“This is Tony, the most talented guy in that whole bunch,” he said, pointing back dramatically at the restaurant. “Seriously, he’s gonna be big one day; he’s just gotta get out from behind that drum kit and Sonja’s bullshit.”
“Hi, nice to meet you.” Tony looked to be in his early twenties. He had big, round, liquid-topaz-colored eyes and brown, shaggy hair. He smiled with this innocence that made me think he must have had a really wholesome childhood even though he was standing outside smoking and listening to the ranting of a lunatic.
I smiled at him but turned my attention to Will. “Can I talk to you?”
He stared at me for a good twenty seconds before speaking. He had a way of tapping a direct line to my heart by simply squinting his eyes slightly as he gazed into mine. It was a kissing effect and it turned me to Jell-O. “Baby, no heavy stuff tonight, okay? Let’s go eat.”
I huffed but decided that was the best damn idea Will had had all day… denial, remember?
We sat at the bar and avoided Frank and Rady and all the other suits. Sonja took up residence on Nate’s lap two barstools down. When I saw him stick his hand up her dress, I turned my back and faced Will. “How many girls have you slept with since you met me?”
He said, “Two,” but held up four fingers.
“Which is it? Come on, this is normal girlfriend stuff. I realized we skipped right over it and went straight to comfort sex after our dog died.”
“I like that you called him our dog. He was the best, huh?”
“Yeah, Will, he was the best dog in the world and he died the best freakin’ doggy death, but I don’t want to talk about that ‘cause it’s gonna make me cry and anyway, you’re avoiding the question. How many?”
“I like that you said girlfriend, too.” He was adorable.
“Come on, tell me.”
“Three… okay, four.”
“Who?
“Well, there was Audrey… and her friend.” I choked on my vodka-soda-cran.
“The Russian? At the same time? With Audrey?”
“Yep,” he said with arched eyebrows and a cheeky grin.
“What about the other two?”
“You don’t know them—girls I met at work. It might have been spite sex after I walked in on you and the banker… and the whipped cream.” Smiling, he playfully threw his hands up in a defensive gesture. “What? I’m not proud of it. Anyway, I thought I said no heavy stuff.”
“Were you careful?”
“Of course.” He said it like it was a ridiculous question.
“Well, you weren’t with me.”
“It’s different with you.”
“Well, I’m on the pill in case you’re wondering.”
He shrugged. “Doesn’t matter to me. I trust you.” I didn’t know what he meant, but I didn’t press. I wondered if he was saying it didn’t matter if I got pregnant, but I thought the last thing Will needed on the back of his tour bus was a Pack ‘n Play and a wailing baby.
“Don’t you want to know about me?”
“Yes, I want to know everything about you, but I don’t care about who you’ve slept with. It’s in the past and I don’t want to think about you with anyone else. You’re mine now.” He said it with surefire confidence.
Normally, possessiveness would repulse me. I remember in high school when I discovered feminism. I would beg my friends to let me take pictures of them in all kinds of artsy statement photos. I made my friend Ruthy stand naked with a frying pan on her head while I snapped away. I wrote “Fuck Your Kitchen” across the photo with a big, black Sharpie and then I projected it on the wall at the talent show while I covered PJ Harvey’s “Sheela-Na-Gig” on the piano. Everyone thought I was lesbian after that, which explains why I never had a boyfriend. I thought it was very avant-garde, but it just got me in a heap of trouble. I had to write a ten-page explanation to the principal about how I didn’t fully understand the impact of projecting a picture of a naked girl along with the word “Fuck” on the gymnasium wall. Needless to say, everyone got the wrong message and Ruthy got a bad reputation.
That time is what I will refer to as the deafening era. It’s when I learned that being artistic came with a price, the price of being misunderstood. It’s probably around the time that I tuned my heart out of what Martha would refer to as the soul-harmonizing shit. Still, I remained a die-hard feminist until my feelings for Will took over. All I wanted to do was wash his underwear and fold it into neat little packages that would smell like Snuggle and remind him that he was loved. I wanted to take that frying pan and make food that I would regurgitate and feed to him like he was a baby bird. I wanted to be his; I wanted him to own me. I would nourish his body with mine. I would feed his heart; his mind… his soul, and I wanted to do it while screaming, “What do you think of me now, Gloria Steinem?” That’s how bad I had it for Will, so I guess it’s sort of ironic that I was willing to throw it all away…
*
“Wake up sleepyhead.” I yawned, peering at Will through squinted eyes. He looked invigorated and way too sunny for seven a.m.
“Jesus, what kind of vitamins do you take?”