Nowhere but Here (14 page)

I threw on jeans and a sweatshirt and scurried down the stairs to the inn lobby, where George was now manning the desk. “Hi, George. Have you seen Jamie?”

“No, dear.”

“So you didn’t see him sneak out of my room in the middle of the night?”

With a look of pity on his face, he slowly sucked air in through his teeth. “I just got in a half hour ago, so no, I didn’t.”

“Okay.”

I marched over to Susan’s office. As usual, she was tucked behind her computer and already peering at me over her glasses.

“Where’s Jamie?” Without knocking, I opened the door to R.J.’s empty office and peeked in while I waited for her response.

“I’m not sure I’m the person to answer that.”

“Why is that?”

“Because it’s not my place to discuss his personal matters with you.”

Heat, anger, and embarrassment flooded all of my senses. I could barely hear her because the sound of my own rapid heartbeat was pounding in my ears. “Do you have any idea what a colossal waste of time this entire thing has been for me? I came here to get a story on R.J., who is never fucking here.” I started to raise my voice, but she didn’t cower. “I got five rude minutes from him and one abrupt e-mail. Did you guys plan this? Did you use Jamie to distract me? Lighten the blow of not getting what was promised to me? Your ‘resident jack-of-all-trades’—well, that’s no lie, is it? He’s here to fuck lonely women and then fuck them over? Poor diabetic Jamie who lives in a barn and picks fucking grapes all day can fuck you against a wall like no one else.” She didn’t even raise her pencil-lined eyebrows at me, so I continued my rant. “What is this place? Is this some kind of joke? How could Jamie do this to me? I thought he was one of the good ones.” Tears I had forced back finally sprung into my eyes.

In a low voice, she simply said, “It’s not what you think. I’m sorry, Kate.” In my mind, that was enough of an admission for both of them.

“Me, too. This thing with Jamie just made it all worse.”

“That wasn’t the intention. I didn’t ‘sic’ Jamie on you.” She made air quotes around the word “sic.”

“Well, maybe not, Susan, but I still need to write an article about this godforsaken place. I’m leaving for Chicago tonight.”
I’m not going to lie down and take it. I’ve done enough of that.

She didn’t try to stop me as I left the building. I spotted Chelsea lying on her bed outside.

“Bitch,” I said under my breath and then kept walking, determined to continue my streak of vengeance.

I left a note for Chef Mark that said:

Thanks for the whipped cream. I’m sure it wasn’t the first time you fulfilled a special request like that from Jamie.

Poor Guillermo was my next victim.

“I don’t know anything,
mija
. I just work here.”

“Does Jamie have a lot of women in and out of his barn?”

“No.” He shook his head convincingly. “Maybe your curiosity is getting the best of you,” he said.

“I’m not the one with the problem.”

I turned to walk away and stumbled past the row of vines where Jamie had kissed me so passionately. I paused and pressed my fingertips to my lips. Through tears, I wondered how I could have been so stupid. I promised myself that after I wrote the article, I would never think about that place again. I wouldn’t think about how he took the pain away for a little while, like a needle in the dark.

It all came back as the sun blasted me that morning in the vineyard. The dream was wrong. I wanted to believe that Rose prayed for me to find someone to share my life with. I wanted to believe that there was a cosmic force drawing Jamie and me together, but that’s not how things work. I shivered, even with the morning sun blaring down on me, because I realized there was no room for pain in love. Love is not the same thing as a marriage or a relationship or having children. Love is not work. Love is a feeling, pure and simple. It’s a feeling you can have one moment, in which you believe you could throw yourself in front of a speeding train for someone; and it can vanish the next, when they tear your heart out and steal every last beat for themselves. If I had any love for Jamie inside of me, I ripped it out of my heart that morning as I stood there among the sea of vines. Every last bit of hope I had for a relationship evaporated into the atmosphere like a memory forgotten.

I walked toward the inn thinking,
I’m all I’ve got
. I never should’ve let go of that mantra.

No one would ever know what Jamie and I had shared. The moments of closeness, the things he whispered to me, the way he said I was beautiful with so much conviction. Who could prove or deny it? Back in my room, I stared at the bed, thinking it had only been hours since we had lain there wrapped and tangled in each other, the way lovers do. I felt like we had grown together like a couple of trees planted too closely together, our branches mingling so that we didn’t know whose limbs belonged to whom. But it didn’t matter now because Jamie had uprooted himself. I had thought there was a chance we could stay that way forever.
How na
ive of me. How sad. How pathetic.

The maid had tossed all of my belongings into a neat pile on the dresser and desk. It made packing up simple. I dialed Jerry.

“Jerry Evans.”

“Can you get me a flight tonight?”

“What? You and the winery guy want to elope to Cancun or something?”

“No.”
Don’t cry, don’t do it, Kate!

I started crying.

“Oh shit,” he said, quietly. “Go to the airport. I’ll text you the details in a few minutes.”

“Thank you,” I said through sobs, and then I hung up.

I stuffed all of my belongings into my tiny suitcase, including the numerous pages of notes and doodling. I drove all the way to San Francisco International Airport with a newfound confidence. I honked at shitty drivers; I even gave the finger a few times. It was only after I began screaming at an elderly woman in a green Chevy Nova that I decided I had a legitimate case of road rage and should probably cool it before I got myself shot.

At the airport desk, I upgraded to a first-class ticket, thinking it would be easier to drown my sorrows with the free, unlimited booze. I tucked myself into my giant seat. The flight attendant brought me a blanket and pillow. I asked for an extra blanket and then I proceeded to wrap myself into a fleece cocoon. I managed to pin my arms against my body inside of the blankets, which was wonderful. If only it didn’t slightly resemble a straitjacket. When we got off the ground, I undid the seat-back table with my teeth and ordered a double scotch on the rocks.
I don’t even drink scotch.
When my drink came, I leaned over and sucked the entire thing through the straw in three large gulps. It was then that I noticed there was a passenger seated next to me.

She was staring at me with round, giant blue eyes. “How old are you?” I asked.

“Twelve,” she said.

“What’s your name?” I cocked my head to the side as if I were interrogating her, unconcerned that I must have looked ridiculous.

“Aurora. Are you a crazy person or something?”

“Takes one to know one, kid.” Her eyes widened even more. “I’m just kidding. No, I’m not crazy . . . yet. Anyway, crazy people don’t know they’re crazy, so that’s a silly question.” She nodded in agreement, a thoughtful expression on her face. I could tell right away she was one of those kids who are wiser than their years. “The truth is that I just got my heart trampled over. I had a rough day. You know how that is?” I arched my eyebrows for emphasis.

“Yeah,” she said and let out a deep breath. “I know exactly what you mean. This boy in my class, Genesis, told me he liked me and then told everyone else that I wouldn’t leave him alone.”

“Genesis? That’s his name? Um, red flag right there. What kind of name is Genesis?” She just shrugged. “Well, I’ll tell you. That is an English New Age rock group from the seventies and eighties. His parents are either really old or they’ve been dropping acid for way too long. My guess is the latter, hence Genesis’s bizarre behavior. Don’t sweat it. Someone else will come along. Unless, of course, you realize now that being alone is better than having your heart broken over and over again. Realize that now, kid, and save yourself the trouble.”

“So being alone is better?” She was looking me right in the eye. Could I really lie to her?

“Are your parents married?”

“Yes, they’ve been married for twenty-two years,” she said with a smile.

“Well, I guess it’s a case-by-case basis. Don’t listen to me. It happens for some people. Maybe you’ll be that person.”

“Maybe you will, too. You just can’t let all that bullshit make you hard.” That, from a twelve-year-old.

“You’re probably right. Hey, do you want to help me? I have to write this article . . .”

Page 11

Never Start a Sentence with “So”

After traveling most of the day and scribbling the article down on the back of a couple of flyers I grabbed from the rental car company, I finally made it back to my cold, dark Lincoln Park apartment. I immediately opened my laptop, shot an e-mail off to Jerry, then went to sleep and stayed that way for the next two days.

To: Jerry Evans

From: Kate Corbin

Subject: Fuck it!

This is it, Jerry. I don’t even know what to call it. This is all I have. I’m sure I’m fired or severely demoted. Maybe I can be the coffee cart girl? I know R.J. won’t approve of this, so I feel like I’ve totally let you down. I have some vacation time accrued and I’d like to take next week off if I still have a job. I need to get my head straight. I fucked up, Jerry. I shouldn’t have gotten involved with that guy. I fucked up and I’m sorry. —Kate

UNTITLED ARTICLE ON R. J. LAWSON AND WINERY

So you have two birds. One is long, lean, and powerful, with sheer physical strength on its side. The other is colorful, small, and fast, and prized for its beauty. Who will win? First, you must know that the challenge is the game of business, otherwise known as deception, and the winner of this game will always be the more cunning player, regardless of his physicality. Forget what you’ve seen—looks can be deceiving. You have to search inside the competitor’s heart. You have to detect the rhythm that drives him, what fuels the challenger’s willingness to sacrifice dignity and integrity for money. That’s what it all comes down to in the end. The winner of this game gets a gold, diamond-encrusted cage. But success comes with a price—in this case, the freedom to fly. He may have the promise of admirers, but his majestic wings will never dance across the sky again.

The world wants to know why everything R. J. Lawson touches turns to gold. Well, I’ll tell you: he’s the more cunning bird. He was a genius who peaked at eighteen, made his money, and now proudly waves his wallet at anything that interests him—in this case, wine. I spent one week at R. J. Lawson’s famed Napa Valley winery during the harvest season to learn more about him and his seemingly worthwhile cause. While there, I observed that he spent little time at the winery, but he does take credit for all the work. He described his approach as hands-on, yet I didn’t see him complete a single task during my visit, with the exception of sipping a glass of Pinot.

His image is held together by a few loyal pawns who are willing to do his dirty work. I saw right through it. I saw that R.J. had mastered the game of buying people and buying success. Maybe inside the man there is a boy whose curiosity earned him a great deal of adoration and money, but there is no trace of that exceptional wonder and gift in the man I met.

If R.J. had shown me a modicum of brilliance or even humanity, aside from rapping off the many charities he’s donated to, maybe I could write a nicer article about him, but the truth is this: he acted as though I wasn’t worth his time. He was misogynistic and degrading toward his staff. He was pompous and put out while answering a few questions. From afar, one might envy what R.J. has acquired. It’s no lie that the wine is fantastic and the winery itself is something of a shining gem among the hills of Napa Valley, but that doesn’t mean R.J. is not paying a price for all of that perfection. His shrewd cunning has condemned him to the confines of a cage. He may sit perched above all that beauty, but he’s in that cage alone.

The staff at the winery made a pathetic attempt at hospitality in the wake of my awful experience with R.J. Sadly, I found their strategies to be somewhat elaborate. So, my conclusion is that R. J. Lawson’s big ego was probably responsible for orchestrating all of the backpedaling and ridiculous behavior from the others at the helm. Although the facility seems unmatched in the region, you might be gambling with your happiness by taking a trip to R. J. Lawson. Before you do anything, you have to ask yourself about that bird, the one who is willing to sacrifice the freedom to fly for the material facade. However mesmerized you are by the glittering gold of that cage, the only question you need to ask is: Where does that bird shit?

My advice about R. J. Lawson would be this: drink the wine, but don’t drink the Kool-Aid.

Kate Corbin

Chicago Crier

• • •

On Monday morning, when I finally woke from a depressing slumber, I opened my computer to find a new e-mail from Jerry. He always gave it away in the subject line; maybe that’s why he made a better editor than writer. I appreciated it in that moment and was able to let out a huge sigh of relief when I realized that, at the very least, I still had my job.

To: Kate Corbin

From: Jerry Evens

Subject: You still have a job!

It’s brilliant, Kate. I don’t know what we’ll do with it, but it’s the most inspired work I’ve seen out of you and that’s all that matters. R.J. may have done his best to make getting the details nearly impossible, but you proved that as long as you can capture the essence of a situation, a story will be born from it.

I agree that it’s best you take a week off. Apparently you left your luggage at the airport. There was no name on the tag, just the address to the paper, so the airline delivered it here. I opened the suitcase when it arrived today and realized quickly that it was yours from all of your notes and belongings. I’ll lock it in the storage room until you get back, unless you need it right away. Just let me know.

I’m worried about you, Kate, but I know how strong you are, and I know we’ll get you back on track soon. Beth has some ideas.

Your Loyal Editor,

Jerry

There was nothing particularly heartfelt or touching about Jerry’s e-mail, but for some reason it made me cry. The truth was that I didn’t want anyone worrying about me or pitying me. I wanted to stop feeling like I was searching for something else or some answer to the meaning of it all. The expectation that life should be more than waking up alone, riding the train to work, and then going home to fall asleep alone had been weighing on me for so long, but I always found myself back at my apartment . . . alone. Everything in between was just heartache.

I shuffled down my short hallway to the kitchen, where I scanned the barren refrigerator. Staring at the same jar of jelly for ten minutes, I contemplated eating it with a spoon. There was little I was willing to do to keep myself alive at that point. I hadn’t showered in two days, and aside from a couple of stale crackers and an old skunky beer that had been in my fridge for a year, I had consumed nothing. The jelly seemed appropriate, until I finally allowed my most basic survival instinct to kick in. I threw on a pair of sweats and a jacket and headed to the market and produce stand on the corner. There was an older man at the counter making fresh homemade salsa, so after picking up a banana, some Fig Newton–like cookies, and a bag of pretzels, I figured:
What would go better with all of that than salsa?
Am I losing my mind?

“Excuse me?” I asked. He looked up through his dark lashes. His eyes were almost identical to mine. A hazel that looked spectacularly green in the light, but sort of a dull brown in the shadow.

“Yes, ma’am, what can I help you with?”

“Are you my father?”

He chuckled but stopped immediately when he saw how serious I was. “Oh, hmm, no, dear. I’ve been married for almost forty years and we have three children. I’m sorry.”

“Oh, well, shot in the dark, you know?” He nodded, but his eyes still held the same pitying expression he had on before. “Do you sell beer here?”

“No, but there’s a wineshop about half a block down.”

I shook my head frantically. “I’m detoxing, I can’t have wine.”

“Okay, well, there’s a liquor store about three blocks from here that sells beer.”

“Yeah, I know that one. Thank you, sir.”

“You’re welcome.”

The liquor store was more like five blocks, but I skipped along, eating my banana and fig cookies. I felt extremely pissed at the universe when I saw Stephen and some chick about half a block down, walking in my direction. Hoping they didn’t see me, I slipped quickly into an alley. As I waited for them to pass, I scanned my attire. I was wearing the oldest pair of gray sweats that exist on this planet, a yellow T-shirt with the sunshine Care Bear on it, and my powder blue skiing jacket, although that wasn’t the worst of it. I had on two different socks, one black and one light purple, and an old pair of black Chucks with black laces. I was the twenty-six-year-old Punky Brewster. I quickly felt the top of my head.
Phew
.
No pigtails, but it was topped off with a messy bun.
Please do not let them see me.

“Kate?”

Fuck!

I shoved the last cookie into my mouth and mumbled, “Hey, Stephen.”

“This is Monique. I work with her.”

“Hi, Monique.” He never hung out with female colleagues outside of work. She was a tall, blond beauty wearing an extremely narrow pencil skirt and stilettos. There was a brief moment where I thought how perfect she and Stephen looked together, the epitome of working professionals in Chicago. My disheveled ass had taken sulking and letting myself go to a new level, and I could tell that Stephen had picked up on it.

He squinted. “Are you okay, Kate?”

“Yeah, I’m fucking dandy, Stephen. You?”

“Fine. Where are you off to?” he asked. I glanced over at Monique, who was scanning my clothes. I saw sadness and pity wash over her face.

“I’m going to get a forty.”

He pinched his eyebrows together. “What’s a forty?”

“A forty of beer.” He still looked dumbfounded. “It’s forty ounces of beer in a bottle. Not everyone can afford to indulge in expensive spirits.”

“I’ve never seen you drink beer.”

“Well, I guess there’s a lot you don’t know about me. Why would you care anyway? You never loved me, remember?”

Monique’s eyes shot open. Stephen’s jaw twitched. “I said I wasn’t sure. Plus, we were fighting when I said that. This is not the time or place to pick at old wounds.”

“Old wounds? That was six fucking days ago.” He shook his head in a warning gesture. “Well, you two enjoy each other,” I said as I walked away.

Still within earshot, I heard Monique ask, “Who was that?”

“Nobody,” Stephen said.
Ouch.

At the liquor store, I purchased a giant can of Budweiser, some tortilla chips, and a total of eighty lottery scratchers. My thought was that each scratcher would take me roughly thirty seconds to complete. That meant that it would occupy at least forty minutes of my time. Forty minutes I wouldn’t have to think about Jamie. It was two thousand four hundred heartbeats I wouldn’t be listening to.

I walked back to my apartment, sipping my can of Bud from the crumpled paper bag it was housed in. When I entered my apartment, I could hear my cell phone ringing incessantly from the bedroom, but I didn’t answer it. I finished my beer at 11:43 a.m. and then went back to sleep. The doorbell startled me awake. I glanced at the clock on my nightstand. It was six thirty p.m. As I slowly inched my way to the door, I breathed into my hand. My breath was horrid. Had I brushed my teeth in three days?
Probably not.
The doorbell rang again.

“Coming.” I opened it one inch and peeked through the sliver of space into Beth’s peering eyes.

“What up, sister? Are you gonna let me in?”

I slammed the door shut and removed the chain and then opened the door wide for Beth to enter.

“Christ, Kate, you look like death warmed over.”

“Thanks, Beth.”

“Dear god, what is that smell?”

I lifted my shoulders to my ears. “I don’t know.”

“It smells like burnt hair.”

Then it hit me. “Oh yeah, Dylan from 5B came over earlier and we smoked some pot. You know Dylan, that kid who plays the bucket on the corner? He lives in my building.”

“Isn’t he a teenager?”

“He’s twenty.”

“Since when do you smoke pot?”

“Since earlier, when Dylan from 5B came over.”

Beth shook her head in disapproval. “Did you do anything else with Dylan from 5B?”

“Jesus no, Beth—who do ya think I am? He just showed me some rare comic book he bought with the money he made on the corner, and then he pulled a tiny bong from his pocket. I said what the hell, why not, and took a hit, but I didn’t really know what I was doing with the lighter.” I pointed to the half of my eyebrow that was completely singed.

“Oh shit, girl, you need to pencil that in.”

“It could have been worse. He asked me if I wanted to do X and then go roller-skating.” I shrugged. “He’s a nice kid, though.”

Beth walked through my apartment, scanning the disarray. She opened the refrigerator. “You have no food in here. Let’s go get a hot dog.”

“There’s salsa, plus I’m a vegetarian. Actually, I’m a pescetarian, but that’s just semantics.” Then I smiled really wide. “You know what? Fuck it! Let’s go get a hot dog.”

We went to an old hot dog joint called the Dogfather. It looked like something out of an episode of
The Sopranos
. The room was dark with red leather booths. They served every kind of hot dog imaginable. You ordered at the counter, where they had about a hundred different toppings and thirty different kinds of beer. I chose the foot-long spiced dog called Sal’s Hit. Beth got the kielbasa named the Kill Mob Bossa. We slipped into a booth and ate in silence for a few minutes. After the initial disgust I felt over chomping into meat encased in pig intestines, I decided it was the best goddamned food I’d ever had.

I washed Sal’s Hit down with three twenty-four-ounce Belgian beers, none of which I could name. I was thoroughly drunk. Beth talked me into hitting up a gay bar with her that Friday night, and staying true to my motto of the day, I told her, “What the hell, why not? So you’re outta the closet, I take it?”

“I was never in the closet. I just don’t do relationships. I’ve kept my life simple.”

“I totally get that,” I deadpanned.

“I’m worried about you, Kate.” I had never seen Beth that serious.