Someone else holds me back, and though I won’t allow myself to have that someone, I’m still not free.
“I’m going to a party tonight,” Brendan says. “Want to come?”
“Where is it?”
“At someone’s house not far from here. One of my cousin’s friends.”
“Sounds cool.” My response is feeble.
“What do you say? I probably won’t know anyone there. It would be nice to have you by my side.”
The way he says it makes me feel guilty for having to turn him down.
“I can’t,” I say. “I have plans. Sorry.”
“Oh.” He looks slightly hurt. Is he wondering if the plans I speak of are with another guy?
“How are you getting around the city?” I ask, changing the subject.
“The roommate on tour left his car, and he’s letting me use it.”
“That’s nice.”
“Yeah,” he nods.
I look down into my water glass. The conversation is strained; a weak reflection of the easy going and familiar one we had on Wednesday night.
A sudden and intense urge to throw down my water glass, climb over the back fence and run away fills me. It’s combated with the urge to reach over and press my lips against Brendan’s.
“Do you want to walk down to the beach?” he asks.
Being surrounded by other people right now sounds like a great idea.
“Yes.” I stand up so fast I see spots. “Let’s go.”
*
I leave as soon as it seems polite. The entire drive home is spent cursing myself and clutching the steering wheel. Did I blow it with Brendan? Should I have just accepted his advances?
A summer romance isn’t a bad thing, I know.
It’s just not something I can easily do. I need more from a person than that. I’m not talking about commitment for the rest of our lives, but I like some sort of stability and predictability. If I were to start hooking up with Brendan, I would regret it the moment he gets on that flight and heads back to the east coast. I know I would. It will be too hard to see him go; I’ll have gotten attached to what we started.
Just like the last time with him.
Water, water everywhere, and not a drop to spare.
My current life situation could be equated to floating on a raft in the middle of the ocean dying of thirst and knowing there’s nothing to be done about it. Just like I can’t drink the salt water, I can’t have these men. They’re bad for me.
No one is at the apartment. I drop my keys on the shelf and just stand in the middle of the living room, feeling sorry for myself. Telling Brendan I had plans tonight was a total lie. There’s a party happening downtown with a lot of people from school, but I wasn’t planning on going anyway. I’ve had enough of crowds for a while.
When the silence becomes too much to bear, I go into my bedroom and dig in my sock and underwear drawer. I find a red bikini top and a pink and orange striped bottom. They clash so much it makes me cringe, but my only other bathing suit is still in the bottom of my clothes hamper.
After getting changed, I slip on some flip flops and head down to the pool. When we moved in, Crystal told me she heard one of the neighbors got a fungus from it, so I’ve never so much as dipped a toe in its waters. The courtyard gets a decent amount of light, though, and I lay my towel down on one of the lounge chairs and stretch out.
I last about ten minutes. Being alone with my own thoughts is torture. All I can think about is what Mr. Mulroney might be doing. Does he always spend his weekends the same way? And what way is that?
I groan and sit up. Snatching my towel, I stomp up the stairs. The older Hispanic woman who lives down the hall gives me a weird look, but I ignore her.
I don’t bother taking off the bikini. Instead, I pull a t-shirt and some shorts on over it. I start the coffee pot, clear the table in front of the couch, plug in my computer, and the ritual of beginning complete, sit down to write.
I get as far as INT, RESTAURANT, DAY before I’m opening up the browser. I’m restless and it’s not like I have any fresh ideas anyway. My fingers thrum against the coffee table and I look self-consciously around the living room. I’m the only one home, but I still feel guilty about what I’m about to do.
Going to Google, I type in ‘Simon Mulroney’. I hit the search button and cringe. The act is so juvenile I should be sent straight back to eighth grade for simply considering it.
The number of hits is mind blowing, but of course it is. He runs one of the largest film production studios in the world. At least, he’s purported to. As his assistant, I can personally attest to the fact that Mr. Mulroney does what he needs to do and not much more. Dana has told me a lot of our boss’ job is a front; that the Mulroneys hired out others to do much of the work long ago.