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But stupid technology told me she’d read my message. Five minutes passed. Ten. Sixteen. My throat grew tight with tears. This, I couldn’t overlook. This wasn’t being British. This was being…heartless.
I laid back on the bed and swallowed hard. Tears leaked out of my eyes. Another look at the phone. Nineteen minutes now. Nothing. She’d read that I was hurt and had opted not to respond.
A nurse came in pushing a computer on a stand, and I quickly wiped my eyes. “Hey, Samantha!” It was Irena, a high school classmate. “Great to see you, minus the bloody part. You feeling okay?”
“Yeah. Just cracked my eyebrow on a bathroom sink.” I adjusted my unicorn blanket. “How are you? How are the twins?”
“Oh, they’re demons. I do not recommend having children spawned by Satan.” She smiled fondly. “Want to see a picture?”
“Of course!”
She pulled out her phone, clicked, then showed me a picture of two cherubic boys. “At least they got your looks,” I said. “No horns yet, though I can’t be sure about cloven hooves.” I smiled at her. “They’re gorgeous.”
“Thanks,” she said. “So, did you faint before or after your fall?”
“Nope.”
“Had you been drinking?”
“Yeah, a little. It was the Grimaldis’ Christmas party. A martini and a half, probably.”
“How’s Hannah?”
“Oh, she’s great.” On cue, my phone chimed.
You okay? Should I come? I feel so bad about this!!!
“Here’s Hannah now,” I said, holding up my phone as Irena wrapped the blood pressure cuff around my bicep. I dictated my text. “I’m fine. With Irena Hanson from high school, she says hi. I’ll be done soon.” I glanced at Irena. “Right?”
“Well, we’re kind of busy, so you might have to wait a little. Sorry.” She hooked me up to a pulse oximeter, and I craned my head to see, wincing a little. O2 sat 99%, pulse 72, BP 120/62.
“Okay, Sam, someone will be in to stitch you up. It was really nice seeing you, despite the circumstances.”
“You too,” I said. Then she was gone, the door clicking closed behind her. I checked my phone. Texts from Mom, Dad, my brother in Seattle, who had been alerted by our parents (told you he was nice), Mrs. Grimaldi and Lieutenant Jake and Legend.
And still nothing from Judith.
When we’d first met, everything had been so magical, so electric. In those first two months, I’d felt smarter, prettier, funnier, and Judith had fucking adored me. I realized we didn’t know each other well enough for actual true love, but it had sure felt that way. I’d gotten used to being someone she loved…or at least, seemed to love. I honestly thought she was the one. Once, she called me just to hear my voice. She said that. “Sorry, but it seems I can’t get through the day without hearing your voice.” If that didn’t make a person weak in the knees, what would?
Growing up in the super-progressive, wealthy little burg of Stoningham, Connecticut, had been lovely. My brother, five years older, was calm and likeable and rarely fought with me, even though we’d shared a bathroom. When it became apparent I liked girls (I was thirteen and abruptly realized that Rachel from Friends gave me feelings), none of my friends deserted me. If anyone said something derogatory, I was always well defended and, being tall, athletic, and smart-mouthed, could defend myself just fine.
Around the same time, two of my friends came out as well, though Lydia’s lesbian phase lasted only until Blake Simpson asked her to the prom. Our graduating class of sixty-two had three gay guys, two of us gay girls, and about eight other kids who identified as Q in LGBTQ. I mean, people could be assholes, but there was more of a price to pay if you were seen as a bigoted asshole.
College…well, I went to Bryn Mawr. Being gay was so unremarkable there, it was weird if you weren’t. I had my first girlfriend and studied philosophy and film to guarantee I wouldn’t be able to get a job. After graduating (with honors), I moved home, wondering if I’d become a bartender or a barista and save up for grad school. Then, on a whim, I applied to the fire department in my hometown.
It was a good life. It was a wonderful life, as they say at this time of year. I had friends, loved my job, had union benefits and some decent coworkers, some asshole coworkers, as was true at any firehouse. There was nothing like jolting out of bed to the sound of the tone, answering Dispatch on the radio and pulling out of the firehouse in a big-ass engine. Being female, I made sure to do everything at least as well as the senior guys and way better than the jamokes hired after me. I rent an apartment in an old house off of Main Street, and Mrs. Peters lets me muck around in the garden every spring. I have a cat. Arthur, named for the once and future king. He has a catnip toy shaped like a sword, even, and he lives up to the nobility of his name.
But I’d never been in love before Judith. I’d been in serious like while at Bryn Mawr, and had gone on dates here and there, which always resulted in eventual friend-zoning or being friend-zoned. No hard feelings, a couple new women to meet for drinks or bowling.
But love? No. Never, until Judith. That first night, I’d felt the thunderbolt, and from then on, when she answered her door with a big smile, or laughed at something I said over dinner, I’d feel like a rock star, literally tingling down to my toes. This beautiful, rare creature was with me. Me. She had chosen me. This British artist with the huge eyes and paint-stained fingernails, this woman whose work was praised by influential reviewers, who had lived all over the world, was my girlfriend. She kissed me like we were on the deck of the Titanic in its final moments. She was completely confident with sex—no shyness, no pretense, lots of enthusiasm, lots of noise, lots of variety.
We’d been so happy. That was the worst part. We’d so good together, so crazy in love (I thought). For those two months, the whole world was sparkling, and every day was beautiful and fresh, and we couldn’t get to each other fast enough. It wasn’t just the fabulous sex. It was the conversation, the laughter, the little touches, the making of dinner, the cuddling as we watched TV. It was all I ever wanted, everything I hoped for.
And then, in the third month, Judith began to pull back. She wasn’t as available. Needed to focus on her work, though I didn’t see her painting more. Now when I was at her house, she made calls and talked to friends or family members while I waited for her, trying not to feel awkward. She wasn’t so eager to come to my place, which she’d originally found so cute. Movie nights were now spent not cuddling, her tapping away on her phone, mind elsewhere.
I knew she was losing interest, and I could almost understand it. In my family, my brother was the star. Mom did ninety percent of the talking. Dad and I just…were. My firefighting career was the most interesting thing about me to most outsiders. Maybe I just wasn’t that interesting, certainly not for someone like Judith, who had lived in Peru, Australia, Portugal, and San Francisco.
She was an artist. I was a blue-collar worker who, maybe once or twice a year, actually got to save a life. But even with those stories, Judith shut me down. She was squeamish, she said, and hated hearing about a pileup on I-95 or an accidental drowning. Fire was something she feared, she now said, and she’d appreciate it if I could find “something of mutual interest” to talk about. That shut me down instantly. Did we even have mutual interests? But just weeks before, we couldn’t stop talking to each other. Now, I had to wrack my brain for conversation that was up to snuff for Judith the worldly artist. The pressure was awful, and all I wanted was to go back to those perfect two months.
