“Look at yourself.” He takes a step closer, and I retreat a step, my back hitting the brick wall. “You’re up onstage, wearing practically nothin’, getting pure joy out of the way men drool over you. I’ve seen it with my own two eyes. And I don’t like it one bit, Saint Bonnelyn.”
I swallow. His words are hurtful; this whole situation is hurtful. But I force myself to keep it together, raising my voice. “I like who I am. But you”—I wave my hand in his general direction—“are a disgrace, Roy, coming here behind my back to gamble and do God knows what with other women!”
My shout catches the attention of those ’round us. Roy leans close, and I smell the alcohol on his breath. “Like I said, you make it easy.”
“No, Roy. None of this is my fault.” I hate how my voice hitches, giving away that my heart is pounding from both anger and pain. I raise my chin. “Now, get out of my face.”
Roy falters, taking a step away. He turns back, eyes narrowing, lips parting.
I’m ready for whatever he’s ’bout to say. I’m ready to tell him how he’s stomped all over our dreams. Then he closes his mouth, leaves, nothin’ more than a coward.
Part of me still wants to sling those words at his back, but instead, a cry bubbles up my throat.
My knees give way. Blanche is there to catch me.
*
Blanche paces ’cross the living room. “I’ll kill him.”
I take a sip of hot chocolate. The heat soaks into my hands and soothes my throat. I wish I could lose myself in Buck’s couch, just disappear into it.
“You’re obviously staying here tonight,” she adds.
“Just give me the word, Bonn,” Buck says. “I’ll beat that moron senseless.”
“Thanks, but it wouldn’t do any good.” I squeeze my hands, my skin growing hotter. “I’m okay.”
Blanche growls. “The hell you are. How could he do something like that to you?”
Buck shakes his head. “I’ve only known the lad a short time. And I’ll tell ya what—that kid is different now than that first night he came into Doc’s.”
“Maybe I broke him,” I say, and put down my mug, afraid I’ll spill it. He’s been distant, focused on himself more than us. His anger’s been quick to spike; he’s been quick to give me the cold shoulder. “Is he this way ’cause of me?”
Blanche takes my hand. “You may’ve introduced Roy to this world, but you certainly didn’t put that blonde on his arm.”
“I keep thinkin’ ’bout Henry’s wife, when she caught us together. Then there I was, the wife that caught her husband with a pretty li’l thing. Poetic justice, no?”
“That ain’t poetic, Bonn. That’s life being cruel.”
“Whatever it is, it feels like everything is falling apart. First Roy drops out of school, then he goes behind my back…”
“Maybe all that’s falling apart is Roy-related,” Blanche says. “Would that be such a bad thing?”
“I don’t know.” My skin itches. “I guess I need to figure that out.”
“Give yourself a few days. Let the dust settle, Bonn.”
“No.” Roy may’ve lashed out at the club, but that’s his style. Strike first, coddle later. “It needs to be now, not later. Besides, we’re supposed to have dinner with his parents tomorrow.”
“Charming,” Blanche says sarcastically.
As she drives me home, my foot taps like a jackrabbit, ticking down the seconds ’til I confront my husband. My anger has led to nothin’ but uncertainty, and I’ve still no idea what to do with Roy. Hold on to him, hold on to what I know? Or walk away, into the unknown?
Only moments before seeing him at the Supper Club with another girl, I was musing ’bout Roy and me being meant to be. I’ve been so focused on holding on to my dreams, convincing myself that Roy belonged in them, even if it felt like I was the only one still working toward them. Did I pull the wool over my own eyes?
I blow out a slow breath, and realize that I’m lost.
“Do you want me to come inside with you?” Blanche asks.
I shake my head.
Blanche blindly digs through the bag on her lap as she drives. “Okay, here.” She hands me a key. “This is to Buck’s apartment. Let yourself in if you need to, anytime of night, it doesn’t matter.”
I nod, wordlessly thanking her. We turn onto Cemetery Road. Roy’s and my house is dark. Not even the porch light is on. I get out of Big Bertha, the slam of the door sounding too loud for this time of night. I wave at Blanche and try my best to smile reassuringly as I scurry up the path to the house. Key ready, I slip quickly into our too-quiet house, uncertainty giving me the fuel I’ll need to yank Roy out of bed and grill him for answers: How often? How far? With who? What next? What now? Why bother?
I ain’t sure if hearing Roy utter that information will make me more or less sure of what I want, but I need to know. I go straight to our bedroom, flick on the light.
“Wake up, R—”
The bed is empty, untouched. My pace and my breath quicken as I go from room to room, finding each one vacant. Royless.
Hand over my mouth, I drag my feet back to the bedroom, plop down on the bed, the weight of my emotions pulling me down like an anchor.
I kick off my shoes, and one hits our bureau. I notice a drawer ajar. I instantly know something is off, wrong. As I pull open the drawer, my eyebrows scrunch. All his union suits are gone, even the sleeveless ones. My hand falls off the drawer’s knob. He only wears those in the summer months.
In a frenzy, I yank out the rest of Roy’s drawers, the final drawer crashing to the floor, only a ratty old belt that no longer fits him falling out.
In a matter of steps, I stand in front of our closet, heaving in air. I crack it open and release a sob. Half the closet is bare. His slacks, his button-down shirts, his flight jacket, they’re all gone. Sinking to the ground, I hug my knees and rock back and forth. But no, I can’t—I won’t—allow myself to cry.
The idle purr of Big Bertha’s engine seeps through the walls of my empty home. I listen to the comforting sound for what feels like forever, ’til the car’s gears click into place and the engine slowly fades away.
27
The banging on my door is incessant. I know who it is. It’s been the same person for the past week. Not Roy, but Roy’s daddy, with his ma right beside him.
And for the past week, ever since missing dinner at their house, I’ve hidden out of sight in the hallway, peeking ’round the corner ’til they gave up and left.
I curse. This time, the damn pounding won’t stop, and I’m afraid my ma will hear, a few houses down. I swallow my pride and open the door.
“Where is he?” Mr. Thornton slurs. The shape of a bottle is noticeable beneath his heavy blazer.
I want to throw up my hands. I don’t have the slightest clue, didn’t look for him this time.
Instead, I recite the simple words I’ve practiced in my head but haven’t yet said aloud: “Roy left me.”
Mrs. Thornton lets out a wail, her scarf shielding her face as she turns into her husband. He demands more answers from me.
“I don’t have any,” I deadpan.
And, frankly, they’re lucky I don’t say what I’m really thinkin’: their son is a cheating, lying, alcoholic bastard—exactly the reason why I cut him off, if he goes sniffing ’round the bank.
I’ll save them from that description, though, and I know why. Guilt.