His shoulders jerked up in a violent shrug. “She probably did it for attention. Figured she’d take a few pills and I’d come running back. I guess she fucked that up too.”
He still wants to let everyone know Meg couldn’t do anything right. She couldn’t even die correctly. I swallow my rage and keep my frown soft and trembling.
“But you must have loved her,” I say quietly, pretending I know what sympathy is. “You must be grieving.”
I’m not sure if I’ve genuinely hit a nerve or if he realizes he’s being callous, but Steven slumps a little. “I did love her. But she wasn’t a good person. She was irresponsible and she slept around. I wanted to help her, but you can’t help people who won’t help themselves.”
Meg was a great person. That’s not sentimentality. I don’t have that. She’d never been perfect, but she was kind, even to someone like me. “She must have had good qualities if you dated her.”
“Yeah, she was fun,” he offers. “And you know what they say about crazy girls with low self-esteem. They’re great in bed.”
He was her lover. Her boyfriend. He spoke at her funeral.
I didn’t fly in for the service, but I heard about it from her mom. Steven had stood in front of God and country and said he’d tried to save her from her demons. He called her a light in his life. He wept and sobbed. Now all he has to say about his precious angel is that her low self-esteem made her great in bed. I should send the video of this little speech out to their mutual friends to watch.
He pushes up suddenly from the couch. “You want another beer?”
I’ve barely touched mine. I shake my head. Steven grabs another and drains half of it standing next to the fridge. He stares into the backyard for a while and I hope he’s suffering at least a little. But whatever memories haunt him, he shakes them off and grabs the steak and a head of romaine from the fridge.
“I can make a salad,” I offer.
“Wash your hands first,” he says curtly.
“Are you a germophobe?” I tease.
“I don’t like dirty people with no common sense.” Oh, poor baby, I’ve made him angry with all my questions about Meg.
I pout as I take my beer into the kitchen. “I was going to wash my hands. I’m not stupid.”
He grunts.
“You don’t have to be mean.”
“I’m not being mean; I’m telling the truth.”
“By calling me dirty?”
“I didn’t call you dirty. I said I don’t like dirty people. If you’re not dirty, then you don’t need to worry about it, do you?”
Pretending to be hurt and chastened, I turn on the faucet and slowly wash my hands, marveling at this little play. In real life, I would have cut this man down to ribbons by now, but Meg must have put up with his tantrums. She must have tried harder and apologized and did her best to please him.
Why? Are we all just animals bound to relive our broken childhoods over and over? Is it that simple?
Meg’s real father treated his family like shit before he left, and every stepdad and boyfriend who followed did the same. Her mom had spent her life pleasing loser men, and that was imprinted on Meg the way hunting skills are imprinted on young lions. This is how you get through life. This is how you guarantee the species. Take abuse. Submit to men. Repeat, repeat, repeat.
Meg broke the cycle, finally. She found a way out.
A hollow bang of glass cracks through the room when Steven throws his second bottle in the trash to join the first. I cringe as if I’m frightened by his obvious anger. “Do you have any tomatoes?” I ask as I carefully dry my hands.
“I don’t like tomatoes.”
“Oh.”
“There’s a cucumber in the fridge.”
I guess that’s his peace offering, so I dig the cucumber out of the crisper, then look through drawers until I find a knife. Steven leans against the counter and watches, a third beer in his hand.
“I told you I didn’t want to talk about her,” he finally says. A prompt if I’ve ever heard one.
I keep my eyes down, watching the knife blade glint in my hand. As much as I’d like to stab him right now, I can’t kill him. Maybe no one saw me riding through the neighborhood in Steven’s car, but there are texts between us. I suppose I could stab him and claim an intruder did it, but I’d have to set up some obvious motive. Score a pound of heroin and hide it in a dresser drawer. Claim the guy with the knife kept demanding payment. But setting up Steven as some middle-class drug dealer would take time.
Perhaps I could stab him and claim self-defense. Tell everyone he tried to rape me. But the police are skeptical of rape even when it’s real. I was in his house, after all, showing off my bosom and letting him see my ankles. I can’t cry rape now. They’d doubt every word and look deep into my background, and I don’t have that kind of cover.
Damn.
I set the knife down. I nod. “I’m sorry,” I whisper.
“What?”
“I’m sorry I pushed you about her. I just wanted to know what happened.”
“And you call me mean?”
“It wasn’t mean. I just—”
“You didn’t care what I wanted,” he snaps. “You just wanted details. Details that obviously hurt me.”
“No. I thought we should talk about it. It’s something important that happened to you.”
“Yeah, it is, so have a little respect for once.”
“I said I was sorry.”
He watches me for a while before he shakes his head. “Jane.” He sighs my name like a disappointment. “Maybe this is how you treat other men, but you’re not going to treat me like crap. I’m not some loser you can push around. I have a good job, a nice house, a great life.”
“I know you do. And I didn’t mean—”
“I like you, Jane. I really do. But I don’t need you. And I expect to be treated with respect.”
“I wasn’t being disrespectful!”
“Weren’t you? I said no. Isn’t that what women talk about all the damn time? I said no, and you kept pushing me.”
“Steven, I’m sorry!” I make myself sound a little panicked. Just a little. That’s what he wants. “I’m sorry, okay?”
He shrugs and downs his third beer before tossing it into the trash can. I jump as if the crash of glass is a slap. “I just wanted to have a nice evening with you,” he mutters.
“I’m sorry,” I say again. “Really. I shouldn’t have pushed you.”
“Yeah.” He relaxes a little and his eyelids are heavier when his gaze falls to my cleavage.
I push off the island and move closer. “I was being a bitch.”
“You were.”
“Are you still mad?” I ask as I press into his body.
He shrugs again, but he puts his arms around me and stares down my dress.
“Don’t be mad.”
Instead of answering, he slips a hand over my chest and undoes an extra button. Now the fabric gapes open, exposing my black bra. With no warning at all, he shoves his hand into one of the cups and wrenches the whole thing down to expose my breast. He kisses me hard, kneading my flesh and trying to swallow all my breath. I let him push me up against the counter and grind his crotch against me. I guess this is forgiveness.
A button of my dress pops off and drops to the floor, rolling away with tiny clicks I can barely hear over his panting.
God, I hate these stupid dresses. They’re weak and flimsy.
I hear the sound of his zipper and roll my eyes.
“Suck me,” he whispers.
“Steven! I can’t. You’ll think—”
“Come on. I know you do it. You’ve done it plenty of times, right?”
“You’ll think I’m a slut.”
“I won’t. Just do it. Come on.” His hand is on my shoulder, pressing me down. This is how he’ll forgive me. This is how I’ll show respect for my big, strong man.
I pull back a little and he follows. I slide along the edge of the island. After a quick glance toward the vent in the living room, I let him push me to my knees.
“Oh yeah,” he groans before I even touch him. “Do it.”
It doesn’t take long. He’s primed on anger and frustration.
Afterward he drinks another beer and grills the steaks. I make the salad. The bodice of my dress gapes at the missing button. He’s in a great mood, laughing and joking. He teases me about having a healthy appetite. I’ve done a good job making up for my bitchiness.
The steaks are surprisingly tasty.