I jump up when I hear Caleb’s car in the driveway. We’ve been together for over five years, but I still get butterflies whenever he walks into a room. I try not to look needy, but when his key turns the latch and he steps inside, I fling myself at him. I need him to forgive me. I’ve been in perpetual twilight since he stopped smiling at me.
I catch him off guard, and he laughs as my weight slams him into the wall. I have my legs wrapped around his waist and my nose pressed to his. I want to make out with him like we used to do when we first met, but the first thing he says is — “Where’s Stella?”
The smile drops from my face. I hate that. How am I supposed to know?
I sigh and slide down his body, disappointed. “Probably with whatshisname.”
Caleb narrows his eyes at me; his mouth is a straight line.
“Did you spend any time with her today?”
“Yes,” I snap. “I fed her this morning because the manny was late.”
The muscles in his jaw pop as he grinds his teeth. They pop. I flinch.
Pop ... flinch … pop … flinch.
I feel self-righteously angry. It wasn’t unusual for mothers to rely on nannies to take care of their babies. In my circle, it was perfectly normal. Why did he always have to make me feel inferior?
I curl my upper lip across my teeth. “Do you think Olivia would have made a better mother than me?”
For a second, undisguised anger flashes across his eyes. He turns away, turns back to me, and turns away again like he doesn’t know whether or not to confront the fact that I said her name.
I want a fight. Every time he looks at me like I’m a big, fat disappointment, my mind goes to Olivia. It’s like shifting gears for me; Caleb’s disappointed eyes trigger it. Suddenly, I’m in that magical place where I release the clutch, the gas pedal goes down, and my mind is racing toward Olivia. Fuck. That. Bitch. What power does she have over him? I want to run at him, pound my fists against his chest for always mentally comparing me to her. Or am I the one mentally comparing myself to her? God, life is so messed up.
Just then, Sam comes into the room with the baby. The anger on Caleb’s face melts away, and all of a sudden, he looks like he’s about to cry. I know that look; he is relieved — relieved to have something other than me. I turn and walk toward the door.
“Where are you going?” Caleb asks.
“I’m hanging out with Sam tonight,” I say. I avoid Sam’s face and snatch up my purse.
“Let’s go, Samuel,” I snap. I see him stifle a smile as he ducks his head obediently and walks to where I am waiting. I am out the door and down the stairs before Caleb can say anything. I hear them exchange words behind me, but I am halfway to Sam’s car, and I decide that stopping to eavesdrop will ruin my credibility. Caleb is probably warning him about my tendency to become belligerent when drunk. Sam comes jogging out a minute later. Without a word, he opens the passenger side door for me, and I climb in. He drives a Jeep, the kind that has no roof or real windows. I settle into my seat and stare straight ahead. I’m going to destroy Olivia. I’m going to find her and beat the crap out of her for ruining my life.
“Where to?” Sam says, looping around the driveway.
“Call that slutty looking cousin of yours,” I say. “We’re going wherever she is.”
He raises his eyebrows at me but doesn’t move toward his phone.
“She’s at Mother Gothel tonight,” he explains. “You ever been there?”
I shake my head.
“Great. It’s your kind of place.” He shifts his Jeep into traffic, and I grab onto the door to steady myself. This was going to be a long drive.
Mother Gothel is not my kind of place. I announce this loudly as we walk through the door. A bouncer with half a dozen face piercings checks our IDs. He eyes me in a way that makes my skin crawl, and I grab on to Sam’s arm.
“What the hell is this place?” I whisper as we enter into a room lit by electric blue lights.
“A hookah bar,” he says. He raises his eyebrows, “An emo hookah bar.”
I wrinkle my nose. “Why would she come here?” I was thinking of all the classy bars on Mizner Avenue, just a stone’s throw away from this depressing rat hole.
“She goes through phases,” he says, nodding towards the bartender. “Last month it was tea rooms.”
He orders two dirty martinis. As I take mine, I wonder how he knew I drink them?
“Aren’t you going to lecture me about liquorfying my breast milk?” I say over the rim of my glass. He groans and tries to take it from me.
“Shit, I forgot,” he says. “It’s hard to remember that a cold shrew like you is actually a mother.”