Monkey Business (23 page)

11:50 p.m.

I'
m lying on Layla's bed, slightly drunk from a bottle of Chardonnay I'd bought in a futile attempt to cheer myself up, flipping through channels, trying to find something on TV that isn't about stupid Valentine's Day.

Irresistible, my ass. That lipstick is going right in the garbage.

Everyone else in the world has something to do tonight. Even Nick and Lauren have dates. With two undergrad roommates, oddly. And I have nothing. I have to pee, but I'm afraid to run into Russ and his precious Sharon. I crept out of the building at ten a.m. and spent the day at the library, and so far I've managed to avoid them. I'd planned on showing up in places I'd thought they'd be, so that Russ could compare us in the flesh (and thus find her lacking), but I couldn't bear to see them together, laughing and kissing, arms intertwined.

It's now almost midnight and I can't even see what's going on in the common room downstairs, because what if Russ and Sharon walk by and see me sprawled pathetically on the infested couch, stuffing my face with chips?

I flip the channel again and see Russ and Sharon in the entranceway.

Oh. My. God.

I still can't believe this average albeit attractive woman is
the
Sharon. When I met her in the entrance the other day I was shocked.
This
is my rival?
This
is the other woman?

I should have told her right then and there who
I
was.

Okay, fine, technically I'm the other woman, but nevertheless, she's not what I expected. I thought she'd be tall and blond and waiflike, but she she's kind of average. Like Joey from
Dawson's Creek
but with less angst. She has shoulder-length brown hair, big brown eyes and a small slightly turned-up nose.

He opens the door for her, slowly kissing the spot on her neck between her chin and scarf.

I don't want to see this. I don't want to see them all loving and happy.

I keep watching.

She takes off her gloves and runs her right hand through his hair.

My eyes fill with tears, angry tears, sad tears, the screen blurs, and the next thing I know they're gone.

How could he kiss her like that? How can he act like he loves her but then sleep with me? What is wrong with him?

Why do I let him get away with it?

Right now they're climbing the stairs. I should meet them at the top. I should tell him to go fuck himself. I should tell her what he's been doing—screwing me. I should shake my fist and scream and make her realize the truth, make them both feel as shitty as I do.

Maybe I will.

I smooth my hair and slide out of Layla's room.

The hallway is empty and I stomp toward the staircase. I open the stairway door, listening to their voices coming from the second floor.

“I think I had too much wine,” she says, giggling.

“You only had two glasses,” he answers, and from where I am, I can see him patting her on the head.

“I'm a cheap date,” she says. Then she adds, “I had a terrific time tonight.”

I clench my hands into fists and anchor them to my hips.

Sharon stumbles over a step and giggles again. “I'd better not get sick tonight,” she says, still laughing.

“I'll take care of you,” he answers.

They're about to turn the corner in the stairwell, where they'll see me. Any second now.

I think I'm going to be sick.

I can't do this.

I step out of the stairwell, back into the hallway, unlock my door and, just as I hear them approaching, I close my door, tears streaming down my face.

Monday, February 16, 10:00 a.m.

O
ne shovel of earth. Two.

The rabbi is saying the mourners' prayer, and my mother is tightly holding onto my father.

My bubbe died at eleven-forty Saturday night. I was downstairs getting my mother a hot chocolate. Bubbe was sleeping. I came back to the room and found chaos—my mother was wailing, my sisters and niece had shown up and they were also crying, and the doctor was trying to calm everyone down. I was drowning in both panic and relief. Relief that she is no longer afraid.

No more fear. Now she's in a box, buried next to my grandfather, whose headstone reads, Abraham Rosinsky, 1912–1990. Summary of their lives: they married in Warsaw in 1937, survived the camps, met up again in 1946, emigrated to America in 1948, had two kids, my mother and my uncle, had seven grandkids and are survived by six of them.

It comes down to that, a summary.

Is she with my grandfather now? I don't believe in an afterlife, but what do I know? Did my bubbe believe in one?
Maybe she did. Maybe she wasn't afraid to die. I wish I had asked her.

How do you ask someone who is about to die if she's afraid?

If I had really wanted to know, I would have asked.

I glance around at the clusters of gravestones. Two rows over, a tombstone says Nathan Mandel, 1975–1992. Poor Nathan Mandel. How did he die at seventeen? What happened to ill-fated Nathan Mandel? Leukemia? Car accident? Drug overdose?

The sun is shining directly on my head, burning my scalp. The bright weather makes the cemetery seem almost obscene. My mother grips my hand tighter.

My bubbe's death is sad, but I wouldn't call it a tragedy. She had a full life. Nathan Mandel, that was a tragedy.

But why is longevity important when we're all going to die, anyway? Is the purpose of life merely life? What about courage and integrity? What about loving and being loved?

I feel a rush of panic. Life is short, and I don't want to waste it. I want to make sure that every day is filled with things that make me and others happy.

Layla. Why haven't I told her how I felt about her?

When I called the dorm earlier today, wanting to hear her voice, I got her machine: “Hi! This is Layla. I'm in New York for the weekend. You can call me on my cell at 212-555-6782 or leave a message. And happy Valentine's Day!”

She was probably in New York for another interview. Good for her! I smiled at her chirpiness, then hung up before saying anything. I didn't know what to say. I debated calling her in New York, but decided against it. What would I say to her? Standing here in the hot sunlight, looking at the coffin and the gravestones, I know what I want to tell her, but it's the sort of thing that should be said in person, not over the phone.

I want to tell her I love her.

1:00 p.m.

“R
uss, sweetie, time to wake up. It's already afternoon. Happy President's Day.”

I blink my eyes open and pat Kimmy's hair.

My eyes shoot open. Oh, man.
Sharon's
hair.
Sharon's
hair, not Kimmy's.

My heart speeds up. Better hope I don't confuse their names out loud. I open my mouth to say something but then close it, not trusting my own voice.

Having Sharon here is confusing the hell out of me. On the one hand, I love seeing her. How could I not? I love those ears. On the other hand, having her in such close vicinity to Kimmy fills me with dread. Don't like when worlds collide.

She sits up and stretches. “What do you want to do today?”

“Relax?” Let my heart rate go back to normal, for starters. I need to get out of the Zoo. Out of the bed I've slept in with Kimmy. It's freaking me out. “Let's go shower, then take a walk and get some lunch.”

We get out of bed and Sharon starts straightening the
linen. She reaches between the comforter and wall to pull out the pillow that fell over. “Russ?”

“Yeah?” I say while searching for a clean towel.

“What's this?”

She's eyeing me suspiciously and holding the DVD jacket of
Sex and the City,
season two.

Shit. Kimmy must have left it here.

Now why would I be watching season two of
Sex and the City?
As far as Sharon knows I've never even seen season one. There's no superhero in
Sex and the City.

Her eyes are squinting in mistrust.

Shit. Shit. Shit. The only reason I would I have
Sex and the City
here is because I was watching it with a chick.

Or…

“I borrowed it from a female friend to use as porn,” I blurt. Heart pounding. What the hell did I just say? That's just gross. Did she buy it?

She continues staring at me, then shakes her head. “That's so pathetic.”

“Yeah, well, it's been a long time. And I need to release myself sometimes.”

She laughs, tiptoes over to me and kisses me on the lips. “You should call me next time. We can have—” she lets her hand roam over the seat of my pants “—phone sex.”

How did I manage to turn a potential disaster into phone sex, eh? I am a superhero. “Shower and then lunch?”

“Can we shower together?”

She loves showering together. I don't. I get cold while I'm waiting for her to rinse out the conditioner.

“I only have one pair of flip-flops,” I say.

She swats me lightly with my one clean towel, grabs the flip-flops and heads to the bathroom.

Five minutes later there's a knock on the door.

Kimmy. Oh, man. This is not a good plan.

“Hi,” she says. “Your
girlfriend
was preoccupied so I thought I'd say hi.”

“Hi. All good?” I scan down the hallway to make sure Sharon isn't on her way back. I don't want to engage her in a conversation. I don't want Sharon to even see her here. She'll be able to tell if she sees us together. I know she will.

“I'm okay.” She tries to make eye contact but I'm not letting her. I can't flirt with her when Sharon's here. Just can't. I feel bad for Sharon. Hell, I feel bad for Kimmy, too.

She touches my arm. Is she crazy? I shake her off.

“This isn't a good time,” I say, lowering my voice. “Can we talk later?”

She steps back like I slapped her. Her eyes fill with tears, and she turns and starts walking away. Oh, man.

“Wait, Kimmy, don't be mad,” I say to the back of her head. I hate what I'm doing. To them both.

She shrugs without turning around.

“Can't we talk about this tomorrow?”

She doesn't answer and continues walking.

I'm about to go after her, when Sharon appears at the other end of the hall, in her towel.

Shit. Did she hear?

Kimmy raises her arm and gives me the finger.

Oh, man. Did Sharon see that?

I guess not. Sharon waves at me, and continues her journey down the hall. “My feet just don't feel clean when I wear flip-flops,” she says, laughing.

 

I turn off the shower water and try to turn off my brain, as well. That was so close. I can't believe how near I came to blowing everything.

I wrap my towel around my waist and peer out of the stall. Not in the mood for another Kimmy run-in. I'll deal with it tomorrow.

I hurry back to my room and unlock the door. My stom
ach grumbles. “Are you starving, too?” I ask Sharon. Sharon is sitting on the bed, wearing just a bra and underwear, staring at something in her hand.

She's staring at a condom wrapper.

Oh, man. Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

Sharon and I don't use condoms.

An icy chill travels down my body.

She looks up at me, her face pale, her lips quivering. “My hair gel rolled under the bed. And look what I found.”

“Sharon, I…”

She tries to throw it at me, but it falls pathetically to the floor. Her hand starts to shake. “Are you cheating on me?” she squeaks.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

I open my mouth, close it, then say, “Yes.”

I lean against the door for balance, then slide down to the floor. “I'm sorry…I…” My voice trails off. Shit, shit, shit. “I'll stop.”

“Who is she?” she asks, her voice rising.

“Kimmy.”

She flings herself off the bed, picks up the wrapper and waves it in the air. “Kimmy, the one who called you New Year's Eve?”

I nod, my throat too tight to speak. “I'll stop,” I breathe out again.

“You'll stop?” She holds her stomach, and I wonder if she's going to be sick. “You'll stop?” she repeats, screeching. “Well, thank you, I
so
appreciate that, you slime bucket. How often, Russ? How many times did you do it? How many times has this
fucking
happened?”

Oh, man. “A few,” I whisper meekly.

“A few with Kimmy? Or a few women?” Her eyes look wild, and her hands are waving all over the room.

“Just Kimmy,” I croak. I don't know if just Kimmy is better or worse.

“I can't believe you could sleep with me all weekend, even though you've been sleeping with someone else.” She covers her mouth and groans. “We don't even use condoms, you jackass, and you know why? Because I
fucking
trusted you!”

I'm crumpled on the floor, feeling sick to my stomach. “I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. But you don't have to worry. Kimmy and I always used condoms, I swear.”

Her hands are shaking. “Yeah? Did you use condoms when she gave you head? I've taught Sex Ed. If you get something from that slut, so help me, I'm going to kill you, do you understand?”

Bile rises in my throat. “I love you,” I say, because I mean it and because I don't know what else to say.

She kicks me in the thigh. Holy shit. She's never kicked anyone in her entire life.

She kicks me again. Ouch. Good thing she's not wearing shoes. “Fuck you!” she screams.

“I love you,” I repeat desperately.

She starts getting into her jeans. “Save it. If you loved me, you wouldn't have slept with someone else. End of
fucking
story.”

“I'm sorry,” I say. “I'm so sorry. I love you.”

“Too
fucking
bad.” She opens her suitcase and throws her hair dryer inside.

I have to stop her. “Don't leave,” I say, sadness welling in my throat. What do I do? I don't know what to do. I jump up and try to hug her.

She pushes me away and sobs, tears running freely down her cheeks as she finishes getting dressed. “I thought I was going to marry you.” She looks up at me, and her wet eyes look beautiful.

I gently touch her arm. I want to tell her it didn't mean anything, but I can't. It did, and I can't lie to her anymore.

She zips up her bag and shakes her head. “It's over, Russ.
I can't even look at you. Being in the same room as you makes me want to throw up.”

“Please don't go,” I whisper. “Don't leave like this.”

She takes a deep breath and shakes her head. I don't move. She pushes me out of the way and opens the door.

“Your flight isn't until tonight,” I say, desperate to make her stay.

She walks out the door and doesn't look back. And then she's gone. The hallway is silent. Oh, man. I feel dizzy and lean against the wall. That was so goddamn dramatic. Surreal. I can't believe what just happened. I go back to my room. Why didn't I check under the bed? How could I have left that wrapper?

I sit on my bed. Then stand up. Then sit again. A two-hundred-pound weight is pressed against my chest. My head feels like someone is squeezing it.

I lie on my bed and spend the next few hours picking at my face and staring at the ceiling.