Dirty Diana

Chapter 17

Chapter 17

—

In front of the school, the snaking carpool line grinds to a halt and we all patiently wait for the school doors to open for morning dropoff. I turn up the Star Wars soundtrack for Emmy.

I peek at a text from Alicia, who wants to know more about yesterday’s adventures at the Rosevale, especially Sandra.

I think my dad brought home a call girl for Thanksgiving last year.

As I’m about to respond, the car door opens and Raleigh offers Emmy a hand. “Good morning!”

Raleigh is in a bright orange volunteer vest, her hair damp and cheeks flushed, helping direct kids safely across the parking lot and into school. A wave of guilt washes over me for everything L’Wren, Jenna, and I gossiped about on the drive to Roundtop—Raleigh’s affair, her lips, her divorce.

I should just smile and keep driving. But seeing her standing alone, holding a stop sign and directing traffic, I can’t just pull away. “Hi. Raleigh!” I say it a little too loudly. “Thanks for volunteering.”

“Of course, yeah. I signed up a while ago….” She looks exhausted.

“Raleigh, if you ever need anything—”

“Please don’t be nice.” She looks up at the bright blue sky. “If you’re nice to me, I’ll cry, and I still have six minutes until the bell rings and I can take off this vest.” She smiles and tears gather in the corners of her eyes.

“I’m so sorry, Raleigh. But really if you ever need anything, or the kids need anything…” The car behind me honks.

“You’re sweet, thank you.” She wipes her eyes with the sleeve of her sweater.

Raleigh and I have been on dozens of school-mom text threads but have never actually spoken on the phone. At every school function or L’Wren-hosted party, she’s someone I’ve genuinely enjoyed making small talk with, but that’s been the extent of it. We’ve never had a solo playdate for our kids or gone out for lunch or drinks, just the two of us. She strikes me as someone who spends hours putting herself together. Her dirty blond hair curls gently to her shoulders, her teeth are dazzlingly white and perfectly straight. Today she’s wearing a pale pink tank dress with a thin cashmere cardigan over the top and turquoise-studded boots. And to Jenna’s point, she does have perfect lips.

“Call if you need anything,” I say, more just to say it. I know we’ll likely never talk about anything personal again. But just as I’m about to pull away, she leans down again, sniffling. “Diana. I could really use a place to stay,” she admits in a near whisper.

“Of course. Sure, sure. I’ll just wait for you in the faculty lot,” I respond, a little taken aback.

I sit in my car, parked under the shade of a willow tree, and wait for the first bell to ring. I watch Raleigh in my rearview window—she pulls off her volunteer vest, neatly folds it into a square and tucks it into the pocket of her cardigan. When she reaches my car, she asks, “Should I follow you?”

“Sure.” I think about what Oliver will say. Maybe that I’ve picked up a stray like one of L’Wren’s many cats.

At the house, I give her a quick tour before hurrying to the office.

—

When I get home that evening, Raleigh is organizing her things in my guest room. I’m still surprised she took me up on my offer. But here she is, soaking her delicates in my guest bathroom sink as I make room in the closet for her boxes of shoes and collection of cowboy hats. “Do you have anything to cover these windows? I’m a light sleeper and the light from these streetlamps is going to drive me insane. I just know it.” She has brought three wheeled suitcases and is actively sorting through them all. “I know what you’re thinking—I’m not staying till Christmas, promise. I see that look on your face.” She’s right. Oliver and I had exchanged nervous glances when we saw her SUV was packed to the brim. “I just can’t find anything so I had to bring everything inside. Divorce is so much fun!” she trills as she rinses out another lace thong in my sink. “You are so sweet to do this. Really. Where do you hang your lingerie?”

“I don’t,” I say. I don’t own any lingerie that’s “hang” worthy, I suppose. Or maybe I’m too lazy.

“I’ll find a place.” She dangles her damp, brightly colored underwear on the bedposts, on the knobs of the dresser, even from the corners of my bluebonnets painting above the bed, until my guest room looks like a fireworks display of undergarments.

I’m confused about what role to play with Raleigh. I hardly know her—does she want someone to talk to? Or maybe she just wants to be left alone, to make phone calls and piece her life back together? I’m about to ask if she wants some hot tea when she holds up a bright pink vibrator. “Do you have a charger for this? I think they’re all the same. Vibrator chargers, I mean. Sorry. Are we allowed to talk about vibrators? I forget what’s off-limits.”

“No, of course. But I don’t have a charger.”

“Hmm. Maybe I’ll get you one as a thank-you present. A vibrator, not a charger.” She winks. “They can do what no human can.”

“Yes to tea?”

“Or maybe some cocktails?”

—

A few tequila and sodas later, Raleigh is wearing three of her cowboy hats stacked one on top of the other. “This is my favorite.” She holds up a gray felt cowboy hat with a long pink feather in the brim. “I added the feather.” She knocks the other hats off and replaces the stack with this one. She wears a baggy T-shirt with black underwear. After another sip, she drunkenly sorts through the painted canvases and old art supplies in the closet. “Okay. So, what are these?” She’s found the pile of my old drawings. “Please don’t tell me they’re pictures of all the women you and Oliver murdered in your guest room?” We’re both three drinks in and feeling very punchy. Maybe it’s just the booze, but I’m impressed and maybe a little relieved that she’s able to be so light.

“I wanted sex all the time,” she tells me over our next round of drinks. “I know, hard to believe because Dustin is such a troll. Let’s be honest. But he was my troll, and I could go every day! Twice a day, even. Whereas he was fine sleeping in separate beds. Do you know what it feels like to be rejected by your own husband? Over and over again?”

“I’m so sorry.”

“We were great roommates. But who wants that? I’m not dead yet. And now that it’s over he suddenly has all this passion ! Passion for taking me down.”

“What does he want?”

“Everything. The kids. The house. Everything I care about. I’m not lying—Dustin could have given two shits about taking care of the kids when we were together, and now he’s making their lunches and braiding Izzy’s hair and posting about it on Instagram like he’s father of the fucking year. And he hates that house. He was always moaning about how much work a lawn is and how we should just move to one of those condo communities. And now he’s planting lemon trees and putting in a new fucking pool. He wants it because he knows I want it. It’s too fucked up.”

Raleigh refills her glass for the fourth time and licks the tequila from her lips. “You didn’t answer my question from before, Diana.” She picks up the drawings in front of us. “What are these drawings?”

A warmth spreads through my chest when I think of Santa Fe. Potential, I want to tell her. They’re the moments before you kiss on a first date. They’re happy confusion.

I can see Raleigh squint to read my signature in the corner. She raises her brows as she reads, “Dirty Diana?”

“That’s me.” I laugh. “I used to draw a lot. At one point I had a project where I interviewed women about love and sex and then made paintings—it was a long time ago. A hundred years ago.”

“Fascinating.”

“I think so. I tried it again recently. Or some kind of version of it. But it didn’t go well.”

“You interviewed people?”

“One woman, really, in the end. The Sexagenarian.”

“What the fuck, Diana? Who is the Sexagenarian? I need every single detail right now.”

I’ve already said too much, but so has Raleigh. Emmy is fast asleep and Oliver is working downstairs so I pull out my phone.

“Is this just a woman off the street?”

“Sort of?”

“Who am I with right now? I’m sorry, Diana, but I always thought you had a stick up your ass.” Raleigh grabs the phone and hits play. I hear my own voice, so clearly trying to sound authoritative as the Goddess launches into her rambling monologue. Less than a minute into the recording Raleigh laughs so hard she rolls off the bed. “Ouch!” she calls from the floor. “My parfem!”

This only makes us both laugh harder.

“Who the heck is the Angel of Touch?” Raleigh asks.

“I think you have to attend a high-class meeting to find out?”

“Oh Jesus.” Neither one of us can sit up, we’re laughing too hard. “Ohmigod, Diana.” Raleigh catches her breath. “You need to erase that. Or keep it forever. I’m not sure.”

There’s a knock on the door and we both jump. Oliver peeks his head in. “Is everything okay? I heard a crash.”

Raleigh sits up straighter and adjusts the cowboy hat on her head. “I’m so sorry, Oliver. We are not talking about an enchanted sexual forest, I promise.”

“Sorry,” I say. “We’re just catching up.”

Raleigh giggles and I smile at Oliver, shooting him an I’m in over my head look as soon as she turns away—it’s unfair, I know. But for some reason I feel the need to pretend to be miserable with Raleigh for Oliver’s sake.

“I’m off to poker. Have fun.”

He shuts the door and Raleigh grins. “All the moms have crushes on Oliver. You know that, right?”

“Really?” I’m not surprised. Oliver is good-looking, and he knows how to make people feel special. And he genuinely likes other people’s children, not just his own. Some of the dads at our school look panicked when a kid other than their own tries to talk to them, but Oliver can listen to someone else’s daughter describe the entire plot of the Wizard of Oz in painful detail. He sees the good in people, no matter how big or small.

“Oh yeah, honey. They all think he’s cute -cute, not just dad -cute. You know those suburban sixties parties where everyone throws their car keys into a bowl and you go home with whoever’s keys you pull out? Listen, if anybody brought back that key party theme, you know they’d all pray for his.”

“Thanks. I think?” It’s like taking pride in a Participation Medal.

“So where is he really going tonight?”

“What?”

“Poker is never really poker, is it?” She sees my face fall and walks it back. “I mean, out drinking with the boys, being dumb, you know.” She slaps me gently on the thigh. “Unless it is! Play me another interview!”

“It’s all I have. And I’m going to erase it. It was good for a laugh, though.”

“No! Don’t erase it. Yes, if word got out you were recording porn stories and talking about screwing, okay, yes, maybe Emmy would have a few less playdates in Rockgate. But fuck that. We’re so trained to color in the lines. I’m sick of apologizing. I’d let you interview me about sex. I’ve been dying to talk about what happened anyway. About my affair. ” She puts air quotes around it, like the whole thing is untrue. “Turns out the ladies I know don’t really want to hear about it. They want to talk about what they heard, with each other, but nobody wants to hear about it from me. I’m not asking anyone to take my side. But if you’re going to hate me, don’t you want to know exactly why?”

“No one hates you.”

Her smile is small and sad.

“I want to hear about it.”

“Yeah? I’ll tell you right now.”

She looks down at my phone on the bed. I open my voice memos and hit record.

“Where should I start?”

“How did you meet him?”

Raleigh leans over my phone, addressing it directly. “Well, first off, you should know that my husband never went down on me. Dustin said if he did, then I got too wet and sex didn’t feel as good. Not enough friction.”

“Did you want him to go down on you?”

“I wanted him to want to. I don’t particularly enjoy having his dick in my mouth, but I did it because it made him feel good. Honestly, I don’t know how he could have been satisfied with our sex life. I think his standards are lower. He eats the same turkey sandwich for lunch every day. Zero variation. Mayo, mustard, tomato. I get it—I’ve spent enough time in my own therapy trying to figure him out. The predictability comforts him. He grew up in chaos.” Raleigh shakes her head. “But I got sick of that. It didn’t comfort me, I wanted something exciting.” She pulls her T-shirt over her knees and hugs her legs close to her chest.

“Where did you find it?”

“On a plane! On a fucking plane, Diana! I swear to god. I mean, thank god I had shaved my legs because that doesn’t happen on the regular anymore.” She leans back against the bed. “I was flying home to see my mom who was really sick. Dustin had booked me a first-class seat for the trip, which was nice of him. He said he didn’t want me crying in coach. And as I was boarding the plane, I saw this man in a firefighter’s uniform.”

Raleigh sees a flicker of disbelief cross my face.

“I know it sounds ridiculous, but I swear to you, there he was; well, not in full about-to-knock-down-a-burning-door gear, but he was wearing his navy polo shirt, with the fire department insignia, and these matching navy trousers. He was broad and muscular, of course, and I overhear him talking to the agent at the gate. He’s flying to Florida to see his mom because she is feeling poorly and he’s on standby. He’s in a panic, but the agent finds him a seat and hands him a boarding pass. As he passes me, heading back to his coach seat, I offer him mine in first class. I couldn’t imagine this big guy, this hero, squeezing himself into a coach seat, while I’m sitting up in first class. And he’s so sweet and grateful. I tell him I’d heard why he was flying, and that my mother is sick too. It’s this nice little moment of connection, like for a minute we’re not strangers. It feels…intimate. And then I go back to his seat in coach. I sit down and I feel warm just thinking about him, and a little less alone and sad. And I guess he thinks about me, too, because as soon as the seatbelt light goes off, the flight attendant brings me a Crown and Coke, compliments of my firefighter. It’s not my drink, but let me tell you, it goes down easily. So then I send him a drink. And then he sends me three at once!”

She crosses her legs and settles into the pillows.

“So I think, is he flirting with me? Maybe he’s just being polite? But you know what finally makes me realize there’s something going on? The flight attendant. She’s so judgmental. When she comes back with the drinks, there’s this look of distaste on her face. ‘This isn’t a nightclub. I can’t keep doing this,’ she says to me. Of course I’m mortified, and I assure her there won’t be another time. Then I drink each drink. I start to feel like I’m floating. You know when you smile and you don’t even realize you’re smiling? So, I decide, Fuck her, I’m going to pay my firefighter a visit in first class. I get up and peek my head through the curtain and there he is, looking right back at me. Strong jaw, broad shoulders.

“I mouth the words thank you to him. I have this overwhelming urge to comfort him. I want to kneel down next to his seat and hold his hand. I’m not even thinking about sex. I’m thinking maybe I could give him a hug or let him talk to me about his mother. And then he unbuckles his seatbelt.”

She looks at me, and then at a spot over my head. I hear the garage door creak shut as Oliver’s car drives away. Raleigh looks like she’s trying to decide what to leave out.

“He gets up and walks to the bathroom, and I follow him. Slip in right behind him. He’s slightly confused at first. Then he kisses me. And we keep kissing, and it’s that kind of kissing you do when you’re a teenager. Kissing that could last hours. There’s nothing but us, and our mouths. We’re connected, me and this stranger. But he keeps his hands at his sides. He doesn’t touch me anywhere. I get a feeling like he’s waiting for me to take the next step—if there’s going to be one. So I take one of his hands and lead it to my blouse. Together we unbutton the top buttons so I can slip his hand inside my shirt and he can feel my naked breasts, my nipples getting erect. He studies my face and smiles. He’s like me, he wants to keep going. So I lift up my skirt to let him know I want more too. He watches me pull my skirt up around my waist, standing in front of him in my lace underwear, ready to be touched, and I can hear his breath catch. Now it’s his turn. He unzips his pants and they fall to his ankles. His legs are massive, all muscle, and when he pulls down his boxers I swear I can see his erection throbbing. I slip out of my underwear and let him know I’m ready. His arms are solid and strong and he scoops me off the ground and I wrap my legs around him and suddenly he’s inside me, pushing deep into me, and we’re fucking. He’s so strong, and no one has ever made me feel so tiny and safe.

“I have this strange, primal urge to inhale as much of him as I can. All of this, his smell, his skin—the feeling of him inside me—his strength. I just give myself over to him completely. I think we’re both so desperate to feel anything other than our sadness. It feels like something we have to do. I had to follow that grieving man into an airplane bathroom and have the most exciting sex of my life.”

Raleigh stops. She studies my expression.

“Did you ever see him again?”

She shakes her head. “I cried after we both came. It was like something inside me broke and hit me like a tsunami. He held me after and I cried into his chest until someone knocked on the bathroom door. I apologized. Then we got dressed and went back to our seats. I tried to diminish the experience just so I could survive it. I told myself he couldn’t be as magical as I wanted him to be. Back in my seat, I forced myself to imagine him turning me off, like driving away from the airport in a neon monster truck, drinking one of those tallboy energy drinks and belching. But I’d only start laughing. It didn’t work. He was still magical. And as if to prove my point, just as the pilot announced we would be landing soon, the flight attendant walked over to my seat and said, ‘This is from 3D.’ Then she plopped down a plastic bag from duty free. Two Toblerones, a carton of cigarettes, and a whole bottle of Crown. I laughed again, even though she was scowling at me.”

—

Emmy wakes me up in the morning by jumping on my bed, and I immediately regret drinking so much. My head feels like it’s stuffed with wool. Oliver must have come home when I was fast asleep and is already up and out of bed. I pull on my robe, reminding Emmy to be quiet when we pass Raleigh’s room so she can sleep in.

But Raleigh’s already up, too, sitting with Oliver at the kitchen table, both of them red-faced and sweaty. “You didn’t tell me Oliver was a runner.”

“I’m just starting again. Please. I could barely keep up.” Oliver refills her water.

“Well, I was grateful for the company. Thank you.” She gets up and pours me a cup of coffee. When she hands it to me, she pulls me into a hug. “But you’re the revelation,” she whispers in my ear. “Dirty Diana.”

I give her a squeeze, and when she pulls away, there are happy tears in her eyes. “I’m going to pack up and stay with my sister. She just kicked out her loser boyfriend, thank god, so it’s perfect timing. She’s a little kooky, if you can believe it—” Raleigh smiles, giving Oliver and me permission to laugh politely. “But at least we can wallow in heartache together.”