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I tell myself there’s nothing to do for now besides watch Gwen. When, at lunch time, I give in and jack off to the memory of her hands, I feel almost ill after.
When, in the late afternoon, she treks up the sleet-wet foothill toward the clearing, I feel stricken. The past two nights, she sparred beside her porch a little before 6—waiting for me.
I take my Polaroid and my scope and hurry after her. I tell myself I need to see her face clearly. That’s all. I find my old spot on the high ground easily. It’s even easier to see her than it was when I arrived in Tennessee; many of the trees are bare now.
I think she looks okay at first. Her forms are strong and forceful, and her face is clenched and angry.
Good.
I can breathe while I watch her. I can almost smell her. Then she folds her body from a kick into a crouch. She brings her hands up to her face and sits down on the slushy ground. She holds her head and sobs.
I watch the whole time.
GWENNA
Thursday night, I go to dinner with Jamie and Niccolo, who’s flown to Knoxville for two days to meet with a new movie financier.
Jamie doesn’t know what happened between Barrett and I, but she knows something did, because I’ve been in hiding. The thing about being in hiding is, when she asks what’s up, I always tell her nothing.
I’m not sure what she expects from dinner, but as we both listen to Niccolo talk about the movie’s budget and I pick at my crab bisque, I get the sense that she’s annoyed.
As we drive from the restaurant, in downtown Gatlinburg, and toward my land, I feel guilty. They drove here to take me out to dinner, and I was lousy company.
Near the road to my house, Niccolo gets out to pump some gas and Jamie turns around in the driver’s seat.
“You better tell me what happened with Barrett.”
My eyes widen; dammit! I un-widen them, but it’s too late. It was too late before she even mentioned Barrett. Jamie always knows.
I look down at my boots. “Nothing.”
She laughs. “I think you like these theatrics.”
I roll my eyes. “Well, duh.” I give her my old sad-mysterious look from my modeling days and remain mum, then as Niccolo opens his door, I say, “We messed around. He didn’t like it.”
Jamie’s eyes bug out. “You better call me,” she mouths as Niccolo buckles.
When they drop me at my house, I invite them in for wine or absinthe, but they decline, in almost perfect unison. It seems as if they planned it, and although I know they didn’t, I go inside feeling rejected.
I’ve tried so hard to keep my head above water since that night. So hard. And I’ve…well, I wouldn’t say succeeded exactly. But I haven’t called any of my people crying. Day-to-day life has proceeded mostly as usual, with the exception of the sob-fest I had the night he left and another meltdown while I was practicing my Taekwondo and HTH alone up in the clearing.
I set my purse down on the couch and drift into my bedroom. I kick my boots off and walk into the bathroom, where I turn on the light and stand there staring at myself.
He isn’t wrong. I am still pretty. From the right side. If I’m not smiling. Maybe pretty isn’t even right. I’m very striking. It’s impossible not to know this when you’ve made a living—even briefly—off your face. My hair is coppery, a little darker than your average red. It’s fine but heavy, with a wave that can be straightened or gelled into looking curly. Like Barrett, I think with an ache, I have nice, high cheekbones; striking eyes—amber-brown, with brown brows rather than the pale ones some redheads have; a nondescript nose; smooth skin; and fuller-than-average lips.
I smile and watch the pleasant face in front of me twist garishly. Snarile: it’s snarl and smile. Because when I smile and the left side of my mouth hangs down while the right side curves, it looks like a snarl. It looks gross and garish. Beauty lies in a certain type of symmetry. I of all people would know.
I shut my eyes and rub my temples, feeling like a freak. “Why do you even do this?” I hiss into the silence of the small room. “Who even cares about your stupid face?”
But maybe Barrett cares. Maybe that’s the problem. He said he didn’t mind my mouth, and I concede, as I stare into my own sad eyes, that maybe he doesn’t—care about my mouth. But right before he left, wasn’t I telling him how long it’s been for me?
Maybe he didn’t want the responsibility.
Maybe when I jacked him off, he realized it didn’t feel right. Maybe he’d been lonely and started lusting after me and the second he indulged, the attraction went kaput.
I sigh and drag my sad self to the kitchen, where I drink a third of a bottle of Pinot Grigio alone at my table and remember: his jacket is in the dryer. I’m usually not an emotional drinker, but holding the jacket in my arms makes me feel even sadder than before. I spread the jacket over my legs and pour myself another big glass. I just want to drink until I’m sleepy. Then I’ll go crawl into bed. Maybe I won’t have dreams tonight.
I’ve always been a sucker for a really bad idea, so after a few more swigs straight from the bottle, I know what I’m going to do.
