Midnight Movie: A Novel (13 page)

Right after we established ourselves as a couple, Dave became this wishy-washy, indecisive guy. It was always,
I love you, I hate you, I love you, I hate you
. Our relationship was defined by blowout arguments and awesome makeup sex. But that’s not a relationship, now, is it? For a while, I thought it was. But that was when I was a freshman, and I didn’t know any better.

So naturally we broke up and got back together I-don’t-know-how-many times. It was always casual, so the breakups went down when we met somebody else, and the reunions happened when we were lonely. When he started calling me, I wasn’t lonely, and when his calls became more frequent and more desperate, I started screening them. I wasn’t seeing anybody, but I wasn’t lonely.

On the night of April 13, like around eleven thirty, I’m in my jammies, brushing my teeth, face covered in this blue exfoliating cream, ready to crash, and my doorbell rings. We have a security camera by the front door, so I checked out the monitor, and there’s Dave, looking wasted. I said, “What’re you doing here, David?”

He whined, “I miss you, Janine. Like soooooo much.” He tended to get needy when he was really drunk.

I told him, “I’m about to get into bed.”

He said, “Perfect timing!”

I said, “Not really. Why don’t you go home and sleep it off? How did you get here?”

He said, “I walked.” Still whiny.

I said, “I’ll call you a cab.”

He said, “That’s really nice of you. Can you come down and wait with me?”

I said, “Dave, it’s almost midnight. I’ve got my face shit on.”

He said, “Wipe it off and keep me company. I don’t feel good. My stomach hurts.”

He sounded like a five-year-old crying for his mommy. I’m such a sap that I said, “I’ll be down in a sec.” I called him a taxi, rinsed off most of the exfoliating crap—I missed a bunch of it, because I was in a rush to get down there, then get back up again—and met him on the front doorstep.

Dave’s a good-looking guy, but that night, not so much. He had that I’m-drunk-as-shit pink complexion—a regular thing for him when he gets his drink on; he’s part-Irish—but it was way worse than usual. I could tell his eyes were bloodshot, even in the dark. His long black hair was all stringy and dirty, like he hadn’t washed it in a while. I told him, “Sweetie, no offense, but you’re a mess.”

He gave me this weird smile, opened up his arms, and said, “You’re so pretty, Janine. Gimme a hug.”

A hug was not that big of a deal. I could handle that, no matter how sweaty or smelly he was—and he was really smelly, like he had booze and bologna sweat leaking from his pores. I put my arms around his waist, and he started squeezing me.
Hard
. Like so hard that I had trouble breathing and talking.

I kind of hit him on the back and managed to gasp out, “You’re hurting me, David. Let go.”

He said, “You hurt me, Janine.” He pulled me into him even tighter.

I said, “How … did … I … hurt … you?” I was getting light-headed from the loss of air and nauseated from his stench.

He said, “That night at the movie.”
Squeeze
. “That stupid zombie slasher movie.”
Squeeze
. “You looked so good.”
Squeeze
. “And you were talking with that writer guy.”
Squeeze
. “And that hurt.”

I started pounding him on his back and said, “Jesus … Christ … let … me … go …” It felt like I was going to black out. He gave me one last squeeze, then let me go, then reached out and pinched my nipples
hard
, something that, in the right
context, I thoroughly enjoyed. This was as far from the right fucking context as you could get.

He said, “You looked so good. You had on that short black skirt that I like so much, and that cute little red T-shirt, and those sandal heels, and all I wanted to do was hug you, and kiss you, and you wouldn’t even come inside the bar.” Then—and this is something that I never imagined I’d ever see—David Cranford started crying.

Of course my stupid nurturing instinct kicked in, and despite his obnoxious late visit, and despite the hug that almost broke my ribs, and despite the fucked-up nipple pinch, I wanted to make him feel better. I put my hand on his arm and said, “David, I’m sorry. I never meant to—”

Before I could say “—hurt you,” he took my hand and put it on his crotch. His dick was hard, but, like,
scary
hard. It had been a while, but I totally remembered how big he was. Still, this felt noticeably bigger. He ground my hand into his dick and said, “Squeeze it. Squeeze it
hard
. Squeeze it as hard as I was squeezing you.”

I tried to take my hand back, but he held it even tighter and pushed it even closer. I kind of started crying and said, “Stop it, Dave. Let me go.”

He softened, then loosened his grip, got down on his knees, and said, “Oh my God, I’m so sorry, baby. I didn’t want you to cry. I just wanted a hug and a hand job.” Then he grabbed me around the waist—gently, mind you—and buried his face in between my thighs.

I was so stunned that I couldn’t move; for that matter, I couldn’t even think. We stayed like that for probably a couple of minutes, both of us crying. A few people walked by, but none of them stopped; I’m sure that from the outside, it looked like we’d just had a fight and were in the process of making up. Finally, the
cab showed up. I told Dave, “Listen, your ride’s here. Go home and we’ll talk about this tomorrow. We’ll go to the park.”

He looked up at me with these pathetic goo-goo eyes and said, “You promise?”

I said, “I promise.”

He stood up, then said, “Okay. I’m holding you to that.” And then he walked to the cab, opened the door, and got in. Before he slammed the door shut, he checked his watch and said, “You know what, Janine? It’s twelve oh-three.”

I said, “Right. Past both of our bedtimes.”

He said, “But that means it’s tomorrow.”

I said, “David, go.”

He said, “And you promised we could go to the park tomorrow.”

I said, “Right. Tomorrow.”

He said, “It
is
tomorrow.” Then he told the driver to fuck off, hopped out of the taxi, and was immediately in my face. He yelled, “It
is tomorrow! We’re going to the motherfucking park!
” And then he picked me up by my hair and kicked me against the front door to my building like I was a soccer ball.

The next thing I remember, I’m lying in a hospital, both of my arms in traction, a breathing tube down my throat, and my little sister is fucking a doctor at the foot of my bed.