The Last Place She'd Look (18 page)

“Wash those feet before sleeping on clean sheets,” I said, fluffing the last pillow. I bit my tongue, realizing the command was in my mother's voice. Too woozy from the alcohol to tuck the sheets in, I just flopped on the bed and curled up to one of the fresh-smelling pillows—dirty feet and all.

Struggling to keep from feeling dizzy, I wondered, what was I in for now? I was never a bad girl—not in school, not in bed, or anywhere else. TC was brazen and obviously bad. I wanted to taste that fearless, braless freedom. She was someone who made being with her feel like jumping out of a plane—without a parachute. TC was clearly a good-time girl and not interested in a serious relationship. I saw that in neon lights. Did I really want to go down this road? This looked like a good place to hide while I transitioned from April. Maybe this was my mid-life crisis—tasty, like our Chinese dinner.

The next morning it took two strong pots of coffee to kick me into gear to finish my article:
Is He Cheating on You? Ten Ways to Know.
Then I composed a pitch for another piece:
Are You in a Dangerous Relationship?
I sent them to my editor and dashed off to a yoga class. A caffeinated headstand would put my life into perspective.

After yoga, I thought about my world. Friends with kids are moms. Others who are home owners are unmarried women–it says so on their deeds. I was a non-breeding renter—an old girl. What could I do with that classification? Date young girls so I wouldn't feel so old? Was that the Band-Aid for my ills and anxiety? Isn't that what men do when they have a mid-life crisis? Next I'd be shopping for a sports car.

Life was not a music video, I told myself— not a necklace strung together with pearly passions, four-minute adventures on a sexual high wire. Dig deeper. It was sad to me that I was a self-help writer, churning out advice that got battered women out of trailer parks, encouraged wrinkled soccer moms to moisturize, and yet at the end of the day, I couldn't unravel my own mess.

I learned from
Facebook
and my now 217 friends that no one ever leaves your life, they just wait for you in virtual reality. Why had Derrick resurfaced? Would Jessica ever return to town? Two safe, long-distance flirtations.

I thought about Jessica, ah, sweet Jessica. I knew she was lonely, so I thought I'd send her an email and some articles about healthy eating and balance—things we talked about when we got together. Also, I went to the
Hallmark
site and sent her a musical card that sang,
Wish you were here.

I left my apartment to visit the mailbox. Nothing today, not even bills. Junk mail advertisers didn't even want to bother with me! I arrived back to a voicemail from TC, inviting me to the movies, just like she'd promised. I was glad my clumsiness and burning shoes hadn't dampened her interest. I called her the next morning, and we met later that day for the twilight show.

We saw a charming film,
Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day
at the tiniest theater of the multiplex at the Grove. It had maybe 40 seats, smaller than many living rooms. TC had popped her own popcorn and brought it, disguised in a Saks Fifth Avenue shopping bag that also held a thermos of margaritas. She insisted on seats in the last row. I obliged. Only four or five other people in the theater all sat towards the front.

She poured me a drink and opened the popcorn during the coming attractions. We toasted while watching the trailers. Munching on popcorn while the film began, I gloried in feeling like a bad girl, reminding me of the cool chicks who cut classes to smoke cigarettes. TC grazed my cheek with her lips, then moved to my mouth for full-on smooching. My excitement increased as she squeezed my breasts hard through my shirt, reached around, unsnapped my bra, and then speedily raced back to cup my eager, naked breast as the nipple stiffened to her touch.

Just as I was about to gasp, her mouth engulfed mine. I got lost in her fire and urgency. Before I could catch my breath from her killer kiss, TC's hands unzipped my pants. Here? Now? I thought to myself as her hand burrowed into my crotch. She touched me inside my jeans, but over my panties, making me crazy.

I moaned, and she covered my mouth with her lips, muffling the noise, adding to the pleasure. So much for the movie.

TC reached for my hand, directing me to her crotch. I obliged. I glanced up and around the theater – everyone else was absorbed by the film. She skillfully moved her hands, faster, slower, then faster again. Whatever she did to me, I did to her. TC breathed hard in my ear as she whimpered, softly. I did the same. She climaxed first. I came a minute or two later. I wanted to run down the aisle and stand in front of the screen, hands in the air like a prize fighter who'd just been crowned champ. Yay, I am a winner! I whispered to myself.

TC kissed me sweetly now. Then she moved her body away, and went back to her popcorn. She offered me some, as if nothing had happened.

Throughout the rest of the film we consumed the popcorn and margaritas. Blissed and buzzed afterwards, we headed to the bathroom. As I washed my hands. I was listening to two other women who had actually watched the film talk about it. They enjoyed Frances McDormand and Amy Adams romping through London in 1939. I hoped to catch the movie again and actually watch it.

TC washed her hands slowly. As the women left, she said, “Follow me,” taking my hand, leading me back into a large stall. I followed, uncertain of what would happen. She clicked the lock behind us. Smiling a devilish grin, she said, “I've been waiting for this.” TC grabbed my waist with one hand and unzipped my pants with the other. She yanked my jeans down past my knees, then reached up, grabbing my panties too, pulling them down as she kissed my belly, her tongue making its way down to my hot spot. My breathing accelerated. Her head moved ferociously, fingers grabbing my ass with burning intensity.

My moans were magnified by the reverberations of the tile walls all around us, so excited by the decadence of a private moment in a public space. My titillation fled as I heard the main door open. A small child exclaimed, “Mommy, I have to pee now!”

TC and I broke our moment of passion with laughter. I was now drowning in a full body hug, as she leaned against me, pressing me into the stall wall. I felt one with her and part of the wall. We were both moist with passion, excitement, and the heat of the confining space.

I kissed her ear lobe, then licked the saltiness along her neck, reminiscent of the popcorn we'd devoured a few orgasms ago. This was opera! I laughed to myself, remembering my late date with the tenor. If Diana could see me now!

As soon as the restroom was silent, we unlocked the stall and slinked out of the bathroom. While riding the down escalators to the parking garage, we gazed at each other, smiling. TC licked her lips. I blushed. We shared a quick, friendly hug before getting into our cars.

At home I checked my email: Four new
Facebook
friends. Jessica was returning home. Derrick was coming back to town too. And he'd changed his relationship status on
Facebook
to:
It's complicated
. One of my editors emailed me too. I learned my pitch was accepted:
Are You in a Dangerous Relationship?
I now felt really well-equipped to write it. Did I need a score card for my own life?

Chapter 23

Are You in a Dangerous Relationship?

No hello. TC just blurted, “Sara, those pictures I took of you. They're great. Can't wait to show you the prints. Meet me later today. C'mon, I'll pick you up.”

Feeling hesitant — did I have the energy to be with TC? I was an old girl without life insurance — “Well…”

“Come on, babe, you look so beautiful. I printed some of them in sepia, and you look like a goddess. I can't wait to worship you,” she crooned.

“Okay,” I said, caving to worship.

At 5:30, TC's dusty Corolla was at my door, windows and sunroof down. She was in a tank top and shorts, beaming, looking like a teenager. I got into the car, and she gave me a sloppy kiss. “Hey, babe.” She reached down, taking a swig from a nearly empty bottle of Jack Daniels. “Want some?” Her voice sounded a bit slurred.

“Should you have that in the car if you're driving?” I asked, concerned.

“If you hold the bottle, I can drive,” she cooed, impishly.

“Maybe I should drive,” I offered.

“Nope, I'm in charge. Baby, you can't drive my car,” she sang, giggling.

“Should we stop and get coffee?”

“No stopping, no coffee…no ruining my buzz!” she slurred again, almost missing a red light.

“Stop!” I gasped.

“Are you criticizing me?” she said angrily.

I shook my head “No,” eyes on the road.

“Last time we were together you were a lot more fun,” she said.

“That's because you weren't drunk,” I snapped.

Come to think of it, I'd never seen her sober. “We met two months ago and you think you know all about me, is that it?” she fired at me.

“We met two weeks ago,” I said, sternly.

“Correcting me like the dreaded nuns from Catholic school,” she mumbled. “That could be debated too.”

“I don't want to debate. Where are we going?” I was concerned.

“I'm taking you to the studio to see your pictures. Just through the canyon. Keep your shirt on — or let me be the one to take it off.” She grabbed my left breast. I twisted away from her. TC stopped at a red light. There was a car in front of her. When the light turned green, he didn't move. She jumped up, poking her head through the sun roof yelling, “Go, fucker, go.”

He sped off and she followed, on his tail. Both took the road's many turns too fast. The empty bottle rattled on the floor near my feet as the car swerved. His car disappeared onto a side road. TC sped up, pleased with herself. The wind whooshed through the windows as she raced down the leafy road.

TC turned to me, slurring, “Come kiss me, babe. Come closer, kiss me.”

One minute the car was speeding along, then TC suddenly swerved. Next we were careening through the air like superheroes in the
Batmobile
. Or was it Dorothy from
The Wizard of Oz?
I grabbed for the dash as we thudded down, and the front of the car bolted into a thick tree by a grassy ditch, accordioning into the tree. The engine was smoking. The breeze drifted in through the sun roof.

My head jerked back with the jolt; knees banged against the glove compartment. I saw shards of glass along my arm. What a pretty design it made. Then I realized I was cut and bleeding in many places and felt stinging where glass gashed my arm. I was dazed but miraculously alive. TC was slumped over the steering wheel. I shook her. She opened her eyes, mumbling, “What happened?”

Other cars stopped. People opened our doors to see if we were all right. Their voices sounded like static. I got out, stood up, making sure my arms and legs could move without pain. My right arm hurt. I circled it a few times as the pain subsided. Rivulets of blood slithered down to puddle at my wrist.

I gazed back into the car. TC was breathing and talking to herself. Good, she was still alive. I was relieved. She looked so wrong and uninteresting. I now knew that I wanted to be far away from her once this mess was over. Before the police came, I reached in, grabbed the bottle of Jack and hurled it into the ditch. I couldn't let it be obvious that she was drunk in the car. When the police arrived I tried to do the talking, but I was disoriented, not making sense. Everyone looked fuzzy and was speaking slowly. An ambulance arrived. They examined us, and miraculously, we just had cuts that were cleaned and bandaged. We were taxied home, separately. I was angry with both of us for being so sloppy and out of control. How could I be in that moving car with an angry, amorous drunk? My feelings weren't love for her, or for myself. What a rocky road of self-destruction. I hoped this derailment would be a wake-up call for me.

On the ride home I thought about TC and how she controlled the relationship 100%. She was bossy and manly, not soft and cozy—or someone to cuddle and spoon. We'd never even been in a bed together. TC made me feel like I could stand naked on the roof of a moving car and sing —and she'd be egging me on. But that wasn't someone to grow old with. I'd die trying.

I called TC at home the following day. She never returned my call. We'd crashed on the road James Dean had died on. But he was in a hedonist's sports car, not an old Toyota with a high safety rating. People die in accidents like this. I couldn't let death win. With less than a half century left, I didn't need to add the exhilaration of a near-death experience to my list of sexual exploits. I walked away from the relationship to save my life. I hoped TC would save hers.

Would I let this event change me for the better? Or would I continue to jump at self-destructive thrills? This wasn't a mid-life crisis or bad-girl behavior—it was simple stupidity. I should be my own mother and ground myself! Lock me in the house for a time out to figure out my life—not just my next fling. This crazy teen-age behavior and sexual flip-flopping would make me a pretty corpse too soon. What now? How could I let death get this close?

The following day, my horoscope read:

You are currently stuck between two strong desires: The desire to create for your own pleasure, and the desire to please and seduce others. You come by this latter urge naturally, as it is part of your character. It will understandably be difficult for you to resolve this dissonance. The solution, for you, is in asking yourself why you feel such a strong need to be appreciated.

I reread my horoscope three times and realized that sometimes when I was really hungry for a meal, I'd been known to gorge on French fries. Same with relationships. I was so tired of being alone, that I'd rather gorge on the thrill of sex and the hope that it could worm its way up from a genital euphoria through my body into a loving, caring, heartfelt place. It had all been such a bad, disastrous idea. Fifty, behaving like 15, won't get me to 51! Hadn't I learned anything from my birthday intervention? Had I reached the rocky bottom of a dateaholics crash too? But how should I balance my disaster factor with my inner chasm of aloneness? No ice cream, cheesecake, or chocolate kisses either! Mmm, chocolate kisses—the only kisses I might be having for a while.