Bad Mommy(31)
“You want to fuck Ryan,” I shot back. “How is it any different?”
Her mouth opened and closed as she blinked at me. “I’ve never once said that.” Her voice was clipped; it made me afraid that she was angry with me.
“I know,” I stumbled. “I was just saying—you probably have. It’s human to wonder what it’s like to be with someone you’re close to, sexually.”
She cocked her head and something crossed her eyes too quickly for me to decipher.
“I love Darius. I want to be with Darius. What you and I have said about Ryan is just girl talk, do you understand?”
I nodded. “Of course, but just saying. Men are men. They want to fuck pretty girls. He loves you. It was just something careless he said.”
“You don’t know him,” she repeated. It made me really, really angry.
I thought of the line in Funny Girl when Rose said to Fanny: When you look at him, you only see what you want to see. And Fanny’s response: I see him as he is. I love him as he is!
She didn’t know him like I knew him. She pushed and prodded and nagged at him until he shut down. He wasn’t happy; I knew that and Darius knew that. Jolene was living in some sort of fantasy world. I saw all of the parts of him that he was too afraid to show her. And thank God for that—he needed someone who understood him. Besides, I thought what he said about that Rachel girl was funny. We all wanted to fuck someone we weren’t supposed to. Whenever I met someone new I pictured myself having sex with them. A habit I developed as a teenager. If Jolene thought that Darius only fantasized about her, she was living in Lala Land.
The first thing I did when I got home was dig Nubby out from the back of my spice cabinet. I hid him in an empty bottle of paprika through most of my marriage. George was staunchly against vibrators, insisting they ruined women for the real thing. But, in eight years together, George hadn’t been able to give me an orgasm. I’d purchased Nubby from one of those online sex shops, stressing for days over when it would arrive in the post, and if George would intercept the package. When it finally arrived I’d carried it straight up to my bedroom and had my first orgasm in years. In the subsequent weeks, George made several comments on what a good mood I’d been in lately. I introduced new spices into my diet, I told him. I read about them in a magazine.
“Whatever it is, keep doing it,” he’d said. So, I had.
I carried Nubby to my new white leather sectional, hitting the play button on the stereo before sitting down. Barbra started singing “What Kind of Fool” as I lay down thinking of Darius and what he would do to Rachel.
Sleep was always an issue for me. I had so many things to digest, contemplate about my day. Sometimes I replayed something that happened over and over until I thought I’d go mad. My mind never shut off, and I woke up early each morning with new worries. Once awake, I couldn’t switch off the anxiety. It rolled down a steep hill gaining speed, except it never crashed, never came to a stop. Sometimes I sat down on the couch at midnight, my MacBook open on my lap, Barbra playing softly through the speakers, and I’d work a little, but mostly I’d think. When I looked at the time again it would be five AM and I wouldn’t know where the time went.
I made mental lists: all the ways I’m better than her, the ways I can make him happier than she does. If he left her we would have Mercy part of the time. I would be her mother. My whole family complete. But, what if she found out before it’s time? This is what kept me up. I had to be a good friend to her, so she didn’t become suspicious.
I’m not wrong.
She’s wrong.
When she didn’t call me, didn’t ask me over—I reached out. I sent her a naked picture of myself in the shower. I texted her little encouraging quotes and stories since she was writing again, offered to come over and cook them dinner so she could work. There were days when she would ignore me and days she’d respond. Manic, that was an artist thing. I could relate. I was an artist even if I hadn’t found my medium yet.
At first she resisted, but then—miracle of miracles—she started saying yes. I rushed to the market, filling my cart with things I thought would impress: goat cheese, and arugula, and the leanest organic ground beef I could find. Then I’d show up at their house with a treat for Mercy, who was always happy to see me. Since things had progressed with Darius and me, he was less attentive in person, not making eye contact, not directly addressing me. I wanted to tell him to stop that. To act normal. But, I figured he was grieving the end of his marriage, so I let him be. We both needed time to process what was happening. Jolene gave me the number of her stylist when I asked. I have an appointment in two weeks, she told me. I dye it black for the winter.