Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-one
I FaceTime Alicia. When she sees I’m in bed with the covers pulled over my head, she says, “Hold on.” I hear her shout for Nico to make sure Elvis’s toast doesn’t burn, then she gets into her bed and pulls the covers up too. “Okay. Tell me.”
I tell her everything I haven’t shared yet—about Waco with Oliver, and our latest therapy, and about the white tux and the dance; about fighting with L’Wren—when I get to this part, I can’t help crying. I tell her about how the only place I like to be these days is in the studio, but every time Petra offers to help with Dirty Diana, I push her away.
“What the actual fuck?”
“I don’t know. I fucked it all up. I’m so confused.”
“Okay. Let’s breathe. I learned that at the silent retreat. It cost me twelve hundred bucks for this big takeaway.”
We breathe together, in and out, for a long minute.
“All right.” Alicia breaks the silence. “Let me tell you what I’m hearing because it’s not exactly what you’re telling me—”
“You sound like Miriam.”
“Thank you. Miriam is clearly a fucking rock star who got Oliver to say he’s genuinely sorry and admit he wants to tie you to a sink. And she got you to admit some shit too. Probably long overdue.”
“Hello? I’m very fragile, remember?”
“Okay, here’s what I’m hearing: Dirty Diana is something you enjoy and you’re letting yourself enjoy it. You and L’Wren had your first fight, which will only make you two stronger once you make up. And by the way, we kinda knew that would have to happen one day with how tightly you are both wound.”
“Still very fragile.”
“Oliver’s got his groove back, which is turning you on, and I’ll need to hear more about that. What you’re not talking about is second-guessing saying goodbye to Jasper. Fine. But you’re still allowed to miss him like crazy and it be the right decision. He was never a permanent solution. Did I nail it?”
“Yes.”
“So what is so scary?”
“What about what L’Wren said? About putting everything on pause?”
“Diana. It’s Rockgate, not Gilead. And she doesn’t really believe that. She’s hurt. I get that. Friends hurt each other’s feelings sometimes and then the good ones get through it.”
“It’s just…what if—”
“What if people find out you like sex?”
“You know what I mean.”
“Are we not supposed to talk about sex? Let me tell you something absolute. You deserve pleasure. You already know that. But you can love sex and you can also dread sex and be bored by it. All of that is fair and normal. You do not owe anyone sex in order to have a happy marriage. Are you writing this down?”
—
For the next week, I call in sick to work and spend every day at my desk in Petra’s office space, beneath the open window. I tore up the sketch of myself and decided to try painting the image in my head instead. I think of Sandrine while I work. Of putting my mostly vulnerable self into the world like she has. So far it’s just the outline of my shoulder, which I’ve started and restarted three times. Petra drifts in and out, always shielding her eyes. “You’ll show me when it’s done!”
I try calling L’Wren first thing in the morning, then again at lunch, and every day on my drive home. She never picks up or returns my texts. But on Friday, exactly a week after the dance, Liam comes into the office and drops a tinfoil-wrapped package on my table, next to a jar full of unwashed brushes.
When I look up he tells me, “Banana bread from L’Wren.”
“For me?” I can’t disguise my hope.
“She baked it herself.”
“For me?” I ask again.
“Yes. For you.”
“Is it poisoned?”
“I don’t think so?”
I unwrap it, still warm from the oven.
“It’s a good thing,” Liam assures me. “I’ve seen this before. It’s L’Wren’s way of saying she’s working through things without having to say I’m working through things. ” He helps himself to a thick slice, and I hand him a paper towel to catch the crumbs. “Also, she’s letting me stay at the house, even now that Catman is rooming with us. She admitted she likes having me around, and that she’s ‘fine’ with wherever I choose to spend time.” Around a full mouth he tells me, “You’re like two days away from her fully answering your phone call.”
That night, I stay late at my desk working, all alone. I eat most of the banana bread for dinner and paint until my hands ache. For a long while, I stand at the studio’s big window and look out over the street. It’s late and still and all the storefronts are shuttered. At the end of the block, a tall, skinny man swerves along the sidewalk. He’s moving toward my building but stops just short, under the glow of the only streetlight, in front of a rusted station wagon. I watch as he fumbles around in his pants pockets, stopping once to steady himself, his hand pressed to the roof of the car. Stooped like this, he reaches into his coat pocket. This time, he finds his car keys. I think about calling out to him, warning him that he’s in no condition to drive. But then, the keys slip from his fingers and clatter to the ground. The man gets on his knees. He gropes along the dark pavement for a long time, then finally gives up and makes his slow, swerving way back to his feet. Standing upright, he shudders and for a second I think he might get sick. Instead he takes a long stride, then another, and disappears down the sidewalk. I exhale, fogging the glass, unaware I was holding my breath.
“Close one.” I jump at the sound of Petra’s voice.
“Sorry,” she says. “I thought for sure you heard me come in.”
“I got a little transfixed.” I blush, as if I’ve been caught reading something I shouldn’t. “What are you doing here so late?”
Petra purses her lips. “Honestly? I had a feeling you’d be done.”
I follow her gaze to the canvas. “Oh. Almost.” I’d finally finished my shoulder and then moved on to my torso, then hips and legs, painting myself seated on the edge of a bathtub. I’m happy with my face in profile, but the hands are all wrong. “I want to add some shadow, near my wrist—”
“It’s perfect, Diana.” Petra squeezes my fingers in hers. I rest my head on her shoulder and stay there.
—
I sleep curled up on the love seat. I thought about driving home but could barely keep my eyes open. And I felt a strange pull to stay close to the painting until it was dry enough to move or at least until it wasn’t so dark and quiet in the office. I told myself I’d take a quick power nap—and then I didn’t open my eyes again until the late-morning sun was streaming through the windows.
On the drive home, I feel lighter. I imagine this is the way Oliver felt when he quit working for his dad. I imagine him driving home, his shoulders finally relaxing, his breath coming slower and steadier with every mile between him and the office.
As I get closer, I steel myself for the quiet house and the hours to fill before Emmy comes home from a Saturday with her grandparents. But when I pull into the driveway, the house isn’t empty. Oliver is in the front yard, planting flowers in the unseasonably hot autumn sun.
He has his headphones in and is so focused on pushing a wheelbarrow of soil, he doesn’t notice my car. I stay behind the wheel. I watch as he packs dirt into the flower beds. His shirt is soaked with sweat and I can see the outline of his muscled back. Every few seconds, he brushes the hair from his eyes with the back of his work glove. For a brief second I allow myself to imagine he’s still my husband and I am coming home to him. In my daydream, there is no lingering tension, no hangover of a hundred fights—he’s happy to see me and that’s it. I shut off the car. He still doesn’t see me. My heart races as I tuck the fantasy into the smallest corner of my heart, taking up a space so small that nothing can break.
“Oliver?” I don’t call loudly but he looks up. “What are you doing?”
He turns off his music and stands. “Planting zinnias. Up the walk, like you always wanted.” He’s slightly out of breath. “I was going to plant roses, too, but then I remembered our night at the hotel fiasco…and thought better of it.”
“It’s ninety degrees out.”
“I’m almost finished.” He takes out his baby-blue handkerchief and wipes the sweat from his forehead.
“Why?” I haven’t lifted a finger, but suddenly I feel out of breath, too, a ring of brightly colored flowers around me. “Why are you doing this?”
Oliver’s eyes are serious and sparkling. “Isn’t it obvious?”
He closes the space between us.
“No.” My voice shakes, but when he takes both my hands in his I say, “Tell me.”
Oliver leans in and whispers in my ear, the feel of his breath on my neck sending an electric shiver through my body. “Because I want to handcuff you to the sink.”