Depths (15 page)

Either way, I’m leaving.

***

Jason’s condo isn’t far, but the differences between the places we call home make it feel like a different county. My apartment is basic, small, worn, and lived in. Jason’s condo is modern, sterile-feeling, massive, and pristine.

The first time I came over, I made the mistake of asking him where he bought this heavy, twisted white vase. I may have mentioned that it was sort of hideous. It was some kind of Bohemia Porcelain that he’d inherited from his great-grandmother. The vase happened to be a century old…and worth almost five-thousand dollars. I remember carefully setting it back on the bookshelf and making a mental note to never touch anything in his apartment again.

It is the opposite of the comfort and safety that I felt at Cohen’s place.

And yet, I’m constantly running to it when I’m upset.

“Hey doll,” Jason says, opening the door and pulling me in. His tie is loose around his neck and his top two buttons are undone. I admit, he can be an asshole, but he’s hot. And right now, that’s all that matters.
     “You just get home from work?” I ask.
     “Mmm hmm,” Jason says, and his lips are already pressed to my neck, hot and hungry. I work on the remaining buttons on his shirt and push it over his shoulders, running my hands up his back, as he reaches behind me, unzips my dress, and lets it fall to the ground. I step out of the black wool sheath that made me think of Cohen when I put it on this morning.

The sensible, modest dress concealing my daring thigh highs and lacy thong…that’s the vibe Cohen gives off. So strict in his work, but Jesus once I got a taste of him at play…I haven’t been able to stop thinking about him since.
     “This is freaking hot,” Jason says, slipping his thumb under the miniscule band of my thong.
     I kiss him hard, trying to feel a fraction of what I felt with Cohen in the kitchen, but it isn’t there. It just isn’t. I push myself closer to him and will myself to feel comforted by his touch like I used to when I’d had a bad day, but I don’t.
     I think about asking him to slow down, but it’s nothing we haven’t done before, and I’m standing here in nothing but a scrap of lace, feeling every inch of his hardness against me.
     “Let me go grab a condom,” he says. I nod, toss my thigh-highs aside, and lean back on the leather sofa. Jason will probably pull me onto the floor with him rather than risk making a mess on his couch.
     “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck,” I hear him say from his bedroom.
     “What’s wrong?” I yell back.
     “Condoms. I’m out of condoms. Do you have one?”
     “Jason, what grown man runs out of condoms? Exactly how much sex are you having?” I laugh, and as the casual joke slides out of my mouth, I know the answer.

That it’s definitely more sex than I’m having. It’s definitely sex with more people than just me. Ally, no doubt. But does it stop there?
     I lunge off of the sofa and grab my dress from the floor, tugging the zipper up my back. I twist and turn like Gumby to get it zipped just as Jason stops in the doorway between his room and the living room, his gorgeous eyes cold and narrowed to slits.
     “What are you doing?”
     “What does it look like? I’m getting dressed.”
     He pulls his brows together. “I see that. But why?”
     “Um,” I say, balancing on one foot to pull my sling backs on.  “Because we aren’t having sex.”
     “Oh, hell no. You came all the way over here, wearing those sexy-ass panties, and now you’re leaving? I’ll run to the convenience store down the street, baby. It’s all good.” He closes the space between us, his voice diving down to a place he thinks is low and undeniably seductive.

It just grates against me, because I know it’s the voice he used for every other girl.

Those many girls who helped empty the enormous condom box that was definitely full a week ago when I was the one who grabbed a condom out before we had sex.

He isn’t super good at taking cues, especially from me. Especially when I’ve gone back to him so many times. So he tried another smooth line. “Let me make you feel good.”

Too bad for Jason, I’m way beyond his schmoozy bullshit. I’ve had real. I’ve had Cohen. And, even if I can’t have him for good, I’m sure as hell not going to be able to settle for Jason now.
     “I don’t think so.” I grab my purse from the floor by the door where I dropped it when I came in.
     “Okay, you’re ready right now, can’t wait. I get it. Let’s just, just this once, forget it, okay? How long have we been together? You don’t trust me? I’m clean, I swear.”

He’s cocking me that arrogant smile, the one he always flashes just before he talks someone into letting him have his own way.

“I just…” I fish my keys out of the bottom of my purse. “I just can’t do this right now. Anymore. Ever. With you. I can’t.”

The cocky expression melts right off his face, leaving behind a look that reminds me of a toddler about to throw a tantrum. Or my father when I ask too many hard questions. I can’t believe how incredibly sick to my stomach that look makes me.

“Maren, what the fuck?”

Probably on some level, I’ve been itching for this to happen. I don’t feel disappointed like I should.

I stand up straight in his cold, ugly condo and look him right in the eye, the way I never really have before. Maybe because I always knew if I really looked, really stood up and focused, I’d see just how much I don’t like him.

And if I admit that, I’ll also have to admit that, low as I might be right now, even I have too much self-respect to stay with a guy who disgusts me.

When I take a good look at Jason’s incredibly handsome face, I realize that something in me changed. That night in Cohen’s kitchen gave me a taste of something so good and right. And now I have no appetite for the junk Jason’s offering. Frankly, I’d rather be alone, no matter how scary that is, than know there’s someone as amazing as Cohen out there while I waste my time with someone as selfish and ugly as Jason.

“I’m just done. And the short answer, is no. No, I don’t trust you. Like, at all.”

“Are Deo and Whit going to make it to dinner tonight, sweetie?” my mother asks, her wavy brown hair pulled back in the tight bun that means she’s cooking some serious Jewish/Mexican culinary masterpiece.

“I think they’ll be a little late, but, yeah, they’re planning on showing up.” I hand her the potatoes I just peeled for the fiesta latkes. You wouldn’t believe how some corn flour, cilantro, and lime can spice up your average potato pancake.

My youngest sister, Genevieve, comes in with the almonds Mom got from a neighbor, shelled and hand slivered, ready for the chocolate nut torte.

“So, is the wedding in the works for those two?” Genevieve asks, trying to keep the sour out of her voice. My little sister has had the world’s biggest crush on Deo since she was in second grade. I’m pretty sure she had a scary altar set up in her closet where she lit candles and tried to cast
Santería love spells based on the misinformation of her best friend, Charity.

“They’re not in any hurry,” I say, but when my sister’s expression brightens, I add, “Well, Whit isn’t. Deo would kill me if he knew I told you, but he’s been talking to florists and looked into getting this big, like, coach to show up with white horses…whatever. I think it’s so damn weird.”

I can hear the hostess in my brain announcing,
Bitter, table for one.

So maybe the mushy lovey-dovey behavior that I used to find mostly pretty sweet is now driving me out of my skull. And maybe that has to do with the fact that every time I see Deo curl up with Whit or laugh at one of her acerbic jokes or get excited to talk about reception venues, my mind goes right back to Maren and what I’m missing not being with her.

But I realized something important. As hot as she is, with her wide blue eyes and her soft brown hair, all curves and smiles and some kind of innate, intense sexiness that I can’t quite put my finger on, she’s. Not. Real.

Not as someone I can date, anyway.

She’s just a figment of Cohen Rodriguez’s intensely overactive imagination peppered with a liberal spicing of rebound desperation, and garnished with some good old-fashioned drunkenness.

In short, I am a
n idiot, and Maren is best kept at a distance.

I know this. So why do I keep thinking about her?

“I think a horse-drawn carriage sounds very romantic,” Mom says, one hip braced on the counter, wooden spoon twirled dreamily between her fingers. “But Deo was always a romantic like that.”

“I know,” Genevieve sighs, her eyes all soft and dewy, her hands balled in tight fists. “I’ve always known that.”

My older sister, Lydia, busts in and rolls her eyes at Genevieve before she even knows why she’s doing it. “What have you ‘always known’?” she demands.

She’s been bossy as hell since we were little kids, and she still thinks it’s up to her to know everything about every one of us. It’s pretty damn irritating.

“Nothing,” Genevieve snaps.

“Lydia! You made it! You’ve been so busy at work, I didn’t think you’d be able to get time off,” Mom cries, opening her arms and pulling her down for a hug. Other than being five inches taller than our mother, Lydia is her spitting image. Mom also loves her bossiness and take-charge attitude, so she spills the beans before Genevieve and I can make our escape. “We were just talking about how romantic Deo is.”

“Deo?” Lydia scoffs, patting her French twist and raising one over-tweezed eyebrow. “I guess if you think sharing a hand-rolled joint on the beach is big-time romance, he’s the winner.” She holds up her hand and twirls her finger around.

“Do you try to be such an asshole, or does it just come naturally?” I ask.

Mom clucks her tongue and Lydia shakes her head, eyeing my sister and I with a condescending little smile. “Sooo sorry,” she says with saccharine sweetness. “I forgot I’m in the midst of the Deo Beckett fan-club.” She narrows her eyes at Genevieve. “What do you look so pissed about? I thought you got over your big crush back in high school. Please don’t tell me you still hold a candle for that slacker.”

Genevieve slams the knife she was using to cut up cilantro down on the counter and glares at Lydia, her eyes brimming with tears and her voice hoarse and choked. “I bet it feels so damn good to be perfect all the time, right? No wonder you can’t keep a damn boyfriend. You can’t see past your own huge ego to notice if anyone else would meet your ridiculous standards.” My baby sister trembles with fury, but my older sister just crosses her arms coolly and shakes her head from side to side, pursing her dark red lips.

“Better to be picky and alone than willing to spread my legs for any guy who so much as blinks my way. I bet it sucks when the majority can’t remember your name the next day.”

My mother’s wooden spoon clatters to the counter, and I reach for Genevieve, who pushes past me and tears down the hall, her sobs already spilling out.

“Damn it, Lydia!” I yell. “You’re home for thirty seconds and you have Genie crying? What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Lydia.” Mom, who almost always takes Lydia’s side, is using all of her control to get her words out in a level voice. “You
never
speak to any of your siblings the way you just spoke, do you hear me? Look at me!”

Mom’s controlled fury is a thing to cower over.

Lydia raises her hands in defeat and huffs, but Mom’s ferocious look stops her in her tracks, and she back-pedals. “I was just playing with her,” she whines, smoothing out her suit and jacket like she’s trying to reassure herself that, yes, she is better than the rest of us, and how can she help it. “I love how she can dish it, but she can never take it. So typical Genevieve! You think it doesn’t hurt to have her throw it in my face that I’ve been single for so long?”

Now it’s Lydia’s turn to get all choked up, and Mom sighs and opens her arms again.

I don’t doubt that Lydia is upset, but it’s just like my sister to manipulate any situation and turn it into something about her. She’s got her cheek leaned on our mother’s shoulder and is blubbering about her ‘biological clock ticking’ and her ‘inability to find a man who can accept a strong woman’ while Mom clucks and comforts her, forgetting Genevieve completely.

I leave the kitchen and hesitate outside Genevieve’s door, wanting to go in and tell her that things will be alright, but not really wanting to get bogged down in my sister’s drama. The smell of smoke from across the hall is a huge relief, because it means the sanest of all my siblings, Cece is home.

It’s no surprise she chose to stay holed up in her room while all hell broke loose in the kitchen. I’m serious when I say she’s the sanest of us all.

I cross to the door that used to be mine, and knock lightly. “It’s me, Cece.”

I hear her stop fumbling to hide her cigs on the other side. The mattress creaks and her footsteps run across the floor. The door opens and she jumps in my arms. “Cohen! Please tell me you already peeled all the potatoes?”

“Done, slacker. How do you always manage to wiggle out of every damn chore?” I demand, coming in and flopping on her bed. I hold out my hand and she reaches out the window, pulling in her ashtray with the smoldering cigarette and hands them to me. I take a drag and blow out a long, lazy stream of smoke.