“What happened to your face?” she asked.
“Fell on some bad sidewalk. Fucking Frogtown’s falling apart.”
“Looks nasty.”
“Hurts, too. Hey, what ever happened with that indie film you were doing? About the prostitute with the kids?”
“Ran out of money, like, midway through. I’m ‘on call’ but...oh hello.”
She was looking over my shoulder. I followed her gaze, and once a crowd of boys in turned caps and low-slung skinny jeans passed, I saw Jonathan across the street, waiting for cars to pass.
“Oh, f**king f**kery,” I said.
“Yeah. Head to toe. That’s a man.”
“If nothing else.” God damn you, Debbie. You are such a yenta. What was her deal? Was she my boss or my mother? I was going to have to have an honest, respectful, non-job-losing conversation with her.
As he strode across the street, I saw what Ute saw. He had on simple trousers and a sweater with a leather jacket. In contrast to the rest of the men at the party, who spent hours looking as though they didn’t care what they wore, Jonathan looked neat and put together, as if he cared. He was tall and lean and straight, with his hair brushed back off his forehead. He owned the world and everything in it. The difficulty of staying away from him was so past his looks, so past any single physical attribute, and fell into a new, undefined category of “right.”
I set my back straighter and tilted my chin up. I thought Debbie would send Robert, but instead I’d have to pretend I was fine and my face wasn’t pounding.
“He’s coming over here,” said Ute, brushing her hair flat.
“He’s my ride,” I said.
Her eyebrows arched.
I paused. Jonathan liked blondes, if his wife was any indication. Ute was beautiful. She’d do well with him.
I thought about adding a short explanation. Maybe ‘I’m in love with him, but I left him’ or ‘he was my lover, boyfriend, master, king...’ None of it worked, and by the time I came up with ‘we were together for a while,’ he was upon us.
“Hey,” he said, and that voice went right into my gut and ripped stuff out.
I stood up. “Jonathan, this is my friend, Ute.” She had on a smile that wrapped around her face like a gag.
“Hi.” He looked at Ute briefly, then back to me. “What happened?”
“I fell. What are you doing here? Is Debbie being a yenta?”
“I happened to be at the bar, and she couldn’t spare anyone.”
“On Thanksgiving? You don’t have sisters to invite you to dinner?”
“Dinner ended at eight, and the kids went to bed. Where did you fall?”
“On my face.” I hadn’t seen a mirror yet, but his expression worried me. Was I going to the Vancouver opening with a big stinker on my cheek?
He turned to Ute. “It was nice meeting you.” Nothing about his voice was nice. He put his hand on my back, between the shoulder blades, and guided me toward the street. It was a possessive gesture, and he had no business making it. When we were far enough away from the party, I shrugged off his hand.
“Sorry, Jonathan. I wish she hadn’t sent you.”
“Why?”
“You know why.”
“Tell me about your face now. And the truth this time.”
The party had street spillage, sending pockets of people onto the sidewalk and neighboring lots. The light industrial district thrived on those parties, but Jonathan and I were constantly getting bumped and shifted by gaggles of half-drunk hipsters.
“Can you just take me home?” I smelled his leather jacket, his cologne, the Jameson on his breath. He stood inches from me. If I just leaned forward, I could kiss him.
“Where’s your car?” he asked.
“Kevin’s.”
“What happened?” His voice was tight as a bowstring, and his posture matched.
I felt the pressure of a big fat cry push out my lower lip, squeeze tears from my eyes, and steal breath from my lungs. “I hate it that I break up with you twice, and both times you show up in a crisis and I get upset.”
“What happened?”
“I fell.” My voice cracked mid-sob.
“You look like you fell on someone’s fist.”
“It was actually more of a really hard slap, but you should see him. He looks really bad.”
Jonathan blinked. Slowly. “What happened?”
I didn’t answer. He put his hands on my shoulders and, as if by force of will, removed all anger and judgment from his expression. It only made me cry harder.
“Fuck you.”
“What happened?”
“He wanted...” I broke down. How could I tell Jonathan that I missed being touched by a man, by him, so I let something happen I should have stopped? Or why I was blaming myself when I hadn’t done anything? “He kissed me, and I bit him. Then he hit me. I hit him with a bottle and ran, and my car and keys are at his place. And you’re not supposed to be here witnessing this, so I do not feel guilty at all.”
I tried to read his expression, but it was hard to see through my tears. He slipped one of those freaking hankies out of his pocket, and I snapped it away before he could tell me to blow.
“It’s my fault,” I said.
“Really?”
“Yeah. You said not to be alone with him, and I should have listened. You said he wanted to hurt me, and here I am. Now I don’t know how I’m supposed to go to Vancouver with him.”
“Where was Darren while you were getting beat up?”
“Parties. It’s the biggest night of the year.”
He put his arms around me, and I fell into him, putting my cheek to his shoulder, my face to his neck. He felt right. So right. So warm and gentle. That was the touch I’d wanted when I let Kevin near me. I’d gotten it so wrong. I felt a tightening on my ass, then a tickle. He’d slipped my phone from my pocket.
“What are you doing?” I grabbed for the phone, but he held it high, tapping and dragging until a map appeared. He’d found Kevin’s address.
He handed me the phone. “Stay here with your friends for a minute. I’m going to get your car.”
“Jonathan, just take me home. Don’t get in a fight.”
“A fight?” His voice was tense with control. “You think I’m going to take him behind the gym and punch him? Do I look like an adolescent?”
“No, but—”
“Stop.” He put his hands on my face and got close enough to kiss. “You’re mine, and I will defend you. But this isn’t a movie. You don’t destroy someone with a fight. And Monica, I know you walked away from me, but I am going to destroy him nonetheless.”