Read Online In Case of Emergency by Courtney Moreno - Free Book Online
Authors: Courtney Moreno
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were before. That was so hard to watch. I want you to date someone good . You know? A good person.”
I don’t know what to say back to her. That I just know, somehow, that Ayla won’t hurt me? That I won’t let anyone do that to me again? By the time Tom comes back inside, Marla and I are silent. She plays with her bracelet. I use the condensation rings from the bottom of my water glass to create the symbol for the Olympics on our beat-up table. Tom stands in the middle of our kitchen, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, pretending to take an interest in our refrigerator magnets. Blending in with the appliances. It’s heartbreaking in a way. Marla wants me to go with Nathan because he’s good and kind and safe, but look where that’s gotten her.
She goes to Tom, stretching up on her tiptoes like a seal angling for bait, and he bends his bulk toward her upturned lips. Then he looks at me, his expression friendly, playful. “You know what you guys look like right now?” he says. “Houdini, after he got sucker punched. Every hear that story?Greatest escape artist in the world, and he died because someone socked him in the gut before he had the chance to flex his stomach muscles.”
11
It’s Friday morning. I have a date in two hours. Maybe I’m supposed to be excited, but instead I keep thinking about my conversation with Marla. Restless and irritable, annoyed that no one is around to witness my restless irritability, I decide to take a long shower.
After I step into the tile cell and slide the frosted door shut, I turn the water full blast and stand there, teeth and eyes clenched, arms crossed over my nipples, while I wait for it to heat up.
When was the exact moment when something switched between Jared and Elizabeth? I still want to know how it happened. It was after I’d already moved out that I realized: when he and I were making plans to vacation in Hawaii, they were already fucking; when he and I were discussing whether to become pet owners, they were already fucking; when he and I were rearranging the living room furniture, and got into a stupid argument about a lamp I didn’t even like, which led to us yelling at each other, and then to having sex on the floor (even though the couch was five feet away), they were already fucking.
The last vision I have of either of them is my boyfriend standing, head tilted, jaw tight, one hand resting on the pumping hair of Elizabeth’s thick ponytail. This took place in the bathroom, our bathroom, the bathroom with awful peach tile and the photograph of Rodin’s The Thinker scuplture over the toilet, which we bought for two dollars at a garage sale. We took soaking salt baths in that bathroom, while Jared displayed his latest glass sculptures along the edge of the tub, the swirling colors he’d created mixing with amber light.
When I get to my room, my hair dripping down my back, instead of getting dressed I reach for the phone. When my brother answers, I tell him I don’t want to date anyone ever again, to which Ryan says what he always says when I’m being resistant to something he thinks is good for me: “Pipes, it’s time.”
The back of Sustainable Living is less attractive than the front. No mural of colorful vegetables dances over the loading dock. Instead there’s a large blue dumpster and some kind of compost bin. Ayla sits on the edge of the concrete bay, her green apron removed to reveal dark blue jeans and a black T-shirt. Her Vans-covered feet swing, hitting the side of the low wall. She hops down when she sees me.
“Let’s just walk to Luna Café,” she says as a greeting. “It’s close, the food’s good—they have sandwiches, soup, that kind of thing—does that work? You’re not going to find any parking over there.”
“That’s fine,” I say. The roots of my hair are tingling. Ayla’s friendly expression disappears; she shoves her hands into her pockets and keeps her gaze just ahead of her, occasionally darting
I don’t know what to say back to her. That I just know, somehow, that Ayla won’t hurt me? That I won’t let anyone do that to me again? By the time Tom comes back inside, Marla and I are silent. She plays with her bracelet. I use the condensation rings from the bottom of my water glass to create the symbol for the Olympics on our beat-up table. Tom stands in the middle of our kitchen, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, pretending to take an interest in our refrigerator magnets. Blending in with the appliances. It’s heartbreaking in a way. Marla wants me to go with Nathan because he’s good and kind and safe, but look where that’s gotten her.
She goes to Tom, stretching up on her tiptoes like a seal angling for bait, and he bends his bulk toward her upturned lips. Then he looks at me, his expression friendly, playful. “You know what you guys look like right now?” he says. “Houdini, after he got sucker punched. Every hear that story?Greatest escape artist in the world, and he died because someone socked him in the gut before he had the chance to flex his stomach muscles.”
11
It’s Friday morning. I have a date in two hours. Maybe I’m supposed to be excited, but instead I keep thinking about my conversation with Marla. Restless and irritable, annoyed that no one is around to witness my restless irritability, I decide to take a long shower.
After I step into the tile cell and slide the frosted door shut, I turn the water full blast and stand there, teeth and eyes clenched, arms crossed over my nipples, while I wait for it to heat up.
When was the exact moment when something switched between Jared and Elizabeth? I still want to know how it happened. It was after I’d already moved out that I realized: when he and I were making plans to vacation in Hawaii, they were already fucking; when he and I were discussing whether to become pet owners, they were already fucking; when he and I were rearranging the living room furniture, and got into a stupid argument about a lamp I didn’t even like, which led to us yelling at each other, and then to having sex on the floor (even though the couch was five feet away), they were already fucking.
The last vision I have of either of them is my boyfriend standing, head tilted, jaw tight, one hand resting on the pumping hair of Elizabeth’s thick ponytail. This took place in the bathroom, our bathroom, the bathroom with awful peach tile and the photograph of Rodin’s The Thinker scuplture over the toilet, which we bought for two dollars at a garage sale. We took soaking salt baths in that bathroom, while Jared displayed his latest glass sculptures along the edge of the tub, the swirling colors he’d created mixing with amber light.
When I get to my room, my hair dripping down my back, instead of getting dressed I reach for the phone. When my brother answers, I tell him I don’t want to date anyone ever again, to which Ryan says what he always says when I’m being resistant to something he thinks is good for me: “Pipes, it’s time.”
The back of Sustainable Living is less attractive than the front. No mural of colorful vegetables dances over the loading dock. Instead there’s a large blue dumpster and some kind of compost bin. Ayla sits on the edge of the concrete bay, her green apron removed to reveal dark blue jeans and a black T-shirt. Her Vans-covered feet swing, hitting the side of the low wall. She hops down when she sees me.
“Let’s just walk to Luna Café,” she says as a greeting. “It’s close, the food’s good—they have sandwiches, soup, that kind of thing—does that work? You’re not going to find any parking over there.”
“That’s fine,” I say. The roots of my hair are tingling. Ayla’s friendly expression disappears; she shoves her hands into her pockets and keeps her gaze just ahead of her, occasionally darting
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