Authors: Misty Provencher
"Mrs. Lowt scared him away. It's fine. I can take it from here," I say, but Aidan shadows me to the door.
"Not while you're only wearing a robe," he says.
He follows me back to my apartment. Mrs. Lowt doesn't open her door when Aidan does and I can tell that he's relieved. We sneak into my apartment and Aidan closes the door behind him, before he even takes a look at my apartment. The minute he does, he growls, "I hope you got this guy's number, because I need to have a word with him."
My apartment is exactly what we heard: smashed, crashed and shattered. Aidan puts a hand over my waist, holding me back. There are tiny shards of my bud vases and wine glasses and my full-length mirror tracked all over the floor. Shelves are torn off the walls, the coffee table kicked over.
"Well," I sigh, slipping on my boots from near the door. "That was a lot of demolition for only a few minutes, wasn't it? I never expected George would be such a bastard. He was so much fun."
"George? That's his name?" Aidan asks as I crunch across the floor to the kitchen.
"Oh, I don't know. That's just what I called him."
I round the corner and suck in a breath. The floor is flooded with booze and more bits of glass. George had opened my liquor cupboard beside the fridge and broke all of my bottles on the floor and in the sink. All my glasses are smashed too.
"Oh,
man down
," I groan, picking a shattered bottle out of the sink that is only held together by it's label. George only knew me for three dates, but he sure knew how to get me good.
I laugh half-heartedly at how I was considering breaking my three-date rule for this guy as I peek around the corner of the kitchen and see Aidan, still standing near the door, taking in the ruin of my apartment. His expression is almost sorrowful.
"You can go," I say. "I have a dustpan."
"I'll stay. He might come back."
"I doubt it. He's got to be tired. After all the smashing George did, I'm going to assume he's too worn out to come back and do any more."
"You never know. I'll stick around and help."
"Thanks, but I'll be fine. I'm confident that this is George's way of saying he's accepted my resignation from our relationship."
Aidan's angry gaze roves over the room again.
"This is pretty typical of how your relationships end?" he asks. "I'd be furious."
"Typical? No," I tell him a little coolly. His words feel like another assumption, even though there's nothing offensive in his tone, his stance, or his gaze.
Nothing, except that he looks like he's been emptied and it makes a horrible sadness well up in me where there is no reason for it. I'm not sad about George, or even what he did, at all. These things happen. But something in Aidan's expression makes me want to sit down and rest my head in my hands. I guess it's the feeling of being judged that makes me a little angry.
"I can tell you that as far as relationships go, you'll never see the assholes coming," I say, "and you usually don't see them going either. There is no
typical
when it comes to people, Aidan. Relationships are just things that happen."
"What does your husband think about that?" Aidan asks.
Oh now
. I flash a dagger of a glare at him, to let him know that he is moving into dangerous territory.
"He agrees," I say. Aidan just looks away.
"Well, if you need me, you know where I am."
"Yup, I do," I say and I throw in a lukewarm, "Thanks."
<<<<>>>>
After everything is cleaned up, I take a shower and get dressed, but it is hard to see how anything looks on me when I only have a few shards left of my mirror that George didn't manage to kick out of the corner of the frame. I finally haul it out to the dumpster. The only mirror left is the medicine cabinet mirror in the bathroom and it's in the worst possible place. I have to balance on the edge of the tub and I still can't see everything I need to.
Scrutinizing my ensemble in pieces is fairly impossible. I'm not sure I can go out like this. George really knew how to sink my battleship.
This all started with Desmond. He used to insist that I stand in front of the mirror so he could assesse each outfit I wore, before we could leave the house. Sometimes it would turn into a sex game, with him running his hand up under my skirt, checking to see if my panties matched the rest of my outfit. Or, if something was out of place, he would bend me over his knee and spank me for the infraction. At first I thought it was scary, then just a little kinky, but eventually, I learned to love the sting of his hand, and then his belt. When Des left me for Claudia, I continued the weird ritual of having to make sure that I was always dressed correctly, except that I never felt like I'd done it right and there was no spanking to relieve the feeling.
Now, hanging on to the shower bar and trying to fit my entire reflection into the tiny box of my medicine cabinet, I know it's ludicrous, but I can't stop. I pull up my leg to view how well my shoe matches.
It'd make sense that I have worn outfits before and could just repeat the successful ones, but that's not how it works in my head. Each ensemble has to be carefully studied each time I wear it. I've found loose threads, scuffs on my shoes, a nail pop in a stocking, a smudge of ink on the elbow of a shirt.
It's especially impossible to tell whether or not my attire is wrinkled because of the contortions I'm doing or if they will remain there when I'm finished. I put on the skirt and blouse I wore to Desmond's mansion, but I can't go out like this. The top button of my shirt doesn't look right buttoned or unbuttoned and my hands are starting to shake so much it's uncomfortable trying to mess with it. I add it to my pile of reasons for hating Desmond and one day, I'm sure the reasons will take root. At least, I hope.
I know that what I really need to switch my mood is an Alabama Slammer. Or a straight up shot of Two Fingers Tequila. That would lighten me up again. I hit the computer and order the necessary groceries from the store a street over. I'd be willing to pay a few golden eggs to have them delivered to my door, but the order is denied. They won't deliver liquor.
Shit.
I need
a drink.
I finally conceal myself inside a trench coat and knee-high boots and slink out into the hall. I might as well be naked--I keep my eyes on the floor as I scurry down the hall and wait for the elevator.
Riding down to the ground floor, the reflection from the steel doors is comforting. A woman from the floor above me rides down with me and watches, but I don't care. I twist and turn and try to make myself presentable in the distorted image. My sense of calm returns a bit. I'm starting to feel okay when the doors roll open and the woman steps out ahead of me. I'm about to step out when a man's face swoops in close to mine. I startle backward as I stare into the eyes of the man who's made me this neurotic.
"Des?" I say as he steps into the elevator with me. "What are you doing here?"
His eyes flick over my outfit and it's like I'm naked all over again, ready to be bent over and spanked. The worst part is that I almost crave it. I want it to relieve the tension inside me.
Damn
, I am screwed in the head.
"I thought I'd come to you for a change," Des says. "A little surprise visit. Just to talk."
"I was just leaving." My eyes flit from his as he blocks my way out. A waft of his cologne drifts into my lungs like a sedative.
"I only need a few minutes. What floor are you again?" he asks as he punches the number of my floor.
The doors slide shut. I want to groan. I'm giving in again. It always starts like this--I say no, he says yes, I think of how he'll touch me and I become useless. Fuck me.
"I would've thought you'd be in the penthouse, Lyddle. Don't I give you enough money?"
I don't say a word as the elevator jogs back up to my floor. I'm surprised that he doesn't try to get closer, as elevators were always our thing. Well, everything was our thing.
"We'll have to talk about your clothing choice," he murmurs.
I can feel my resolve slipping away like a sand timer with a hole busted out of the side. I can't give in today. For once in my damned life, I've got to stand my ground. I can't let him into my apartment.
My eyes are on the floor as the elevator door slides open and I hear an apartment door open down the hall. I hope Mrs. Lowt spots Des and comes shooting out. I really hope she does. She hates him and I could use all the distractions I can get to keep him out of my apartment. I shift from foot to foot, waiting to be saved as Des steps off the elevator and into the hall.
Instead, Aidan emerges from his apartment and comes straight toward us. My stomach drops. Des turns back when he realizes I haven't followed him and catches me looking at Aidan. Aidan catches the whole eye-conversation too. The two begin eye-jousting as Aidan puts his hand on the elevator door to keep it open.
"How's it going, Lydia?" he says. "Want to share an elevator ride down?"
Desmond answers for me, "No, she doesn't. We were just coming up."
"Funny," Aidan tips his head, looking only at me. "I thought I just heard you go out."
Des puts out his hand.
"Let's go, Lyddle," he says.
"Or you could just ride down with me," Aidan returns, his voice all warm and inviting. I want to hide from them both. Des puts his fingertips on Aidan's arm.
"I didn't get your name?" Des says. It's not a friendly inquiry. Not from the look on his face. Aidan shoots him a wise-ass smile as he pulls his arm away.
"I'm her neighbor," he says. Then, back to me, "So, how about it, Lydia? You want to come with me?"
"Tell this man that you don't, Lyddle," Des says tightly. "Right now, please."
"I'm fine," I say.
"You don't look fine."
"This is none of your business," Desmond says and Aidan's glare swings at him.
"And who are
you
? What's your name, buddy? Is it George?"
"This is my husband, Aidan," I say flatly. I step out of the elevator as every trace of expression slides right off Aidan's face. He goes silent and takes a step backward as if he's been pushed into the lift.
"Oh," he says. Des leans in and hits the ground floor button. The elevator doors slide closed on Aidan's blank face.
"Nice to meet you," Desmond replies with a little wave.
<<<<>>>>
"Let's go have a talk," Des says.
"Not now. You can't just show up. I have things to do."
"I'll pay for your time," he says, reaching into his pocket. He extracts a wad of bills, wrapped in a thick green roll and secured with a
rubber band.
He planned it this way.
He knew I'd object.
But I can use the money.
I tell myself I'll use it to get divorce papers. Yeah, right. I take the wad.
We walk down to my apartment. I slide the key in the door. Mrs. Lowt doesn't save me.
"So, Lydia." Des's voice is all smooth once we're inside, running his vocal fingers over my mental shelves, checking for dust. "Your neighbor--Aidan, wasn't it?--he's very protective over you. Why?"
"I have no idea. He just moved in," I say. I stand near the door as Des tours the apartment, observing the empty, re-installed shelves, the trash can still full of broken glass, checking the view from the window.
"Who's George?" he says.
"A friend."
"A friend." He takes his time crossing the room. "Lyddle, do you think that's appropriate?"
"Don't play with my head, Des," I say, raising my chin. He reaches up, curling his fingers under it and resting his thumb on my chin. "You're only my husband on paper."
"You've gotten such a smart mouth," he says, his eyes on my lips. The horrible tingle of his touch makes me feel like he's rubbing dirt all over me. Even worse, I like it. "I might need to do something about that mouth."
"I'm not doing anything with you right now."
He smirks, his eyes trailing down to my quaking fingers. "I only came to talk, Lyddle. What's got you in such a big hurry?"
"I broke my mirror. I have to go order another one."
"That explains your attire, doesn't it." He reaches for my hand, giving it a tug, so I follow him to the couch.
"Come," he says, all velvet and steel. "It won't take long, I promise."
He paid me. I tell myself that's the only reason why I sit on the couch beside him. Des reclines, his arm spread across the back, his fingertips touching my hair. He glances around the apartment again.