The Hopefuls (32 page)

I gave a short laugh. “Things are fine,” I said.

“Really?” He turned his head to look at me, and I shrugged. I knew what he was asking, I just wasn't sure how to answer. Was he hoping I'd tell him that Matt and I were even more miserable than last week? Or that things were better?

“No, not really,” I finally said. “Nothing's worse, I guess. I think it's just going to take time.”

Jimmy nodded and said, “That makes sense.”

The house was dark when we got there, and Jimmy turned on the lights as we walked through each room. “Is Ash staying at her parents' tonight?” I asked, and Jimmy said, like he didn't care one way or the other, “I don't know.”

We walked through the kitchen, where Jimmy stopped at the refrigerator. “Want a beer?” he asked, and I said, “Sure, why not?” He grabbed two and opened one before handing it to me. It was one of the leftover pumpkin beers from Halloween and it was a little too sweet, but I took a long drink anyway.

I cleared my throat, trying to think of something to talk about, and then finally said, “I should get my stuff.” And as I headed toward the basement, Jimmy walked with me like it was a normal thing to do, followed me down the stairs and sat on the couch outside the bedroom as I went in to grab the dress I was planning to wear the next night. When I returned, Jimmy was reclining on the couch with his feet resting on the coffee table. I draped my dress over the back of a chair and then sat on the other side of the couch, picked up my beer, and took a sip.

In all the months we'd lived at the Dillons', they almost never came to the basement—I could count the number of times Ash had been down there on one hand, and that was only after I'd called upstairs for her to come and give me an opinion on what I was wearing. And I was pretty sure Jimmy hadn't stepped foot in there once. They did this on purpose, I'm sure, trying to give us privacy to make it feel like it was our own space. And they'd done such a good job that I'd almost forgotten this basement belonged to them. Jimmy seemed out of place in it.

“What time does everything start tomorrow?” I asked, at the same time that Jimmy said, “You must be ready to get out of here.” We looked at each other, both smiled just a little, and then I answered, “Maybe. It feels sad now that it's all ending, doesn't it?”

“You have no idea how sad,” Jimmy said, and I felt like an idiot.

“I'm sorry,” I said. “Of course, I didn't mean—” But Jimmy held up his hand.

“It's okay,” he said. “I know what you meant.”

“How are you feeling? I mean, I guess that's sort of an obvious question.” I felt like I was tripping over my words.

“Not that obvious. Do you know that no one's asked me that? Not Ash or my parents. No one.”

“I'm sure they just don't want you to have to talk about how disappointed you are. They already know.”

“Yeah,” Jimmy said. “It just sucks though, you know? That's really all it comes down to.” He set his beer on the table and put his head in his hands and the first thing I thought was, Oh God, please don't cry. But I didn't see his shoulders moving and his breathing sounded normal.

“Hey,” I said, getting up and moving next to him, putting my hand on his back. “It's okay.”

He looked up then, and I was aware of how loudly my heart was beating. I hoped he couldn't see it. My mouth felt dry as I said, “It won't seem so bad with a little distance.”

“I know,” Jimmy said. My hand was still on his back, and he put his hand on my leg. “You should listen to your own advice sometime.”

It had been over ten years since I'd been in this particular type of situation, and I was surprised at how familiar it still felt—those seconds when you're with a guy and know something is about to happen, when both of you feel the possibility, the electricity between you; but you also know it's still early enough to get out of it, that one of you could shift or look away and let the moment pass, leaving you to wonder later if you'd made up the whole thing in your head. Our eyes met and I told myself this was a bad idea, that I should stand up or walk out, or just do
something.

And then, a split second later, we moved toward each other. He had his hands on my hips and lifted me on top of him in one quick movement, and then we were kissing, quickly and with an urgency I hadn't felt in a long time. He moved one hand to cup the back of my head, and before I realized what was happening, his other hand was under my dress, pushing my underwear to the side, not bothering to take it off before putting his fingers inside me. I pressed back against him, moaned as he said, “You're so wet,” in a way that felt like a compliment, like it was something I could control.

I could feel him hard underneath me, and he started to unbuckle his jeans, which brought me back to reality for a second and I said, “Wait,” and then he pulled my mouth back toward him and we were kissing again. It was only when he said my name, when I heard him say, “Beth,” in a hoarse voice, that things became clear and I pulled away, sat up sharply, looked at him straight on. It was then that we both heard footsteps above us, and I stood up quickly, realizing as I did that Jimmy's fingers had still been inside me.

I would like to think we would've stopped then anyway—that whatever crazy spell I was under would've broken, that we would've returned to our senses. That's what I tell myself, that anyone can lose her mind for a few minutes. But the truth is, I don't know for sure.

As Matt walked into the room, I was standing next to the couch, where Jimmy was still sitting. There was nothing inappropriate about it—we weren't in any sort of compromising position—but we were flustered and rumpled and our faces must have given us away, because Matt looked back and forth between us a few times, slowly, and then he said, “What the fuck?”

“Matt—” I started, but he gave me such an angry look that I stopped. I glanced over at Jimmy and could see through his pants that he was still hard and wondered if Matt noticed.

“What the fuck is happening here?” he said.

“Nothing,” I said.

“Nothing,” Jimmy echoed. “Kelly, it's nothing.”

Matt lunged at him so quickly that I barely realized he'd moved before he was across the room, grabbing Jimmy by the collar, pulling him up off the couch, and pushing him against the wall.

“What the fuck is going on here?”

“Nothing. Look, I was upset and Beth was comforting me and we were a little too close for a second, but that's all.”

“Don't fucking talk to me about my wife,” Matt said. Never in my life had I heard him use the word
fuck
so often in such a short span of time. It was so frequent that it was almost ridiculous, like a teenager who's just learned to swear and is trying to sound tough. It sounded wrong coming out of his mouth—he was too proper for that. But each time he said it, everything around me sharpened into focus, like I was waking up from a dream.

“Matt, really,” I said. “It was nothing.”

“Nothing?” he asked, looking at me and then turning back to Jimmy. “Were you about to fuck my wife?” He pushed him against the wall again. I'd never seen Matt get in a fight, never seen him get physical with anyone. It wasn't his style. He was too practical, too levelheaded to act like this.

Even with my heart beating fast and my cheeks burning, knowing I'd just acted in a horrible and stupid way, the scene in front of me was so dramatic, so over the top that I almost laughed. It was absurd. This wasn't real—things like this didn't happen to people like us. This was an episode of
Jerry Springer,
not real life. Certainly not my real life.

Jimmy wasn't fighting back at all, was just letting Matt push him against the wall, and this seemed more an admission of guilt than anything. Because really, if we hadn't been doing anything wrong, surely he'd be defending himself.

“No,” Jimmy said. “I wasn't. Nothing was going to happen.”

“Fuck you,” Matt said, and then Jimmy actually did react, shoved Matt in the chest once with both hands.

“Go ahead and punch me,” Jimmy said. “I know you want to. You've wanted to for a long time now, so here's your chance. Do it.”

Matt shook his head. “You're such a piece of shit,” he said. “You know that?” And then he turned to me and said, “Let's go.”

It occurred to me that Matt was so angry (on top of having had two glasses of port and drinks at dinner) that he shouldn't be driving, but I didn't say anything about it. We climbed into the car—I'd somehow remembered to grab my dress, and I held it in my lap, squeezing the material in my fists. “Matt,” I said. “I'm so sorry. You have to believe me that it was nothing. Jimmy was upset, and—”

“Did you fuck him?” Matt asked. Again, with the word
fuck.
I felt the urge to laugh, which has always happened to me in inappropriate circumstances (I let out a giggle at my own grandmother's funeral), but fortunately, it went away.

“No,” I said, trying to make it sound as if that were the most ridiculous thing he could've suggested. “We kissed for a second, but it was nothing. Nothing.” Without really meaning to, I left out the details of Jimmy's hand under my dress, of his fingers inside of me, like I'd already forgotten it had happened. I couldn't tell him that—it was too confusing, would make the whole thing seem much worse.

“Nothing?” Matt said. He looked over at me.

“Nothing,” I said. “We just got mixed up.”

“You got mixed up?” I wondered if Matt was going to just keep repeating everything I said.

“Yes,” I said. “It was stupid.” And then I started to cry, big heaving sobs, bent over in the seat, not able to catch my breath. It occurred to me that now I was being overdramatic, acting like I'd been wronged, crying like I could make Matt feel sorry for me. But I couldn't stop. “I'm sorry,” I said, trying to catch my breath. “I love you, Matt. It was just a stupid mistake, that's all.”

Then I buried my head in my hands and he let me cry, not saying anything, and eventually I noticed that the car had stopped moving. “Beth,” he said, not in a mean way, exactly, but also with no trace of kindness. “Beth, stop. We're here.”

We talked that night until we had nothing left to say. I just kept apologizing and crying, thinking at some point my tears would run out, but they didn't. I told him how I'd hugged Jimmy when he was upset, how it led to a confusion of body parts—that's actually what I said: a confusion of body parts. Honestly, it seemed as good an explanation as anything else.

Matt sat in the desk chair and I was on the bed as we talked, my knees pulled up to my chest. “It was just a kiss,” I said over and over. “Just for a second.”

It felt a little like a business meeting, the way we were positioned across from each other. I don't know how long we stayed there. Hours, I think.

“Has this been going on for a while?” Matt asked.

“No,” I said. “This was the only time. Just this one thing. One kiss, that's all.”

I was aware of what I was leaving out, of how I edited the story. But even if I'd wanted to tell him everything—which I didn't—I wouldn't have known how to phrase it. (Was there any term more disgusting than
getting fingered
? I hadn't heard anyone say it since high school, since Kelly Klinger told me in homeroom that's what her boyfriend had done to her the night before, and I felt as confused now as I did then about what had actually occurred.) I also somehow knew that Jimmy would never tell anyone that detail, that I could get away with this one omission. So, no, I would never fully explain, but I would apologize over and over until Matt believed me.

When we were winding down, Matt asked, “Do you like him?” This was the only time he showed any emotion during this conversation, his voice catching on the word
like,
making him sound young.

“No,” I said. “It's not—I don't want anything with Jimmy. I think I've felt lonely lately, like you're ignoring me or like you don't care. And I know that's not an excuse. It's just—it's what's been going on.”

Matt nodded in a businesslike way. “Were you trying to get back at me?”

I shook my head at the same time I said, “No. I wasn't. I know this might not make sense but it was just an accident. A mistake.”

Matt didn't say anything then, just looked at me, and I rested my head on my knees and continued to cry.

When we'd first started dating, Matt couldn't stand to see me cry. Any argument we had would be over as soon as there were tears—he'd comfort me, apologize, do anything to get me to stop. Over the years, it had less of an effect on him, and now he seemed completely immune.

I heard a noise then and looked up from my knees to see Matt standing up. “Are you leaving?” I asked.

“I need to take a walk,” he said.

“Matt,” I said, a new sob in my voice. “I'm so sorry. I really am. I love you, you know that.”

He nodded again. “Okay,” he said. He walked out the door casually, as if he were just going down to the lobby to get something.

When he left, I cried some more, and then after a while I began to feel bored by my own tears, and they slowed and then finally stopped. I could feel a headache behind my eyes and reached for the remote, turned on the TV to drown out my thoughts. I was still on top of the covers, fully dressed, but I was too tired to bother changing. I fell asleep and woke up after a fitful dream to find that the TV was still on and Matt was just returning to the room. “Hey,” I said, as he climbed into bed, and he said, “Hi,” before turning off the light and lying down so that his back was facing me.

The next time I opened my eyes, it was 7:00 a.m. and Matt was getting dressed. I sat up and said, “Hi.”