When I Ran Away by Ilona Bannister (best books to read now .TXT) 📗

brushed her hair as she told me this, her eyes casting glances at me through the mirror, a very light smile at the corner of her lips because she was secretly pleased to know that I didn’t know, and that Harry loved her once, and maybe he still did.

“And when we saw you and your son that day, well, things were still…delicate. I thought it was just better not to mention it tonight. Better to stay on message.”

I watched her bend sideways so that the cascade of her shiny long hair was easier to comb through while she explained her plan for lying to her husband for the rest of her life. “Really, I really do appreciate your discretion.”

I looked at her reflection above the sinks. She was pretty, but in that light I could see the crow’s-feet, some dark spots from too much sun. I picked up my bag and said, “I didn’t do anything for you. And I think you sat on something. There’s a snag in the lace on your ass crack. Also, you’re a real bitch.” Then I walked out of the bathroom, past the bar, out of the lobby and into a cab.

Halfway to the airport I asked the driver to turn around. I came back to the hotel room, opened the door, got in the bath. I came back instead of leaving. But he’s not here.

And the fancy bubble bath in the claw-foot tub and the tiny little vodka bottles from the minibar don’t make him appear, and they don’t take away the sting of wanting to believe that whoever came before me didn’t matter. Because I know she still does.

I sink into the water and try to put it all together:

So what if he was sleeping with his friend’s girl? I mean, he shouldn’t have done that, but that shit happens. I can’t be mad about that, that’s got nothing to do with me.

It had something to do with you tonight.

OK, but she said she was on a break with Rupert, so maybe it’s not that bad.

Oh, well, if she said it then it must be true.

Alright, OK. He said he wasn’t with her. They were friends. People are friends with their exes, right?

Yeah, of course. That always works.

Shit, OK. Why did he lie about her? There was more to it, is that why?

Yes. He has a penis.

I slide my head under the water. Feel the hot silence.

You love him. You have to take all of him.

But what about Johnny? What about Johnny?

That’s your fault. You let him get too close. But that’s because you love him. Both of them.

Shit. I know.

When I come up for air I hear the key in the lock. Harry opens the door to the room, sees the bathroom door ajar and, surprised, he says, “Gigi, your dress is on the floor. I mean—you’re here.” He’s somber and sober.

“It’s your lucky day,” I answer from the bath.

“I thought you’d left. Hannah said…she saw you…It doesn’t matter. I came up here to look for you before but…”

I put my arms up on either side of the tub, stare straight ahead. I hope my wet hair is doing something sexy even though I’m furious. “Well, I didn’t and I’m not. Where’ve you been so late?”

He puts his hand on the bathroom doorknob, unsure where to stand. He says, “I was just down in the bar, after the reception finished. I didn’t want to be alone.”

I wave him into the bathroom. “You’re not alone now. Pull up a seat.”

He goes to sit on the edge of the bath but I point him to the toilet. I turn on the tap to heat up the water. He starts talking. I can’t hear him while the water’s running but I look at him, his elbows on his knees, head in hands, talking to the floor. I’m mad at him, I feel bad for him, I’m nervous, I hate him and I love him and I can’t deal with his face, the big brown eyes and the stubble. I look at my watch on the chair by the bath: 2 a.m. I want to punch him. I want to hug him. I want this part to be over. I want to know what happens to us next.

“There’d better be more to it than just fucking around,” I say, turning off the tap.

“Gigi, please. Don’t make it sound like that. I loved her.” He looks at me like I’ve wronged him.

“Yeah, I can see that, she’s really lovable. What did you love about her the most? Was it her great personality or just the regular blow jobs from a supermodel?”

“Why did you come back here? Just to eviscerate me?” Harry asks, defensive.

I say, through my teeth, “That’s a big word for this time of night.”

He takes his jacket off. He must have changed after the wedding. I recognize that T-shirt. The one he wore when we took Johnny to the Bronx Zoo and Harry carried him on his back half the day. When we were happy. Before the past woke up and met us in this bathroom.

I say, “I came back because it’s fucking stupid to sit in an airport all night, no matter how mad I am at you. And I’m here now so you might as well explain yourself.” Harry gets up and starts pacing the bathroom. The space shrinks around his height.

He rubs his forehead, raises his face to the ceiling hoping I won’t notice that his eyes have gotten glassy, like he might cry. I saw him do that once before. We were watching School of Rock with Johnny and it was the part when Tomika, the little Black girl, takes Jack Black aside and says she’s afraid to sing. But then she sings “Chain of Fools” with a hundred-year-old soul like a baby Aretha. I looked over and I said, “Are you crying?” and he rubbed his forehead and smiled and said, “Don’t be ridiculous,” which meant yes, so Johnny