Chapter Fourteen - Rochelle
We’re in this forever. Not, We’re in this together. Which is how that saying usually goes.
I sit quietly in the small sitting area in front of the elevator, just staring out the window. Wynkoop Street is busy at night. And during the day as well, I guess. But not in the same way. I can’t see the street unless I stand right up next to the window and look down. So from my chair I can just see the mountains peeking over the not-so-tall buildings.
Adley is sitting on the floor playing with some brightly-colored plastic blocks that she likes to taste instead of stack, perfectly content to explore her new world on her own terms. She’s very easy-going as far as babies go. Easily satisfied, easily entertained, and a champion sleeper. This probably means she’ll be a wild teenager and I will be forced to reflect back on my own wild teenage days, consoling myself with stupid mom-isms like, Just wait until you’re a mother. Or, Paybacks are a bitch, sister.
The buzz of the elevator startles me out of my introspective thoughts and I look quickly over at the security panel. Someone is in the elevator coming up. I don’t stand to greet him, not even when the doors open and he steps into the loft.
“Well,” Smith says, wearing his trademark dark suit. “This place is quite nice.”
“What do you want?” I ask, annoyed. Why does he bother with me? I never understood it.
“It’s my day, right? Fridays? They still belong to me?”
I stare at him, open-mouthed. “Are you joking?”
“I am the one who kept paying. I still have a stake.”
“You want me to fuck you—”
“No,” he says, a disgusted look on his face. “Hell, no.”
“Then what are you talking about?”
“It is still my day, Rochelle.”
“The game is over, Smith.”
“You came back, Rochelle. I might need a refund.”
We stare at each other for several long moments. His eyes narrowed in… I don’t know. Hate, probably. He has always hated me. I could feel his hate even before he started ignoring me. He was never interested in anything. Bric is also like that with me. At least he was. But Bric’s indifference is based on selfishness and ego. Smith’s indifference is based on… dislike. I’m a bad taste in his mouth. A foul smell or that grossed-out feeling you get when you’re walking barefoot in the dark and step on something… squishy.
Disgust.
“How did you get up here with no code?”
“I have the code. I just told you, it’s my fucking day.”
“So Bric gave you the code? He knows you’re here?”
“Quin gave me the code.”
I turn away and find the mountains on the other side of the window again. What the hell is going on? “Well,” I ask, “what do you want to do?”
I catch a shrug from the corner of my eye. “Talk, I guess.”
Whatever.
“Adley,” Smith says, getting down on his hands and knees and crawling over to my daughter. “What are you doing?”
She smiles at him. Like he’s a nice person. And then she waves a red plastic block in the air before putting it back in her mouth.
“She’s very cute, Rochelle,” Smith says.
“Thank you,” I mumble.
“So you really don’t know who the father is?” he asks.
I don’t even bother answering that stupid question. “What did you want to talk about?” I ask, trying to find a polite way to move this along so he’ll get the hell out.
Smith chuckles as he gathers up all Adley’s colored blocks and starts stacking them. Adley watches him intently. Her eyes follow each move from the time he picks up a block, until the time he stacks it. She never loses focus. “It’s not me who needs to talk.”
“OK,” I say. “What do you want to know?” I have found it’s far easier to give Smith Baldwin what he wants than it is to fight with him. Giving in makes him go away.
“I want to know,” Smith says, placing the last block on top of the swaying tower, “who that guy was you were arguing with on the corner of Fifteenth and Champa the day before you disappeared. Because I was stuck at a red light that day and I saw you.”
I stop breathing.
“And as a follow-up,” Smith says, standing up and then sitting back down in the chair, “I want to know if that guy is the reason you don’t want a DNA test.”
I inhale and then let it out with a chuckle. “Get the fuck out.”
He ignores my order. Just absently rubs a palm across his scratchy jaw. “I know what you are, Rochelle. I might not know anything about your past, but I saw enough of you while we were together to form an opinion. You’re an opportunist. You got yourself invited into the game. You played until you got what you needed. And then you left to go get something else. So why are you here?”
My stomach tightens up. I feel sick for exactly three seconds as I internalize his characterization of me. “I know what you are too. And we’re not so different.”
“Is that so? Do you think we’re equals, Rochelle?”
“Well.” I laugh. “We’re both playing the same game, Smith. So I’d have to say yes. We are equals.”
He thinks about this for a little while.
“Do you know why I decided to give my money away?” he finally asks.
“I have no clue. And I don’t really care. I’m not here for anyone’s money. Certainly not yours. I’m happy to pay back what you gave me. In fact, I insist on it. I will have that money—”
“Because rich people are weird, you know?” He looks at me with one eyebrow raised, like that question was not rhetorical and he’s expecting me to agree.
“Oh, you guys are weird all right. Bric and his game. Quin and his revenge. I get the picture, thanks.”
“We grow up segregated from the real world. In my case, it was the good kind of segregation. Up in Aspen—”
“Yeah, because Aspen is not a microcosm of rich assholes. Not at all.”
“—in the fresh air. All that nature shit people are into up there. The hiking, the kayaking, the skiing. Whatever. It’s a good life for a boy. But you, Rochelle. You didn’t get Aspen, did you?”
I say nothing. He has no idea what he’s talking about and he’s certainly not going to be the first person in Denver who gets to hear my story. No way.
“Anyway,” he says, waving a hand in the air. “It took me a long time to figure you out. But I did figure you out. Can you guess when I figured you out, Rochelle?”
“Hmmm,” I say, putting a finger to my lips like I’m pretending to think. “When you stopped coming by the apartment on Fridays?”
So what if he sees through me? I don’t care. I don’t have to care about his opinion. I’m not even here for him.
“Yes,” he says, pointing his finger at me. “That’s exactly when I figured you out.” He opens his mouth like he’s going to say more. But then reconsiders and stays silent. But as the moments tick off, his face changes. His whole expression, really.
Anger, I realize. He’s silent right now because he’s angry.
“What do you want?” I ask.
His jaw is clenching. And those eyes… they are filled with hate. He hates me. I have never understood that, but it’s always been there. What the fuck did I ever do to him? Nothing. I’ve done nothing to him. I don’t deserve this asshole’s scrutiny.
“I want you to listen, Rochelle Bastille. And I want you to listen good. I don’t know what the fuck you’re up to. I don’t know why you came back. But I will give you two million dollars, right now, in cash, if you pack that adorable baby up and get the fuck out of my town.”
“No,” I say firmly. “No. I’m not leaving. I’m here for Quin.”
“And Bric?”
“I’m not the one who wants the game, Smith. They are. They want it. I want Quin. I came back for Quin. I’m not leaving until we at least have a conversation about it. And he’s not ready for that yet so I’m going to stay and wait it out. So you can take that money and shove it up your ass. I don’t need your fucking money.”
He smiles at that. Lets out a breath of air… like he’s… relieved. “So you’re just gonna what, Rochelle?” Smith’s voice is lower now. Not as agitated. Maybe even sympathetic. That stupid offer might’ve just been another one of those fucked-up tests he’s so fond of. Let’s dangle money in front of desperate Rochelle and see if she takes it. Pathetic. “You’re just gonna let Quin pretend that child is his?”
I am so beyond exasperated. “This is not my fault,” I say, huffing out some air. “I keep telling him she might not be, OK?” I look at Smith and study his reaction. What is he thinking right now? Why is he here? “I do. I swear. But he won’t even consider it. He just says, ‘She’s mine,’ every time I bring it up.”
“I could end this any time I want. Just remember that, Rochelle,” he threatens again. “Quin trusts me. I can change his mind about you any time I want. I can make him love you again. I can also make him hate you. But you know what?”
I can barely meet his eyes as he waits for my attention. “What?” I whisper.
“I’m gonna let it ride for a little bit. To see what happens. But if you fuck anything up with me and my friends, I will ruin you.”
He gets up, kneels down in front of Adley, who smiles at him—again, the tiny traitor—and says, “See you later, Adley,” in a very sweet voice. His words come with this huge smile he must reserve for everyone else but me. I can only assume this is the side he shows Chella, and that’s why she likes him.
He walks back to the elevator, presses the button, and then straightens his tie in a small mirror hanging above it, like he didn’t just offer me two million dollars to break his best friend’s heart.
He looks at me. My eyes meet his in the mirror. “I hope you don’t think this is me giving up. Because that would be a serious mistake.”
I’m just about to reply, but the elevator doors open, he steps in, and then smiles at me as they close and take him away.
When we lived in Pagosa Springs, Adley and I spent our Saturdays lounging in the hot springs along the river on the resort property. There was little traffic noise from the main street and the rushing of the San Juan River drowned out the playful voices of families there for a weekend away.
It’s something I miss right now.
Our condo in LoDo is a place for young people. Mostly people interested in partying and not new mothers interested in… well, mothering. But I’d like some new clothes and Adley could use something too—shirts that don’t say Pagosa Springs on them—even though right now I’d really like to get in my car and drive us five hours south to our little tepid pool. So we brave the streets.
The 16th Street Mall intersects my new home on Wynkoop Street, but it’s blocks and blocks away from the trendy shops, so Adley and I take the mall bus down to the more populated section to get breakfast and spend money.
Saturday mornings are busy, it seems. I feel like my life in Denver was a lifetime ago. I feel like a stranger. An interloper. Adley is agitated. Not cranky. Yet. But it’s clear we are on the same page about the traffic, noise, and bustle of city life.
I’m having doubts right now. Lots and lots of doubts.
Things with Quin are not going the way I imagined. I had pictured a warm welcome. Which, I admit, was pretty naive on my part. I left him with no explanation. But I was, in my defense, upset. Hormonally upset. Everything that seemed so rational at the time just appears thoughtless and crazy right now.
And all I keep thinking about is Smith’s visit last night. Will he really try and mess things up with Quin?
Yes, I decide. That’s something he’d enjoy.
After I get a muffin at Starbucks, Adley and I claim a window table and stare out at the gray day as we absently eat. She is chewing on one of those baby cookies, the kind that come in a box in the baby aisle and have no taste whatsoever. I tried one. I try all her baby food. The organic peaches are my favorite. But her gums are sore from the threat of teeth and she gnaws on it until her mouth is lined with mush and I’m lost in thought as I drink my coffee and wonder how I can make things better.
I called Chella to invite her to come with us, but she’s working today. Something about her tea shop having a soft opening next weekend and problems with a pastry recipe.
OK, I sigh. I get it. I left and everyone else moved on. I’ve been alone for a year, I can manage a few more weeks as they try to figure out how I fit into their new lives.
Eventually I drag myself up out of the chair and we head out into the cold windy day to shop. I used to enjoy shopping, but that was then. Back when shopping meant thrift stores and whole afternoons wandering the long aisles of antique stores.
Now, it’s a chore. But I manage to find me some nice things in shops where they will box everything up with pretty bows and have them delivered to you. And I find some cute clothes for Adley too, but I take those pretty bags with me onto the bus as we finally make our way home in the late afternoon.
But when I get to the lobby on the ground floor of the loft building, and call the elevator by punching in my code, it doesn’t come. I can hear people inside. Loud people. Laughing people. So I know it’s working. But someone must be moving in, because I also hear a lot of swearing, and grunting, and banging.
So I unlatch Adley’s baby seat, fold the stroller, and lug everything up the stairs. Someone peeks out on the fourth floor, a man about my age, who sees me struggling and says, “Need some help?”
Normally I’d say no. But… “Yes, thank you,” I say through my heavy breathing. “Someone has the elevator for moving, I guess.”
He takes the stroller and the packages, which leaves me with just Adley’s carrier, and we trudge up the stairs to my loft.
That’s when I realize, with blushing cheeks, that the person who is hogging the elevator is me.
Well, not me.
But Bric.