20. Bambi
Bambi
All Bambi can think about is getting her heels off and sinking into a nice, hot tub. The fake smiles and too-bright flashes, the sweaty hands of strangers, and iPhones snapping away at her and Jason have all but zapped the last of her energy.
When she’s back in the crowd, Jason takes her hand and squeezes it just enough to make an impression on her skin.
In moments, they are standing outside, the cool air blowing her dress slightly and lifting her hair from her shoulders.
She shuts her eyes, taking in the fresh air, the pleasing sound of traffic, and the blissful moment of in-betweenness of being neither somewhere nor with Jason at home.
Jason seems normal enough as they leave the restaurant and say their goodbyes, but when they get into the car and the doors close, his energy shifts.
Bambi can feel the tension in the air, the quiet seething blame like static electricity—as though somehow, the crab mix-up was her fault.
Her hands quiver slightly as she adjusts the temperature of the car.
“Don’t tell me you’re actually cold,” Jason says. “It’s like seventy degrees outside.”
“I’m not cold,” Bambi insists. “I just feel a little funny, that’s all.”
His head whips around toward her. “You feel funny, Bambs? Well, that’s ironic, isn’t it?”
She holds silent, pressing her hands beneath her thighs.
“I mean, I was the one with an EpiPen in my leg two hours ago. You don’t see me whining about it, do you?”
She turns slightly to look at Jason as he drives along Wilshire, the veins in his neck bulging slightly as the car picks up speed. He pulls through a yellow light, then a red.
“Jason, slow down.”
“And now you want to tell me how to drive, too?” He laughs bitterly. “You models are all the same. Demanding and selfish as shit. Did you even think for one second tonight about me? Did you?”
And there it is, the vengeful, hateful tone she’d been dreading. Her stomach sinks as she puts her hand on his leg, one last attempt. “Of course I did, baby. Just relax.”
“Don’t tell me to relax!”
Bambi swallows, the ache to be alone for a few quiet moments all-consuming.
Good thing Jason is leaving tomorrow. And even if being alone feels different in LA, with its perpetually sunny skies, its fake people, and the sprawl of the city that lacks the excitement and anticipation of Manhattan, it doesn’t matter.
She needs space to breathe. To think. To exist without him for a bit.
“Are you listening to a thing I’m saying?” Jason shouts.
Bambi nods, but her mind is elsewhere now, on her Craigslist ad, her one thing that’s hers and hers alone.
When they get home, Bambi pours herself a glass of water while Jason fishes in the fridge for a beer. When she comes to check on him, he’s lying in front of the TV searching through the channels.
He groans and tosses the remote control onto the large coffee table, then pulls out his phone and dials Agnes on speaker. Bambi stands listening as her voice answers, gruff and tired. It’s after eleven.
“Hi, honey, what’s up?” A smoker’s voice.
“I want the press lineup.”
“You have press on Monday, Tuesday, and Thursday, then the shoot on Friday.”
“Which shoot?”
“The Guardian. We’re doing Entertainment first, then People, Rolling Stone, and then The Guardian.”
“Fuck The Guardian. I’m not doing The Guardian.”
Pause. A cough. In the background, someone calls Agnes’s name. She ignores it.
“Okay. Can I ask why not?”
Bambi motions for Jason to calm down. But she can tell by the tone of his voice that it’s a little late for that.
“You know why.” Jason gets up and starts pacing.
“They fucked me over the last time with that article. That cocksucker journalist with his review of The Telegraph. I’m not stepping into that trap again. ”
“Yeah, but he won’t be covering,” Agnes says patiently. “And I’ve talked to them. So has my assistant. We won’t let them run it like last time.”
“But see, this is where I have a problem, Agnes.” More pacing. Jason flicks his hands through his unwashed hair. Bambi’s nose wrinkles. “You already let them run the piece before, and that shit was very, very damaging to my career.”
Agnes clears her throat and coughs. “I know, sweetie, but this time will be different. Just be your charming, lovable self, and it will be great.”
“No,” Jason half shouts down the phone. “Fuck them and their review. I’m not doing it. They can fuck right off!”
Bambi goes outside. Jason’s raised voice echoes through the house.
So, what’s next then? Finish shouting and come outside for a swim?
Drink until the haze in his eyes creates the illusion of contentment?
But something will stir him, upset him—as it always does—and Bambi will have to deal with the aftermath.
Bambi walks the perimeter of the pool, a decision forming in her mind far away, like the marine layer rolling in off the coast, enveloping her slowly, distantly, so imperceptible she hardly notices.
But it’s there, nonetheless. Inside the house, Jason hangs up the phone and comes outside, the ice in his glass tinkling from across the pool.
He stands watching her, his stare icy and yet alluring.
Bambi shivers, but not from the cold. She feels the painful creep of desire forming in her belly, the feeling of wanting to be wanted by him.
Stupid Bambi, she chastises herself. But she can’t shake the deep-rooted desire to please, to be close, to feel loved.
Or Jason’s version of love. A wave of exhaustion forces her to sit at the edge of the pool, her feet dangling into the water.
Across the water, Jason silently removes his clothes and steps into the pool, leaving his drink at the side.
She watches him swim toward her, the strong arches and curves of his shoulders, the ripples of his back and chest. Bambi splashes the water, frustration mounting at herself for wanting this asshole.
He nears her and pulls himself through the water until he’s parallel with her legs.
“Everything okay?”
He pulls himself to her through the water, embraces her legs, and rests his head on her shins. “Everyone’s out to get me, Bambs.”
He turns his head, kissing her legs lightly, the scent of alcohol on him.
For a moment, she collapses into the feeling of him touching her. Her legs part. She feels him kissing her inner thighs, pulling up her dress until his mouth is closer and closer to her center.
“Jason,” she says, pushing him away with her hands. “Not here. Come on.”
But he doesn’t stop. Bambi angles back as his hands grip her bottom, his mouth consuming her. She tries to pull herself away, the fabric of her dress tearing beneath her on the wet concrete.
His strength overwhelms her, and Bambi cannot resist. She leans back, taking in the sensation of him, his wet hands caressing her. After a few moments, she gives in, holding the back of his head near her, unable to speak or to move for the pleasure.
“I want you,” he whispers and pulls her down into the water. Her dress floats eerily to both sides of her, the white fabric like a ghost on the water as Jason pulls her toward him once more.
Twelve a.m. Upstairs, the house is cool and quiet, as if no one lives there. In her office, the sound of the crickets and the coos of a few birds drift in with the night air through an open window.
She sits and flips open her laptop to check her email.
Her inbox is flooded with replies to her ad.
One by one, she clicks through them, most of them duds with shady email addresses and single-sentence replies that she can’t wait to delete.
Her heart sinks. She should have known. She’s about to give up when she sees one final message. Its content catches her off guard.
Congratulations, you have met your woman.
I’m everything you listed and more. Give me the chance to show you why in person.
Strong. Yes, I’m a Goliath. Sweet, only when I need to attract certain bees with honey.
Pretty enough, according to my daughter (I’m a single mom), and highly educated, thanks to the school of life.
I live nearby and can be the reliable, solid chick you are looking for. Just ask my therapist …
Kidding.
Seriously, though, I won’t flake, I don’t take kindly to losing—never have—and I don’t smoke weed. I’m a top-notch organizer, and I will take care of business the right way. I can be there for an interview; just say the word.
Also … I’m a professional. I always do my utmost without ego, without drama, without oversight. Let me make your life easier and take the hard stuff off your plate.
Thank you for your consideration. Hugs and kisses,
Martha
Bambi never got gut feelings, and if she did, she’s very used to ignoring them.
But something about this letter is different.
Something is telling her to call this woman, this Martha.
She jots down her name and number into her phone, pops two Ambiens, washes her face, and sets a reminder to call her first thing in the morning.