I woke the other day at the farm to the sound of Brooks’s engine roaring, and haven’t heard from him since. I blew it, but I was half-drunk, and I’d worried I had been revealing too much—things he could connect to Ivy. So, I guess he’s reverted to playing hard to get, and, once again, we’re at an impasse.
I crack my window and blast the AC, the sticky air quickly flooding into the car. Looking into the rear-view mirror, I check my upper lip, grab a tissue, blot the fine sweat that dots it. Fucking Georgia. Why couldn’t my parents have moved elsewhere—somewhere without the wet heat? Without bitches like Eliza and guys like Brooks—guys who make you fall in love and carve up your body just to catch their eye again. Boys with mouths that make lifelong promises who grow into men with fingers like gods. But also with hearts of pure gold that are now simply covered in a bit of dust and begging to be brushed off.
My eyes watch the woman on the porch—her bare feet propped on the railing, hand on that admittedly cute baby belly of hers. Her hair is in a loose pony, her languidness getting to me like an itch I can’t reach. Her house is surprisingly nice for Mark having a social worker’s salary. They must have gotten help from her parents. The two-story brick for sale next door had a price tag of $338,000, which can buy a hell of a lot in this suburb. It enrages me, my anger reaching every edge of my body—every tiny, miniscule cell.
She shouldn’t be living here. She doesn’t even deserve this brick-front counterfeit version of utopia, where women secretly shop the Goodwill racks, drive five-year-old luxury SUVs, and charge all their vacations.
But she’s a suspect, even with that baby bump of hers.
I’d followed Jared after he left lunch last week. He did pull into the barber shop, and I’d breathed a huge sigh of relief that he wasn’t lying to me, but I resolved to distance myself from him anyway.
Trust no one. I’m too close to my goal to let anyone fuck this up for me. There’s a rat out there, and I’m betting on this bitch, but until I know for sure, I can’t take any chances. Brooks’s fingers were in my pussy. Next thing, they’ll be sliding a ring onto my own. I can’t fucking wait.
I’m parked several houses down, my dark sunglasses and black scarf all the disguise I figured I’d need after doing research on her neighborhood. If this were the ghetto, I’d definitely have had to rent a car, but there are enough nicer cars around to not draw attention. Eliza would never guess I’d be sitting here as she pulls out a … a cigarette and lights it up.
She takes a long drag and closes her eyes. Drops her head as the smoke is pushed back into the air. I hold my own breath, unable to comprehend why or how she could do that. What kind of mother disregards her baby’s health? Maybe the same kind of monster who would break into someone’s house and smash their dead parents onto the floor? Maybe the same kind of monster who gets knocked up by someone else when they’re engaged to be married?
My knuckles turn paper white as I grip the steering wheel. She sits up, leans over the railing, and flicks her ash into the bushes. Smoke. Flick. Repeat.
Suddenly, her head rotates to the front door, which is now ajar. A man steps onto the porch. Pulls the door closed. His skin is a delicate mocha, leaving no doubt in my mind that he is Mark. His hair is cut short, and the fabric of his shirt stretches across his chest. He mumbles something to her, but doesn’t try to meet her eyes. Her head straightens again toward the street. In one swift movement, he snatches the cigarette from her hand. Tosses it out into the yard before jogging down the steps—the shake of his head one of agitation.
The turn of his head back toward the porch as Eliza plucks another cigarette from the box, coupled with the subsequent scream of the tires as he backs out of the driveway, paint a picture of anger. Is it over the smoking … or something else?
I decide to leave, go get lunch, come back when it’s dark out and the view is less limited. After eating at a little Tex-Mex place nestled in a strip mall, and browsing Target, I head back just as the sun takes its last lick.
This time, I park closer, but detect no movement in the house for a good while. Mark hasn’t come back yet—not that I know of anyway.
I grow bored. Browse Facebook. Decide to make a status that will make Brooks sweat, make him squirm—a little bait to see if he’ll reach out. I remember him saying his family has property in Myrtle Beach, so it’ll be so perfect. He won’t be able to ignore it.
Anyone up for Myrtle this weekend? Friend backed out, and need someone else to drive. LMK. :)
I chuckle as I proceed to log in to several dummy accounts I made featuring hot dudes. Hit me up, one says. With you? Of course! Pick me. We can take the boat, others say. I laugh, impressed with my ingenuity. Brooks had texted me yesterday to ask how I was feeling, and I was a good, restrained girl. I waited a few hours, though they were extremely painful hours spent staring at the phone, biting my fingers to keep from losing control. When I finally responded, I said I was feeling mostly better, and thanked him for asking. He said to let him know if I needed anything, and it absolutely killed me, but I didn’t say anything else. I keep reading the book, keep treating it as gospel, and I’m sending positive energy out into the universe that the strategies will work. Make him realize how much he needs me by his side.
My eyes turn to the house again as some headlights sweep from the street to the driveway. Mark is back. The garage lifts, and he pulls in. What follows next is enough to make me worry for my future. Emboldened and running on adrenaline, I exit my car, scarf tucked hard around me, sunglasses pulled down in the dark. Lingering on the sidewalk at the edge of their lawn, I become immersed in their argument. Yelling, so much yelling, taking place in an upstairs room painted a powdery blue with a large cloud on the wall.
This isn’t good. They’re supposed to be happy. They’re supposed to be in love, enjoying the most amazing time of their lives. Instead, they look to as if they’re skating the edge of their relationship, and I can’t help but wonder ... who will be the first to fall? It’s terrifying, the thought of them splitting. I’m afraid they’ll fall apart and she’ll come running back to Brooks, her bastard son in tow. I’m even more afraid to admit I’m not entirely certain he wouldn’t take her back. Time heals all wounds, and he’s had four-and-a-half-months to get over what she did.
Is it likely? No. But stranger things happen every day.
I make a note on my phone to send Eliza flowers from Mark.