UnConventional Page 10

  The singing suddenly cuts out. “Di? Is that you? I’m sorry I didn’t wait for you, but you were sleeping so peacefully I didn’t want to wake you.”

  I feel like I’m going to throw up. Or pass out. Or both. I sink down on the toilet seat. I don’t want to, but I can’t hold it in, and I pee, hoping the shower covers the sound. I’m so incredibly embarrassed. Not just because of what I’m doing right now, but because of what I obviously did last night.

  Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.

  “There’s room in here for two, if you want,” Santiago says, his voice muffled from behind the curtain.

  I can’t find the words to answer him, finishing quickly. I pause at the mirror, hoping to find that confidence, that self-assurance of last night, but I can barely make out my reflection, condensation and steam obscuring my face. The girl I was last night, the one who could be bold and assertive, is gone. I feel sick, confused, stumbling back out to the room. Where are my clothes? I have to get dressed. I have to go back to my room. I have to…go home.

  I start pulling open drawers, searching for my underwear. I find Santiago’s boxers, socks, workout clothes, neatly folded. A pair of braces of some kind. They’re L shaped, with a plastic back, foam, and a strap that goes diagonally from ankle to toe. They’re unlike anything I’ve seen before. My heart beats a little faster, but my brain pulls me back to reality. I shut the drawer and open the next, finally finding the lace I’m ready to burn at my next opportunity. I don’t know if I should be pissed or touched that he obviously got up early and took the time to fold and hang up my clothes. I pull my panties on, then quickly strap on my bra, taking a quick glance at myself in the mirror, my reflection no longer obscured by steam. My hair is a disaster, and so am I. Where’s my phone? Fuck. That’s right, I forgot it, along with my key and ID, in my room last night.

  I’m a whore.

  I’m a whore, and I can’t even call my husband to apologize.

  I sink onto the bed, bury my face in my hands, and sob.

  “So I thought we could try this place on Magazine for break—”

  I part my fingers. Santiago’s in front of me, naked except for his white boxers, his hair dark, wet, and uncombed. He looks so incredibly, irresistibly sexy it makes my chest hurt.

  “Hey, it’s okay.”

  I feel his knees touch mine; they’re still damp. I drop my hands. I want to tell him. Need to. But the words refuse to come, fresh tears welling up. I can’t look at him, letting my head fall, because seeing him reminds me of what I’ve done and can never take back, how much I want him, even though I know I can’t. This makes me cry even harder.

  He puts a hand on my shoulder, a gentle, sweet, reassuring gesture. “It’s okay. You don’t have anything to be ashamed about.”

  I keep bawling, willing myself to stop, but the more I think about not crying, the more the tears flow.

  “Is it because I’m…” He smoothes his thigh with his palm, stares down at his feet. “Fuck,” he says on a sigh. “I’m sorry.” He meets my eyes. “We should have talked first. But you seemed so comfortable with me, and you wanted me and I wanted you, and we were both drunk…”

  I shake my head; my body jerks with a sob.

  He sighs. “Is it because we didn’t use protection? I’m clean, and…” His eyes widen. “You’re on birth control, right?”

  I shake my head.

  The blood drains from his face momentarily. “Okay… Listen, Di—”

  “I don’t think I can get pregnant,” I say, my voice heavy with tears.

  He places his hands on my arms, his thumbs moving in slow circles. “It’ll be okay.” Deep breath. “How can I make you better?”

  I meet his eyes, which are so beautifully soft and sincere, filled with such genuine concern. He doesn’t even know why I’m upset, and yet all he cares about is making me better. Not the situation, me. I can’t look at him anymore, bending over, burying my face in my hands and knees, crying like I haven’t cried since I found out my parents had been killed. He rubs my back, speaking soothingly, whispering that everything’ll be okay.

  “I’m married,” I mumble.

  “What?”

  Still sitting, I push myself up, away from my legs, startling him. “I’m married!” I sob. “I’m married,” I say again, voice trembling.

  “Fuck,” he says, a barely audible whisper, but his hands go to his push rims, and he backs away from the bed. I watch through blurry, puffy eyes as he pushes across the room. Away from me.

  Oh God, I’m such an asshole. I didn’t mean to hurt you, I think. My heart feels as if it were crumbling in my chest.

  But he returns, a handkerchief in his lap, offering it to me.

  I smile faintly. “I’m sorry,” I mutter, blowing my nose. “I should have told you.”

  He shakes his head, pulls his fingers through his damp hair. “This is my fault.”

  “I lied to you.”

  “I pressured you.”

  “No. I like you. I wanted you.” I put a hand on his knee. “I…still do.” I sigh. “But—”

  “But you have to go home to your husband.” He drums his palm on his push rim, fingers spread, forearm tense.

  I nod subtly.

  He leans forward, elbows on his knees, cradling his head. “And you don’t want to see me again.”

  “Yes. I mean…no. I mean…” I sigh. “I do. Yesterday—not just last night, all of it: beignets and texting and Cooter Brown’s—was…” I search for a way to express myself. “It was like waking up from a long coma and realizing what being alive, really alive, feels like.”

  He looks up. “Your husband—”

  “Stephen—”

  “Stephen. Doesn’t make you feel like that?”

  I laugh, shake my head. “No. Stephen hates my music, he thinks writing a novel is a waste of time, and…he doesn’t look at me the way you do.”

  “And how do I look at you?”

  “Like…every second you’re with me is the best moment in your life. Like…” I shake my head, embarrassed.

  He smiles, gestures for me to continue.

  “Like…I matter.”

  His face looks so sad, his mouth pursed into a frown, his brows furrowed. He shakes his head. “Are you happy with him?”

  “What? Of course! I mean, he has a good job, he takes care of me. He doesn’t drink or…philander…”

  He takes my hand, cradling it in his. “That’s not what I mean.”

  I sigh, hunch my shoulders.

  “I’d be happy to be your mistress—master—lover… Shit. Sorry. I shouldn’t joke. I do that. Joke when I should be serious.”

  I’m not quite laughing, but I crack a smile. “But that’s one thing I like about you.”

  He smiles, but his face is solemn. “Do you think—if it weren’t for Stephen—you could be happy?”

  There he is again, asking about me. I can’t answer. “I should go,” I manage to say. “My dress?”

  He looks at me, sighs softly, then nods. He backs up, turns, goes to the closet. I follow hesitantly. I spy his crutches, watching him grab one and use it to snag the hanger with my dress. Apparently the bathroom is the only thing accessible about this room. I accept the garment with a faint smile and slip it quickly over my head while he replaces his crutch and shuts the closet door.

  He says nothing to me as he opens a drawer, grabs a tee, and pulls it on. Then he leans back in his chair, looking at me, as if surprised I haven’t left. “I guess this means no more dates.” His voice tells me he’s joking, but his face is sad. “I really thought we connected.” He rolls his eyes. “Shit. I’m sorry. That was bad even for me.”

  I want to sink to my knees, lay my head in his lap, feel his hands in my hair. It’s like my heart’s being ripped in two, between what I want and what I should do.

  “No. Shit. We do have something,” I say, stepping toward him and taking his hand, intertwining our fingers. “Santiago, you’re smart and funny and sexy and…”
Everything I’ve ever dreamed of.

  He looks up, amber specks standing out like bright stars in a dark night. Smiling faintly. He squeezes my hand, then pulls his away, shifts to another drawer, takes something out. I stay, frozen, knowing I should have walked out as soon as I got my dress back.

  “Here,” he says, handing me a small bag. “I had some free time yesterday afternoon, and I picked this up.”

  My eyebrows furrow, and I peer into the bag. I laugh, pulling out what’s apparently a mini-voodoo-doll keychain.

  “I thought you could use something kitschy to remind you of this trip. It was either that or Mardi Gras beads. And, since it’s June, I thought I’d go for silly rather than tacky.”

  I admire it. It looks like the kind of thing he could have picked up in the French Market, or one of the tourist traps on Canal. It’s ridiculous.

  I love it.

  “And a voodoo doll isn’t tacky?” I smile, but it’s sad. This has to be good-bye.

  “Do you know what the Spanish word for souvenir is?”

  I shake my head.

  “Recuerdo. It literally means ‘I remember.’” He nods his head in my direction. “Keep it. Y recuérdeme.”

  * * * *

  Because I locked myself out of my room last night, my first stop is the lobby for a new card, praying no one who knows me will recognize me—or if they do, won’t notice I’m doing the walk of shame, clearly wearing the same clothes from the night before. I do my best to hurry back to the elevators, relieved when they open to an empty car. Although it’s late by my standards, the convention doesn’t officially start for another hour, so I’m praying I’ll be able to make it up the ten floors to my room without running into anyone.

  Slumped against the back of the elevator, I watch the numbers blink by, trying to focus on them instead of the swirl of thoughts crashing through my mind, my stomach gurgling in protest. On the seventh floor, the doors open, and three conventioneers peer in at me, one frowning, another smirking.

  “Going down?”

  I cringe at her word choice and shake my head, leaning forward to slam the Close Door button as rapidly as I can. What if that had been my boss? What would she have thought? Would she…have told Stephen? Not that my boss and Stephen are really friends, or even acquaintances, but… I’m so nervous I can hardly concentrate.

  By the time the doors open on the tenth floor, I’ve decided I’m not going to tell him. I’ll delete Santiago’s number from my phone and forget. Going out with Santiago, riding up to his room, having sex with him—it was all a mistake, and telling Stephen won’t do him any favors. It might assuage my guilt, but I deserve it. I’ve betrayed my husband, and I have to live the rest of my life with that. Every time I look at Stephen, every time we have sex, I’ll know I’m lying to him.

  At my door, the keycard refuses to obey. I slide it in, jiggle the handle, the red light flashes. I try again with no luck. Again. Red lights mocking me. I slam my fist against the door, and the memory of last night, of sitting in Santiago’s lap as he tried to open the door with me blocking his vision suddenly hits me. For a fleeting moment, I smile, until the realization of what that memory means sinks in, and fresh tears bubble to the surface.

  I try one more futile attempt at the door, which I can barely see now through my tears, when I feel a hand on my back. Too upset to be afraid, I ignore it, crying with my forehead pressed to the wood. I feel another hand slip the key card from mine and hear a click before the door inches open. I turn at last, finally seeing my savior. Melanie.

  “I got worried when you didn’t answer any of my texts and I didn’t see you downstairs. So I thought I’d drop by your room.”

  “I left my phone in my room,” I manage to say through a mouth sticky from crying as she leads me inside. She guides me to the bed, pressing on my shoulders to make me sit.

  She grabs a bottle of water and joins me, opening it with a twist of her wrist and offering it to me. I drink, not even realizing how dehydrated I am until I’ve drained nearly half the bottle in one gulp.

  “You look terrible,” she says, but when I look up, she’s smiling encouragingly, her face soft, being a friend. “What happened?”

  I shake my head. “We had sex,” I say, sucking in a breath to calm myself. I’ve stopped crying, but that heaviness you’re always left with after tears remains, thick in my throat.

  “It’s okay,” she says, a hand on my shoulder. “Was it good?”

  That cracks a laugh, a smile appearing on my face despite my red eyes. “Yeah.”

  She hugs me from the side, squeezing me as if I were a child and she were my mother. “Tell me the truth, Di.”

  “Okay,” I say hesitantly. I take a few more gulps of water. My tongue feels large and disgusting in my mouth.

  “If it weren’t for the fact that you’re married to Stephen, would you regret last night?”

  “No,” I respond immediately, shocked I don’t have to think about it. I finish my water, dragging a thumb over the ridges toward the bottom of the bottle. “I really, really like him. And he likes me. Which makes it even worse.” I pause, expecting her to say something: encourage me, judge me, criticize me. I dig a fingernail under the label and start peeling it back. “He makes me feel alive. Like I’m beautiful and smart and attractive. Like I can do anything, be anything.” I haven’t felt that way since my mother died. I tear at the label, which comes off in shreds instead of one complete piece. “No man has ever made me feel like that.”

  Staring at the shredded label on the empty water bottle in my hand, I hear Melanie sigh.

  “Once—this was years ago—Mark and I were having some problems. He really wanted a family, and I didn’t, or at least I didn’t think I did. Then I got pregnant, and he was ecstatic. But I lost the baby. I mean, it was early. A miscarriage. The doctor assured me it wasn’t my fault, that I’d be fine to try again. But it rattled me.”

  She sighs again, smoothing her hands over her pant legs, staring ahead. When I look up at her, I see her eyes are unfocused, as if peering into her memory instead of the wall in front of us. “I went to a dark place. Took a leave of absence from work. I’d force myself out of bed each morning and just wander wherever my feet would take me. After the first week, I started going to a park near our house. Just to watch and hear the children playing. In the beginning, I guess I did it just to torture myself. But then I met this guy. His name was Jason. He wasn’t particularly handsome, or even attractive, but we’d sit next to each other every day on the bench. His wife had died recently, and I guess…we shared our loss.”

  Melanie is quiet, and I’m not sure what to say. She’s always seemed so together, so perfect, I never wanted to probe and be embarrassed by how poorly my life matches up in comparison. I also view ECAC as a place to leave the rest of my life behind, ironically enough—writing, not editing, was always my dream, until Stephen convinced me to make the logical switch. He realizes I’m unhappy and has been suggesting for years that I quit. But I cling to it, because it’s the one area of my life Stephen has no control over. It’s mine. And maybe I’ve stayed because—like my marriage—it’s comfortable and familiar.

  Melanie sniffles, and I turn, expecting tears, but her face is dry. “We had sex a few times. But I realized I was just looking for an escape. I loved Mark. A few months later, I got pregnant with Megan, and I stopped going to the park. I never saw Jason again, but…” She lets out her breath slowly, almost like an actor prepping for her part. “Sometimes…I dream about him.”

  “Why are you telling me this?” I ask, my voice barely a whisper.

  She shakes her head, forces a smile, but I can tell her eyes are glistening. “I know you don’t believe it, especially after last night, but you’re a good person. Everyone makes mistakes. Just make sure you don’t make two.”

  Doesn’t she mean, Don’t make the same mistake twice?

  “I have four kids now, and I love them, but…” She sighs, puts her hand on mine, although it fee
ls more like she’s comforting herself than me. “I know we don’t normally keep in touch between conferences, but call me. Really. Okay?”

  * * * *

  An hour later, I’m sitting in a cab, phone in hand, earbuds in, listening to my music to try to transport me from my thoughts. When I finally checked my phone, after Melanie left me, I discovered that while I had dozens of missed texts, a few missed calls, and a couple frantic voice messages from Melanie, I didn’t have a single contact from Stephen. Not even an e-mail. Even when I texted him, nothing, and my calls went straight to his message. He could be in a meeting, but still, it stings.

  Instead of packing my bags and hopping on the first plane back to Houston, I decided there’s one more thing I need to do first, grateful I didn’t run into Santiago as I slinked out of the hotel.

  The cabbie looked at me in his rearview mirror, confused when I told him the destination. “Wouldn’t you rather go to one of the historic cemeteries, one of the St. Louis?”

  “No,” I told him. “Metairie Lawn.”

  Now, Boys Like Girls’ “On Top of the World” blasts in my ears, and I have to bite my lip to hold back the tears as they sing about hoping to find the person you’ve lost in the sky, that great empty expanse I see fly by as I peer out the window, glimpses of the historic monuments of the older cemeteries passing as we cross over Old Metairie Road.

  Lonely daughters, missing their mothers.

  You can do anything; you can be anything, I think, reminded of my mother, as the song continues to play. I sigh, fingering my medal, wondering if those words are still true.

  * * * *

  Although it’s ninety-plus degrees and full humidity, it’s chilly inside the mausoleum. I’m not sure if I can explain the emptiness that crushes me, standing in front of the polished bronze and marble of my parents’ burial vaults, the walls of the mausoleum enormous yet engulfing, my reflection muted and distorted in front of me. Like the day of their interment, I’m alone, remembering how all the sound seemed to have been sucked out of the world, as if I’d suddenly gone deaf, as if I had come from a boisterous, crowded party and walked into a soundproof cell.