Maury
February 14th
New York City, New York
The dress had to be perfect; it was my shot at being a part of the featured collection next season. And yet, instead of working on a sketch or even draping fabric across my dress form for inspiration, I gazed out the narrow window of my studio apartment, as if the yellow-gray sky held the answer to my designer’s block. Smoke curled up from the half forgotten cigarette between my fingers. I watched it disappear through the slightly open window, hypnotized by the gossamer swirls.
When the phone rang, I jumped, knocking the small column of ash from the end of my cigarette. For a split second, eager anticipation made my heart leap. But then I saw the display. I answered, trying to disguise the disappointment in my voice as I greeted my father.
“Hey, it’s late, everything okay?” Cold wintry air poured through the crack in the window, biting at my cheeks and fingers as I blew smoke out. The evening had that slightly sharp smell to it that meant snow was on the way.
“Everything’s fine, Kiddo. I just knew you’d be up burning the midnight oil,” Dad said with a chuckle. “I’ve got a headache and I can’t get to sleep, and while I was thinking about it, I just wanted to see if you could come down next weekend.”
“Uh, maybe. Home or the beach house?”
“Home, the Fortress of Solitude is still all locked up for the winter. I want to have a little impromptu-ish dinner party to raise some money for Kevin’s charity – it’s the post-holiday-season slump for them. I was wondering if you’d come down to shake hands, kiss babies and help me extort money from my wealthy friends for a good cause?”
“Yeah, I can come down Friday night after work.” I chuckled, but mentally I tallied the projects I was juggling, wondering which I could push the deadline on. “Can you pick me up at the train station?”
“Absolutely,” he said, sounding pleased with himself. “Good. I haven’t had a decent chess match in weeks. And there’s a couple of people that I want you to meet while you’re here.”
“Can’t wait,” I said, flicking ash into my ashtray.
“Are you going to bring The Meatball?” I flinched.
“His name is Tom, Dad.”
“I’m sorry, are you going to bring Tom?” He asked sincerely.
“Uh, probably not,” I said.
“You’ve been seeing this guy for a while, Maury. When am I going to get to meet him?”
“It’s complicated.”
“Hmm,” Dad grumbled. He was quiet for a moment. “Are you doing okay, Kiddo?” He asked, his tone softening. “You can talk to me, you know.”
“I’m fine,” I said, exhaling smoke through the cracked window. “Work is just a little hectic right now.” My stomach dipped as the lie slid off my tongue, but I couldn’t handle the thought of trying to explain a “situationship” to him.
“Are you smoking?” Dad asked, disappointment curling around the edges of the words.
“No,” I lied again.
“I wish you’d quit,” he chastised.
“And I wish I had a pony.” But I stubbed out the cigarette in my ashtray.
“In your apartment?” he chuckled.
“You have more than enough room for one, you could keep it for me.”
“Smartass,” he said, but his tone was good natured. “All right, I’m going to hit the sack, then,” he said. “I’m jogging again, so I have to get up early tomorrow.”
“Don’t break a hip,” I teased him.
“Good night, Kiddo,” He said gruffly, ignoring my quip. “Love you.”
“Love you too Dad,” I said.
Shivering, I pulled the window shut and returned to my sewing table. A pile of sketches lay scattered across the scratched wooden top.
Ghastly, I thought, shoving them aside, as my mind drifted back to what Dad said.
“You’ve been seeing this guy for a while, Maury, when am I going to get to meet him?”
Dad frequently asked me to bring Tom to meet him, and I’d long since run out of excuses not to. The truth was pathetic: I thought if I was the cool girl, the one who didn’t make demands or put any pressure on the situation, eventually Tom would realize he really did love me, and he’d suddenly become the perfect boyfriend, eager to meet my father, tag me in pictures together on social media, and take me on actual dates.
Instead, I was the girl sitting home alone on Valentine’s Day.
Five fucking years and he didn’t even so much as call.
I stood up with the intention to make myself a cup of tea and get ready for bed when there was a cutesy tap-tap-tap at my door. In hindsight, I should have just pretended to not be home, but as I peered through the peephole, I felt my skin growing hot with rage. Before I could stop myself, my angry voice cut through the stillness of the night:
“What are you doing here, Tom?”
“It’s Valentine’s Day,” Tom Castro replied as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.
“You didn’t call or text me all week. You didn’t make plans with me tonight.” Again, the words were out of my mouth before I could stop them. ”And you show up here in the middle of the night, expecting… What, exactly?”
Dinner and a blowjob, probably.
“I just wanted to see you,” he said, and he looked into the peephole. “Come on Maury.”
“No,” I said. “You should have called. It’s been five years, Tom. Fivefucking years. Grow up.”
“I know, I’m sorry.” There was a shuffling sound under the door and a slightly crumpled red envelope slid into my apartment.
“You’re supposed to make a plan for Valentine’s Day. It’s not that hard. We’re in our thirties. We’re not teenagers. This isn’t enough for me anymore.”
“I’m sorry, Maury,” he apologized again, making the words rhyme, something he did from time to time. “I just forgot it was coming.” His tone was soft, and penitent.
“You forgot Valentine’s Day was coming?”
“You know me, I’m just not into like, made up holidays and stuff. And anyway, I keep telling you, I’m not like… Your boyfriend… I’m just not into relationships, so you shouldn’t expect me to be like that… But look, I’m here now. It’s still Valentine’s Day.”
“Barely.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t make plans.”
I sighed. I didn’t want to be so pathetic, but I was. I picked up the wrinkled, water spotted envelope. It wasn’t sealed, and there were smudges all over it, as if someone stepped on it. The card that fell out was cheap, covered in glitter, and generic.
“In a field of roses, I’d pick you!”
No messages expressing sentiment inside, not even a signature.
“Come on Maury,” he said, leaning against the door, and like the idiot I am, I opened it. He stood there, his tall, muscular frame looming over me. I wanted to be angry at him, at his big, stupid, bright blue eyes and perfect smile, but I couldn’t. I was buried too deep in history, in five years of hookups and weekends out of town and cuddling up together in my bed. He smiled that big, expensive, blindingly white smile as he pulled one very sad looking, slightly wilted, red rose out from behind his back and handed it to me.
“It’s Valentine’s Day. Of course I’d come see you.”
“Did you steal this from work?” I asked with narrowed eyes. An image of him grabbing a discarded rose, and maybe even the card, from the trash of whatever event he worked that night flashed before my eyes.
“Do you know how expensive roses are right now?” He mumbled, brushing past me and flopping down on my bed. “C’mon Maury, you know I would have gotten you a big bunch of roses if I could. I’m here, it’s Valentine’s Day, I bought a card and flowers. This is what you want, right? Romance and all that shit?”
I crossed my arms over my chest.
“I don’t care about flowers,” I said.
“Then why are you pissed off now?”
“Because I haven’t heard from you in over a week, and you show up here in the middle of the night-”
“It wasn’t that long, and it’s hardly the middle of the night,” he said. “Things are just crazy with work right now.”
Tom worked part time – barely – catering after his career as a model fizzled out and I couldn’t help but roll my eyes at the thought that work was so crazy. I sighed and looked back at him incredulously.
“I just wanted to see you,” he went on, giving me a wounded look.
“Why? You couldn’t be bothered to call me back after my birthday party. You didn’t make any plans for tonight,” I repeated. “Why do you do this? Why do you treat me like this?”
“I’m sorry. It’s not you. I’m just….” He sighed, looking sad and penitent. “You know I’m really bad at texting and calling. That’s why I keep saying I can’t be a boyfriend. I just get so caught up in stuff. But I thought about you a lot. I thought about you all day today,” he said. He looked back up at me, his eyes wide and sincere. He could really turn on the charm when he wanted something. I resolved to not be swayed.
“I think you should leave,” I said, opening the door wider, and gesturing for him to go.
“Don’t be like that,” he replied, getting back to his feet. He swept over to me as if he were dancing a waltz. He hummed, taking my arm and turning me slightly so that he was behind me, like I was his partner on the dance floor. “You know you want me to stay. You know you missed me, too.” His voice was soft as he leaned down to kiss my neck.
“N-no, I think you should go,” I repeated, gesturing to the open door again.
“C’mon babe,” he whispered, and he kissed my neck again, biting down a little. I closed my eyes. “I had a dream that we were in California for a shoot,” he went on, his lips tracing my throat. “You were wearing that black bikini. The one that drove me so crazy that time we went to the Hamptons.” His hands were at my waist, pulling me closer to him. His erection dug into my hip. “Let me give you your Valentine’s gift.”
With another sigh, I closed the door and followed him to my bed. I was only wearing the over-sized t-shirt I slept in and a pair of underwear, and Tom wasted no time. He fondled my breasts roughly across the over-sized shirt I slept in.while kissing me, shoving his tongue into my mouth. After a moment, he moved his hand down and pawed at my underwear. He yanked them off and clumsily pushed his fingers between my legs. He did this just long enough, and then dropped his pants before he slid on a condom. He pushed himself inside me, even as I grunted and winced, but he didn’t seem to think there was time for decent foreplay.
My “Valentine’s Gift” consisted of about four minutes of him flopping around on top of me before saying “Thanks, babe,” and rolling over and flicking off the lamp beside the bed.
For several full minutes, I laid there in disbelief, then he let out a snore. I scoffed, annoyed that he could fall asleep so fast, and idly wondered if he was faking it to avoid cuddling or talking any more about expectations. With a frustrated grunt, I got up to use the bathroom, but immediately stepped on the used condom he’d dropped next to the bed.
“What the fuck?” I pushed him roughly by the shoulder, but he didn’t stir. I picked the condom off my foot and tossed it in the trash as I hobbled to the bathroom. Curses rolled off my tongue as I rinsed my hands and foot off in the shower, and then sat on the closed toilet lid. I leaned back, putting my hand over my face as hot tears stung my eyes.
Why do I keep letting him do this?
I thought about calling my best friend and asking her what she thought about the situation. I didn’t, because I knew what she would say. Jules had said some variation of it a hundred times over the last five years:
“Oh my god, Maureen Adele Robinson, tell me you didn’t sleep with that recalled Ken Doll again. He is never going to change. What do you even see in him? He treats you like garbage. Stop being a doormat.”
Jules could be extremely creative with her insults for people, but that one was a staple of her repertoire for Tom. She was also fond of calling me by my full government name for emphasis on occasion. I imagined her exasperated tone, the way she would roll her deep brown eyes, and shake her head, causing her dark curls to bounce around her face. I didn’t need to call her to know how the conversation would go.
“He makes me laugh,” I would answer.
“He also makes you cry,” was her usual retort.
No lies detected, I thought as I wiped the tears away.
Numbly, I made myself some tea, not bothering to be quiet but Tom went on snoring. I put the sad looking rose in a red plastic cup of water, leaving it on the ugly blue breakfast bar before finally crawling into bed. Tom sprawled out taking up about three-quarters of the full-sized mattress. Grumbling, I wedged myself into the tiny available space and tried to sleep.
It felt like only a few minutes later when the trash trucks woke me. Exhausted, I looked over at the other side of the bed. No sign of Tom anywhere. I sat up, and saw the locks on my door unlocked. He couldn’t even be bothered to make sure I was secure after he snuck out, the bastard.
Five years. Five FUCKING years.
Tom and I met one night at a party for one of the models I knew. Our eyes met over a pitiful excuse for snacks the hostess put out: rubbery celery and carrot sticks, a sleeve of very stale crackers and some sort of watery, slimy pink thing I couldn’t identify. He checked me out, and I checked him out, smiling coyly as I tucked my hair behind my ear. He gave me a very knowing grin, and then sidled up to me with the confidence of a man who’s good looking and knows it.
“Who thinks this is party food?” he asked, showing me that perfect smile again.
“Maybe if you’re a rabbit,” I said, holding up a limp carrot stick, dying for him to think I was cool. “A very desperate rabbit.”
He laughed as if this was the funniest thing he’d ever heard, putting his hand on my upper arm as he did. The rest of the evening, he would always manage to be near wherever I was standing, and he would only speak to me if I spoke to him. At first, I wasn’t sure what to make of that, but later on his way out he winked at me and tucked a slip of paper with his number into the waistband of my skirt. The warmth of his hand against the bare skin of my midriff sent butterflies through my stomach.
We hooked up two nights later after getting food truck chicken satay. I paid for it, of course. He was not a very successful model. Two campaigns for the types of stores you see in malls, with loud music, dim lighting, and staffed by bored high school kids.
Our hookup was nothing extraordinary, and as he rolled off me, pulling his boxers back on, he made it very clear he didn’t want to pursue anything serious, but would love to hook up again… And that was our pattern for the next five years. Hook up, disappear, apologize, act like my boyfriend for a few weeks, hook up, disappear… Lather, rinse, repeat. And now this… Sneaking out before dawn after forgetting Valentine’s Day was a new low. For him and me.
Why can’t you get this fuck face out of your system?
I knew the answer: Tom was good looking, and he was funny – his sense of humor was lighthearted, never punching down. He believed in all the same social causes I did. He even volunteered at a local chapter of the Boys and Girls club. He was all the things I wanted in a partner, except willing to commit.
Bastard.
My phone vibrating on the bed next to me pulled me from my thoughts again. My eyes were still too bleary to read the number on the screen, but given the early hour, I thought it best to answer it.
“Hello?”
“Maureen Robinson?”
“Yes?” I yawned.
“My name is Dr. Davis, I’m a trauma surgeon at Baltimore General.”
Baltimore… Dad… Shit.
“I’m afraid I have some bad news.”
I heard the words, but it was as if I’d suddenly been swept up into a thick icy cold fog. Nothing made sense. Nothing was in focus. After I hung up I sat numbly on the edge of the bed. When I regained my senses, I called Tom. His voicemail picked up.
“Please call me back… It’s… It’s my dad… I…. I…” My voice was shaking as tears streamed down my cheeks. “I need you. Please call me as soon as you get this.”
Then I called Jules.
“Hello?” She answered groggily.
“Jules,” I said in a flat, dead voice.
“What’s wrong?” Suddenly she sounded wide awake.
“My…My dad. He had a brain aneurysm. He’s in surgery.”
“Oh my god, are you okay? I’ll be…” I heard frantic sounds of drawers opening. “I’ll be right there.”
As I waited for her, I tried Tom one more time. Nothing.
My eyes fell on the sad wilted rose he brought me the night before, sitting in the plastic cup of water. Filled with rage, I lashed out and smashed the cup with my hand, sending water and rose petals everywhere.
Then I collapsed into a heap on the floor, and that’s where Jules found me twenty minutes later.