Dirty Diana

Chapter 24

Chapter 24

—

My phone buzzes for a fifth time and this time I grab it, in case it’s Oliver or the school or anything Emmy-related. I scroll through the texts, none of them from Oliver. They’re from L’Wren and two other carpool moms at Emmy’s school. I quickly dial L’Wren.

“Oh, honey, why haven’t you picked up? I’ve been calling you all morning.”

“Is everything okay? Are you okay?”

“Oh lord. Where do I start?”

“You’re scaring me, L’Wren.”

“Maybe I should just come over.”

Soon L’Wren is at my door wearing faux-leather leggings and her usual oversize sunglasses. She lowers them to reveal a black eye.

“Oh my god. What happened?”

“I went full-on Jerry Springer in the carpool line. I couldn’t help myself. Raleigh never saw it coming.”

“You attacked Raleigh in the carpool line?”

“Attack? Noooo. No.” She shakes her head. “I slapped her.”

“L’Wren!”

“She thinks she can move in on my BFF’s husband like some kind of Real Housewife? No way. Not today. Nope.” She smooths the fabric of her shirt.

I study her face, so earnest and full of fury. L’Wren, defender of all creatures, stray and scrawny and shit-kicked, picked a fight in front of school, sticking up for me. “L’Wren, I can’t believe…” As I open my mouth to speak, the whole scene plays before my eyes in vivid, perfectly placed panels: L’Wren emerges from her minivan with a head full of steam. I picture a kitten tucked under one arm and her purse slung over the other, as Raleigh appears in the next frame.

It’s ten a.m. , and I’m still in my pajamas, and L’Wren is in my living room with a black eye and now we’re both laughing so hard I’m sure at least one of us will pee.

“What happened after you slapped her?”

L’Wren is on her feet to demonstrate. “Raleigh tries to tackle me and you know, she comes after me with these long nails and swats at my face. And I’ve been doing that capoeira/boxing/modern dance hybrid class for the last two years with Marcos? With the abs? So I use an uppercut jazz hand and then I kind of shove her against my car.”

My hand covers my mouth. “No! What about the black eye?”

“Oh. She did get a good one in. Yeah. She sure did. With her elbow right to my face.” L’Wren delicately fingers the skin around her eye. “I’m heading to the derm now for some filler since I already have the bruising. But I wish you’d been there, Diana. I know it was wrong, but it felt so damn good. There was a red handprint on her face! It was beautiful.”

I pull L’Wren into a hug. “Thank you.”

She pulls back. “You fuck with you, you fuck with me ! I’ve been saying it for years.”

I think about correcting her motto, but I’m too full of gratitude. “Something like that.” I smile, suddenly unsure how I got lucky enough to have a friend like this.

—

For the next several weeks, time moves in slow-motion circles, like I’m falling out of circulation. Some days, my smiles are genuine and not just for Emmy. But other days, I start crying while eating a piece of toast. Some nights, I go to bed early and some nights I stay up and leave Oliver cringey late-night messages about going back to therapy. He doesn’t call back, committing to the idea that we both need “space.” Dinner is also out of the question, as if just being near me will remind him too much of our failures. I talk to Alicia every day and she encourages me to keep making art—she promises me that creating something will get me through. I keep interviewing women for Dirty Diana and realize I no longer have to go looking for people to talk to me. Every day someone new reaches out by emailing the contact @Dirty Diana address I posted on the site.

Some evenings, I lie on the bed and listen to other women’s stories of love and longing and desire, and I think about Oliver and try to rewind the tape to how we got here. One Monday morning at the office, I find out he quit the Friday before, without mentioning it to me. But instead of feeling blindsided, I think of how numb he’s been, too, for so long. We’d quietly, slowly let each other drift so far away.

Oliver never calls, but he does text. About things like pickup times and camp forms. I text him questions about the fuse box and ask again about therapy. He answers the easy questions and avoids the hard ones. But I ask him out to dinner again anyway.

—

One Saturday morning, I have two texts: one from Alicia and one from Oliver. Alicia reminds me that I promised to meet with a friend of hers who loves the site. I ask if we can push it a week or two, but she urges me to show up.

Then I check Oliver’s text.

Sorry to bother you, but Emmy swears you told her she could have cupcakes for breakfast on Saturdays.

Nice try, Ems.

Thought so.

Three dots disappear then reappear. Then he adds:

How are you?

Good.

How do I answer that question?

Just enjoying my Saturday. But missing Emmy and her bald-faced lies.

She is…inventive…Are you at the house?

Do you really want to know or are you just bored?

Both.

Doing laundry. Running errands. Nothing too exciting.

At least there’s less laundry to do now?

Sure…But I never minded the laundry.

Right.

I assume that’ll be the end of our thread. But when I set my phone on the kitchen counter, it vibrates again.

I’m sorry about all this. It’s weird, right?

Very.

His three dots appear. Then disappear. Then after a long few moments:

Maybe I’m having a midlife crisis?

Have you bought a tiny but obscenely expensive sports car?

No.

Before I can stop myself, my fingers fly over the keys.

A Hummer?

Do they still make those?? (Note to self: google vintage Hummers…)

Have you joined a dojo?

No…Not yet?

Nope. It’s not a midlife crisis. I promise.

I pause, and then add:

You’re just saying what you want.

Took me long enough.

Ha ha.

I slip my phone in my bag and a minute later it buzzes again.

Are you free for dinner?

I don’t hesitate.

Yes. Tonight?

More dots appear and then nothing, until:

Okay.

—

As I hurry to get ready to meet Alicia’s friend, Oliver’s text thread plays over and over in my mind. What if he wants to meet to ask for a divorce in person? But why over dinner? What if he’s reaching out to have a real conversation? What if there’s a version of us where we do tell each other what we really want? Is it too late for that? Alicia sent me a time and place to meet her friend for coffee, but as I’m parking the car I have a sudden pang about how I’ll find her. I scroll back through her texts but don’t find a name.

I text Alicia.

What’s this friend’s name? Does she know what I look like?

I wait, staring at my phone. Nothing. It’s almost time so I head into the café. There’s no one sitting alone or seeming like they’re waiting on anyone, so I find a table where I can watch the door. I order a coffee and check my phone, willing Alicia to text me back. Nothing.

When the bell above the door chimes, I glance up from my phone and see a slim, broad-shouldered guy enter. He’s got tousled hair and a slow, easy walk and he reminds me of someone I once knew.

He walks toward me, and I keep telling myself he’s a facsimile, because the original couldn’t possibly be here. The original is somewhere else, somewhere lost to me.

Then he’s standing in front of me, and I’m looking up at him. “Jasper.”

He sits down opposite me and leans forward, his elbows on his knees. He looks me in the eyes and smiles.

“Diana,” he says. “Thanks for taking the meeting.”