I end up wearing men's purple work-out shorts and a V-neck white undershirt. I find some of my old mascara in the bathroom and can't resist putting it on, if only to feel a little human. It's been a long time since I wore makeup, and I'm surprised by how long my eyelashes look.
As I study my reflection, from my mother's striking green eyes to my Maw-Maw’s rose-cheeked, heart-shaped face, to my father's strawberry hair, I think about my aunt and uncle. I feel a crushing wave of remorse for what I know I put them through. Granted, I didn't plan to run away from Atlanta, but I still did. My intentions don't change the sleepless nights I know my aunt endured and probably still does. My uncle and my cousin...surely their lives were changed knowing that someone raised in their house just vanished like I did.
I was selfish. Maybe I've changed—I like to think I have—but it doesn't matter really. My bad deeds are going to follow me forever.
This is my mood when I step out into the hallway and start to look for Evan.
I find him in the kitchen, and my first glimpse of his outfit has me snickering.
He's wearing a pair of Jesus's jeans, which he's cut off at the knee, probably because he’s a good five inches taller than Jesus. There's no fixing the crotch area, though, which is T.I.G.H.T. My eyes run over him, and I know my face is red, because you can see a lot of...well, him. Look up, look up, I tell my pervy self. His shirt is a light blue and white button-up which he has rolled up to the sleeves. It makes his blue eyes glow, and I laugh a little because I'm pretty sure if he moves the wrong way, he'll make the buttons pop.
“I didn’t know you were dressing up.” I grin, and Evan flips me off.
“This is the best I could do.” He grimaces, and I giggle.
“Look at you, Mia Hamm.” He nods at me, and I swing my foot, like I’m kicking a soccer ball.
He snickers, and I flip him off. “Whatever, George Michael.”
Evan winces, and I saunter past him and start searching the cabinets for something to eat. I find a bag of popcorn. It's a brand you don't see so much in the States, and Evan takes it from me, reading the Spanish popping information under his breath.
“You speak good Spanish,” I tell him. “Did you learn it in school?”
He nods. He looks like he might say something else, but then he steps over to the microwave and starts the popping. As I lean against the counter watching him, I feel weird being here. Like Jesus and David never existed and this is our hotel or something. It's...inappropriate.
I've been struggling for a day or so now with the feeling that I should be mourning their deaths, but there's no way I can. Living with Jesus was like living with a performing tiger. I survived okay for a while, but eventually he bit me. Not for any reason other than he's a tiger, and that's what tigers do.
I look down at my fingernails, wondering what would have happened if Jesus had gotten me back. It's hard to say. But I think I can safely guess that I wouldn’t have liked it. I'm lucky Evan came for me.
“What do you want to watch?” I look up at him, leaning against the counter top across from me. The way he's leaning puts particular emphasis on his... Um, yeah. I cast my eyes to his face, which is serious almost to the point of sullen, and that helps me laugh, because he looks ridiculous. He grins, and his grin reminds me of a lazy dog. Just chillin'.
“Stop laughing at me.” He lunges to punch me lightly in the arm, then turns his body so his shoulder bumps into mine. “What do you want to watch?” he asks me.
His handsome face is so close to mine that I can hardly breathe, much less answer.
He bumps me again, and I swallow back my nerves. “What about old Southpark re-runs?” Evan narrows his eyes at me. “Are you sure?”
I nod. “I like Southpark, except the few where they make fun of religious stuff.”
He laughs. “Of course you don’t.”
“Why of course?” I scrunch my eyebrows. “Because you have a hard time believing I’m religious?”
“It's just...” He frowns. “You're not lying to me, are you? You, right now, are the real Meredith?” He shakes his head. “I guess that sounds crazy…”
I think I get it... “You're wondering if I had to be someone else when I worked at a brothel in Vegas, or when I was some drug lord's beard. Or if I’m being someone else now, so you won’t know how messed up I really am.” I press my lips together. “It's an understandable question, but yeah, I'm me. The brothel work was furthest from my norm, but I had a specific role I needed to play for my primary client. It probably wasn't anything like what you'd think.”
He doesn't say anything, and I wonder if it bothers him, that I used to mess around for money. He reads my mind, drumming on the counter as he says, “I just can't picture it.”
The microwave dings, and I slide a glance his way as I step past him to get it. “Dare I ask what part?”
He grabs some paper towels and I get two Cokes from the refrigerator, and we head into the living area. “The you as someone's call girl part. Whether it's a pimp or a client or a kingpin, you just don't seem like that to me. You have your college degree, right?”
“Yes.”
“You used to write for newspapers.”
Yes. Damnit. Before now, I hadn’t been sure exactly what he knew about me, but… “Did you read my columns?” My cheeks are hot again.
“Yeah. Pageant participants as cattle.” He smiles as my discomfort. “So tell me what happened.” He crooks an eyebrow, giving me a look that's surprisingly intimate.
I plop down on the couch and hold the popcorn bowl tightly in between my palms. “Sometimes things don't turn out the way you plan. Or is your life exactly the way you meant it to be?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
I want this to be a fun night for her. It’s pretty ridiculous; as if a fun night with her former John’s son will make up for being sold into slavery.
But still, I’m wanting to kick myself for going down this road. I don't need to talk about this shit with her, and I already know that. Some things should stay unsaid, and her involvement with my father is definitely one of them.
I flip channels, watching the images flicker on the massive flat screen as I wrestle with myself—but I already know the outcome. Now that I've peeled back the skin on this, I'm going to dig right in. I can’t help myself. “I told you my sob story.” I say it like a challenge. “Let's hear yours.”
She rearranges herself on the huge leather couch, sitting the popcorn bowl between us and drawing a pillow into her lap. She balances her Coke on the pillow and frames it with her hands. Her long, pale red hair has fallen like a veil between us, but as she taps a frenzied rhythm on the Coke can, I can see her face. I can see the struggle on it.
She sighs and takes a long gulp. Then she tucks her hair behind her ear and looks at me. Her mouth is set into a grim line. Her beautiful green eyes are flat. “Just after college, I dated this guy who put me in a really bad situation, and I had to leave Atlanta, where I was living. At the time I was researching for a freelance article on escorts in Vegas. So I went to Vegas.” She huffs her breath out, causing the wisps of hair around her face to dance. “I guess I kind of ran away to Vegas.”
My mind is reeling, wondering what could have happened to make her run away; wondering why the police wanted to question her. I remember something I read online back in Napa, at the library: about how the police in Atlanta wanted to question her in relation to some guy; I think his name was Sean something. I must be making some kind of pissed off face, because Meredith shrinks away a little, pulling the pillow closer to her chest. She traces the rim of the Coke can with her fingertip, and I want to tell her not to. She might cut her finger.
“When I got there, out to Vegas, I ended up getting to know the manager and owner of this brothel on the Strip. I was working on my story, but I ran out of money, so I ended up crashing there. I wasn't sure what I'd do...” She bites her lip, glancing at me and then down at the floor. “Because of the...circumstances, I couldn't
go back home. I was going to get a job waitressing or something. I'd even put in some applications. And then one day, I was on my way to the gym when a client saw me, I think, and it wasn't long after that the owner told me that this guy felt I fit the bill for what he wanted.” Her eyes, on her Coke can, flick to mine. She watches me carefully, waiting for my judgment.
I'm gritting my teeth, so I try to relax my jaw and calm my mind. Do I hope this client was my father, or someone else? The possibilities seem equally awful.
“In what way?” I choke out. I swallow so what I say next doesn't sound so fucking ragged. “How'd you fit the bill?”
She shrugs, like we're talking about the rain. “The client wanted someone young who wasn't seeing many or any other clients. And he wanted a Vegas girl, so I became his Vegas girl.”
And there it is. It's all out on the table. Meredith was my father's Vegas girl.
I nod, keeping a lid on my feelings, and then without meaning to, I'm up, striding into the kitchen. My heart is pounding and my mouth feels dry. I turn a quick circle, careful not to look at Merri. But from where she’s sitting, she might be able to see my face. And if she sees my face, she'll know. I wheel around again and jerk open the refrigerator. I grab the first thing I see—a bottle of beer—and curse as I realize I can't twist the damn top off. Not with one hand.
I stand there, breathing hard and staring at it, and Merri's soft footsteps whisper across the stone floor. I don't want to see her but she stands in front of me. She has her arms folded over her stomach and her pretty little bow of a mouth is pinched into a sour face.
“You know, you asked.”
“I nod.” I do know that. I just didn't plan to feel so fracking jealous. I pop my jaw, and Meredith's eyes widen. She takes the beer from me and twists the top off. She takes a long swig and hands it back to me.
Her eyes, when she looks at me, are hard. She bites her lip, and her face softens. Her words are soft, too. “I didn't think that you would act this way.”
What? Jealous? I frown. “What way?”
“So...disgusted.”
My eyes widen. “Is that what you think I am?”
“Isn't it?”
I tighten my grip on the beer bottle, tilting my head back to get a swallow—and break eye contact. The liquid burns my throat and pretty soon I have no choice but to look at her again. This time, her eyes and face are sad. Because I made her feel judged. Which is really unforgivable.
“Hey...I'd never judge you. And I'm not disgusted.” I bump her shoulder awkwardly with mine, and she steps quickly away. She leans against the counter, putting some space between us, then turns sideways so she's facing me.
“It's not something that I'm proud of. The man was married, and what I did was wrong. I could tell you that I did it for money, because I did, but that wouldn't make it right. The affair didn't last long, and the two of us were never emotionally involved. He didn't want to get to know me on more than just a superficial level.
“If I could go back, I would find another way to make money. Even prostitution would have been morally better than that. At least I think so.”
I nod, trying my damndest to act casual, but my throat is so tight I can't speak.
“I'm sorry.” Her lips twist into a frown as she notices my clam up. “Does this make you uncomfortable?”
I take another swig of the beer and lie my ass off. “Hell no. Sex?”
“Well, it wasn't actually sex.”
“Even if it was. I'm fine with it.” I shrug, and she gives me a doubting look.
“You don’t have to worry about my feelings.”
“My feelings are that you were young and desperate. Isn't that what you said?”
“I had no money, and the job is what got me through, but it's also what got me here.”
“How?”
She shakes her head and walks back to the couch. I follow, moving the popcorn onto a table so there's nothing in between us. Merri's got her arms around herself. I put my hand on her forearm, and her eyebrows scrunch low in confusion. It looks like she thinks I've lost my mind, except I can see her cheeks getting pinker. I can see the way her eyes fill up with tears. So I take her hand.
“Look, Merri...I swear I wasn't judging you. You want the truth? It makes me fu— it pisses me off.”
She shakes her head. “But...I don't get it. Are your reasons like, religious? Or moral? It just pisses you off that people do what I did at all?”
I squeeze her hand and look down at it, so I don't have to look into her eyes.
“That's not it.” Against my will, my gaze finds hers. The words get hung up in my throat. I swallow. “I just don't think he was worthy of you.”
I'm not sure I heard him right. “Worthy of me?”
“Yeah.” His voice sounds low. “When married men take advantage of young girls in compromised circumstances, that makes them sick fucks.”
I flinch a little at the term, and he frowns. “Sorry. Fracks.” He lets go of my hand and stands up, wiping his right palm on his ridiculous cut-off shorts. “Sex or not,” he says, “it’s wrong. Wrong of him. And then what happened next. How the fu— How did that happen, Merri? I want to know.”
I stand up, too. If I'm going to tell him—and I'm not sure that I am—I'll need to put some distance between us. With a sideways glance at him, I walk to the refrigerator and grab another beer, downing half of it before I turn back toward Evan. He's still standing in front of the couch. He looks intense. Upset.
Why does he care so much? “How do you know he wasn’t worthy of me?” The words are soft, pulled from my throat. His blue eyes are on me and I want to run and hide. Instead I step a little closer to the living area. “It's true that I was innocent, but what if at some point I wasn't anymore? You don't know I wasn't.”
My ears are ringing. I can't take my eyes off his face. I watch as his expression goes from staunch to passionate.
“Yes I do.” He says it so vehemently.
I shake my head. I'm surprised to feel my eyes fill up with tears. “You don't know anything about me, Evan.”
I stand there, shaking slightly, thinking of the things I'll never tell him, as Evan walks slowly to me. With his eyes on mine, he gently takes my hands and clasps his right one over both of them.
“Listen to me, Merri. I know we haven't known each other long, but it doesn't take long to see that you're a good person. A person who takes care of other people and tries her best to make things right.”
For the longest time, his eyes pierce mine. I feel like he is looking down into my soul. It's all I can do not to shrink away. And then, in the span of one of my racing heartbeats, his lips are on my lips. The sensation of his mouth fluttering over mine sets a fire inside my chest. My stomach clenches in a knot as he gently touches his tongue to the corner of my mouth, like he wants to come inside but doesn’t dare; I feel the warmth of his breath on my throat as he moves his mouth off mine. A squeeze of his hand around my shoulder, then he pulls away.
My heart is beating so fast I think I might be sick.
Evan is standing there wide-eyed, like something catastrophic has just happened.
“Meredith.” It’s whispered. He whirls around and I hear him mutter a curse word.
I shut my eyes. I don’t want to see regret on his face if he turns back around. I don’t want to know what happens next.
My eyes are still shut when his hand clasps mine again, and when I open them, his face is serious. Contrite.
“Come with me.” He gently tugs me toward the couch. I follow his lead, sinking down into the leather though it feels like I am floating halfway to the ceiling. I’m feeling too exposed to look at him, so I train my eyes on a spot on the wall.
He lets go of my hand, and I look over at him just in time to see the caution on his face as his right hand reaches for my knee. His fingers touch down on my skin and the sensation is delicious. I get hot all over; hotter, still, when he brushes his thumb over my knee.
“We
haven't known each other long, but we've been through some shit, and I can see you, okay? I've known a lot of women, and I know how to spot an asshole when I see one.”
I shake my head. Clearly he doesn't. Only an asshole leaves her family without a word and goes and messes around with some other woman's husband. Tears blur my view of the room, and I look at the floor. “I think the female version of asshole is bitch.”
“Who told you you're a bitch?”
I scoot a tiny bit away from him, forcing his hand off my leg, because I just can’t stand it there right now. “Nobody did. Nobody had to. I'm not saying that it's all my fault, but I made some bad decisions. Now they're mine to bear. I can't blame anybody else for that.”
Out of the corner of my eyes, I see him lean over, resting his elbows on his knees. “So tell me what happened. What kind of bad decision is punishable by what happened to you?”
It's weird when he says it that way. It almost makes me feel like he's right—like I am a victim. I swallow hard, chasing the feeling away, and feel my guilt wrap its fingers around me again. “I'll tell you. Just please don't expect to have the same opinion of me when I'm done.”
He’s leaning over his knees more now, and I'm glad of that, because I don't think I could tell this story if his eyes were on me. As it is, I’ll leave a big part of it out: what happened right before I left Jesus. I put a pillow in my lap and angle it between us, giving myself the barest semblance of privacy. Then I turn my gaze to the muted TV, where a Mexican soap opera is playing.
How very fitting.
“I'll never forget that night.” I pick a spot on the wall to stare at and try to forget that Evan is beside me.
“I'd been seeing my client for a couple of months. Most of Vegas knew I was his mistress. He wasn't in the city all the time, just sometimes for business, or I guess when he wanted to have fun. He was kind of a guy's guy. He liked to gamble and go to pool halls with his man friends, and maybe they would see some strippers there. He didn't always have to be with me. I liked that,” I confess. “It gave me more freedom.