The Collision on Hardwood Drive (7 page)

I packed a suitcase and left that day.
I camped out on Claire’s couch afterward, unsure
what
I would do. Michael called every day for a week, leaving me pleading voicemails and telling me he missed me. He almost had me convinced that this was a one-time thing, that it meant nothing to him, and that he really loved me.
Almost.

Just one week after the incident, I let Claire drag me out to dinner. I had spent the better part of the week in sweatpants, but she’d gotten reservations to a restaurant I had been
dying to try for ages. I realized I couldn’t hole up forever, so I got dressed and met her at Commerce.

I got there early, so I seated myself at the bar to order a stiff drink—something to ease my transition back to the world of the living.
As I approached the bar, I saw
him
. His face was buried in the neck of some young brunette waif. He pulled back and flagged down the bartender for another round of champagne. It became clear immediately that
this
Michael, the cheater and the liar, was the real Michael.

Within two days, I had moved all my things out of our apartment.
Once in a while, he’d try to reach me. I’d get a missed call or a text message telling me how much he missed me, how sorry he was. The first few months were hard—as much as I hated him, I was lonely. I missed having a companion, having a body next to mine in bed. I got over it, eventually. Well, sort of.

Hearing his voice so soon after
Rob’s made it impossible for me not to compare the two men. I realized that, throughout my relationship with Michael, I hadn’t ever thought our chemistry was lacking—I never knew any better, after all. Now, comparing him with Rob was like comparing a sparkler with a stick of dynamite.

“And what is it that you’d like to explain, exactly?” I asked. “How you’re such a hairy asshole? Enlighten me—I’ve been wondering.”

He sighed, and I could tell he was switching tactics now. “Don’t you miss me?”

I snorted. “I miss you about as much as my clit misses being ignored. Move on, Michael. I have.”

“You’ve moved on? What the hell is that supposed to mean?” he asked, anger suddenly flooding his voice. “Are you
fucking
someone?”

And, suddenly, I was angry, too—and
my
anger was righteous. “That’s none of your business.
You
cheated on
me
. I hope you’re not fucking anybody, but only because it would mean that some poor girl wouldn’t have to pretend to want you and your boring dick!”

I took in a deep breath, exhilarated by my diatribe. “Don’t call me anymore, Michael.”

I slammed my phone down for a second time that night. This was draining. Immediately, my cell phone buzzed again.
Are you fucking kidding me?

Exasperated, I picked it up and immediately cringed. It was a text from Joe.
Great chatting with you after rehearsal today. I’d love to get together outside the studio. May I take you out for a coffee?

Although I never thought of him romantically, I knew that Joe was a sweetheart. Even though Claire had been telling me he was interested in me, I assumed it was a silly crush—and, frankly, I didn’t expect him to have the balls to ask me out
, anyway.

I massaged my temples with my fingers.
Maybe a date with a nice man was exactly what I needed. I had a feeling Joe would be the kind of guy who never had a one-night stand, who would
never
cheat on a girlfriend. Sure, he wasn’t gorgeous like Rob, but he was safe and good-looking. Maybe I
should
be dating a guy like that.

Sounds nice
, I texted back.
When were you thinking?

I got a response within seconds.
How about next Tuesday? Or Wednesday? Where would you like to go?

I thought about having this conversation with
Rob. He would have told me exactly where we were going and when he would pick me up. This wasn’t Rob, though, and I reminded myself that this was
exactly
the point—I didn’t
need
to see someone like Rob right now.

I’ll check my schedule and keep you posted,
I replied, deciding to buy myself some time to figure out what the hell I was doing. Once I got my head on straight, I could tell him when and where we could meet.

Another phone call came in within minutes. This time, it
was
Rob again. Fuck—I couldn’t take it anymore. My head reeled. I needed to talk to someone about this—someone who didn’t want anything from me, who would truly listen. Claire.

Claire had been my best friend for the last eight years. I met her a few months after my divorce with Sam was finalized. A friend from the Modern Dance Academy had invited me to a holiday party
, and I accepted, finally feeling ready to begin to integrate myself into society. I had spent far too long avoiding phone calls and pretending I had plans when I was really just sitting at home, being a complete hermit.

I walked into the cozy soiree with every intention of playing nice and socializing with others. People
mingled, comfortably dressed in their best holiday garb. Women wore their little black dresses over ribbed leggings, complete with fashionable suede boots. Men wore sweater vests over collared shirts and tucked their shirts into neatly pressed khakis. It felt so
adult
.

I noticed Claire right away—it was
difficult not to. She reminded me of a Nashville country singer, full-figured and voluptuous. She had what my mother called childbearing hips (something women in my family were a stranger to) and her low-cut shirt could hardly contain her ample breasts. Her dark blonde hair was blown out in ringlets that spilled down her back. I could see her blue eyes flashing from across the room, emphasized by her intense make-up and long lashes.

A broad-shouldered guido-type leaned in and whispered something in her ear, making her throw her head back and laugh. Her perfect white teeth glittered in the light. She was gorgeous
, and I could tell she knew it. She was putting on quite a show.

Growing up with my sister and mother, I was no stranger to beautiful women—but I had never liked the egotistical ones that liked to flaunt what they had. This woman struck me as a show-off from the moment I laid eyes on her.

Rachel, the host of the party, ran up to me
shrieking
. She was already drunk on spiked eggnog and champagne.

“Stephanie! You came! Let me introduce you to everyone,” she said excitedly
, as she slipped her arm through mine and pulled me through the crowd. She introduced me as “that dancer I was telling you about,” though I was sure she meant, “that
divorced
dancer I was telling you about.”

After a few minutes of show-and-tell with the depressed divorcée, she ditched me near Claire to run off to greet another guest. I smiled politely at Claire, trying to think of a reason to excuse myself.

Her first words to me were, “So, you’re the young divorcée, huh?”

I was caught
completely off-guard. Everyone else at the party knew about my recent breakup, sure, but nobody had just said it straight to my face like that. They’d all looked at me like a broken doll to be pitied. There was no pity in Claire’s face—only kindness and curiosity.

“Y
es, actually,” I said. I was surprised, but pleased.

“Well, I’m Claire,” she said, her Southern drawl coming out. “Resident hussy with no shame, at your service.”

I laughed—I simply couldn’t help myself. Her straightforward nature was thoroughly charming. “Nice to meet you, Claire,” I said, finding myself meaning every word of it.

She shook my hand and took a closer look at me. “Oh, baby,” she said, wrinkling her nose at my disheveled state. “I mean, I know you’re healing and all, but let’s go into the bathroom and fix up that hair. What do you say?”

I followed her into the bathroom and let her futz around with my hair for fifteen minutes. By the end of it, I was totally at ease with her. I also had a Dolly Parton worthy hairdo, but I didn’t care about that. When she invited me to go shopping with her the following weekend, I said
yes
without a second thought. It felt as if we had been friends our entire lives.

If anyone knew what I should do about
Rob (and Michael
and
Joe), it would be Claire. At the very least, she’d be happy to provide an opinion—regardless of whether I wanted to hear it. “Oh, lordy. Rob the Sex God! And on Hardwood Drive? How come you didn’t tell me sooner?” Claire asked after I filled her in on the details of the last few days of my life.

“I was tired
. And stop bringing up the silly street pun, it’s been getting on my nerves,” I said, a bit hesitantly. I thought back to last night’s warm bath and how I literally couldn’t have done
anything
else, then.

“Oh, come on, girl!” she said, almost squealing. Her Southern twang made everything she said sound endearing, and her excitement made her sound so genuine in her interest. “We don’t talk for three days
, and your love life is suddenly crazier than it’s been in ages? Actually—maybe we shouldn’t talk so often.”

I laughed.
“I know, I know. It’s just getting to be too much. I’m conflicted about this whole Rob thing, and then there’s
Joe
asking me out to coffee—
then
there’s Michael the douche lord calling again. Can you believe it?” I tried not to sound as if I was pleading, but I was truly desperate for some outside advice that didn’t involve self-analyzing for hours on end. I groaned into the phone. “I kn
ow
, but I just can’t even
go
there right now.”

“And why not?” she asked pointedly. “He’s handsome, rich, and you obviously have chemistry. He fixes your car for you, invites you to dinner, and gives you the best rubdown of your life. Where did he go wrong?”

Claire ticked off all the items in the pro column—as if I needed to be reminded of
those
things. I could hardly stop thinking about them.

“I think you just can’t take the heat, so you’re getting out of the kitchen,” Claire continued, “and
that
I do
not
approve of.”

“Oh, God—Claire, I have
never
been kissed like that,” I said, unable to keep from admitting the pleasure I took from being in Rob’s company. “But—fuck. The last thing I need is to fall for another womanizing asshole. He’s just another Michael waiting to happen. He’ll do anything to get what he wants, but as soon as I sleep with him, I’m out on my ass. I guarantee you no one ever says no to this guy, so I’m a challenge. And as soon as that challenge is won…” I drifted off, sighing and shaking my head. That was the only way this could end.

“Well, aren’t
you
just a ball of sunshine,” Claire said. Her voice softened after a moment. “I get it, Steph, I do. Michael is the worst kind of trash. I know how difficult it was on you, and I know you’re worried that every strong man is out to hurt you, but—don’t you think you’re being maybe just a
tad
too cynical? So what if he spent time with other women? Every married man worth his salt spends time with other women before settling down. Besides, why is it so difficult to believe that Rob actually finds you fascinating? I mean, he
isn’t
Michael.”

“I know,” I said, giving in the slightest bit before I remembered the magazine still lying on my floor. “I know he’s not
Michael, but those pictures are still in the back of my mind.”

“Well, what do you expect? For him to sit on his ass at home every weekend, just waiting for the love of his life to knock on his door? So
, he dates a lot! So what? That’s not a crime, and it certainly doesn’t mean that he’s incapable of having a serious relationship. I mean, look at me! I date a lot. Do you think
I’m
incapable of having real feelings for someone?”

“That’s not fair
, and you know it,” I said, even though I knew I was just being petulant now. Claire had been with more men than I would know what to do with, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t capable of
feeling
.

Her point about
Rob
had
crossed my mind when I read the article, but I had dismissed it quickly to keep from giving in at the time. I
didn’t
want a man who just sat on his ass, after all, but I also didn’t want to make excuses for him and his womanizing business. But maybe Claire was on to something here…

“Speaking of Michael,” I said.

“Oh, let’s
not
speak of Michael, honey,” Claire interrupted. “He’s old, bad news, baby.”

I sighed. She was right.

“Good. So, back to Rob.”

“What about Joe?” I asked, interrupting.