When I’m done, she stands up and flips off the TV before stretching her arms over her head, her tight little body draped in silk like a prize I can never touch.
“I think I’ll eat alone tonight,” she says. “I’d like to look over the beach one more time before we go.”
“Our flight leaves first thing,” I say. “Don’t stay out too late.”
She rolls her eyes. “Not that it’s any of your business, but yeah, I’ll probably have a few drinks afterwards. You don’t have to wait up.”
She goes into the bedroom to get dressed, and I try not to dissect her words, but I can’t help it. We’re like two points on lines that look parallel but are actually moving infinitesimally closer, and one day, they’ll intersect. I want to keep going straight, to stop it from happening, but I can’t get off the line, can’t prevent the inevitable collision.
Eliza leaves looking like a girl who needs to get fucked, in a little black dress that barely covers her ass and looks like it’s made entirely of elastic with the way it clings to her body. I bite back a comment, bite back the urge to forbid her to go out in that. I’m not her father. I have my life, and she can have hers, separate from mine. That was the deal we made. If she wants to go get drunk with her new friends, that’s her business, not mine. I need to be sharp for a job as soon as I get home tomorrow.
But I can’t help but wonder, are we already following in my parents’ footsteps? Eliza is certainly no stranger to drinking too much, and she seems intent on doing only what she wants, on having fun and ignoring her obligations, just like my mother. And me, am I like my workaholic father who never had time for the family he created, so we had to fight each other for scraps of his approval? And not just by doing the regular things like being a football star or doing his job and looking out for the family, but by going to such extremes as colluding to fake our own kidnappings and fucking the wives of his enemies and rivals to ruin their families so we could pretend ours wasn’t already ruined.
Yeah, I’m probably more like him than I want to admit, and it’s not by accident. I made myself just like him because it was the only way to get a pat on the back. But I won’t be like that with my kids. I’d rather spoil them with all the love they could want, smother them with attention, than the opposite.
The thought brings back Mr. Pomponio’s words, and that brings me back to my suspicions, and the sick, churning, dirty slush forms in my stomach again.
I think about the man I beat on the floor of his apartment until I didn’t know what I was doing. It was like I went somewhere else, like it wasn’t me. I think about what Little Al said about Eliza. I think about her dress that clung to her ass like a fucking billboard advertising sex. Her words on the beach after our wedding. On the boat after that. How different she is with me and with other people. I don’t want to blame her for being a bitch to me. But I do.
ten
Eliza
After a couple drinks, I know I should stop. I’m not looking to get wasted, and I’m too smart to get drunk by myself in a strange place. But, like, I know it will end. I know King won’t let me go on like this forever, so why not enjoy every minute I can before he takes it all away? Tomorrow we’re going back home, and he’ll want to play house. So, I might as well make the most of tonight.
Some guys want to buy me and the waitress shots, and it’s her night off, and we became fast friends my first day here, so why the hell not? No one knows who I am unless they read the gossip columns religiously. It’s not like I’m famous. I’m pretty well known in New York, but outside of the city, I’m practically anonymous. And as much as I enjoy the attention I get at home, it’s nice to be somewhere that no one will know me or judge me or take pics of my drunk ass and sell them toYour Celebrity Eyes.
So we take some more shots, and dance the night away, and it’s nice. It’s nice to lose myself, to not be myself. It’s nice to be free and young and wild and take shots with strangers on a tropical island with my new best friend whose name I’ll probably forget by my first anniversary. I don’t even care that I’m not with a guy. I’ve spent most of my adult life making sure I don’t get too wrapped up in a man and let it cloud my judgment and make me stupid. Marriage doesn’t change that.
Sometime after midnight, the luster wears off, though. If King’s not going to fight me on this, what’s the point? Why bother rebelling if there’s nothing to rebel against? I was having so much fun, but after hours of dancing, I just can’t seem to get into it anymore. I excuse myself, and a few minutes later, I find myself sitting at the bar, just tipsy enough to chat with the stranger beside me. He offered to buy me another drink, but I don’t even want one.
“The thing is, I think I’m done going out clubbing,” I say after rambling for a bit. “I just don’t know what to do instead. Like, this is boring. But what else is there?”
“So, let’s go somewhere else,” he says with a little smile.
I roll my eyes. “I’m serious. I want freedom, but what’s the point in it, if I’m just going to be free to go dancing? I want to do something big, something important, like my mom did.”
“What’d your mom do?” he asks.
“She’s an actress.”
“Really?” he asks, looking impressed. “Who is she? Would I know her?”
I shake my head and sip my water. I realize it sounds stupid when I say it like that. Why am I even trying to explain it to this stranger, anyway? He’s not going to understand. He doesn’t know what it’s like to sign his whole life away, giving it into someone else’s hands with a signature on a contract.
I could just go back to the room and crash. We have an early flight. And it’s not admitting defeat. It’s doing what I want. That’s the definition of freedom, isn’t it?
Much to my irritation, I know that I can’t go back so soon, though. To King, it will look like I want to be there with him, like I don’t want this freedom I’ve fought so hard for. I want him to think I have a glamourous life, this indominable spirit that he can’t touch, one worth fighting to maintain. But as I look around, it all feels empty.
“This scene really is tired,” the man says. “Want to go back to my room?”
“No,” I say, giving him a dirty look. “I’m married.”
He draws back and glances around. “Then why the fuck are you here?”
“Haven’t you been listening to anything I say?” I ask, straightening on my chair.
“Well, yeah, but that’s because I thought I’d be taking you home,” he says. “Why am I wasting my time with you if we’re not hooking up later?”