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12
STILL DRIPPING from an unexpected rain shower, Sandra let herself into her tiny apartment—a crappy place in a decent neighborhood in Somerville, but she insisted on living alone, and this was what she could afford.
Her show tonight had been grim. The bar was only half-full, half of the people there weren’t listening to her songs and some drunk guy in a cowboy hat kept making obnoxious comments. That song is as old as my grandma. Play Freebird. I wanna refund. Nights like this she was ready to give up the whole career.
She dumped her bag on the kitchen table and kicked her flip-flops onto the orange-and-brown shag carpet, which must have looked clean and new at some point, but she couldn’t imagine it had ever looked good.
A quick shower later, she wrapped herself up in a thin cotton robe and contemplated the contents of her refrigerator. A few eggs. A hunk of cheese with white mold on one corner.
Forget it. She wasn’t hungry.
She missed Erik.
Sandra slammed the refrigerator door closed. Damn it, this was not supposed to have happened. They were supposed to have fun; she was supposed to teach him a lesson about respecting women, about being a real man like his brother instead of a live-for-the-moment boy. And in the process, he was supposed to get the idea of marrying her and turn her life of struggle into easy street, while she gave him the combination of stability he craved and wildness he needed.
Somehow he’d turned the tables on her, gotten her to open up, tell him things she’d told nobody, made her vulnerable to him in a way she hadn’t been vulnerable since her mom and dad kicked her out of the house when she needed them most. What kind of parents let their seventeen-year-old daughter marry a thirty-year-old she’d known for six weeks? And then punish her by disowning her, as if she’d been old enough to make a wise decision on her own?
She’d sworn she’d never need anyone like that again. So far she’d done well. Her marriage had been an act of rebellion. Edwin hadn’t been able to touch her, nor had Jake or any boyfriend since, with the possible exception of Jonas. But even he had never gotten to her like this.
When she left Erik yesterday morning—keeping their goodbye casual, thanking him for the wild time, and telling him she hoped she’d see him again soon—she’d been dying inside. Then and all the way home. That drunk cowboy tonight probably deserved a refund. Most likely what sucked about her show was her. She’d been going through the motions.
Damn it.
Erik hadn’t said he’d call her, or text her, or given any indication that he’d like to see her again. And right there she was pissed. Why should she care? She had never been and never wanted to be the kind of woman who fretted over crap like that; she didn’t need to fret over it this time. Two secrets had been told so far. After the third, he got sex. He’d call.
Or maybe she’d scared him away.
Tuesday night after Allie left, Jonas had been around, and they’d had an uproarious evening drinking and telling stories until late. Wednesday she and Erik had been alone, and after a delicious dinner with excellent wine, they’d continued their game. He’d told her he’d once slept with a married woman he was crazy about, and then she freaked out and went back to her husband, leaving him brokenhearted and totally disgusted with himself.
Then it was her turn. She’d started fine, telling him briefly about her impulsive marriage to a controlling man, and her escape from him into the world of exotic dancing. This time she would stay cool. She understood every level of what she’d done, and he couldn’t turn this one back on her.
He hadn’t. She’d broken down all by herself. Because instead of being shocked or titillated, Erik had been immediately sympathetic, imagining the betrayal she’d felt when her marriage became unbearable, the frustration of turning to dancing for a living when she wanted to be taken seriously as a vocal artist... Whether it was the wine or not, Sandra had come undone. She’d told him everything. Her stories, all the truths, all her power had poured out of her. How her dancing had been thrilling at first, how she’d reveled in the power over men after feeling victim to Edwin for nearly five years. Then the boredom, the dissatisfaction, the drugs, the man who tempted her with the money she could make as an “escort.” How close she’d come to doing just that, leaving the first guy without taking his money. Her subsequent struggle to get out and get clean.
Sandra had only cried a few times in her life. When her parents disinherited her. When she left her husband. When she woke up after her first and only night as a call girl. And that night in front of poor Erik who hadn’t signed on for anything more than a flirtatious game with a tough girl from Southie.
