Page 19 of That Weekend in Paris
If I hadn’t ended things with her, would she have made a different choice? Yes, I know she would have. So how can I be angry with her? She’s right not to want to see me again. I put her in the position of having to make an awful choice.Idid that.
A bottle of wine and two glasses sit on a table a few yards away from the bed. Funny, I hadn’t paid any attention to the bottle until now. But that’s what usually does it, me getting on fire about something and wanting to squelch the flames with the one thing I know for sure will put them out.
I consider getting up and opening it. Chasing away the terrible fury eating me alive, if only temporarily. But then I think about the show tonight and how I cannot arrive there drunk. It’s not as if it hasn’t happened before, but I owe my band more than that. I owe them the promise I made the last time it happened.
A memory of the rehab center where I’d done my last dry-out rises up and slams me with a wave of nausea.
The only comparison I have for detox is the images of hell I grew up envisioning in my small South Carolina Baptist church. Listening to my own body scream for even an ounce of alcohol to dull the pain was as close to being consumed with Satan’s flames as I can imagine.
I glance at the bottle again. The pull is strong. So strong that I do not trust myself to ignore it.
I don’t trust myself to stay here alone.
Granted, me getting drunk would provide ample evidence to everyone in the band that I’ve gone off the wagon, but even so, I know the best thing I can do for myself is to not be alone.
I get dressed for the gig, throwing my clothes on as fast as I can. And then I grab my slightly dented phone and head for the door.
Dillon
“I dwell in possibility.”
?Emily Dickinson
THE KNOCK ON the door surprises me. Maybe it’s housekeeping to do the turndown service, but it seems a little early for that. I peer through the peephole to see Klein standing in the hallway. I turn the deadbolt and open the door. “Hey,” I say. “What’s up?”
“I know you said you had some work to do, but would you mind if I just hung out in your room for a little bit until it’s time to leave for the show?”
“Sure,” I say, surprised, but waving a hand for him to come in. “Is everything okay?”
“Yeah, nerves, I guess.”
“I was just getting in the shower, but if you’d like to take a nap on the bed or something, I’ll be glad to wake you up whenever you want to get ready to leave.”
“Thanks,” he says. “That actually sounds really good.”
I grab the robe from the corner of the bed and head for the bathroom, closing the door quietly behind me. I lean my head back, blow out a breath. That, I had not expected.
Something is wrong. I can feel it, the tension emanating from Klein, but somehow I don’t think I should ask. At least not now. It feels like maybe he just needs a safe space, although I can’t imagine why or what would make him seek it out here in my room.
I undress, notably conscious of the fact that Klein is on the other side of this door. I stare at my naked self in the oversized mirror above the sink and wonder when I last felt beautiful. It occurs to me with some clarity that at some point in my marriage, I stopped thinking of myself as beautiful at all.
In the beginning, Josh couldn’t get enough of me. That had always made me feel good, especially sinceI had been completely impressed by Josh and his success in the town I so badly wanted to make it in as well. His desire for me had lasted the first couple of years of our marriage.
And then around year three, I had started to feel something a little different, noticed how his gaze always seemed to find the most attractive woman in whatever restaurant we were eating in or party we attended.
At some point along the way, I began to realize it was not my imagination. I tried to renew his interest, did the obligatory Google search for ways to fan the embers of a waning physical attraction. I had been embarrassed for myself as my fingers moved across the keys entering first one phrase, then the next, until I had accumulated a long list of sure-to-succeed recommendations. I am nothing if not determined, though, so I started at the top and worked my way through at least fifteen different foolproof methods for reviving a partner’s interest. Each of them worked temporarily. Still, none of them prevented Josh from staring at a woman he obviously found beautiful. But then the final straw had come when I got sick.
I study my reflection, wondering if Klein finds me attractive. Hardly. Good grief, he could have pretty much his pick from women far younger than me. Far hotter than me. Forget that. I turn on the shower, wait a few moments, and then step under the spray, letting the cold water wash the heat from my cheeks.
Once I’m done, I decide to go ahead and get dressed, not wanting to go back into the bedroom on the off chance that Klein has decided to take a nap before the show.
I blow-dry my hair, taking the time to straighten it with a flat iron and then spending way more effort on my makeup than I usually would. Call it vanity, but knowing that I will be among Klein’s throng of adoring fans makes me want to try a little harder anyway. I’ve been in the bathroom for an hour or a little more when I’m finally ready and decide to stick my head out to see if Klein is awake. He is, and standing by the window, hands shoved in the pockets of his jeans.
He turns when I fully open the door and says, “Hey.”
“Did you get a little bit of a nap?”
“I did. Should help tonight.”
