That feeling you get when you’re on a roller coaster and the carriage is balanced at the top? How I feel... that isn’t that. Not exactly. It’s the moment following when the carriage drops. When fear—not exhilaration—consumes every millimetre of space inside your chest, pressurizing vital organs and forcing a scream from your lips. But I don’t scream. Not even as hot liquid splashes my shins. I look down, seeing the remains of my cup spinning, unaware of the burn. I don’t even hear the dullthudas the cup hits the wooden floor. I only see the aftermath; the handle lies three inches from the smashed base, the body of the cup cracked in two.
Just like my heart.
Melodramatic bitch, I chastise because my heart isn’t broken; I can feel it beating almost painfully in my chest. Pain, I can handle. Broken, I silently refute. Because my heart must beat to sustain life for two these days.
‘Jesus!’ Nat is suddenly by my side, but I don’t look at her. I’m still looking at my shoes; at the splashes of tea on the tan canvas and the puddle leaking around my feet. ‘Hey.’ She takes my forearms in her hands, giving me a quick shake. ‘What day is it?’
‘What?’ I lift my gaze to hers. My voice is hoarse, synapsis operating on a delay, and the back of my throat is closing in on itself, silencing what—my scream? My tears?
‘What fucking day is it?’ She questions harder, giving my shoulder a solid shake.
‘It’s on your phone.’
‘What?’
‘Buy a calendar, for fuck’s sakes.’
Nat’s hands fall away, and her shoulders slump. ‘Thanks be to fuck. You can’t be having a stroke if your sarcasm valve works.’
‘I’m just clumsy. I think I maybe blanked out for a moment.’ Nat bends and begins to gather the remains of my favourite cup as I inhale deeply, preparing myself for what I fear I heard, though hope I heard wrong.
You can do this. Hear this. For him—for yourself.My emotions simmer below the surface like poisonous brew.I screwed up. I ruined it for both of us.My hand goes to my stomach, the motion itself so ridiculous that my fingers curl and my hand drops away.
‘Who did you say is getting married—which celeb?’
Exhale. Breathe. You can bear this. You have no choice, and you’re no longer lying to yourself.
‘Dylan Duffy, him that—’
‘Cleavage shots.’ I cut her off, the reminder neither necessary nor welcome as my hand grasps the back of a nearby chair. I find I’m nodding my head—exaggerated motions.
‘Did it say who—in your article?’
What if it’s her; the walking coat hanger? Could I stand to share my child with her, even for visitation rights?
‘Georgia What’s-her-face.’
Christ, it is her. On the surface, she’s overly perky and blonde, but underneath, she’s a stuck-up, condescending bitch. Her family is film royalty, which seems to have given rise to the development of a very high opinion of herself. Her dad’s a big shot producer and her grandmother is a famous actress from way back. Showbiz is a very L.A. thing; while in other towns and cities across the US, kids take piano lessons, play football, or become scouts, in LA, kids take acting and singing lessons as a matter of course.
‘Isn’t she, like, twelve or something?’
‘Twenty. He’s hardly an auld man himself.’ Nat scoffs, spinning the chair from under my hand and pressuring me backwards into it. ‘He’s only, like, twenty-seven.’ I don’t reply; of course, Nat would know exactly how old Dylan is. She probably knows his chest size and inseam measurement, too.
‘Twenty and married. Her PR will have a fit.’
‘It’s not gonna happen, Ivy,’ she replies, chuckling. ‘This is the rumour mill and the studios working.’
‘Yeah, I forgot. You think he’s gay.’
‘I might’ve, at one time, suggested she was his beard,’ she responds, the pieces of the cup chiming as they hit the bottom of the bin. ‘You’ve got to admit it’s a possibility. There are too many women he’s supposed to be shagging for them all to be legit. And he does dress so sharply. There’s something about him that’s just a wee bit too perfect, I’d say.’ Theso many womenbit pokes a tender spot, and I wonder if it’d be better or worse if he were gay. Maybe less painful than finding out he’s making plans to get married again. ‘I’m right, aren’t I?’
‘What? Oh, yeah,’ I respond, my mind still working on delay. He is a little too perfect, or at least, he was a little too perfect for me.
‘Ha! I knew it. You know him—and you know he’s bi! He couldn’t possibly be only gay—it would be a tragedy to womankind! And besides, there was the video.’
‘I didn’t say he was... I didn’t sayanyof that. I meant that—that it’s a possibility.’ My shoulders slump.
‘What’s a possibility; gay or bi?’
