But I’m a man who fucked with his daughter, and he deserves to have his say.
“Good,” he grunts. “Now, I know exactly why you pulled the stunt you did with my girl. The reason I know it is because around thirty years ago, something very similar happened between me and my Mallory, except I wasn’t an undercover agent trying to bring down a major operation, I was just a beat cop for the NYPD who happened to meet a young, pretty kindergarten teacher from Connecticut who was out in the city for her friend’s bachelorette party. The girls were all out on the sidewalk, trying to get a cab and some assholes were heckling them and getting louder by the minute when one of the girls spotted us and called us over. And that was when I saw Mallory,” he says softly. There’s a hint of a smile on his lips, and his eyes are shining in a way that tells me right now, he’s back on that sidewalk in the city thirty years ago meeting the woman he would make his wife. “She was giving it back to those assholes pretty good, even though she was a tiny thing. Shaking her fists and yelling threats she possibly couldn’t carry out…and then when she saw us approaching, she settled down a bit and smiled at me. Crazy woman stole my heart with that smile, those damn dimples—all it took was a few seconds for my life to change forever.”
When he pauses, it takes me a few moments to realize that I’m leaning forward. He’s got my rapt attention because even though the players and the scene is different, I know exactly what he’s talking about. Feisty, petite angels with heart-stopping smiles and tongues so sharp they could cut glass…
He looks at me intently. “It happened quick, it happened hard. I found myself only in the city to work my shifts and when I wasn’t on the clock, I was either with her or on a train either coming or going to her. We’d only been together a couple of months when during one of those shifts, I found myself on the wrong side of a gun during a robbery in a bodega. Few minutes later, I was lying in a pool of my own blood and right before I knocked out, my last thought was whether or not I’d ever get to kiss Mallory’s lips again.”
I shut my eyes.
I have to because if I don’t, I’m going to lose it. Listening to James’ story transports me to those moments right before my own eyes shut where I wondered about my beautiful girl and what would happen to her if I didn’t make it.
“The coked out fucker who’d shot me got me in the stomach. I’d had some internal bleeding, but otherwise I was okay…physically. Mentally? I was a mess. All I could think about was this amazing girl who just the day before, I’d been convinced I was going to marry. All it took was twenty-four hours for me to radically change my mindset. What if I died? What if we had kids? What if I left behind more than just her? So, I decided she needed more and since this was in the age before cell phones and email, I called her and left a message on her answering machine telling her she deserved more and I was breaking up with her.”
At my look of surprise, he laughs and shakes his head. “I know. Pussy move, if I do say so myself. I made the phone call and when I was finished, the only thing I was glad about was that she hadn’t picked up the phone and I hadn’t had to hear her reaction. I asked the nurse for some more painkillers to help me pass out, and when I woke up the next morning, she was there. At first, I thought it was a dream; she sat there pretty as a picture in a yellow dress with her handbag on her lap. And then, I realize she’s holding something big and shiny in her hands. Blink a few times, and I realize the big and shiny thing is an aluminum baseball bat. And then she speaks, the look in her eyes is hard and she says ‘If you left because you weren’t in love with me or you met someone else, I could handle it. I might even do it graciously. But, if you leave me because you think a life without you is better for me without even consulting me, then I’m here to finish the job they started.’”
I guess it’s a good memory for him because he’s laughing. I have to admit, the image of Liz’s equally tiny mom threatening Chief Connor is pretty funny, and the corners of my mouth reluctantly tug upwards. And then the laughter fades, and he’s looking at me soberly.
“One of the key differences between your situation and mine is that Mallory knew where I was coming from because I’d told her. Liz doesn’t know a thing, so she can’t tell you what a dumbass you’re being. This life is crazy. She could marry an accountant, and he could get hit by a truck. The point is, it’s her decision and you took that away from her and in the process of taking it away, you broke her heart. You won’t get the last six weeks back, but you can have the next six weeks, and all the weeks that come after if you have it in you to fight for this. And…if you don’t fight, well, her heart will eventually mend itself and she’ll go on with her life. Maybe she won’t ever forget you, but she’ll go on to marry some other man, have his babies, and make a home with him. I can see those words I just said aren’t pleasing to the ear. In fact, son, you look like you’re about to throw up.”
He stands up, pats his belly, and starts towards the hallway. Right before he gets there, he turns to me once more. “Thanks for the coke. Appreciate it. I need to get going now because I need to hit that bakery on First Avenue before it closes at six. And as for you, if you do nothing, then Liz’s life with someone else is going to be a reality. If you don’t like that version of reality, I suggest you figure out how you’re going to fight for my daughter.”
Liz
Some people turn breakups into breakdowns.
I’m not some people. I refuse to let anyone break me down. I am determined to live my life. I’ve even made peace with Bertha. Every time I’ve been at my parents she just happens to “stop by” with some tidbit of gossip or freshly baked goods. Truth be told, I think she’s got a bit of a crush on my dad, but no harm or foul in just looking.
Mom gets a bit of a kick out of it too.
I, however, get no such kick, especially when Bertha the busybody starts waxing poetic about her handsome grandson who isn’t eating as much as he normally does.
“The poor boy is just turning gaunt, I tell you,” she says, every single time we see each other, so I tell my parents they can get their daughter time by meeting me out at a restaurant for a meal or visiting my apartment. Thankfully, it’s not too much Mom and Dad time because school starts, eating up a good chunk of my time.
And then when I’m not there or at Jilly’s I’m doing stuff.
In the last several weeks since Mark filleted my heart thinner than beef Carpaccio, I’ve engaged in any and every single life affirming activity I can think of. Poor Sophie is forced to accompany me on all of my excursions. She humors me through the skydiving, a belly-dancing lesson, puff pastry lesson, our first true Brazilian waxes (hurt like a motherfucker), and a tattoo (me, not her). We even go to Manhattan one weekend and play tourist. This means hopping on and off one of those tour buses that loop around the city, watching an off-Broadway show, purchasing cheesy souvenirs, taking polaroid photos with the naked cowboy in Times Square, and ducking into one of those sex shops with the following signs: “Peep show, only $0.25.”
Suffice it to say, I won’t be repeating the peep show.
She’s a good sport through most of it, but truth be told I’m still a little put out about the tattoo. I’d wanted to get a feminine hand with cherry red fingernails flipping the bird on the upper corner of my back so that when I walk away I technically still have the last word, but she convinced me to settle for something less obvious.
Instead, I got a more subtle version with a very tiny bird, slightly rotated so that it looks it’s flipping over.
"We are going to get over this break up normally," she informs me over breakfast right after I tell her about
our plans.
I chew, then swallow my mouthful of Lucky Charms as my chest expands with warm fuzzies because she’s used the plural pronoun we. I haven’t felt anything warm and fuzzy in a long time, but I quickly shove any nostalgic sentiment aside because she’s throwing a serious kink in my plans.
Pun intended.
“Define normal,” I challenge.
She gives me the side eye while she taking a delicate bite out of her cinnamon raisin bagel. “I don’t know Liz, I just have a feeling if we don’t rein this in, the next thing I know you'll have me on a plane to Burning Man.”
My brows draw together. Now that she mentions it, it’s not a half bad idea. Living in Connecticut, my only options to display my swimwear are the Jersey Shore during the summer and the indoor pool at the gym. I have a bright, neon pink bikini that looks awesome with my hair and I can just picture myself photographed against the backdrop of a desert with hippies and other fun people. I very rarely go onto Facebook, but if we go to Burning Man, that’s my next profile picture. “What's wrong with Burning Man?”
She rolls her eyes at me and I roll mine right back.
“No lesbian bars, no Burning Man…you’re becoming so stodgy,” I grumble.
“Newsflash which really isn’t a newsflash because you’ve known me forever: I’m always stodgy. The only reason I even jumped out of that Godforsaken plane is because I felt so sorry for you,” she says breezily.
I can tell the instant she realizes just what she’s said. Her cheeks flush with color, and she opens her mouth, presumably to apologize.
She doesn’t disappoint. “Liz, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean it like that, but we do need to talk. You won’t talk about your feelings, all you want to do is do stuff and I don’t know if that’s healthy.”
“It’s okay,” I say quickly, averting my gaze from hers. I can’t stand the concerned look in her eye.
It makes me feel weak.
“I probably was pathetic. Am pathetic. We’ll go wherever you want, sorry for dragging you into this other stuff Soph.” I stand quickly, Lucky Charms forgotten, and mumble something about needing to run to the library to photocopy some notes I’d borrowed.
“Liz—“
I pretend I don’t hear her and quickly grab my things and then I’m out the door.
A part of me feels terrible for rushing out like that. I know that she’s going to feel terrible, and she really doesn’t deserve it. She’s been there for me every step of the way.
But another part of me, a part that’s still there no matter how much I dislike admitting it, feels some sick satisfaction in martyring myself. It’s petty, I know, and it has absolutely nothing to do with Sophie, but sometimes just sometimes, it feels good to feel sorry for yourself.
It’s better than feeling empty inside.
***
I spend all day at the library reviewing notes, briefs, and case law to the point where the black text starts to dance on the white background, so I get in my car to go home, but once I’m safely buckled in, instead of starting the ignition, my forehead falls against the steering wheel.
After four weeks of non-stop activity including intense concentration on my studies, I’m finally wilting. I know this to be true because it feels like there’s an aluminum grade steel bat hitting me In the face with the reality that it’s not happening—that Mark isn’t coming back.
He hasn’t sent text messages, he hasn’t called, and other than the brief flashes where Bertha will start talking about him (and quickly stop once my mother starts glaring), it’s almost like he doesn’t exist. My life goes back to being almost identical to the way it was before he entered my life, but despite outward appearances, it doesn’t feel the same.
I’m alone in a way I never was before.
I feel empty, and when the realization grips me, it’s overwhelming in its intensity. Suddenly I’m crying so hard, I can barely see through the window.
None of it makes any sense to me.
None of it.
Why does emptiness hurt? It should feel like nothingness, but it feels like it’s crawling up through my heart into my throat, causing it to swell to the point where I’m gasping for air?
Why do I fucking care so much when it was only a few months?
Why did Mark do this to me?
How could he make me fall for him and then leave me to be alone?
The questions play in my mind on a continuous loop, and because I don’t have the answers to any of them, I’m forced to let it play out until the loop slows and eventually screeches to a halt.
***
The minute I walk through the door, Sophie corners me to make sure I’m okay. I tell her I’m fine, to go get ready so we can go out. She complies, but not before peering a little too closely at my face. I’m thankful when she doesn’t question me and instead asks me if I’d like a cocktail in the spirit of pre-gaming.
After my crying jag, I went back into the library, splashed my face with cold water and repaired my make-up. Despite this, I’m pretty sure my eyes still look a little puffy.
It’s confirmed that I look like shit when Sophie enters my bedroom ten minutes later, a water glass with a wedge of lime in one hand and a tub of Preparation H in the other.
“Gin and tonic,” she thrusts the glass at me, “and under-eye care. You’d never let me forgive you if I let you leave the house like that.”
“Pshhh,” I scoff. “I’d catch it doing my makeup, and I’d never let myself leave the house with puffy ass eyes, but thank you for your consideration.” I smile at her. “Now, not as important, but still necessary — where are we going and what should I wear?”
Immediately, Sophie drops my gaze. Further intriguing me, she begins to shift from foot to foot which is a dead giveaway she’s hiding something.
“What’s going on?”
“Well, I might have invited some more people to come with us. I hope you don’t mind.”
I’m confused. “Why the hell would I mind? The more, the merrier, although I will tell you, I plan on getting back in the saddle tonight and if any of these jokers try to cock-block me, it’s going down.”
I’m only half-joking, but Sophie looks horrified. “What? I thought you didn’t want to date anyone else? Isn’t it a little early?”
I take a large, healthy sip of my gin and tonic and smack my lips in appreciation. No one makes a GT like Sophie. The bubbles sparkle on my tongue, and the taste is both tart and refreshing. Delicious.
The start to a perfect evening.
Glass still in hand, I stroll over to my closet and push the sliding doors so that my nightclub/hoochie gear is in full display. I grimly survey the results and quench the rising disappointment.
I could have sworn I had more hoochie clothing. I wish I could curse Father Donahue for influencing my wardrobe, but I draw the line at hurling profanities at the clergy.
“Um, hello? Earth to Liz? You going to answer my question?”
Ah, she mentioned something about dating, early, blah blah. “Yeah, I was listening to ToWanda on 97.8—you know how she does that shock jock radio stuff, right?” I don’t wait for her to respond because I know she knows who I’m talking about. We’ve been listening to ToWanda since our early high school days, laughing our asses off at her outrageously inappropriate rhetoric. “Well, anyway, just the other morning she was talking to someone who really was pathetic—like, worse than me—this chick has completely let herself go. Cartons of Haagen Daaz, she’s let her jungle bush get way out of control, whereas we went and got Brazilians, so in case you’re thinking I’m taking the asshole’s departure from my life hard, you just think of this poor girl and do a quick compare and contrast.” Her eyebrows draw together and I know I’m going off on a tangent, so I rein it in. “So she’s blathering all over live radio, and do you know what ToWanda says? She tells her something that will remain burned in my brain for the rest of my life and I plan on sharing this little nugget with the rest of the female population because i
t is gold. G-O-L-D.” I draw in a deep breath before imparting ToWanda’s pearl of wisdom, then I quote “the best way to get over someone is to get under someone else.”
Sophie fails to appear properly impressed at ToWanda’s gem. “Don’t you think it’s too early? You and—“
“NO,” I shout, throwing my hand up and shielding my eyes. “Don’t say his name! Don’t even say anything that rhymes with it. Now, let’s move on. Which bitches are coming along? Clarabelle? Anyone else?”
Now I know she’s definitely hiding something because she looks nervous as hell. She rushes her next few words, almost to the point where her mumblings are indecipherable to the average person, but I’m sure as hell not average.
“What the fuck,” I screech. “Did you just say Charlotte was coming too? Charlotte, as in Mark’s cousin Charlotte? Isn’t she supposed to be away at school?”
“You just said his name,” Sophie points out.
“Is that all you can say to me right now? Am I right? Is it that Charlotte?”
She nods sheepishly and I have to quell the nervous excitement that bubbles within me at the thought of seeing his cousin and the likelihood that she’ll have updates about family members that are not Brant or Bertha.
Like, is he fucking anyone?
Did he break things off with me for someone else?
Is he calling another bitch ‘Princess’?
Does he look well or is he pining away?
I’m pathetic.
I glare at Sophie because this is the last thing I need. He made the decision to walk away and because he did so, I need to have some fucking dignity and learn to move on.
My thoughts must be written on my face because she tries to explain herself. “Hon, I know this is hard, but Charlotte is your friend too. And,” she adds, “She really wants to see you. I ran into her at the gas station—she’s visiting Bertha for the weekend, and she mentioned she tried to call you a few times, but she hasn’t heard back. I told her we were going out, and she got really excited and asked if she could come along. I couldn’t say no,” she shrugs helplessly, her face apologetic.