Spur of the Moment (10 page)

Marin was just wearing a tight gray t-shirt, frayed blue jeans, and boots that cost half of Ana's monthly salary. Marin wasn't wearing any make-up, but she looked like an absolute knockout as always. Marin's beauty never ceased to be breathtaking.

They drove downtown to the theater. It was only a couple of miles away, but thanks to all the traffic lights, it took a while to get there, or at least it seemed like it to Ana. Thank God performers got free parking in the small lot behind the theater. Otherwise they'd have to budget fifteen extra minutes to find a parking space.

Ana started racing through aMuse upstairs to the theater.

“Hold on, hold on, I need to use the ATM,” Marin said.

“I'll meet you upstairs.”

“No, please just wait for me.”

Ga! They only had fifteen minutes to warm up as it was.

Marin took her cash and looked at her receipt. “Shit, it says I only have $150 left in my account.”

“That can't be right, you need $450 by Sunday to pay the rent.”

“Yeah, I was sort of going to talk to you about that.”

Ana sighed. “Let's just do the show. We can talk about it later.”

Ana didn't perform as well as she would have liked. She was too tired to be able to think well on her feet. Also, she felt like the Pillsbury Dough Boy, her marshmallow middle popping out of the top of the tight confines of her jeans.

After the show, some of Ramiro's friends were going to meet them at aMuse, so they went downstairs to the main bar, where it was so crowded there was standing-room only.

She, Marin, and Chelsey huddled around one another, talking about the show. Two good-looking guys approached the three women and started telling them how much they'd enjoyed the show. The two guys only looked at Chelsey and Marin. With every minute of the conversation, Ana felt more and more invisible. She knew it wasn't just because she was the size of a balloon in a Macy's parade. She was also tired and cranky and had such dark circles under her eyes it looked like she'd been the loser in a street fight, which certainly couldn't be a turn-on.

Ana watched Marin drink her beer. Marin ate like a pig, guzzled beer by the vat, and yet still had the perfect body. Marin truly was one of those evil women who never worked out and ate cratefuls of junk food daily. Ana hated the stories of how waifs like Christina Aguilera and stunningly sexy women like J. Lo and Shakira insisted on having silos of Ho Ho's and M&Ms in their dressing rooms at all times. It was fine if they were rich and famous and staggeringly beautiful, but if these women genuinely gorged themselves on Twinkies and Doritos, then Ana wasn't sure she had the will to go on living. She was almost certain, however, that nothing but wheatgrass and carrot sticks ever passed the lips of these women. The alleged junk food indulgences were just another lie from PR people, who wanted to make the fantasy of fame, wealth, and beauty complete with tales of heroic metabolisms and effortlessly fat-free thighs.

She knew jealousy was one of the deadly sins and besides, it was unbecoming, but Ana couldn't help coveting her friend's perfect life.
You don't really want to be Marin. You'd be self-absorbed and bad with money. Of course you'd also be rich and beautiful, so who'd give a shit? Certainly not you.

Marin actually seemed to be hitting it off with the one guy, which was pretty rare. She usually told guys she was an HIV-infected lesbian within four seconds of meeting them. She had this way of saying it so sweetly, like, “Gosh, if I weren't homosexual and dying of a terminal disease, I would be throwing myself on you as you're the most dashing man I've ever seen in my entire life.” Marin's mother was from a wealthy family in Georgia, where hospitality and social graces were bred into her genes. Most men bored Marin to tears, but she was never bitchy to them, always polite. Ana hadn't been paying attention so she had no idea what he'd said to keep her talking this long.

Chelsey, on the other hand, looked miserable. Ana caught her saying something about how she was dating someone.

“How long have you been dating?” the guy asked.

“Well, not that long actually, but when you know it's right, you know it's right.”

“Can I get your number just in case?”

“Well, you know, I just moved today, and I haven't had the phone installed.” She didn't even hesitate as she lied. Training as an improviser had its advantages.

“Let me give you my number then.”

“Yeah, okay.”

“Chelse, when you're done there, I need you to come with me to the bathroom,” Ana said, trying to help her out.

“Why is it that women always need to go to the bathroom in pairs?” the guy said, chuckling as if he were witty. This was a common problem after the shows—other people thought they could be funny too. It was like little boys who came out of a Jackie Chan movie karate chopping each other, over-identifying with the larger-than-life, well-choreographed hero.

“Okay, so call me,” the guy said, pressing the piece of paper into her hand.

“Er, nice to meet you.”

Chelsey and Ana sped through the crowd as quickly as the undulating mass of bodies would allow.

As soon as they were safely in the bathroom, Chelsey thanked Ana for rescuing her. “No problem. Where's Rob tonight?”

“He had to work.”

“How are you two doing?”

“Awesome. I think I'm in love.”

“That's so great. I'm so happy for you.”

“You don't look happy. Is something wrong?”

“No. Yes. The thing is, I'm feeling like a whale. An elephant. An unfortunately oversized creature, anyway.”

“I'm sorry, hon. Is there anything I can do to help?”

“Yeah, I think there is. I was hoping maybe you could kind of do me a favor.”

“What?”

“I need to get in shape, I'm hoping you can get me a deal on getting fit.”

“You already have a membership to the club, don't you?”

“Yeah, but I was sort of hoping to get on a program. Maybe get a personal trainer.”

Chelsey clapped her hands together. “That would be so cool!”

“But how much does it cost?”

“Well, what kind of results are you looking for? Fat loss? Improved energy? Increased fitness?”

“I want to be able to fit into my clothes.”

“I see.” Chelsey considered this. “So how many pounds do you think you'll need to do that?”

“I don't know, seven?”

“Okay, so it'll take about six weeks, and you'll want to meet with me twice a week, which is normally six hundred dollars, but I could get you a discount . . .”

Ana was hoping she'd say maybe $50 total after all the rebates she'd get for being Chelsey's good friend.

“Say five hundred.”

“Um, how about we only meet once a week. How much would that be?”

“Two fifty.”

She couldn't blow half of her pitiful savings on a personal trainer just because she didn't have the willpower to lose weight on her own. It was madness. But Ana was far too tired to think straight. And it would cost far more than that to buy all new clothes to accommodate her sprawling girth, right? And she was so sick of the guys always ignoring her. Her self-esteem had been shredded far too viciously for her to make a sound decision.

“Okay, when do we start?”

15

The Weight of Memory

W
hat had Marin been thinking? Why had she agreed to go on this date? Maybe because it had been forever since she'd had a boyfriend. The guy she'd met at the club the other night was cute. He seemed nice enough. And even if it didn't lead to wedding bells, maybe they could sleep together once in a while.

Marin would love to have a boyfriend. She wanted to be in love. It was time already.

She hadn't even had a serious boyfriend since high school. Not since Brent. He was twenty-seven, ten years older than her at the time, and already a successful stockbroker. He was good-looking, he drove an amazing car, and he was charming without being as obsequious toward her as the guys her age were. They met in the clubhouse of her parents' country club. Marin was there with two of her girlfriends. The three girls had gone swimming and hot-tubbing and were sharing snacks and playing pool when he approached them. Her eyes were red and stinging from the chlorine, she wore no make-up, her hair was wet, and she was just wearing a loose sundress over her suit. But the way he looked at her—and he only had eyes for her—made her feel both beautiful and shy. Marin never, never felt shy. He put his quarters down on the table to save the next game for him and his friends.

“Why don't the three of you play the next game against us,” he suggested. “Boys against girls.”

“Prepare to be dazzled by our pool playing, my friend,” Marin said. “You boys will be shamed by our fancy moves.”

“Really?”

“No. Really we suck. Seriously.”

“We're pretty bad, too.”

“I'm sure you're not worse than us. Most of the time we can't even keep the damn balls on the table.”

They teased each other and themselves about who was worse at pool. (Turns out it was a draw—they were all pretty remedial.) After an hour or so of playing he invited all of them back to his house.

Marin looked at her girlfriends. They both nodded their eager agreement.

“Sure. We'll follow you.”

In the car over to his house, it was all Marin and her friends could do to keep from bursting with excited giggles.

“He's gorgeous,” Michelle declared.

“Totally hot,” Brandie agreed.

“An older man. That is so sexy,” Michelle said.

“And look at that car. He makes a ton of money.”

“What if you guys get married? You'll be Mrs. Brent . . . what was his last name? Well, you'll Mrs. Rich Wife anyway.”

“You guys, shut up. I've known him an hour. I think wedding plans are a bit premature.” But Marin suppressed a smile as she said it. She had to admit that even though she'd only known him an hour, the idea of running off and marrying a rich older man—whether it was Brent or not—would fix a lot. It would get her out of the house. It would liberate her from having to rely on her father's money. She would be free at last.

At his house, Brent offered the trio of girls cocktails.

“You could get into really big trouble,” Marin said. “We're only seventeen.”

“Really? That's it? You seem a lot more mature than most seventeen-year-old girls. I certainly wouldn't want to lead you innocent girls down the road to debauchery.”

The way he said “debauchery”—his grin, the look in his eyes, the tone of his voice—thrilled her. He was so much more mature and self-assured than the guys her age. He was sexy and dangerous and exciting.

“We've already been debauched aplenty. Don't worry. It won't be our first taste of alcohol.”

“Somehow I didn't think so. Anyway, I'm a gambler by nature. I'll take my chances.”

“A gambler, huh?”

“A risk taker, sure. You have to be if you want to be in business. Hell, if you want to succeed in life.”

They talked and flirted for several hours. He took her number before Marin and her friends left, and for five anxious days she waited for him to call. With each day that passed she became more and more intrigued by him. She was used to guys calling her within hours—sometimes minutes—of her giving them her phone number.

When he did call and ask if he could take her out to dinner that weekend, she was thrilled. Going out with him was adventurous, exciting, risky. Not that her parents would ever find out. They never had a clue what was going on in her life, even if she told them. But still, she knew what she was doing behind their backs, and it excited her beyond words.

On their first date, he was a perfect gentleman. He bought her flowers, opened doors, ordered a bottle of wine—she didn't even get carded—and told her why this bottle of wine from Provence, France, was the perfect wine to accompany the meal. She loved that he knew about wine. She loved that the waiter didn't blink when he ordered it for the two of them. Around him she was sophisticated. A woman. No longer just some inexperienced high school kid.

She fell for him, hard. And for the first few weeks, she was delirious with happiness. Everything was perfect.

And then.

The first time he hit her they'd been dating for a month. It was just after New Year's and they'd been drinking and laughing and having fun. She couldn't even remember what they were talking about, but she'd made a joke about him being secretly gay, and all humor evaporated from his expression immediately. His eyes filled with rage and he punched her in the stomach.

Marin had been so shocked she burst into tears. She'd never been hit in her entire life.

“Say you're sorry,” he said.

“I'm sorry, are you nuts? I was kidding around and you punch me? And you want me to say I'm sorry? I'm getting out of here. Don't ever, ever call me again.”

She went to leave his place and he came up behind her and grabbed her by the arm so hard it left bruises; five purple circles around her arm.

“Ouch! That hurts. Let go of me!”

“You're not leaving until you say you're sorry,” he said.

He meant it, she could see that. She could see how much he wanted an excuse, any excuse, to hurt her even more. She saw it, in his eyes, what he was capable of. All at once she was terrified.

“I—I'm sorry. I didn't mean anything by it.”

She had tried to leave then. He insisted that she stay. She said she was tired, it was late, she should get going. He wanted her to stay. She stayed.

For the next several days, she refused to return his calls. When he showed up after school a few days later and asked her who exactly she thought she was, ignoring him, not returning his calls, she said she was sorry, she'd been busy. She was so scared of him that when he told her to get into his car, she did. And when he called her the next day, she picked up the phone and agreed to go out with him.

Marin never told anyone about Brent. Not her parents. Not her friends. Not a counselor. She was embarrassed. Her friends all thought Brent was such a catch. She was just doing everything wrong, making him mad at her. She had to stop making him mad at her. She could see in his eyes just how far he'd go.

He never made any specific threats. He never said, “If you try to leave me, I'll kill you.” None of that “if I can't have you no one will” business. But she knew that if she left, he would hurt her, really hurt her.

They dated for a few more months. She was always on guard with him, always watching what she was saying. She didn't joke around with him anymore. She was careful.

He hurt her twice more, once throwing her against the wall, which had left a terrible bruise on her back for days, once punching her in her stomach. He was always careful to make sure the bruises were hidden. He knew what he was doing, and it terrified her.

She felt trapped. If he got so angry over a comment here or there, what would he do to her if she tried to leave him? Where could she hide? He knew where she lived, where she went to school. He knew what nights she practiced late at the theater, practically alone in the enormous high school.

Then one night after she'd practiced late for the spring play, he asked for a blow job and she said she was really tired. They started yelling at each other. He accused her of sleeping with somebody else, of not loving him, of being with him just for his money.

“You're sleeping with him, that guy from the play.”

“No, but maybe I should.”

That's when he punched her in the face.

She tore out of his townhouse, hailed a taxi, and, sobbing in pain and embarrassment, she went home, her left eye swelling so much she could hardly see out of it. When she got home, the black eye couldn't be ignored, and her parents wanted to know what the hell was going on. She told them.

She had never seen her parents seem more concerned about her. Marin told them that she was scared for her life. That if she tried to leave him, he'd kill her. She was scared, but this attention her parents were giving her, it felt nice, too.

“I'm calling the police,” her dad said.

“Dad, he won't spend any time in jail and then he'll really be mad.” If he'd gotten so furious over a blow job, what would happen if she called in the police? “I'll be fine. I'll be going off to school soon, he won't be able to get to me. I've been thinking about it, and I thought that, instead of going to Boston College or NYU, I'll go to Colorado, and you'll tell everyone, I mean everyone, that I'm going to Boston, and if he calls and asks about me, you tell him I went to college in Boston.”

“Honey, all the way across the country? Lying to people? Are you sure all this is necessary? It was probably just a fluke thing, him hitting you. All the hiding and lying, it seems so dramatic,” her mom said. “Maybe acting in all those plays has made you find drama where there isn't really any.”

“You don't think this is dramatic?” Marin pointed to her eye. “This isn't the first time he's hit me, Mom. I've tried to break up with him, but I'm so scared of him, I'm scared he'll hurt me more if I try to leave him. If he can't find me, I won't have anything to worry about.”

So that's what they did. Six weeks before the school year was out, she got approval to finish her classes via correspondence. Her understudy would take over the lead in the play. Marin wouldn't be able to attend any graduation parties or say goodbye to her friends.

Early one morning, when it was still dark out, her mother drove her to the airport. Marin would stay in her parents' house in Aspen until she could move into the dorms at the end of the summer. Just before her plane was about to take off at 9
A.M.
, she called Brent's voice mail—she knew he'd be at work already. She said she was leaving for college early, something had come up and she was sorry she hadn't had a chance to say a proper good-bye. She said she'd had a wonderful time with him, but she didn't think it would be a good idea to do the whole long distance thing. Oh? Hadn't she mentioned? She'd decided on Boston College instead of NYU after all.

She didn't go home for two years after that.

She hadn't fallen in love since. Not one serious relationship in all these years.

She dated, but she worried she couldn't fall in love.

She'd agreed to meet Andrew, the guy she'd met at aMuse the other night, at the new Chinese restaurant on Sixth Street. Andrew was cute—broad shouldered, with sandy hair and dark brown eyes. He worked at a venture capital firm in Boulder. She'd liked him because he'd seemed so sure of himself. Of course, they'd only talked for about fifteen minutes in a loud, crowded bar, so it wasn't like she knew him well. But it had been a long time since she'd had sex, and this dating crap was the best route to getting some.

She got to the restaurant a little late. He was already there, sitting at a table. He jumped up when he saw her. “Marin! I'm so glad you could make it!”

“Oh, yeah, um, sorry I'm late.”

“No problem! So is this okay? Do you like Chinese?”

“Yeah, that's why I recommended this place.”

“Right!” he laughed. He hadn't been this geeky and overeager the other night. What was going on? “God, I've thought about you nonstop since the other night.”

“Hmm.”

“You're probably hungry. I should let you look at the menu.”

She looked it over and the waitress came by. “A glass of plum wine, please.”

“Me too!” Andrew said.

When the waitress left, Andrew said, in a mock Chinese voice, “Me lika the mu shoo pork. Me lika it long time.”

Marin forced a smile. She could tell that he could tell the smile was forced. He shifted uncomfortably.

“So, tell me more about yourself,” he said. “What's a gorgeous, funny woman like you doing being single?”

She shrugged. “I don't know. I guess I haven't met the right guy yet.”

He launched into what he may have thought were funny tales of the hazards of dating, but Marin found him dull. He was trying too hard and it made everything worse.

Marin would have to do a better job of screening her dates in the future. What had happened? He'd seemed so cool the other night. Maybe he'd been drunk then and that relaxed him so he wasn't this eager-to-please dork. It was the story of Marin's dating life. It's not that she wanted guys to play games or play hard to get, but she wanted a guy who didn't get so nervous around her. She wanted a guy who didn't declare his love for her within hours of meeting her. Guys that said they were in love with her after so short a time obviously weren't in love with her but her appearance. She would get old one day, and these guys who liked her just for her looks would leave her for a younger, prettier woman. A relationship couldn't be based on attraction alone.