Say Never Read online

  I disconnect, then return to my contact list. As I scroll through, I realize that there is no one to whom I can reach out that will understand my situation. I have spent years pushing people away, denying my vulnerabilities and rejecting intimacy. I slept with Adam for over a year, but I’d bet a hundred bucks he doesn’t even know my middle name or the fact that I’m from California. Twenty-four hours ago, I would have called Damien for support, but obviously I’m never going there again.

  I have nowhere to turn. I flop onto my back across the bed and cover my eyes with my arm. A moment later, a knock sounds at my door.

  “What?”

  I hear the door open and the soft thud of footsteps on the carpet. The mattress shifts beside me.

  “Danny asked me to come and get you,” Cera says. “The food should be here in twenty minutes. He also wanted to know if you’d like a…um…liberation…”

  “Libation,” I correct.

  “I know. I was kidding.” She chuckles. I readjust my arm and peer at her beneath the sleeve of my blouse. “Libation and liberation are totally different things.”

  “Although you may be able to achieve one by indulging in the other,” I say, and am slightly ashamed by my satisfaction over stupefying my eleven-year-old step niece.

  “Huh?”

  “If you’re drunk enough, you feel free,” I explain. “Even though you aren’t.”

  She nods knowingly, and I realize how well beyond her years Cera is.

  Just like I was.

  “Are you coming out, or what?” she asks and I shake my head.

  “I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”

  “Why not?”

  “I think maybe you’re a little too young to understand.” I shimmy up into a half-seated position, my head resting against the pillows. Cera frowns at me.

  “You like Mr. Ryan, right?” she says. “But you don’t want him to know and be all like ‘oooh, she likes me and I’m so stoked.’”

  “I don’t like him like that.”

  “That’s total bullcrap.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’m, like, almost twelve, but I’m not stupid. I saw how you looked at him. I know you thought I was watching Wild Kratts, but I totally saw you look at him like you liked him.”

  “That’s funny, because when I saw him sitting there, I thought I was going to throw up.”

  “Yeah. Like that.” She sticks her forefinger in her mouth and chews on her nail for a few seconds. “I had a thing for Craig Kauffman—he’s this really cute eighth grader—and every time I saw him I thought I was going to toss my cookies.”

  “It’s a little more complicated at my age,” I say, then cover my eyes again. The darkness is welcome. “Matt Ryan is the least of my problems. It’s like, when everything you thought you knew turns out to be false and you have no idea who you are anymore. I think I might be on the verge of a total nervous breakdown.”

  Cera is silent for a moment. “So, what are you going to do?” she finally asks. “Curl up into a ball and die?”

  Again, I move my arm and look at her. “That sounds about right.”

  “That sucks.”

  “Yes. It does. Can you think of any alternatives?”

  “Well, you could come out and eat Chinese with us.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “Neither am I,” she says. “I got a text from my dad saying my grandma is going to die any minute.”

  I abandon my own angst for a brief moment and lean forward to give her my full attention. “I’m sorry Cera. That must be really hard for you.”

  She nods. “Grandma Fran is awesome. She sends me stupid t-shirts and sweaters for Christmases and for birthdays and, like, you know, special events. The last one was for when I graduated sixth grade. It said ‘What happens at Grandma’s Stays at Grandma’s.’ I thought it was totally lame. But now, you know, I’m never going to stay at her house again, so…”

  Her breath hitches and I reach out to grab her hand. She pulls away from me, but not in anger. “It’s cool, you know?” she says, tamping down her emotions. “She’s totally old. But it sucks, too. So, I could so curl up in a ball and cry my eyes out. But I’m not going to. I’m going to go out and eat Chinese food and pretend everything’s cool, because it is. You made me see that. I’m, like, here with my sister and brother and step dad and step grandpa and…uh… step aunt. So, it is okay, right? I’m with my…family. My second family, anyway. So even though I’m totally sad and freaking out, I can still eat Chinese food, you know?”

  I pat her hand, then fall back against the pillows. “You’re so young.”

  “That’s a total insult,” she says with a frown.

  “No. I don’t mean you’re young. Honestly, you’re the oldest eleven-year-old I know.” Not that I know any eleven-year-olds. “What I mean is, you have time.” I gaze at her unlined skin, her clear blue unassuming eyes, the smattering of freckles on the bridge of her nose. “You’re young enough to be resilient. I’m old, Cera. I turned forty this year. I just don’t know if I can realign my outlook…if I can overhaul my sensibilities…if I can…bounce back.”

  She shrugs, seemingly unfazed by my musings. “There’s only one way to find out, isn’t there?”

  Damn it. Called to the carpet by my sister-in-law’s kid.

  She pushes herself off the bed and stretches to her full height. Her Abercrombie jeans and pink peace t-shirt hang on her skinny pre-teen frame, but there is wisdom in her eyes.

  “I’m going out there. McKenna’s waiting for me. She’s waiting for you, too. You’re like the super-hero aunt now. Patsy Gates, eat your fucking heart out.”

  “Hey! Language,” I say, although I can’t hide my smug smile.

  “We’ll be waiting for you.”

  She turns on her heel and strides from the room. I watch her go and for a brief moment, I imagine her at sixteen, then twenty-one, then forty. She could rule the world if she wanted to. But then, maybe she won’t want to rule the world. Maybe she’ll just want to be happy.

  Isn’t that what we all want?

  I lumber to the edge of the bed and let my legs dangle over the side. I look at my toes and think of Danny and how I played ‘This Little Piggy’ with him when he was a toddler, no older than Tebow.

  When my brother and I were young, I taunted him and was mercilessly hard on him, made him cry on any number of occasions, teased him as any older sibling does. But Buddy was right. I was there for him. I held his hand when he was scared and let him sleep in my bed when he thought monsters were hiding in the closet and I punched out his nemesis at school when the stupid jerk called my brother a gonad and I made him cinnamon toast when he was sick and couldn’t eat anything else.

  Maybe I wasn’t the bitch I always thought I was. Maybe I’m not the person I thought I was.

  Maybe I am hungry for some Chinese food after all.

  Twenty-one

  Meg: You’re telling me that you can’t remember anything that happened before 2012? Not your husband or your kids? (laughter) Lady, you are so faking it.

  Guest: How dare you say that? How would you feel if you woke up from a coma and your entire life was a complete blank?

  Meg: I’d consider it my lucky day.

  * * *

  When your whole world tilts on its axis, you begin to question everything, which is exactly what I do as soon as I emerge from the guest room.

  For example, do I really hate Kung Pao Chicken, or did I always just think I hated Kung Pao Chicken? I don’t know. When Matt offers me the white carton with the formerly offending dish, I take it from him and dump some onto my plate, then shovel a forkful into my mouth without hesitation. And you know what? It’s not half bad. I end up eating the entire pile, peanuts and all, with gusto and more than a little mania.

  The tofu with mixed vegetables comes my way, a dish I would ordinarily bypass based on my lifelong rejection of all soy-based products. I enthusiastically tantalize my taste buds with the spongy little
squares. They are chewy and tasteless, as I suspected they would be, but at least I gave them a shot.

  McKenna is the only one at the table not partaking in the Chinese feast. Although she still can’t feel her chin, the motion of chewing would likely make it throb all the more later, once the numbing agent wears off. She sits to my left, eyeing the bowl in front of her which contains about four million calories worth of ice cream.

  “Ice cream for dinner, huh?” I say.

  “The doctor told me I could,” she says and I stick my tongue out at her.

  “I’m jealous.”

  She gives me a solemn look. “You can share with me if you want to, Auntie Meg.”

  Ice cream? In the middle of a meal? I would never…or would I? I smile at my niece then reach over and poke at the ice cream with my chopsticks. I make a show of trying—and not succeeding—to get some of the frozen treat to stay on the wooden sticks. McKenna giggles.

  “You can’t use chopsticks to eat ice cream,” she says.

  “Why not?” I manage to grab a small lump, but when I bring it to my lips, it slips through the chopsticks and lands on my blouse. My Tory Burch blouse. McKenna’s eyes go wide as I grab the blob of ice cream with my fingers and pop it into my mouth. Mmm. Chocolate. Cera, who sits on the other side of McKenna, lets loose a guffaw as I swipe at the stain.

  “That top is toast,” she says.

  “The question is, do I really love Tory Burch, or do I just think I do?”

  Cera narrows her eyes at me. “Huh? You told me that Tory Burch is in a class by herself.”

  “Yes, but do I really think that? I kind of suspect I do.” I gaze at my chest and the brown stain. If I were being given a Rorschach test, I’d call it two mollusks mating.

  I shrug. “I’m sure Caroline has stain stick. Right, Danny?”

  Danny is in the middle of a conversation with Buddy about Michael Jordan, my dad’s all-time favorite basketball player.

  “Stain what?”

  Matt jumps in. “I have some Folex.” This is the first thing he’s said to me since taking the seat beside mine.

  “Folex? Isn’t that for carpets?”

  “I believe it works on fabric as well.”

  “Silk?”

  “I wouldn’t know about that. My silk-shirt-wearing days ended in the eighties.”

  I laugh, then nab a lo mein noodle and swing it for emphasis. “I’ll give it a try.”

  He nods. “More tofu?”

  “I’d rather shoot myself in the foot.”

  “Honestly, what is the point of tofu?”

  “It’s healthy,” Danny says.

  “It’s ucky, Daddy,” McKenna chimes in.

  “Totally gross,” Cera agrees.

  “Blorfnyak!” Tebow cries.

  “I don’t know what in the heck you all are talking about,” Buddy hollers.

  “We’re talking about tofu, Dad,” Danny says.

  “Oh, you mean that crapus dexterous?” He jabs his fork at the carton with the tofu. “God-awful stuff.”

  “Caroline says it’s good for you,” Danny explains.

  “Where is she?”

  “Remember, Dad? She’s in the rehab hospital.” My brother tries to keep his tone even.

  Buddy rolls his eyes. “I know that! What’d’ya think, I’m senile? What I meant was, Where is she? Meaning She’s not here, meaning why in the heck are we eating that stuff? Pass me the broccoli beef, if you would, Missy.”

  Cera complies, handing him the carton. He gives her a wink and she smiles at him.

  I gaze around the table at this strange assembled group, my thoughts a jumbled mess. It’s not that I’m suddenly feeling like the Grinch whose heart grew three sizes after hearing those little bastard Whos sing that annoying Christmas song (the one stays in your head for hours after the show’s over). No. I’m feeling like I’m having an out of body experience. Like someone else is sitting here at a family dinner with her relatives and neighbor, someone who looks like me but is really an alien life form.

  A week ago, I was eating a Lean Cuisine standing at the counter in my kitchen, watching Entertainment Tonight and making scathing remarks about the vapid blond host. Happily so. But at this moment, I’m thinking about the the three children around me. They could have been my children if I’d lived a different life.

  At this moment, I have no idea who I am.

  I jerk to my feet, almost knocking over my chair. “Do you think we can get that Folex now?”

  Matt gazes up at me, puzzled.

  “If I don’t get the stain out as soon as possible, it’ll set. This blouse cost a hundred and seventy-five bucks.” Okay. That sounded like the Meg Monroe I know.

  Matt nods. “Sure. No problem.” He stands and drops his napkin onto his chair, then heads for the back door.

  “We’ll be right back.”

  Danny looks confused, but Buddy is grinning.

  “Sure, honey,” my dad says. “See you soon.”

  * * *

  “Sorry. I shouldn’t have dragged you out of there.”

  “Don’t apologize. A hundred and seventy-five dollars is a lot for a blouse.”

  “I couldn’t give a rat’s ass about the blouse,” I say and flop down on Matt’s burgundy suede sofa. “I just had to get out of there for a minute.”

  “Okay.” He stands at the edge of the living room, staring at me as though I’m a wild animal whose sedation is starting to wear off.

  “I just…I don’t…I’m not…it’s so…” I shake my head. “This is like…whatever!”

  “How about I go get the Folex,” Matt suggests. He starts to move toward the hall.

  “Why did you kiss me the other night?”

  He stops, then slowly turns around to face me. His expression is sheepish. “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

  “But why? Look, I’m not fishing for compliments. I just want to know what compelled you to kiss me. I’m forty years old. I thought I had it all together, I thought I had everything figured out, that I knew what I wanted, how the world works, but I don’t.”

  “I know.”

  I peer at him as he crosses to the couch. He lowers himself to the cushion and stares at the scuffed maple coffee table.

  “You’re very attractive.”

  “Please, don’t.”

  “You are, Meg. And you come across as extremely…” He clears his throat. “Self-assured. But there’s also this softness, this kind of vulnerability. You don’t want anyone to see it. You don’t even want to see it yourself. But it’s there.”

  “So you kissed me because I was vulnerable and I didn’t know it?”

  “No. I kissed you because I wanted to. And because you have great tits.”

  “Excuse me?” I swat him on the shoulder. “How old are you anyway?”

  “When it comes to boobs, all men are sixteen.” He glances over at my chest and starts to chuckle. “Yours are especially desirable right now seeing as how they’re covered with chocolate.”

  I push myself off the couch and plant my hands on my hips. “Okay, mister boob-fixated teenager. Where’s the Folex?”

  He grins then stands up and leads me down the hall to the back of the house. Next to the garage door is a small alcove which houses the washer and dryer and an industrial sink. Matt reaches for the bottle of Folex on the top shelf above the machines, and as I gaze at his extended biceps, I feel a shiver of desire flow through my body. I bite my bottom lip to stifle the lascivious smile plastered to my face.

  “I’ll get a rag for you,” Matt says. He sets the bottle on the dryer, then bends down and grabs a towel from the rack below the sink. I try not to look at his ass, but can’t help myself.

  “Um, do you have a shirt I could borrow?”

  He glances up at me as I pull at the top button of my blouse. Splotches of color rise to his cheeks.

  “I’ll get it back to you tomorrow,” I assure him. “I’ll even wash it…”

  In one fluid motion, he
springs to his full height and takes a step toward me.

  “Of course I have a shirt. Here. Take this one.” He yanks his t-shirt over his head and holds it out to me and my jaw nearly falls open at the sight of his torso. Lean and muscular with just the perfect amount of hair on his tanned chest. Without a word, I reach out and place my hand over the scar on his shoulder, a four-inch line that curves around the joint. He flinches at my touch but doesn’t move.

  “I don’t want your shirt,” I tell him.

  “You’re right. Sorry. I should get you a clean one. Just a sec.”

  I shake my head. “Don’t go anywhere.”

  He looks at me, his eyes suddenly hooded. Heat radiates off his skin as I slide my hand down his arm, crossing my fingers over to his chest and letting them rest on his left pec. I feel his heart thudding beneath my palm. He reaches up and grasps my blouse, fumbling with the buttons as he attempts to release me from my silk confines. I stretch both hands around his neck and ease his head toward me, and an instant later, his lips meet my mine.

  He envelops my mouth with his, flicks his tongue tentatively against mine as he presses me against the washing machine. A moment later, he gives up on the buttons and slips his arms beneath my blouse, wrapping them around my waist. The feel of his skin against mine makes my knees go weak. He stops kissing me so that he can run his tongue down the length of my neck and I moan in response as his lips reach the top of my blouse.

  “Get this thing off me!” I breathe into his ear. He returns to the task of my buttons and I can feel his erection against my thigh, even through the thick denim of his jeans. I part my legs and he moves between them, resting his crotch against mine, and I almost have an orgasm right there and then. Unable to wait any longer, I reach down, grasp the silk edges, and rip open my beautiful hundred-and-seventy-five-dollar Tory Burch blouse. The sound of tearing fabric and the clatter of buttons against the tile floor makes Matt pause.

  “I thought you loved that blouse.”

  “I thought you liked my tits.”

  “Good point,” he says. A moment later, Tory Burch is in a discarded heap on the washing machine along with my Cosabella bra, and Matt Ryan is gently and reverently sucking on my breasts. My heart pounds at double speed.