Page 77 of Corkscrew You
And yet, she said what she said.
I’ve never breathed this to a soul, but when Camille told me she was dumping me for Ass-Bjorn, the first emotion I felt was relief. I didn’t love her, and I didn’t want to marry her. And yes, thatdoesmake me an asshole. As does my keeping up the charade of our relationship because I loved working for her father. I’m not sure I had the brains to be aware of that at the time, but it’s clear now. I stayed with Camille because I wanted to keep my job at Anton’s winery.
Thing is, thesecondemotion I felt, when she said she was leaving, was anger. Ava was right. I hated being dumped. As a man, I pissed alloverthat cross-eyed, bearded drummer. I was smarter, better looking, better educated, more successful. He picked her up in a fuckingLada, I shit you not. One of those crappy imitation Jeeps, circa 1970-fucking-8.
Yeah, so I’m still resentful. But I’m nothurt.Thinking about Camille makes me bad-tempered and, yes, ashamed. It doesn’t cut me to the bone. It doesn’t make me want to cry.
I can’t recall the last time I cried. Would have been a kid, I guess. Dad didn’t have a lot of tolerance for tears. If we fell, we were expected to get up, get moving again. Tears were a waste of time and energy.
I have to see Shelby tomorrow. I have to work with her for the next three months at least. I’venoidea how I’m going to get through it.
I love her. Thatfeeling hasn’t gone away, but it will have to. If she loved and respected me, she wouldn’t have said what she said.
My whole body is trembling now with physical exhaustion – and, I guess, emotion – but I’m very far from sleep.
The empty glass is still in my hand. I set it back on the table and look again at Ava’s note. And though I still don’t want to talk, Idowant to be with somebody. I want to feel that at leastoneperson in the world cares whether I live or die.
Legs protesting, I make it the short distance down the hallway, lean up against the wall outside Ava’s bedroom door, and knock once, quietly.
“Y’ cahn’t com in,” comes the reply in a truly terrible Jamaican accent.
It’s a Durant sibling joke. When she was fourteen, pre the Goth phase, Ava discovered British ska band The Specials. That’s how one of their songs starts, and we all got in the habit of chanting it, usually when one of us was holding up access to the bathroom.
Ava is sitting up in bed, reading. She’s wearing—
“When did you getglasses?” I ask, as I sink into the armchair in the corner.Myroom doesn’t have an armchair, just saying.
“Two years ago. Just for reading. My distance vision’s fine.”
Her glasses have tortoiseshell frames, and a kind of fifties slant to them.
“They suit you.”
“Do they make me look intelligent?” she says, with a crooked grin.
I have a sudden flashback to Dad giving Ava shit about a school report. He could never find anything to criticize about her sporting achievements, but her grades were always patchy. Even Danny, who refused to go to college, scored solid A-minuses. Ava’s grades depended on her level of interest in a subject, and her respect for the teacher. If either of those factors was missing, she refused to do anything but the minimum.
But Dad wasn’t interested in askingwhyAva’s grades varied so wildly. All he cared about was the taint of failure.
“Thanks for the whisky.” It’s my way of apologizing for being a rude dick earlier.
“You didn’t bring your glass?”
“No…”
I owe her more than that. “I’ll need a clear head for the next few weeks.”
Ava appraises me for a moment.
“Max heard you having a pretty heated conversation,” she says.
There was no privacy growing up, and there’s none now. Sooner I get out of here, the better.
“Don’t have a cow,” she says, correctly reading my thoughts. “He couldn’t make out words, only tone.”
As I’m not exactly hurrying to explain, she adds, “Where did you run to? Canada?”
“Felt like it.”
