The Girl He Loves Page 17

  “No, we met through our families… our parents have known each other forever,” he explains as he selects another item of clothing for me — a cute black skirt with sailor buttons. “Our families used to hang out and vacation together. I’ve been in love with her since I was about six years old.”

  A pang hits me. He’s crazy about her, and she treats him like a doormat. He has no clue what she’s really like.

  “She was older than me,” he goes on. “Three years… I guess she still is.” He laughs.

  Interesting… thirty-nine. I would have never guessed she was pushing forty — she hides it well. This new little tidbit of information makes me happy. I don’t know why. I suppose I take some twisted pleasure in her hitting her forties next year. I know I’m being wicked, but I can’t help it. Despite the fact that I’m completely fixated on her, I still don’t like her.

  And it’s not because she’s tall, beautiful and slim. It’s because she strikes me as narcissistic and materialistic — she loves herself a little too much. She’s the kind of person who has always had everything handed to her. Everything has come so easily and she takes it for granted. And she oozes sex… there’s no way Joel’s been her only one. I get the feeling that there’s been a string of men throughout their relationship. I’m not sure how I know this exactly — perhaps it’s just the way she carries herself.

  “I was only fourteen when she first seduced me,” he tells me. “She was seventeen and took my virginity. We were secretly an item after that.”

  My jaw is on the floor. That’s bordering on pedophilia. I suppose she was only seventeen. I think about my boys… they’re fifteen and thirteen and I can’t imagine them having sex, especially with a senior. They’re too sweet and innocent. I’m appalled.

  Joel is laughing. “You should see your face right now,” he says. “I’ve completely traumatized you.”

  “A little… yes.”

  “Hey, trust me… I was a willing participant.”

  “I bet… so did your parents know?”

  He shakes his head. “No way. We kept it secret for the next two years.”

  “Two years!”

  He nods. “Crazy, right? But what can I say… that’s Renee.”

  I’m still shocked. Yet… I realize it’s not that different from my relationship with Brian. I was just sixteen when we met and he was a nineteen year-old rocker with a nose ring and tattoos. I think that’s why I was drawn to him — I liked that we were so different. But in the end, it turned out that we were actually very much the same, and meant to be together.

  “And she was there when Ricky died. I don’t know how I would have survived if it weren’t for her,” he goes on. “My parents just closed in on themselves, and she was all I had.”

  His words break me — how horrible that must have been. I’m glad he had someone there for him, even if that person was Renee. I can see that he truly loves her.

  I’m now overloaded with clothing. “I think I should go try this stuff on,” I point out. “Or I might topple over.”

  He smile. “Yeah, you go do that. I’ll just browse the men’s section.”

  My heart is beating a mile a minute as I enter the change room. The walls are covered with stick-on flowers, and a red velvet chair sits in the corner. Three oversized hooks are up a little high for my liking. A tall sleek silver framed mirror centers the space. I shrug out of my clothing and slip into the polka dot dress. As soon as I zip it up, I know I’m taking it with me. It fits like a glove. I get giddy at the idea of showing Joel. I slip on the black pumps. They’re a little too big, but that’s okay because they’re just for show. I wobble out of the change room, and call out to Joel.

  He scurries over, and I turn to the tall mirror between the two change rooms. I stare at our reflection.

  “Wow. That looks amazing on you, Mischa. You gotta get it. If you don’t, I’ll buy it for you.”

  I turn to him and shoot him a playful smile. “I think I will… get it.”

  I stare at my reflection again. The dress is a little more wild than I usually go for, but it makes me feel like a new person, and the feeling of being someone other than yourself is priceless. Because as much as I don’t like to admit it, sometimes I really do hate myself.

  In the end, all I get is the dress. Partly because I’m sticking to my monthly budget, and partly because the other pieces don’t really speak to me. Joel ends up buying a cool t-shirt. The vision of him modeling it for me will stick in my mind for a long, long time to come.

  There’s a bounce in our step as we stroll back toward Juliette’s studio, where we say our goodbyes. I watch him walk away as he heads to the parking lot in the back of the studio, and when he’s finally out of sight, I set out to go back home.

  He’s such a good person, and I hate the way he’s being treated. I get the sense that Renee has always had a power over him — I mean, he’s been in love with her since he was six. How could she not? Does he know what she’s doing to him?

  Of course, I could never say a word. I’m not in a position to interfere in someone else’s relationship, no matter how fucked up it might be. And there are two children involved. How would Ava react if she were to find out that the man who raised her was not her biological father? That would mess her up good, and I could never do that to the poor girl.

  Unfortunately, there’s just nothing I can do.

  27

  When I get home, the impulse is stronger than I can bear. It’s a wicked evil monster with long limbs. It digs its claws into me and I lose all free-will. I must give in to its wants. I must satisfy its urges. I power up my laptop and before I can talk sense into myself, I click away until I find Renee’s Facebook page. I’m looking for any sign, evidence of her infidelity. There are so many selfies of her… the woman really does love herself. Although in her defense, if I were that gorgeous, I probably couldn’t stop taking photos of myself too. I think back to the last time I posted a selfie. I think it was months ago, Tristan’s birthday. I’m what people call a ‘creeper’. I don’t post often, but I love to look at other’s pages. Renee strikes me as the opposite — someone who pays no attention to others’ accounts, but loves to post on her own, loves the attention, the adoration.

  Well, she certainly has mine. And I derive a certain pleasure from the fact that she has no clue.

  There’s no Grant in any of the photos… just a few girlfriends. These girls are like a scene from Sex and the City. I get off on scrolling through her feed and checking out all her amazing outfits. The woman should have been a fashion model — she can pull anything off. Although her style is a little more bohemian than my own; lots of dangling earrings and loose bracelets, funky prints, colorful scarves, and long skirts. And the heels are beautiful. She seems to favor very high ones with interesting accents — fringe, bows, buckles. Funky hats and handbags are also part of the esthetic.

  Unfortunately, Renee Hall is never boring. Which only feeds the addiction.

  I’m insatiable. I haven’t quite had my fix, and I move on to Joel’s Facebook account. The page has lost quite a lot of its appeal since we’ve become such great friends in real life. And he never posts very much. His Instagram is salon related and quite boring, unless you have a fetish for hair. I’m left feeling unsatisfied, like when you have sex and don’t get off. Although that doesn’t happen too often with Brian because he always likes to finish what he starts.

  I turn to Ava’s page — she’s always fascinated me too. Such a beautiful young girl, yet so sorrowful. I want to dive into her head and know what’s going on in there. I want to help the poor girl.

  She’s written a poem.

  THE STORM

  I’m heading towards the storm

  And there’s some ally

  speaking to me, telling me:

  “You have to make it to the other side.”

  So, reckless, I speed along

  Tears racing down my face

  But what if it’s wrong?

 
I can’t keep listening to this song

  But I know that

  I’m the only one that can win this chase.

  I’m not sure when this started

  I don’t know where this road ends

  So my hands grip the steering wheel

  Because he’s my only friend

  Where do I want to go?

  Who do I want to be?

  At this point, I don’t know

  I’m just tired of carrying this cargo

  I’m not quite sure when this started

  When I reach the end, who will I be?

  I don’t want to see the rage in front of me

  I don’t want to face the storm

  Raving raindrops ravage the silence

  And I can’t keep away the swarm

  Of thoughts that pester me

  All day and all night

  They tell me

  That from life I must flee

  They don’t want me to fight

  I don’t want to see this rage in front of me

  But I have to face the storm.

  Instead I watch the lives that drive by

  To forget the fact that I’m the one speeding

  But I can’t block out the rain raging against the panes

  Nor can I stop my heart from bleeding

  I lock my eyes on the lives passing beside me

  Veils of mist following some

  How they seem so sleek and shiny

  How fast they seem to hurry

  While I’m sitting here, numb

  I can't ignore the others that drive by

  Even when they tell me to quit speeding.

  I look up with dread at the furious clouds in the distance

  I can’t imagine a storm bigger than the one I’m facing

  But I know this turmoil is coming for me

  And I only know one way to stop me from chasing

  I could force down my brakes

  And tumble into the hands of death

  But will this just lead to higher stakes?

  How many others will I break?

  I just can't get myself to take my final breath

  Even with the clouds looming in the distance

  Even with the inevitable pain I’m facing.

  I often ask myself why

  Why don’t I hurl myself off this road?

  The radio is telling me to

  Shouting at me until I explode

  And I can’t ignore these sounds

  Or turn down the volume

  It just stays blasting all around

  I can’t let it become my crown

  I can’t let it enter my commune

  So I ask myself why

  Why can’t I hurl myself off this road?

  I keep on driving towards this storm

  Deep down I know why

  I have to keep driving forwards

  I have to make it to the other side

  And I can’t slow down

  Because I might choose to stop

  This car I’m driving is close to its breakdown

  I just don’t want to let them down

  So I can’t let myself drop.

  I keep driving towards this raging storm

  And deep down, I know why.

  Oh my… anyone who can read between the lines can see something’s not quite right with this girl. She’s clearly upset.

  There’s another photo of her. She’s cuddling Trixie again. She’s still wearing the red sweater. You’d think she would have gotten rid of the sweater by now… it’s early June. Something’s off about that photo. There’s a curve to her lips, but her eyes are sad. I scroll down her feed, and notice that each photo is almost a duplicate of the one before; red sweater, a forced smile, sad eyes. Only the setting changes and occasionally the sidekicks; her friends, her cat, and sometimes her dad.

  My gaze is fixed on a photo of her and Joel — there’s a genuine smile on her face in this one. He’s hugging her and she’s pulling away from him, but still seems to be happy, if not a little embarrassed and uncomfortable. The sleeve of her sweater is riding up, and I notice something. I zoom in closer, and it’s unmistakable. Her wrist is covered with a series of small cuts. Most people would miss it. I’ve seen this photo before, more than once, and I’ve always had a keen eye for details, and even I missed it initially. But when zoomed in, it’s so obvious.

  My heart sinks. Poor girl.

  Do her parents know about this? My bet is that they don’t. They need to know. But how do I even bring it up?

  * * *

  Today is Gretchen’s late husband’s birthday. Donovan would have been thirty-four today. He was about four years older than her. She’s a mess, understandably. Abigail has made her a cup of ginger tea in an effort to soothe her. I stare down at Abigail’s oriental carpet, not quite able to look at Gretchen. Her husband died in a tragic car wreck — I think it’s going to take more than a cup of tea to sort her out.

  I’m not quite sure what to say, but as someone who’s been through a lot, I think I’m in a position to help. “Have you been talking to anyone?” I ask her. “Someone who could help?”

  She looks up at me. “I have you guys… and my mom.”

  “True… but have you considered speaking to someone professional?”

  She shakes her head. “I’m not one for shrinks,” she says and is quick to add, “I mean… it’s fine for others. Just not for me.”

  “You should really consider it,” I say. “It’s changed my life… I could give you my therapist’s card.”

  She smiles, but I can tell she’s just being polite.

  “You should also consider looking into a grief support group,” I add, suddenly brought back to my conversation with Joel.

  “Well, I don’t know about that…”

  She’s such a sweet person, with so much love to give. Gretchen never speaks ill of anyone, is always there to help out, and is always the first one to offer a compliment and ask you how you are, and genuinely care about the answer. She doesn’t deserve to be in pain like this. “I’m going to do all the research for you. I’ll find you a group, and all you’ll have to do is show up.”

  “Thank you,” she says, and I can tell she’s open to it, open to moving on, to finding joy in life again.

  Ava comes to mind, so suddenly, my breath hitches. That photo. Those cuts. There’s another tortured soul who should be loving life. She’s so beautiful and young — it’s such a shame. I absolutely need to speak to Joel. As soon as possible.

  * * *

  The both of us are a sweaty mess. We both have a lot going on today and have skipped the post-yoga shower. He still looks quite handsome though. We’re chatting over smoothies as usual, and he’s all smiles, like always. Apparently, he just cut this young girl’s long hair into a short bob, and all the while, her mother sat in the corner crying. I laugh at the tragic vision I’ve formed in my head: a middle-aged women sprawled over the loveseat, bawling her eyes out. “How long was her hair?”

  “Down to her rear. Beautiful dark hair.”

  “What a shame.”

  “Well, she donated it to Locks of Love.”

  I nod, thinking about Ava. I’ve been thinking about her all day. “Your daughter… she has beautiful dark hair too…” Not the smoothest segway, but we really need to have this conversation. I must tread carefully. I don’t want to appear like the meddling stalker I am. I don’t want him to realize that I’ve been creeping his daughter for weeks, that I know all there is to know about the girl. If he knew, he’d probably call the authorities and request a restraining order.

  A dash of concern traces his eyes, and he studies me for a beat. “Yes? Ava?”

  “I have a confession to make,” I start. My heart is beating a mile a minute. “I…”

  He sits up straighter. “You what?” he asks, eager to know.

  “I’ve been kind of stalking your Facebook,” I admit. “Since we’re friends, I was just curious,” I say, trying to appe
ar nonchalant, when in fact, I couldn’t be more chalant.

  He smiles. “I checked out yours too. You don’t post much.”

  No, I don’t. I’m more of a creeper.

  “Yeah, just busy… you know.”

  “Me too,” he says. “I don’t post much either.”

  True. But your wife does.

  “So, anyway…” I go on, not wanting to have this conversation. “I saw this post your daughter tagged you in. You know, the one where she’s wearing the red sweater?”

  He laughs. “Well, she’s always wearing the red sweater, so you’re going have to be more specific.”

  I bite my lip. “The one with the both of you and Trixie.” As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I want to take them back — I shouldn’t know the cat’s name. My pulse quickens.

  He doesn’t seem to notice, and my heartbeat recovers. “It was posted about three weeks ago.”

  He nods, all smiles. “Yes, I love that pic.”

  “Well…”

  He eyes me curiously, his mouth flirting with the straw of his smoothie.

  “Have you ever really looked at that photo?”

  His brows knit together. “No… why?”

  “I’m a pretty observant person,” I say. “It’s just the way I am… anyway, I noticed…” I can’t say the words. What if I’m wrong? What if I’m overreacting? But what if I’m not?

  “You noticed what?”

  Swiftly, I finally utter the words I’ve been painstakingly holding on to. “I think your daughter cuts herself.”

  Joel’s eyes grow wide, and he’s speechless, frozen with shock.

  “I noticed small cuts on her wrist in the photo,” I explain. “It’s barely noticeable, but if you look close…”

  Joel is still without words, and the look on his face breaks me; a sad mix of shock and devastation.

  “I then clicked on her profile because I was curious, and I was going through her timeline. I noticed that she seemed… sad, and she’s always wearing that red sweater… it’s true. And then there was that poem.”