“I still hate it.” I look around at the mess in my own house. “Let me finish straightening up in here first. I can’t leave for a whole week knowing it looks like this.”
Ruby stares long and hard at me, probably already coming to the conclusion that most people do about women like me… that I’m hopeless.
“You aren’t going on vacation for a week, Karma. Don’t you get it? You’re not coming back here, so it won’t matter. Let that jerk clean up the mess. I shouldn’t have wiped his counters down now that I think about it.”
She pulls her cell phone out of her back pocket and sends a quick text message. “I’m confirming the job. I’ll wait here while you pack a bag and don’t worry if that fucker comes back. I’ve got a can of mace in my purse that I’d love to crack open.”
I shudder at the thought and start to move quickly.
It doesn’t take me long to pack twenty-four years of my life into two duffle bags that I bought from a secondhand shop. I don’t want to take anything that belongs to Ray or that he’s paid for, so it doesn’t leave me with much.
Tears are streaming down my face as Ruby helps me drag the duffle bags to her minivan. She’s seen me at my lowest, so there’s no use in pretending that I’m not scared shitless of what kind of life I have ahead of me.
“You’re doing the right thing,” she assures me as I slide into the passenger seat of the van.
A sudden text comes in and my heart drops.
“What is it?” Ruby asks with concern etched on her forehead.
“It’s Ray.”
2
Bronx
The slow crashing sound of the ocean waves soothes something so feral inside of me, it makes me wish that I was able to sit still in this spot forever. If I close my eyes and stick my tongue out far enough, I swear that I can taste the salt of the Atlantic Ocean in the air, and I lick my lips in appreciation. The taste is familiar, like the cleavage of a woman’s breasts mid stroke.
Savory.
Earthy.
Succulent.
Yet as hard as I’m trying to stay in the moment, I think I may have come to my endpoint with the beach, or at least this particular beach. Being able to stay in the moment is not my strong suit. I’ve only been here for two weeks and already I’m itching to do something else. Anything else besides lay one more day by the water drinking badly mixed cocktails and getting sucked off by random bikini-clad women, although that’s probably exactly what I should be doing.
Decompressing.
Reflecting.
Relaxing.
Let’s just say my restlessness, coupled with my unique level of intensity, is not a good mix for a month long escape at a mindfulness retreat at one of the most exclusive Miami beachfront retreats that money can buy. This probably wasn’t one of my smartest ideas, but I knew it would be the last place in the world that anyone with the last name Masterson would think to find me.
A woman I’ve been hanging out with (in other words fucking) the last few days approaches me in a string bikini the color of peach sherbet with a joint in her hand. Evidently a lot of yogis are vegans, flexible in bed, and really like pot. This one’s even British.
“Do you want to smoke this joint with me before you take the next class, love?” she asks in a British accent that makes her sound comically more classy and refined than she actually is. I nod my head silently no and take a shot of whatever shit whiskey this is in my glass.
“I grow my own plants in my greenhouse so it’s totally organic, and smoking makes the class so much more enjoyable. Might just loosen you up a bit. I think you may be one of the most intense American men I’ve ever met.”
She begins massaging one side of my tight shoulder muscles with her free hand as she takes a toke of the joint with the other. My muscles stiffen from the unexpected contact. There’s the simple physicality of sex and then there’s intimacy.
I don’t do intimacy.
“See, you’re so tense up in your trapezoid area.” She tries passing the joint to me. “It could help you sleep better, too.”
“No,” I say with an angry, raw edge to my voice, annoyed that she’s touching me without my permission and also pissed that I have to say anything to her at all because it hurts like hell to talk today. After getting my windpipe sliced and stitched back together years ago, my voice is often reduced to a raspy murmur.
“Okay, love,” she responds nervously as she backs cautiously away.
