I reach for Roy, but he twists, avoiding my hand, and I insist, “He’s nothin’—”
“Stop sayin’ he’s nothin’. Obviously he’s something, if I caught you arguing with him and his poor, pregnant wife. What did you do with him, Bonnelyn?”
I reluctantly respond, barely more than a whisper, “He kissed me once. I shouldn’t have let it happen. I’m so sorry.”
“He kissed you?”
I nod.
“And you just stood there? An innocent bystander?”
My chest quivers. “No.”
Roy runs his hand through his hair. He’s silent, thinking.
I pick at a bead on my dress. “I’m so sorry ’bout the past few months and for lying to cover everything up. I was afraid if I told you the truth, you’d be upset. And I needed the money—it was always ’bout the money.” I unsuccessfully reach for him again. I end up hugging myself, trying to rid myself of the chill I feel, from both the air and Roy. “I did this for us, ’cause I wanted to create a better life for you and me.”
He steps backwards, shaking his head. “No, don’t you dare do that. Don’t say we’re standing here ’cause of your feelings for me. It’s the opposite, Bonnelyn.”
“I’ll apologize a million times if I have to. Please forgive me. We can get past this.”
“You lied, Bonnelyn. You kissed someone else. How could you have done that if you truly wanted to be with me?”
“I—”
“I don’t know if I can get past that. I’ve been a fool, trying to convince myself that you running off with Blanche was nothin’, your new look and how you’ve been acting was nothin’, the rumors were nothin’.” He looks beyond me, down the sidewalk, as if he’s picturing poor, pregnant Gertrude. “Hell, this is worse than the rumors. But I just kept telling myself, ‘This is Bonnelyn, the Bonnelyn you’ve wanted to marry since you were a boy.’”
“That doesn’t have to change. Please, don’t let that change.” But even as I say it, I know I’m not that Bonnelyn anymore, and I so desperately want Roy to get to know the Bonnelyn I’ve become.
“It’s too late,” Roy says.
“No, it’s not. It’s not too late.”
“God, it’s been so easy for you, hasn’t it?”
I shake my head. This hasn’t been easy. Not at all. “Roy—”
“I go to work all night, you come here.” He lets out a long, controlled breath. “This whole time, I’m none the wiser.”
“I wanted to tell you. Come inside with me. I’ll show you everything. I’ll—”
“Here’s the thing I don’t get, Bonn. Why did you even ask me to come tonight, if that jerk also comes here?”
“What?”
Roy waves his hand dismissively. “Don’t even bother answering. It doesn’t matter. None of this matters anymore. I shouldn’t have come. You shouldn’t have written this.” He holds up the piece of paper I forgot he was holding.
I stare blankly at him, my mind desperately trying to catch up, to understand, to fully digest that Roy catching me wasn’t by chance.
Roy’s patience seems to have run out. He tosses the paper flippantly in the air, frowns, then turns on his heel.
I’m frozen in place. Tears stream down my face. My legs give out, and I slump to the ground. Through blurry eyes, I watch him walk away from me.
A tortured sound bubbles out of me and I lower my head, noticing the paper he’s left behind. I crawl to it, fumbling to pick it up. I start reading, and my breath catches.
Roy, I want to share something with you that I’ve been afraid to tell you. 34 Elm Street. Saturday night. 11:03, on the dot. Ask for me at the door.
No, no, no.
I would recognize that chicken scratch a mile away.
“God damn it, Blanche.” I wipe away my tears.
I don’t realize I’ve stormed from outside to downstairs ’til I slam the note atop the bar, a splotch of wetness seeping through and smudging Blanche’s words.
“How dare you?” I scream at her.
With knowing eyes, she looks up from the drink she’s preparing and cringes.
“Blanche!”
A few patrons turn to stare.
Mary rushes over, grabs my arm. “Not here. I don’t give a rat’s ass if y’all fight. But don’t do it here.”
I stand there, fury too overwhelming for me to be the next one to move or talk.
“We can go in the back room,” Blanche says quietly.
I follow her back.
I shake with anger.
I cross my arms.
I wait for her to speak, pinning her with a glare.
Blanche chews on her bottom lip, finally saying, “What happened?”
“What happened? I’ll tell you what happened! Roy caught me outside with Henry and it’s all your fault.”
“Mine?” Her face wrinkles like she smells something sour. “Nope. None of this is my fault. You should’ve told me ’bout kissing Henry before tonight, Bonnelyn. Frankly, I’m hurt that ya didn’t.”
“Let’s not make this ’bout you, Blanche.”
“Me? All I’ve been doing is thinkin’ ’bout you. Blanche wrote that note for you.”
My hands ball into fists. “Enlighten me. How on earth was inviting Roy here supposed to help me?”
She sighs, but her voice is testy when she begins. “You kept dragging your dogs, not telling Roy ’bout your ‘other’ life. So he comes, he sees. Done. You’re both happy.”
“You’ve never liked Roy. Why the hell do you care if we’re happy or not?”
It dawns on me, remembering our conversation from the other day. This ain’t ’bout me and Roy; it’s ’bout her and Buck. It’s always ’bout Blanche. She opens her mouth and I hold up my hand to stop her.
“It all makes sense now,” I say, and narrow my eyes, stepping closer, talking slower. “You really invited Roy here to reveal my secret to Roy to help stop some stupid gossip? All ’cause you’re insecure?”
“I am not—”
“I am not done. You didn’t stop to think that I wanted to figure out how to share all of this with Roy? In my own way? Or,” I say, even louder, “that maybe I’m afraid that Henry will be here and cause some scene. Oh wait, that happened.”
“You were living a lie, Bonnelyn. It was bound to catch up with you. Hell, I bet you only liked Henry ’cause he has your daddy’s name and he looked at you in a way that Roy never bothered to do.”
I ignore the last part—Blanche nailing the truth—and focus on the blame she slings at me. “That’s your response? That this is my fault?”
She shrugs again, looking smug. “You’re the pushover who was easily seduced by Henry, not me.”
I throw my hands up. “You are unbelievable. How I’ve put up with you all my life is beyond me. But not anymore.”
Blanche’s mouth falls open. I storm out. Mary doesn’t question me when I inform her I’m going home.
Telling myself I can’t let Blanche win, I fight back tears. But when I collapse into the comfort of my bed, I fall apart.
I bury my face in my pillow.
I beat my thin mattress with my fists.
I cry.
A light touch lands on my arm.
“What’s wrong, Lynny?”
“I’m okay,” I say to my sister, the pillow muffling my words. “I’m sorry I woke you. Go back to bed.”
Little Billie squeezes my hand. “You can talk to me. I’m not so little.”