The Icing on the Cake (27 page)

“Patrique, get out of my house and leave!” I hollered when I found my voice.

Patrique opened his mouth to reply, but it was Isaac’s voice that I heard. “No, I’ll leave.”

Isaac stepped down one step and I grabbed onto his arm. “Please don’t go,” I pleaded, a suffocating panic filling my chest.

“Let go, Annabelle,” he said icily, pulling his arm out of my grip.

“Isaac, don’t go,” I repeated.

“I have to,” Isaac said. There was a finality in his voice that terrified me.

Isaac quickly descended the stairs and began jogging toward his Firebird, which I could see parked in the guest parking lot. I hurried down the sidewalk behind him, the pounding of my feet on the cement in sync with the pounding of my heart.

I caught up to him just as he was putting the keys in the car door. “Isaac, please just let me explain,” I pleaded.

Isaac continued to unlock the car door, and it looked like he was going to get into the car and drive away. But all of a sudden he turned and faced me. “Explain what? Explain why he was there? Explain why he gave you a painting? Explain why he seems to think you reciprocate his obvious feelings? Explain why you lied about him and about what is going on between the two of you?”

“No, Isaac,” I cried in a strangled voice. “I didn’t lie.” Isaac looked at me and I saw a pain in his eyes that ripped my heart apart. “I believed in you. I trusted you. But you just stood outside your house and lied to me about why I couldn’t go inside. I can’t do this, Annabelle. Not again.”

I suddenly found it hard to breathe. Like someone was holding me under water with great force. “What are you saying?” I asked, my voice nearly inaudible.

“I’m saying I can’t do this. It’s over.”

“No,” I whispered, feeling like I was going to be sick. “But I can explain. It’s not what you think,” my voice was rushed, panicked.

Without another word, Isaac got into the car and slammed the door shut. He then looked at me through the window, and for a minute I thought he might open the door. But he didn’t. He started the ignition, gave me a move-out-of-the-way look, and sped away, squealing his tires as he pulled out of the parking lot.

An overwhelming wave of nausea overtook me, as if I had just been beaten up. I crouched down in the spot where Isaac’s car had been, and hugged my knees tightly. Tears began to fall to the ground, leaving tiny dots on the pavement.

I’m not quite sure how long I stayed in that position, but after a while the sound of a car horn made me look up. An elderly couple driving a Crown Victoria wanted the parking spot I was blocking. I stood up slowly, feeling numb and dazed, and walked out of the parking space.

For the first few steps, I continued to feel numb, shell-shocked. But as I drew nearer to my condo, I felt fury welling up inside of me. My footsteps grew quicker and harder and my blood grew hot in my veins.

“You have three seconds to get out of my apartment,” I said furiously when I found Patrique still in my condo, sitting on the couch eating a huge barbecued rib.

“I’m not leaving until I tell you what I came here to tell you,” Patrique said.

“No, you’re leaving now.” I tore the rib from his hand.

“But I came here to tell you how I feel about you. It started on Thursday, when you made it look like we were a couple in front of Tempest. That made me realize how magnificent you are.”

“That whole thing with Tempest was an accident!” I nearly screamed.

“It doesn’t change anything. I still adore you.”

“Adore me!” I shouted. “So you come here and ruin the one thing that matters the most to me in the world!”

“You’ll get over that wimp. I’ll help you.” Patrique moved close to me, a slimy look on his barbecue-sauce smudged face.

“Get out!” I yelled. “And take your painting with you.” I ripped the painting from the wall and threw it out the still-open door. I was frenzied. I was seriously a Judge Judy case waiting to happen.

“My painting!” Patrique cried as he rushed outside. Seizing the opportunity, I ran to close and lock the door. But I was not fast enough, and Patrique speedily stuck his foot inside, preventing me from closing it.

He pushed his way into my home, holding the painting and studying it thoroughly. With the painting still in his hands he got into my face, a fiery look in his eye. “You fool,” he spewed. “You are so lucky the painting is not damaged.”

Patrique set the painting down on the coffee table and began pacing around me in circles, like a lion circling its prey. Finally he stopped pacing and got back in my face. “Dear Annabelle,” he said sardonically. “It looks like I need to remind you of something: you need me. For your article. For your friend’s little party.” Patrique was spitting the words at me. He smiled at me sinisterly.

Suddenly, Tempest’s words came to my mind, the ones about how if Patrique didn’t get what he wanted, he would try to ruin me. I hadn’t put much stock into the words at the time, but now it appeared that they were right on. And I was afraid. Afraid of how much Patrique could ruin.

But just then, someone else’s words came to my mind—Mom’s words. Mom had told me that as long as I lived the way God wanted me to live, everything would work out for my good. And with Mom’s words echoing through my mind, I knew what I had to do.

It was time for me to start acting out of integrity rather than fear when it came to my article. It was time for me to think about Carrie instead of my feelings toward Rona as I searched for a caterer. And it was time for me to be honest with Isaac, time to stop trying to show him only the things that I wanted him to see.

And if I did that, if I did what I knew was right, my article, Carrie’s shower, maybe even this big misunderstanding with Isaac would work out. I didn’t know how, but I knew that they would.

“No, I don’t need you,” I said firmly.

“Fine,” Patrique spat. “Don’t even bother coming to La Bonne Violette on Monday. I’ll make sure my uncle doesn’t even speak to you. And even if Jacqueline is your friend, she can’t authorize a catering order for someone on the Do Not Serve list.” Patrique then added in an evil voice, “Poor Annabelle, you lost everything that meant something to you in one day.”

Finally, Patrique lifted the painting from the coffee table and walked out of the condo casually, arrogantly.

I slammed the door closed behind Patrique and locked it quickly. Then I blew out the candles on the dining room table, fell onto couch, and sobbed.

I
probably looked like a crazy person standing on Isaac’s doorstep at eight thirty at night, frog slippers on my feet and mascara stains on my cheeks. But I didn’t care. Isaac had to know what had really happened. And once he did he would take back the awful words he had said. He would tell me that it wasn’t really over. Because it couldn’t be over. It just couldn’t.

I knocked on the door and Ethan answered. “I’m sorry, Annabelle,” he said the second he saw me. “Isaac doesn’t want to talk to you.” It was obvious he had been instructed to send me away if I came to the house.

“Isaac!” I yelled through the cracked door. “Please, just listen to me!”

Ethan put his hand up to silence my yells. “I don’t think he can hear you. Wait here just a minute.”

Ethan turned around to go into the house. He left the door cracked open a bit, and I was tempted to enter without permission, but I didn’t want to make things any worse than I had already managed to make them. I strained to hear any sounds from inside the house. I couldn’t hear a thing.

Ethan returned to the door with a regretful look on his face. “He said he wants you to go away.”

“Please Ethan, just let me inside. If he’ll just listen to me then—”

“I don’t think that’s going to happen,” Ethan explained.

“Isaac!” I yelled into the house again. “I’m not leaving until you talk to me!”

“I’m sorry. He’s not going to come. I’m sorry.” Ethan looked pained as he slowly closed the door on me.

I stood on the doorstep feeling stunned for I don’t know how long. Then I slowly began to walk back to my car.

I stopped short when I heard something. It sounded like a bouncing ball, and it was coming from Isaac’s backyard. Quietly, I crept along the side of the house, hiding myself behind some bushes as I moved in the direction of the sound.

And then I saw Isaac.

He was on the basketball court in the backyard, still dressed in the nice slacks and button-down shirt he had been wearing when he had come to my condo. My heart ached as I watched him furiously dribble the basketball and then make equally furious shots. With each shot, the ball swished cleanly through the net.

I came out from the side of the house, revealing myself to Isaac as I walked closer to him. “I heard you back here,” I said, attempting a neutral greeting.

Isaac continued dribbling and shooting without saying a word to me. He shot a basket that bounced off the backboard and flew behind him. He tried to jump and catch it, but it was too high. It bounced a few feet in front of me and finally rolled toward my feet.

I stepped on the ball with the toe of my slipper. “Please talk to me.”

Isaac wordlessly walked over to me. He bent down to retrieve the ball, but I pushed my foot downward, making the retrieval difficult.

“Can I have my basketball, please?” he asked harshly.

“Yes, if you’ll talk to me.”

“Okay, I’ll talk to you. Please get off my property. There, I talked.”

Isaac grabbed the ball from beneath my foot, sending me teetering. He then dribbled the ball toward the hoop, shot, and missed. The ball bounced off the rim, and Isaac caught it. He moved to the free-throw line and got ready to make his next shot.

“I can’t leave, Isaac,” I said. “This can’t be it. I can explain everything if you’ll just listen to me.”

Isaac turned his head slightly, and looked at me. “Listen to more lies?” His voice was like ice—the kind that’s so cold it stings.

He looked away from me and shot the basketball angrily. He missed. We both watched as the ball bounced off the court and onto the backyard grass.

I walked onto the court and stood in front of Isaac. I looked into his eyes pleadingly. “Isaac, this is all just a big misunderstanding,” I said.

“So I misunderstood that you lied to me so I wouldn’t go into your condo and find Patrique there?”

“No, but—”

“I don’t want to hear it,” Isaac cut me off.

“So you’re just going to leave things like this because you’re too stubborn to listen to me?”

“Stubborn?” Isaac said incredulously. “You think I’m being stubborn because I expect you to be honest with me? You have problems, Annabelle.”

Isaac’s words were like darts. He had once been so tender and kind, but now he was cold and callous. I had thought that maybe he loved me like I loved him, but the anger in his voice and his demeanor let me know he never had.

I stood silently for a moment and watched as Isaac moved away from me and continued to shoot baskets as if I weren’t even there.

The sound of Ethan’s voice broke the silence. “Isaac, Rona’s here,” he said cautiously.

Isaac told his brother that he would be inside in a minute and Ethan nodded and went back into the house.

“I see you didn’t waste any time,” I said bitterly.

Isaac didn’t say anything.

“All right, I’ll go,” I said. “You know, Isaac, all this time I’ve been thinking that you’re pretty much perfect. I’ve been wondering when I would find a flaw. Well I guess I’ve found one. . . . You don’t care about me enough to believe in me. You say that I lied to you, but you know what, Isaac? You’re the one that lied to me, when you said you cared.”

Isaac looked at me and with everything in me I yearned for him to say something, to do something that would tell me that I was wrong, that he did care.

But all he did was say, “Good-bye, Annabelle,” and turn around and walk away.

I was sitting on my couch at home, pretending to watch television, but really staring off into space, when my home phone rang.

“Hello,” I said into the receiver. “Isaac?”

“No, it’s Mom.”

“Hi, Mom,” I said, forcing myself to sit up, and trying to sound upbeat. I noticed that it had grown dark outside, but I didn’t bother to flick on a light. I sat in the darkness.

“Annabelle, are you okay?” Mom asked slowly, knowingly.

“He doesn’t love me back,” I said.

“Oh, honey,” Mom said, sounding as if her heart were breaking right along with mine. “What happened?”

“I made ribs for Isaac with Dad’s stuff. Gorgeous ribs that smelled so good . . .”

Tearfully, I told Mom the rest of the story, trying to deal with the pain by purging myself of the words that Isaac had spoken and the images that were in my mind.

When I was finished recounting the horrid details, I wiped my face on the sleeve of my powder blue shirt, leaving traces of makeup and tear-juices on the fabric. Then, sounding like a small child I whimpered, “Mommy, will you take care of me?”