This Is Not Over Part 22

Dawn

Dear Dawn, I'm writing to extend an olive branch. I want to apologize for all our misunderstandings, and for things that I've said that were hurtful to you. I reread our correspondence after you posted it on LettersFromLandlords.com, and I can see now that I came across as condescending and unkind. That is not who I really am, but you have no way of knowing that. All you know is what I've said. I've never been a great writer (I'm no communications major myself!), and I've handled things poorly.

I want to change that. I take full responsibility for what's happened between us. I've put through a refund to your credit card of $400. That's the amount I withheld from the security deposit, doubled, to compensate for your time which I've wasted.

I've learned a lesson from all this, and I'm no longer renting the house out. Therefore, I hope you'll see that there's no sense in keeping all the postings up. They could be misconstrued by people who happen across them.

I believe you are a person of substance and good intentions. I am, also. Let's clean the slate and move forward.

Thank you for reading, and considering what I've said.

Yours, Miranda So Miranda finally saw the Internet footprint that I left for her and now she's learned her lesson? I'd laugh out loud if it wasn't so infuriating.

She thinks she can buy me off for $400. That's what my time is worth, in her eyes.

It is almost the cost of a laser treatment. If the refund went straight to the credit card, then I'm practically budget-neutral.

She said she's already put it through. That means we're on the honor system. I don't have to actually do anything for her in order to earn the money, unless I feel so moved. But it makes me feel dirty anyway. I want to throw it back in her face, tell her I don't need her chump change, only I really could use it.

The check from Rob's father was for $1,000-generous, yes, but Rob and I still had to take the other $2,000 out of our savings. I can't, in good conscience, spring for a laser treatment now, though I need it more than ever. My skin is in revolt.

Miranda wants me to feel indebted to her. I'm supposed to recant, even though everything I said about her is true. They were her own words! She's phony and transparent and manipulative. It's disgusting, really, all her sucking up. Appeal to my ego and my bank account and I'll leap to delete my reviews?

No, Miranda. You made your bed and now you're going to lie in it, stained sheets and all.

Giving the money back is just too easy. I'll have to think of some other form of retaliation for this latest insult. Does she have any clue that I've got her son in my back pocket?

I like the anger that's rolling through me, and I hate that I like it. Miranda's been the catalyst for all the darkness I left behind when I met Rob-no, before I met him. I'd already turned the corner.

I was determined to be lighter, easier, happier. I was going to be mother material. And I was almost there, dammit, until that weekend at Miranda's house. Things have been spiraling ever since, slowly at first, and now faster, a tornado whirling, lifting me up, leaving my life with Rob far below, and behind.

Now I'm a cigarette burning slowly, down to the filter. My father lit the match all those years ago, and I thought it was out for good. No more s.l.u.tty Dawn. No longer Used Dawn, or Angry Dawn. Those Dawns should have died in Eureka. I did my best to kill them, and now I've got my own zombie apocalypse.

Miranda's house started this, and then she continued it. She goads me, and I respond, every time, like I want the fury. Like it's home.

Maybe I'm not ready to be normal, or conventional, or happy. Maybe I always knew that someday, Rob would see through me and break my dark heart.

Let it go, that's what he's been telling me since the beginning, let her provocations go unanswered. That's what Rob would have done. She's nothing to me, and her punishment is being her, just like he said. He's so right. He's always so f.u.c.king right.

36.

Miranda

Inspired by a new lady #beauteousmaximus In the end, I left the estimate on Larry's dresser like a coward. It was after he'd already fallen asleep, so he discovered it this morning. When he asks me if I've gotten any others, I say yes, that was the best of them. He shakes his head with something like disgust, and I tell myself that it's not directed at me, it's at these thieving contractors. Only I know they're not the true thieves, I am. I have to hope he doesn't figure that out.

I watch him fasten his cuff links. He's the only man I know who still wears them, and somehow, that makes me ache with tenderness for him. What did he ever do to deserve to be married to me, to be lied to like this? Nothing, unless you count the residency, and I'm fairly certain he doesn't.

He kisses me on the cheek and says we'll talk later and make a game plan for the house. He folds the estimate carefully in half, then in thirds, placing it in his wallet. I'm filled with fear. What if he doesn't believe me? What if he shows it to someone and they tell him that they've got a great foundation guy he should call?

I sink back under the covers, though I know I won't sleep. I didn't, all night long. I was at such loose ends that I forgot Larry's request to sleep in the other room, but my entrance into bed didn't rouse him; that's the advantage of the California king. Despite the darkness, I kept seeing the outline of that paper on the dresser, thinking that it's not too late, I can still take it back. Throw it away. I hadn't yet pa.s.sed the point of no return. Prostrate myself before Larry, tell him I'm just a mother, that's all, I couldn't abandon my son, but I'm finally ready.

I'm still choking on the e-mail I wrote to Dawn. I think it was the right move, the only move, really. Swallow my pride, and think in terms of outcomes. I want to cleanse my online presence, and that's entirely in Dawn's hands. The websites responded to my inquiries with form letters sprinkled with legal jargon, just enough to say that basically, they have the right to defame whomever they want.

It's not only about the posts. Even if Dawn doesn't take them down, we need to reach detente. I don't want to look over my shoulder anymore. No more rats in my pool, literally or figuratively. I want this over. Four hundred dollars is a small price to pay.

I reach one hand out from beneath the covers, groping hopefully for my phone, pulling it under. In the dim cave formed, I do my obligatory checks. Nope, no communication from Dawn. The posts are still up. No texts from Thad.

It appears he's been awake all night, tweeting. Is "a new lady" code for a new drug? Maybe it's not meth this time. Maybe it's "Molly." I just read about a bunch of college kids who were admitted to the hospital after a bad batch of MDMA. One of them nearly died. I have to hope they'll learn their lesson. Nearly dying was never lesson enough for Thad.

He didn't contact me at all yesterday, and I was relieved. I didn't contact him, and I don't plan to. I'm fine with just being a follower for the moment.

It's the first time I've played this particular game of chicken. I've always needed to reach out, to confirm that not only is he alive but he's still accessible, to confirm that he's not so angry as to write me off for good. I've feared his anger since he was a child. But these days, that's not my biggest fear. I suppose that's refres.h.i.+ng, an old dog like me being able to develop a new fear.

37.

Dawn

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"It's not too late," Rob tells me, "to go see your mom." His hand is already on the front door. It seems like this is how we communicate lately, in a series of parting remarks.

I'm standing in the kitchen doorway, still in my pajamas. For a second, I consider biting the bullet, just getting in the car and driving to Eureka so I can get back in Rob's good graces, but some structural beam inside me holds. I shouldn't be out of his good graces. He shouldn't be sitting in judgment of me. People grieve in their own ways, and in my case, that means that every time I remember that my father's dead, I feel relief. This could be a just world after all.

"Aunt Tanya's spending a lot of time with Mom," I say, "and she's doing better." That's my a.s.sumption anyway. Her texts have dwindled significantly.

It's only fair that my mother becomes Aunt Tanya's problem. My aunt lives right there in Eureka; she has a comfortable middle-cla.s.s life, works part-time, and has no children. She can afford to adopt my mother.

The last time I saw Aunt Tanya was at my wedding, and I noticed two things: she looked ten years younger than my mother, though she's actually five years older, and her face didn't move much. I'm guessing those two facts were related, that she's Botoxed to the hilt, but she was the member of my family I was least embarra.s.sed to introduce to Rob's parents.

"I've got a lot to do this weekend," I say. "With finals and applying for jobs." I hate that I still feel the need to explain myself, to justify why I don't want to spent the weekend in the h.e.l.lhole of my youth. If Thad can understand it, why can't Rob?

He barely nods, his disappointment palpable. "I'm going to work late tonight," he says. "My dad's out sick, and it's the busy season." I wonder if this is punishment for my refusal to go to Eureka. When he first mentioned a possible trip earlier this week, I thought he intended to go with me, but maybe he always meant for me to be on my own.

Once he's gone, I throw myself into my senior project, working nonstop for hours, glad to think of nothing else. When I turn my phone back on, I'm surprised to see that it's almost seven P.M. The shop closes at five, and he's never been this late. He hasn't texted me all day. If he were anyone else, I might think he was the one with something to hide.

I can't believe Rob is unplugging from this marriage. If anyone should be p.i.s.sed, it's me. He's the one who betrayed me in that conversation with his parents. He doesn't know that I overheard, but you'd think he'd have some conscience about allowing them to believe I'm a gold digger.

Could he actually believe I am a gold digger? I look around at our nearly squalid apartment. f.u.c.k him.

There are twelve texts from Thad.

I skipped lunch, and the refrigerator is nearly empty. I think of texting Rob to tell him that I'm about to order a pizza, but don't. He can fend for himself.

After I call the pizzeria, I settle onto the couch and turn on the TV. I've earned some mindless celebrity trash, and TMZ obliges. I hear the sound of an incoming text. It's Thad. I smile, but I don't respond immediately. Keep him waiting, and wanting.

I eat my pizza on the couch as TMZ becomes Entertainment Tonight. When the phone rings, I answer without looking. It's got to be Rob, finally. I've never bothered with discriminating ringtones.

"Hey," says a resonant baritone. Not the male voice I expected to hear, and not the one I expected Thad to have, that's for sure. He could sing opera.

He's just upped the ante. For all he knows, Rob is right here beside me.

"Hey," I say, my voice softened by grat.i.tude. I hadn't even realized I didn't want to be alone.

"Can you talk?"

"For a little while."

"I was about to text you and then I thought I'd take a chance. See if you'd answer."

Ah, so he's testing me. "I almost didn't answer."

"Because of your husband?"

"Because of you."

He laughs. He likes being slighted. I wonder if Miranda instilled that in him. "You sound different than I thought you would," he says. "Better, actually."

"You do, too. Actually."

"If you thought I'd sound like s.h.i.+t, why did you pick up?"

"If you thought I'd sound like s.h.i.+t, why did you call?"

Another laugh. It's deep, and knowing, like he's always in on the joke. s.e.xy, like his voice. "Because I knew you'd put me in a good mood."

"What's wrong?"

He sighs, a touch dramatically. I don't mind, I could use a show. I turn off the television. "You know I'm trying hard to get away from my old patterns. Not using meth, or whatever else I get my hands on. Trying to do my art from a pure place. But it's not just that. I'm trying not to be who I used to be with girls. Women, I mean," he amends, like he's antic.i.p.ating my objection. "I don't want to just screw them and go home, or send them home. I want to wait for someone who matters." The briefest of pauses. "Who matters a little. I'm not talking about marriage or anything. But it's hard, waiting. It's hard being alone. s.e.x helps with that for a night. Well, a couple of hours. I don't like waking up next to anyone."

I've always found it irresistible, men wrestling with their demons. There was one, a rich tool named Aston, who made me a part of the fight. He would call me-like Thad is doing now-and tell me about his yearnings, how hard he was trying not to cheat, but he'd never been with one person for so long (the first time he said this, we'd been together three months), and somehow, I felt for him. I also felt turned on. He needed my help. He needed me to become someone else, just for a little while, someone new. He needed me to be good enough (well, bad enough) to keep him from straying. For a while, I was. For too long, probably.

It's uncomfortable, getting h.o.r.n.y with someone other than Rob. It's wrong, I mean. But I want to help Thad. I want to help him get through the night. It's like I'm programmed, on autopilot.

"Did you and Rob have s.e.x today?" he asks.

"No."

"Are you going to have s.e.x with him tonight?"

"I don't know." Probably not. I can f.u.c.k angry, but Rob's like a woman: s.e.x is an outgrowth of intimacy.

"I love that picture you sent me. You're so beautiful, Dawn." His voice is growing syrupy. He can see me in his arms right now, and I can see it, too.

Rob and I are down to once a week, and we don't talk about s.e.x, we never really have. It's something to be done, not to be imagined, and I miss this-stoking the fire, knowing it'll blaze later.

I need to stop. I shouldn't be talking this way. Listening this way. I've been cheated on, yes, but I don't cheat.

"I'm married," I say.

"If I had a dollar for every text where you wrote that." I can hear him smiling. His body is stretched out languidly, a rubber band waiting to be snapped. One of the things I used to love most about s.e.x with Aston was the contrast: the slack, and the tension. He was a master of that.

"Admit it," he says. "You're into me, at least a little."

I don't answer, which he probably takes as a yes. I should stop this right now. Hang up. Rob could be back any minute.

"I was with someone last week," Thad continues. "I kept my eyes closed so I could turn her into you. My tongue was in her p.u.s.s.y, and I imagined your taste. Salty-sweet." His hand is on his c.o.c.k, I know it is.

I won't allow my hand to move. I'm not a cheater, and Rob could be driving up right now. But I am wet.

"I don't even need to come," he tells me, "I just want you to."