“After the election, he’ll get it together again.”
“He started biting his nails.”
“The ring finger?”
“Yeah. In a meeting with Harold Genter. I think I bruised his calf.”
I sighed. Years, I’d spent years in media skills sessions. We’d discussed that every movement, every breath, was ten times bigger on camera, and those moves flowed into real life. People wanted their leaders polished. Policy was secondary, and politics took third rung. If he was seen biting his nails, flipping his hair, or slouching, he’d be a laughingstock.
“He needs you,” Gerry said.
“He should have thought of that.”
“Okay, lady, yes. You can be bitter and aggrieved. You earned it. You happy? Are you going to hold your bag of self-righteousness into your dotage? It gets heavy when you get old. Believe me.”
“I can’t trust him ever again. How am I supposed to carry that around? And for how long? Into the presidency?”
“As long as you want.” He drove on the surface streets—stop start stop start—obeying the lights even though no one was around.
I knew I’d let it go eventually. I’d learn to trust another man. He wouldn’t be Daniel, of course. I would have to invest in someone else all over again. Get hurt, move on. Hurt someone, move on. Antonio had proven how easy that was. One day, I’d fall in love. Maybe. I was thirty-four. I’d never felt too late until Gerry asked about my dotage.
“I hurt all over,” I said. “All the time. I don’t know what I feel any more. I don’t know what I want. I feel separate from my own thoughts. The fact that I’m telling this to a political strategist is enough of a red flag that I need to be medicated or institutionalized.”
I didn’t say that I think about hurting but not killing myself. I couldn’t cry. I felt unanchored. I loved Daniel still. The last time I’d felt marginally alive was with Antonio. I’d always depended on men for my happiness.
“Big Girls is opening Friday,” Gerry said as he pulled up in front of my building.
“Yeah.”
“It’s about domestic violence. We pitched that as your hot button during the campaign. I’ve seen the picture. It’s good.”
“You’re making a movie recommendation?” I asked.
“Daniel is making it a point to see it and release a statement after.”
“You’re trying to set me up on a date? Are you serious?”
“This is a high stakes date, Theresa. Please.”
I opened the car door and stepped out, slamming it shut and opening the back for my bag. “You’re a crappy Cupid.”
I should have taken a cab.
Fucking Gerry. I walked in the door cursing him, flinging my bag into a corner.
Fucking fucking Gerry. The man was made of the finest, most indestructible plastic in the universe. He didn’t have a feeling in him.
Or maybe he did. Maybe he just didn’t have a feeling for me.
Or maybe he did. Maybe I didn’t have a feeling for me.
Or maybe it wasn’t about me. Maybe it was about Daniel and the city of Los Angeles. Maybe it was about a campaign I’d invested my heart and soul in, and when Daniel fell through, what I’d wanted for myself fell through.
Or maybe it didn’t matter what Gerry thought was important. Maybe something was bothering me. Something that had excited me, given me something to look forward to, made me forget how much I despised my fucking life.
Antonio had made me feel alive, as if I’d been asleep for months. He shook me, slapped me. I was finally ready, and I’d thrown it away. It had been a casual nothing, a little dirty talk, something to fill the hours while I waited to get over Daniel. I wasn’t allowed to get upset over such a little nothing, but I was desperately upset, and I couldn’t admit it to myself until I was asked to be Daniel’s beard yet again.
I picked up a porcelain swan by the neck. I knew what I was going to do before I did, and once decided, the tension released.
I smacked it against the edge of the table. It bounced. I smacked it harder. The body broke off, clacking to the ground, and I was left holding the tiny head. In seconds, the tension came back. It was only relieved when I looked at all of my swans and stopped caring whether they ever went back into the cabinet.
I didn’t feel rage when I smashed the swans. I must have looked angry and emotional, but I wasn’t. I was dead, empty, frozen, doing a job I’d contracted myself to do. I bashed them against the marble countertop, leaving millions of plaster, porcelain, and glass shards everywhere.
It took about seven minutes to destroy years’ worth of swans and a few dishes. I stood over the puddle of sharp dust and said what I’d been too upset to consider.
“I want you.”
I pushed a china blue swan wing to the right. It had separated from the rest of the swan but hadn’t broken completely. Not nearly enough.
“I want you, you criminal punk.”
I picked up my foot and smashed the wing under my heel.
“And I’m going to have you.”
twenty-four.
I paid my cleaning lady extra to make sense of the mess, sweep up the porcelain swan guts, and put everything back. I dressed for work before I called Antonio. No answer.
I texted.
—Call me, please. I want to discuss something with you—
I read it over. It seemed very businesslike. I was a well-mannered person, but that didn’t mean I had to evade everything, did it?
—Specifically, your cock—
I smiled. That should do it.
I practically jumped out of bed the next morning. I layered slacks and a tight button-down shirt over a satin demi and lace panties. Rippable lace, because I was going to find that fucker and tell him what I thought, what I wanted, and how I wanted it. He would learn to trust me if I had to give him a signed affidavit and a blood sample.
I heard Katrina downstairs just as I was deciding to leave my hair down. No, I didn’t hear Katrina—I heard a dish clatter along the concrete floor as if it had been kicked.
“Sorry!” I called as I ran down.
She blew on a dish and returned it to the pile. “What the fuck?” She pointed to my broken swans.
“You don’t like the mess? I spent eight minutes making it.”
She waved and pulled the coffee down then dropped it. “I don’t care about the mess. It’s you breaking things. You’re Tee Dray. You don’t break things.”
As she scooped the coffee, I saw her hand shaking.
“Directrix,” I said, “have some chamomile, please. You’re jacked up.”
“We’re almost done. I’m excited. You coming to the wrap party?”
“I’m springing for an open bar.”
Katrina flicked on the TV. The talking heads talked, and the news ticker ticked.
“You should bring the hot Italian,” she said, reminding me of my text.
I checked my pocket. No response. “I might. The last time I saw him, it was weird.”
“You didn’t tell me.”
“You’re busy.”
“So what happened?”
My lips stayed closed. I focused on the way they touched, because I had to shut up. It was just that kind of casual sharing and speculation that worried Antonio, and with good reason. I wanted to earn his trust behind his back.
“I think it’s over,” I said to deflect further questioning.
“Probably for the best. You know southern Europeans. They have a Madonna-whore complex. They either debase you and kick you to the curb, or revere you and never fuck you.”
Again, I pressed my lips together to keep from speaking. He’d fucked me, and fucked me dirty. I felt a familiar tingle between my legs just remembering it. But he didn’t want me to know about his life. It seemed as though he had disappeared long enough to get horny and then relentlessly pursue me when he wanted a whore. I hadn’t noticed the pattern because I’d been so close to it.