Stronger Page 7

  He whistles. "That's a hike from here. How did you land in Michigan?"

  "My husband."

  "Oh yeah, him." A blast of cold air rushes up the sidewalk after a passing car and Aidan stuffs his hands in his pockets. "He seems like a real interesting guy."

  "Interesting. I've never heard Des called that, but it fits."

  "It seems like you have a different kind of a relationship."

  My instinct should be to defend what I've got with Des, but I don't even know what I have with Des anymore. The best I can do is a stiff little shrug. "You could say that."

  "Does he live with you?"

  I consider the question and what my answer should be for a few steps. We take the corner and head down Elm, toward Main, and I decide to opt out of answering with a subject change.

  "So you're cooking for Thanksgiving. Are you inviting all your friends from the other night? They seem like a real good time."

  He turns his upper lip under and chews on it a second before answering. "About that..."

  "I don't think your friend Shane remembered me."

  "No, I'm pretty sure he didn't."

  "Well, that's good. I think his girlfriend gave him amnesia."

  "Wife. Natalie." He shifts uncomfortably.

  "They don't seem like they'd be your crowd. It felt more like an church meeting." I say with a little laugh. Aidan pulls a hand from his pocket and coughs into his fist.

  "Actually, they are friends, and it was a gathering of recovering addicts," he says. Oh shit.

  "Oh."

  "I'm a recovering alcoholic. I have eighteen months."

  "Well, at least that makes more sense. I was wondering why your friends got so squirrely when I invited you to the bar. I guess meetings like that don't just pop up like flash mobs." I try to laugh, but my arms are suddenly warm and a little itchy inside my coat. We turn onto Main and I can see the grocery store only a block ahead. Oh great. What's he going to think when I load my grocery cart with bottles of booze? I just want him to leave, so I can get in, get out, and get back home. Aidan touches the sleeve of my coat.

  "Does it bother you?"

  "Yes. I hate recovering alcoholics. They're traitors to the bottle," I say with a smirk. "No, Aidan, I don't care at all."

  Except that he's probably going to be judging me now. And preaching.

  "You really don't, do you?" he says and his expression is a little too sincere.

  "It's not my business what you do with your liver, as long as you don't get all judgmental about what I do with mine."

  "I've got no room to judge you."

  "Good." We reach the doors of the Stop -N- Shop and he stands aside so I can go in first.

  "I want to invite you," he says, "for Thanksgiving dinner."

  "Oh, uh..." I make a big job of untangling a grocery cart from the line of them inside the door. "I don't know. I think we have plans already."

  "We?"

  "Yes," I say with another little frown. "My husband and I."

  <<<<>>>>

  I call for emergency backup the second I get home from the grocery store.

  Aidan has rattled me. He carried home my bag of bottles with a few groceries thrown in, to make it look like I eat, after he decided he didn't need anything from the store after all. The whole walk back to our apartment building, he didn't push for big answers, but just asked me little things- like if black was my favorite clothing color, if I like watching movies, if I ever had any animals. He spent most of Elm Street telling me stories of his childhood-he's got an autistic brother, a mom who likes to make soap, and Ila, the sister who was at his apartment party. Although he never asks me to reveal any of my secrets, when I get back inside my apartment, with the door locked behind me, I have this weird sinking feeling, as if I just told him everything.

  I leave the bag on the counter, pour a shot and down it like medicine, and then I call Jan. He's the only person in my world, besides Des, that knows what's going on in my marriage. Jan is my hair stylist and confidant.

  He's at my house that night with a bottle of wine, a rolling bag full of cosmetics, and a camera slung around his neck.

  "New gig," he says as he rolls through my door. "I'm trying to get my faces into Voyeur magazine. So you're guinea pigging for me tonight."

  "Alright," I say. "Do me up."

  He starts setting up as I dump a jar of pasta sauce in a pan to heat on the stove top. I pour noodles into a colander in the sink as Jan joins me in the kitchen.

  "Oh honey, you're cooking?" He takes the glass of wine I offer him and pokes at the gelatinous noodles with a cautious finger. They move in a clump and he winces. "What have I ever done to you to deserve this?"

  "We can order take out," I say. Jan takes a gulp of the wine.

  "No, no, you went to all that effort to open a jar. I'll eat it," he giggles. "But let's just do faces first, in case your dinner is already plotting our deaths."

  "Good plan," I say. I put a lid on the sauce and turn it down on low. Jan returns to the living room and opens up his enormous make-up suitcase. I sit on the couch as he applies layers of moisturizer and primer and foundation to my face.

  "So what's the emergency?" Jan asks. "I was just thinking the other day that I haven't seen you since I put in your dreads. They still look stunning, by the way. Something new with you and Des?"

  "Nothing with Des. He's still with Claudia. I'm still here."

  "Sad, isn't it? Everybody wants a bad boy, until they have one," Jan sighs. I know the sigh--it's the one Jan assigned to his own bad boy, Robert.

  "How's it going with you and Robert?"

  He groans. "He's still cheating, still coming and going whenever he feels like it. That's the real tragedy--one day you realize that he can't turn it off and it no longer turns you on."

  I nod in depressing agreement.

  "Des is still paying your expenses though, isn't he?"

  "Yeah."

  "So lucky," he clucks.

  "My husband's married to another woman. That's luck alright--bad luck."

  "No, it's pure skill is what it is, honey." Jan reaches for another bottle of something that he applies with his ring finger, in light dabs across my face. "I miss being a kept woman. Robert's never going to be that man. I'm the one that keeps us afloat."

  "At least you can."

  "I've said this before, and I'll say it again. If you hate being tied to Des's leash, you could always come and work at my salon."

  "You know I appreciate the offer, but I can't afford to live on that."

  "Not like you do now, no. But you could survive. Why don't you try going back to night school again? Get yourself ready to get on your feet."

  "It's pointless. It's still only a high school diploma. I can't get a decent job without a college degree."

  "So, get a GED and go on to college."

  I swallow a laugh with some of the wine. "Yeah, right."

  "The academic mumbo jumbo isn't really you, is it? You're right. You should make a bee-line into modeling, like I told you from the start."

  "Right." I roll my eyes, but I wonder if he really thinks I'm not smart.

  Jan steps back to assess the make-up while simultaneously duck-facing me. "Yes, right...look at the shape of your eyes, Lydia. I don't have to tell you you're exquisite. You're like an edgy, punk rock Cleopatra."

  "Des would never go for it," I say. Jan sighs.

  "You are really sour tonight. What else is going on?"

  I take a sip of wine to buy myself a moment of thought. I called Jan so I could talk to him about Aidan, but now that I'm about to, it feels wrong to do it. Like I'm going against Des. Or how it's a stupid idea to keep playing around with, since Aidan's my neighbor. I know I can't have Aidan, so there really isn't much use in even talking about him. Then again, just thinking about him gets me off and it's a lot better than thinking of how I'm stuck in a marriage with a criminal who's banging a widow for her cash flow.

  Jan stops rooting in his make-up case.
"Wait a minute. You haven't broken your three date rule, have you? Is that what this is about? A new man?"

  "No," I say, but a grin seeps out of me. Jan isn't fooled. He squeals, scooting in close as he waves a fan brush in my face.

  "It is a man, isn't it!" he says. "You have man troubles! I can see it in your eyes. Spill, Lydia. You must. Immediately."

  It doesn't take much more than that for me to give in, since Aidan's name is bubbling on my lips to be said. I smile. "I have a new neighbor."

  "I thought so. Tell me everything. Start with his name."

  "Aidan."

  "Ohhh, that's sexy."

  "Wait 'til you hear his last name," I say, sipping my wine as Jan pulls out an eye shadow palette. "It's Badeau."

  Jan gives an appreciative groan and motions for me to close my eyes. A brush taps against my eyelid as he speaks.

  "A sexy French man? Honey, you cannot ask for more than that. Tell me he looks like he sounds."

  "Better," I say and Jan does a happy sigh. "He's tall, dark hair, and he's got a body that you would fight me for."

  "You're killing me. Face? Don't tell me that's the problem."

  I open my eyes.

  "Not at all," I turn my head away to whisper against the edge of my wine glass. "He's incredible."

  Jan lowers the palette and brush. "Then what's the problem? Has Des made you crazy? You should be over there right now, knocking on Mr. Incredible's door."

  "If it was that easy, I probably would."

  "Ohhh, I see," Jan says. "He's a more-than-three-dates risk, because he lives next door."

  I nod. Jan swabs the brush in taupe eye shadow. I close my eyes again.

  "Honey, have you ever thought that maybe there are exceptions to the three-date thing? Maybe you should just go down to the courthouse, file the divorce papers on Des yourself, and let it all play out."

  "I could go to jail too," I say, pulling my head back from Jan's brush so I can take a sip of wine. "Just for letting it happen."

  "Do you really think so? Have you asked anybody?"

  "Who am I going to ask?"

  "I don't know...the police?"

  "What if it is and they traced the phone call back to me?"

  "You really think they'd do that?" Jan asks. "I don't think you'd be in trouble. Not the way he treats you."

  I look at him dully. "He gives me everything I want."

  "He gives you money, honey. That's not everything."

  "We both know I can't make it on my own."

  "Do we?" Jan asks. "Do we know that?"

  I just take a long drink, swirling the wine over my tongue. I don't want Jan to launch into an inspirational, pity speech. That makes everything ten times worse and no matter how drunk I get, I always remember it the next morning. Pity has a way of hanging around with the same aftertaste as vomit.

  <<<<>>>>

  Knocking at my door is never good. Especially in the morning. The only ones who come knocking are people who want something I don't want to give them, like my landlord, or one of my third-dates that won't take it's over for an answer, or Aidan, who lounges on the doorframe with a smug grin when I open up.

  "You should use the chain," he says. "You didn't even ask who's out here."

  "I should have," I grumble as I step away, muddling around the mess from last night's little party with Jan. The coffee table is still crowded with our dishes of unfinished, congealed spaghetti, empty wine glasses, empty wine bottles, and cosmetics that Jan decided he didn't want anymore, scattered amongst it all like odd confetti.

  "I came to get your final answer about Thanksgiving," Aidan says, stepping in and quickly closing my door as Mrs. Lowt's opens hers across the hall. "I'd love for you to come."

  A smile flutters over my lips at the innuendo as I walk into the little cube of my kitchen. He had to know how he said that. I wish I could take him up on it.

  Instead, I root in the cupboard for coffee filters. Of course, I'm out. I tear off a sheet of paper towel and try to shape it into the filter basket, aware that Aidan's behind me, watching. Waiting for an answer. I pour water into the machine and dump spoonfuls of coffee into the center of the paper-towel. I close it up and hope for the best.

  "So?" he says.

  "I appreciate the offer, but..."

  "You're married," he finishes for me.

  "I don't do Thanksgiving," I say instead. He smirks.

  "We'll just call it dinner, then."

  "I've got plans, remember?"

  "Do you?" he asks and his gaze is like Superman's see-through stare, illuminating my lie as it sits on my tongue. But, I carry through with it anyway.

  "I think you should have a good time with your AA friends. I can already tell, we don't mix."

  He chuckles. "Very punny."

  I smile, bow beside the perking coffee pot.

  "How about if I promise to keep them under control?"

  "No impromptu interventions?"

  "Not one." He crosses his heart with one finger.

  "How else would we pass the time?"

  "No one would be there to judge you, Lydia. Believe it or not, even addicts in recovery have other things going on in their lives to talk about."

  "I wouldn't feel right bringing wine."

  "Then why bring it?" he asks casually. It still irks me.

  "This is the problem, Aidan. I don't have to defend myself to you, just because I like a glass of wine with my dinner on a holiday." Even as I say it, my eyes travel over his shoulder to the carnage of bottles and glasses on my coffee table. Wine ended up being the main course last night. Looking at the glasses, I want some now.

  "Bringing along some wine would convince you to come?" he asks. My hips hit the counter. I didn't even realize I'd been backing away from him.

  "Why are you trying so hard?" I ask.

  "I'm against anyone spending Thanksgiving alone."

  "I won't be alone."

  "No? The husband really does drop in for holidays?"

  "The point is: I won't be alone," I say, dodging the question. I'm not big on turkey anyway. Modo's is open, so I'll be down there celebrating.

  "I'd really like you to come," he says. He moves closer and his stare is so intense, it seems like there's nothing else in the world to look at. He's close enough that I can smell his cologne. I have this crazy desire to rub the sandpaper stubble of his jaw between my breasts. For a second, I nearly lose my train of thought and agree to going to his little soiree. The way he gets into my head is familiar. It's the way Des used to monopolize my thoughts. I should be running away screaming.

  Instead, I do the next best thing, "I appreciate the invite. I'll try to make it."

  I know damn well it's the last thing I'll be trying to do on Thanksgiving, but it gets him off my back. Aidan nods with a slow smile like he knows it too.

  "I'll be looking forward to it," he says. "Dinner is at five."

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  THANKS A LOT

  I wake up Thanksgiving day to the smell of turkey. It's that rich, dark smell and doesn't mix well with a hangover. I roll over on my pillow with a moan and knock into someone's face.

  Crap. A cuddler. Now I've got to deal with that too.

  The clock says it's one in the afternoon and I lie here, sorting out last night's memories and trying to glue it all together. I was at Modo's. The bathroom. That's right--this guy followed me into the bathroom. We were in the stall, it was cramped, and the girls waiting in line to pee began to bitch. But the guy's tongue was a soaked lime and with my foot on the toilet, I whispered to him, don't stop. He didn't, until one of the girls started kicking the stall door and the guy's teeth cracked against mine. We were laughing, but I thought I swallowed a piece of his tooth.

  I don't know why I invited him back to my place. Or if this is even the same guy.

  I lean across my pillow and lift his lip. Yep, chipped. It's him.

  He's still out cold, but I need him to get out of here, so I can get out of here befor
e five. I can't mosey out at 4:30 without Aidan giving me a hassle. I figure I'll go catch a movie and head to Modo's early.

  I press my palm to his shoulder and give the mystery man a shake. He coughs and rolls over. I do it again.

  "Hey," I whisper, "time to get up."

  The guy rolls onto his back.

  "Hey," he says with a smile. His junk is standing on end, as if it has static cling. His grin gets wider too. He can't be serious.

  "I've got to get going," I tell him. Usually, the guys clear out fast, but this one grips himself under the covers and does a slow pump. It doesn't do a thing for me. Dumb doesn't turn me on in the least.

  I slide out of bed and follow the horny Hansel-and-Gretel clothing path we left from the door of my room to my bed. I dump the wad of his attire on the mattress beside him.

  "Time to go," I say with a smile. He grabs my wrist.

  "C’mon now," he says. I twist out of his grip, but he's fast. He grabs the other and pulls me down beside him. He smells like B.O. and sticky booze. I wrinkle my nose.

  "It's Thanksgiving and you've probably got someplace to be."

  "Nope."

  "Well, I do," I say.

  "Right this second?"

  "Actually, yes."

  He hasn't let go of my wrist. I pull away, but he tugs me closer. God, does he stink.

  "Just one more," he says. I can tell what this guy is now. I've had a couple like him. He's the kind that won't care about his chipped tooth, because he'll show it around like a hillbilly trophy. He's probably going to need more than one square kick to the nuts to get him out of here. Maybe even a solid crack from that wrench under my sink.

  "Alright," I purr to him. "But let me get a little something first."

  He drags me a little closer and his stink fans up my nose. "You don't need anything else than what I've got right here...baby."

  At least I did one thing right and never gave him my name.

  "Let me get some whip cream," I say, pulling away. It doesn't sound so sexy when I'm trying to fight back a gag.

  "Oh." His eyebrows hike up and he lets go. "Breakfast. Where do you want to put it? On me or on you?"

  "Both of us," I say as I sneak to the front door, instead of the kitchen, and grab my trench coat. I slip into the hall, but before I can knock twice on Aidan's door, mine swings open. Mystery Man steps out into the hall in his boxers, looking a little confused.