The Position 3 (2 page)

Wouldn’t you know? I nod and turn back to Travis, though I don’t want to talk to him either. In fact, I’d like to just shrink to the size of a bug and scuttle the hell away.
 

“Your mom never mentioned you were living here,” Pam says, wrinkling up her nose as if she’s smelling something fetid. “She told me she had no idea where you were.”
 

I glance up to see Lazarus shoving bills into the waiters hand. He looks flustered now. Celestina is gone. This time he looks at me. It sends shivers all through my body. His eyes are intense and serious. Still, he gives me an almost imperceptible smile.
 

“Well, I’ll be late if I don’t get to scooting!” Pat declares waving a hand in the air. “Nice to see you, hon.”
 

I give her a half-hearted wave and watch her waddle down the street en route to the convention center. Everything feels spacey and unreal. I rub at my eyes, suddenly tired. Travis clears his throat.
 

“You’re right.” He’s looking down at his hands like a chastened little boy. He hardly seems to have registered the interruption at all. “I’m a hypocrite. It’s just, I’ve never known you to do anything with a guy. Ever. It’s…” He looks up at me with wide, sad eyes. I can tell he’s going to keep his feelings a secret, and I’m relieved. “I guess I’ll just have to get used to it.”
 

We finish lunch and drink the champagne, but the festive mood is gone. Travis is sulky and there is nothing I can do to cheer him up. We take a walk through Cherry Creek and stop in a bookstore, but there’s still a black cloud hanging over our heads.
 

Finally, Travis suggests we go home. My new place isn’t available for one more day, so I tag along with him. Just as he’s parallel parking in front of the house, I notice Liz jogging by. I quickly throw open my door.
 

“Hey! Liz!” I shout, genuinely happy to see her.
 

Liz turns her head and stops. She’s wearing very short athletic shorts. Her long legs look slender and brown. Travis’s weakness. Her sports top is stained with sweat and it clings to every contour of her breasts and torso. Her hair is pulled into a shiny, blond ponytail. Her face gets tense when she sees Travis. Her eyes flick between the two of us a little suspiciously. But she forces a smile.
 

“Hey, guys.”
 

“Come in for a drink!” I say, hooking my arm in hers. It’s warm and dewy with sweat. “Like old times.”
 

Liz looks over at Travis, who’s locking up his car. His neck and ears have gone scarlet. “Like I told you, the old times are over, Mickey.”
 

Travis finally looks at her and I notice that his eyes light up just a bit. “Come on, Liz,” he says with a sad smile. “Make you a G&T?”
 

Liz breaks down and smiles. It’s so obvious in her eyes how crazy she is about him. “I really should hydrate, actually.”
 

“So come in for a glass of water.” Travis walks around to the other side of her and hooks his arm through hers as well. “Come on. It’s really nice to see you.”
 

She grins, relenting. We start down the front walk joined together as a threesome, but then I release my arm and let Travis and Liz head into the house as a pair. Once inside, Liz goes to the kitchen with mechanical familiarity, fishes a glass from the dish rack and fills it at the sink. I turn to Travis.
 

“Hey, let’s make popcorn and cocktails,” I say cheerfully. “We can sit out on the porch and watch the sunset.”
 

Travis glances at Liz, a little nervous. “What do you say, Liz? You in?”
 

I can tell she’s trying to play it cool, but there’s no doubt in my mind that she’s in. “I guess,” she says. “But I need to shower first.”
 

“Use mine,” Travis says eagerly. He hands me his car keys. “Hey, Mick. There’s a new bottle of gin in the trunk of the car. Can you grab it while I make the popcorn?”
 

I smile. “Sure.”
 

Things are starting to feel right again. Travis and Liz are obviously still into each other. And whatever Travis was feeling for me can go straight back into the vault where it belongs. The gloomy mood has lifted and there’s a festive lightness in the air.
 

I head out to the car and unlock the trunk. The inside looks like something out of a hoarders episode. Empty cans of soda, crumpled magazines, old school books, and a bunch of junk he probably just picked up off the side of the road and somehow thought he could make use of—an orange construction cone, a bicycle wheel, a couple of milk crates. Amongst it all I find a brown bag with a bottle of gin.
 

When I let myself back inside, the living room is empty. The whole house smells of scorched microwave popcorn. I go into the kitchen and set the bottle on the counter. Gray smoke is drifting out of the microwave. I open the door and wave my hand in the air to clear it. Inside, the popcorn bag has completely blackened on one side.
 

“Come on, Travis,” I mutter to myself. “How hard is it to pop popcorn, for God’s sake.”
 

Shaking my head, I walk out of the kitchen. “Dude…!” I start to call. Then I freeze.
 

The bathroom door is partially open and billows of steam drift out. Running clothes are scattered across the floor. The shower is on and Liz is inside, totally naked, her hair wet and slicked back from her face. Travis is in the shower, too, but he’s fully dressed, his clothes and hair soaked. Liz’s eyes are closed and she’s arching back over his arm as he leans forward, sucking frantically at her nipples. His hand is between her legs. Their heavy panting fills the air.
 

I turn quickly and tiptoe to the door, letting myself out.
 

Chapter Three

I stand in the middle of the room surrounded by boxes, conducting a symphony of chaos. A parade of sweaty, burly men with thick necks and hairy arms come into the apartment hauling furniture and I wave my arms and hold up my hands, explaining where to put it. A small cafe table with two chairs. A brand new beige fabric sofa. Glass coffee table. Mattress and Ikea bed frame. Six drawer dresser. Night stand. Furniture. I have furniture. I have a home.
 

The boxes are filled with everything I kept in my car—clothes, shoes, groceries—plus new sets of plates, glasses, silverware, serving bowls, and a small microwave. It’ll take time to fill in the spaces to make a fully furnished, functional place of my own, yet I feel like I’m living a dream. As the movers settle my new couch against the far wall, I move to the window and gaze out at my new neighborhood.
 

Good-looking, young people gather outside the restaurant-bar across the street waiting for tables in loud, chatty groups. I watch a handsome couple roll up to the café-bookstore on their bikes and lock them together against the potted fig tree on the sidewalk. It’s as if there is no one in the world but young professionals.
Interloper!
My mother’s voice screeches in my head.
Fraud!

But I don’t care.
Fuck you.
This is my world now.
 

“Lady, where do you want this?” A gravely voiced guy with a broad shoulders and a saggy beer belly leads another guy carrying my new mattress through the door. My very first queen size. A girl has to be optimistic.
 

“Bedroom,” I say, trying not to sound sarcastic. I point in the direction of the open door at the back of my apartment. I stare at the mattress in wonder as it’s hauled inside. A real bed. I have a bed. I imagine myself star fishing my limbs in every direction as I sleep. Even though I try not to, I also imagine naked bodies entwined, rolling around the mattress from end to end.
 

“Hey, new girl!”
 

The voice pulls me out of my reverie and I see a tall, thin African-American guy leaning on the door jam. He’s gorgeous and impeccably dressed—black sweater, Italian jeans, and a tweed sports jacket. His head is shaved, which throws even more attention to his striking features. I can tell right away. Gorgeous and gay.

“I’m Evan. 302. Across the hall.”

“Hi!” I give him a friendly smile and weave through the maze of boxes until I reach the door. I have neighbors! “Michaela. Call me Mickey.” I extend my hand and Evan shakes it warmly.
 

“Mickey, girl,” he says primly shaking his head. “Am I glad to see fresh blood in this place! I thought that grouchy old cow would never leave!”
 

“The old tenant here?”
 

He pinches his lips together and shakes his head. “Not the nicest neighbor in the world, I can tell you that. She used to wait for me to come home from work and then whip open her door and scream that I was stealing her vanity magazines. Like, what the hell is a vanity magazine?”

I shake my head sympathetically and try to picture an old woman living in my new cosmopolitan pad. She must’ve felt like a fossil living in this neighborhood. “Well, you keep your mitts off my People Magazine and we’ll get along just fine.”
 

Evan whoops with loud, exuberant laughter that resonates over the empty walls and hardwood floor. “Oh, honey. You slay me!” Then he presses a hand to his chest and leans forward, dropping his voice. “You don’t really read People…”
 

“No,” I say with a grin. “And you should come by for a drink sometime.”
 

Evan throws his hands in the air, ecstatic, and gives me a big hug. “Oh, you’re fabulous! Ding dong that witch is gone! Hooray for the new girl!”
 

The moment the movers have filed out the door for good, I make myself a cup of tea in my brand new electric kettle and get to work. I wash my new plates and glasses and silverware and find cabinets and drawers to put them in. Amongst the boxes I find my brand new electric coffee maker with a reusable filter, a simple thing, but I’ve always wanted it. I clean it out and find the perfect place for it on the counter.
 

Later I lay out all of my clothes on the bare mattress, amazed how many are Liz’s. What a cool chick. She never even bothered me to give them back. I make a mental note to take myself shopping with my next check and bring it all back to her. After endless searching, I locate my new bunches of hangers and get everything nicely hung in my new closet or folded in my new dresser.
 

I spend hours going through it all, settling in. I feel so happy and light. It’s the first time in ages that everything feels right in the world. That I feel like I’m in control of my life and my feelings.
 

Finally, most of the boxes are empty. I stack them in the coat closet and collapse onto my sofa, exhausted. The lively sounds from the street drift in through the windows. I kick my feet up and stretch out, trying to slow my brain and fully comprehend the reality of this. Is it possible? Did I do it? Am I really here?
 

I close my eyes. And, as I have done every five minutes since it happened, I think about Lazarus in the restaurant closet. I imagine his sultry, amber eyes, his strong, warm hands on my body. His mouth on my breasts. Between my legs. The thought makes my heart race and the heat gather in that special place again. My hand slides under my waistband. Why not? I’m in the privacy of my own apartment. I let my fingers slide into my underpants with a sigh.
 

Just then, I hear my phone chirp. I pull out my hand and grope around on the ground where I’ve left it beside the couch. When I look at the screen, my heart seems to stop.
J. Lazarus.
Well, speak of the devil.
 

It says, “New phone. Whose number is this?”
 

I feel a pang of disappointment. He isn’t writing because he wants to see me. He’s just figuring out his contacts list. “Michaela,” I type.
 

There’s a long pause. I stare at the screen until my eyes begin to water, waiting to see if there’s more. Maybe he’ll want to have a drink tonight. I could show him my new apartment. We could… Finally, another message pops up.
 

“Deleting your number. Do not call me.”
 

I blink at the phone in disbelief.
What the fuck?
 

“Why?” I type.
 

I wait forever, but no response comes through. It’s driving me crazy. What is wrong with him? What is wrong with
me
? Why do I keep falling for his fucked up games? I know I should leave it alone, but I just can’t. I start typing. My hands are shaking so much I can barely get the words straight.
 

“Fuck you, Lazarus.”
 

I feel sick to my stomach. Why does everything have to sour so quickly? Why can’t I get a full 24 hours of unperturbed happiness just once? Fuck my life. When my phone chirps one last time, I can barely bring myself to look at it. When I do, I can only stare in disbelief. My whole body goes icy cold and nausea blooms in my stomach. The message is a single word.
 

“Whore.”

Chapter Four

I fight the urge to throw my phone against the wall as hard as I can. Why punish myself for his cruelty? Fuck him. I set my phone down carefully on the coffee table and go to the mirror to check my hair. My hands are shaking like crazy and I feel sick to my stomach. I’m a mess. But I have no choice but to shake off the shock and anger. My new boss, Devon, is coming by any minute for a working dinner.
 

Quickly, I run a brush through my hair and clip it up out of my way. I change out of the dusty, sweaty clothes I’ve been working in all day and throw on a pair of jeans and a sweater.
 

I’m not thinking about it. I’m not thinking about it. I’m not thinking about.
 

I pull my new drawings from my portfolio and put them on the cafe table to show them to Devon right away.
 

I’m not thinking about it. I’m not thinking about it.