

“Shut up!”

“I know, right?”

“When did he say it?”

“Well, you know … during.”

“During sex?”

“Yeah.” Well, wouldn’t you know it? I’m blushing.

“Nah-ah!” Laurie lowers her voice. “And what did you do?”

“I cried.”

“Oh,
no.”

“Yeah.”

“Was the sex any good?”

My blush deepens, my cheeks fueled with burning blood. “It was … well …” I sigh. “Yes. It was good. Very, very good.” And that’s about as detailed as I can handle.

“Oh, Sarah.” She clucks her tongue reproachfully. “Don’t you know that crying is always a reaction to good sex?” My intercom buzzes. “Was that your doorbell?”

“Umm, yeah, I guess so.” I glance suspiciously at my hallway.

“You need to get it?”

“I don’t know. Everyone I know is at work. What time is it anyway?”

“Ten.”

“Weird. You think if I don’t answer it, they’ll just go away?” The intercom buzzes again. “Guess not.”

“Go ahead and get it. I have to take this call anyway. I’ll call you right back.”

“If I’m still alive,” I mutter. I toss my phone aside and answer my doorbell.

“Delivery!”

I buzz him in.

I open my door and am greeted with an armload of gerbera daisies. The wild array of petals and jutting stems blocks my view, but somehow or another, someone hands me a pen and shoves a clipboard under my bouquet. I hastily sign my name. The clipboard disappears, and so does the pen, and then I hear a merry “bye-bye.” I can sense my anonymous messenger scurrying down the hallway. How strange. To have been so close to someone, to have been able, even, to reach out and touch him—and I never saw his face. And how often does this happen? How many times have total strangers brushed against me, grazed my side, only to disappear unnoticed back into the crowd?

I sigh and retreat into my apartment, shutting the door behind me with my foot.

I love you, now flowers too? Forgive me. I know I should be overjoyed. Every girl loves a gerbera daisy. And yet, I’m overcome with the troubling thought that perhaps I’ve stepped onto a carousel spinning far too fast. Don’t get me wrong. I enjoy a carnival ride as much as the next person. But if you stay on too long, the colors become blinding, the music a little disorienting, and the next thing you know, you’re puking up funnel cake next to a Porta Potti.

I set the flowers down on the coffee table and pull out the card:

The phone rings again.

“Yeah, hi. Everything is okay,” I answer.

“Sarah?” Oops. It’s not Laurie. It’s a voice I recognize but can’t immediately place.

“Oh, yes. Speaking,” I say, rapidly shifting gears.

“Sarah, this is Kelly Martin from
Aspen Quarterly
. We spoke about a month ago?”

“Of course, I remember.”

“Well, I’ve got good news!”

I got the job.

M
aking a major decision is like pulling off a Band-Aid. It’s best to do it quickly and spare yourself the agony.

Unfortunately, by nature, I’m not very decisive. I envy the sort of people who can walk into a newly renovated apartment, pivot once, and say, “I’ll take it.” People who can dine at restaurants and, before the waitress has even finished rattling off the dinner specials, can immediately interject, “Oh, that’s what I’ll have!” Or newly-weds in the throes of passion who can whisper into their lover’s ear, “Let’s forget the condom this time.”

Me, I love to torture myself with second guesses, swilling them like red wine on my palate until I gag and choke. But this time I surprise myself. I accept the job in Aspen without a moment’s hesitation. Because, ultimately, saying “yes” is a hell of a lot easier than saying “no.” “No” generally requires an explanation. “Yes,” on the other hand, is a given, a one-word, irrefutable leap of faith. It’s mercifully swift and painless.

It never occurs to me that the possibly life-altering decision I’ve made so thoughtlessly is one I can change. To be honest, I find the
plunge—the leap, if you will—exhilarating. Over the course of the next couple of days, I assign myself the enormously satisfying task of organizing years of clutter into two categories, Toss and Keep. Again, I have no time for long, drawn-out contemplation. I’ve got only a week to clean up and ship out. Every item in my apartment has become its own Rorschach inkblot, requiring a split-second reaction. And so I hastily decide exactly which memories I wish to keep. And those which I will doom to oblivion.

When I finally stop free-falling, I am appalled to discover I’ve belly flopped. A hot sting socks me in the stomach. It happens just as I’m sorting and packing my collection of college T-shirts and I find one that doesn’t belong to me.

It belongs to Jake.

T
here are several possible scenarios for my dinner tonight with Jake, none of which are very appealing. For example:

INT. RESTAURANT—NIGHT (SCENE #1)

He’s angry, fueled with pent-up, early Marlon Brando—type rage (think
Streetcar Named Desire)
. When I tell him I’m leaving for Aspen, he says nothing at first. We sit in stony, menacing silence and for a split second I let myself believe that the moment may pass without incident. But then he tosses his napkin onto the table, choosing instead to graze his mouth with the back of his hand, like he’s wiping off blood from his lower lip. In one fell swoop, he flings his arm clear across the table, shattering the plates and glasses. And when he stands, he knocks over the chair. En route to the front entrance, he even shoves the waiter out of his way. The door slams shut behind him, giving all the other restaurant patrons an unexpected
jolt. And yet, I’m the one they glare at. Because not only have I just ruined my own life, but I’ve also just ruined dinner for everyone.

Or …

INT. RESTAURANT — NIGHT (SCENE #2)

He’s hurt. But in a charming, heartaching Cary Grant kind of way. I break the news to him gently and, for a moment at least, he takes it in stride. He tries to make light of the situation, gesturing comically and cracking a few quips. But amid his nervous fumbling, he accidentally knocks over the salt shaker. We both grow quiet. For although neither of us is particularly superstitious, we know a table full of spilled salt couldn’t possibly be a good sign. Now, conceivably, he could just throw a pinch of it over his shoulder and say that’s that—but instead he runs his hand slowly over the grains, studying them a little too closely. When he looks back up at me, his eyes are red and shining. In a voice uncharacteristically low and serious, he begs me to change my mind, to stay with him. And I say … well, I don’t know what I say.

Or …

INT. RESTAURANT — NIGHT (SCENE #3)

He’s casual. So cool, so nonchalant, so detached, he’s practically Bogart. No weepy farewells here. Instead of a kiss, he socks me playfully on the shoulder. Or maybe the jaw. “Chin up,” he tells me when he sees I’m on the verge of tears. “There’ll be other dames.” And when hysterically I insist we can still make it work, we can at least give long-distance love a shot, he’ll snort and shake his head. “Not for me, kid.”

T
here’s also another dinner scenario (SCENE #4), one I’d rather not entertain. But it’s an alternative I’ve been growing fonder and fonder of with each passing butterfly flutter in my stomach. I could simply not tell him at all. Why should I tell him? I haven’t told Laurie yet. Or Amanda. I still haven’t even called my mother. Telling people about my decision would make it a harsh, cold fact when I’ve been doing such a good job pretending nothing will change at all. I see no reason to shatter the illusion just yet. Instead, why not just have a lovely dinner and afterward, a night of steamy, passionate lovemaking? And come Saturday, I could disappear without a word, evaporating into thin air like the fragments of a wistful dream.

Wouldn’t that be nice?

SCENE #4 IT IS.

It is, perhaps, the longest dinner of my life. The butterflies in my stomach are flapping their wings so hard, I can only assume there has been a tragic series of earthquakes somewhere in Japan. I spend the evening staring at Jake so intently, he keeps patting his face with a dinner napkin.

“What? I have tomato sauce on my nose?”

“No, no, you’re fine,” I assure him.