Dangerously Close to Bearable, Chapter 2
Chapter 2! Let’s keep going.
Robert and Lacey have the kids for the rest of the month, which gives me ample time to let my fuckup spiral out of control.
Work is work. Really putting my degree to use, offering tech support for professional grade music production software. Please, let me work in your studio, I’ll run everything perfectly, for a fraction of the price of this bullshit service.
Whenever I have the opportunity, which is almost always, I’m staring at my messages, waiting for a reply. I’ve sent something twice a day for nearly a week, at wake-up and bedtime. Nothing. Way too much, I know, but it’s easy to justify overdoing it when you’re terrified you’ve hurt your best friend.
I go from sadness, to anxiety, to annoyance, to indignation—why does she have the right to treat me like that? To rationalizing—maybe she’s just busy.
To empathy—you called her looking to sleep with her, and she felt fucking betrayed, because she knew she wasn’t going to be that anymore.
Ever.
Ever again.
Never sleeping with Erica, never kissing those cheeks, those lips, letting myself smell her hair, feel her warmth—
THAT’S NOT HOW SHE MAKES ME FEEL THAT’S HOW PRE-ERICA MADE ME FEEL
Regret, shame, anger, and frustration twist around in my gut, forcing me to admit that I have to actually deal with what I’m feeling.
***
“So anyway,” I say, “she called…and didn’t realize…that she—“
“Shut the fuck up, ladies, pound those pedals!” The cycling instructor screams. “We’re here to log miles, not to have bullshit chit-chat!” His voice reminds me of Erica’s, except whiny and too masculine. He sounds like a teen boy who’s stuck in the middle of puberty.
Marcelo is our gay little pit boss, a naturally and artificially sculpted Adonis with a sneer and a face that either had no work or was entirely composed of injections and procedures. I imagine he’s making enough to make it happen.
But I shut up and focus on the fact that I am currently dying.
I let Betty take me to her favorite morning spin class, a routine she swears by. She even offered to pay for it.
Betty was a social worker who now has a rich-as-fuck husband, and is now idle, bored, smart, and way more sexually actualized than me. Her thick red hair is pulled into a bun and covered in three sweat bands, she is staring forward with murderous intent, and she’s pumping those pedals so hard I’m worried they might break off.
“Pick up the pace, ladies!” He squeals, “including you, new lady,” he says, looking directly at me, “yes, you tubbo—“
“MARCELO!” Betty screams. “I will break your fucking neck if you talk to her like that again!”
Genuine fear flashes in his eyes, and he looks down at the floor, curling into a little ball.
I let the music smash into my head, an endless playlist of sped-up Charli XCX remixes too heavy on kick drums, the pulse making my teeth rattle, and I keep cycling because maybe I do need to change my life—Robert found a woman fifteen years his junior, maybe I could do the same. Find someone younger, not a woman.
Yeah, a young thing! Go into my cougar era, my MILF era—I actually qualify as a MILF, I’m not just middle aged and horny, I’ve got kids and a permanently altered birth canal. I’m checking all the boxes.
“This is a supportive environment! We’re helping each other be our best! Fitness is about pushing forward, not too hard!” Marcelo said, his voice even and loud. Supportive twink, what a concept.
“Too nice!” Betty declared, clocking the weirdness.
“Okay ladies, get those legs moving! You’re not here to fuck around, you’re here to look hot! Push or get the fuck out!”
Knowing that he could modulate tone made me wonder which Marcelo was sincere.
Did it matter?
I was sincere with Erica. I didn’t sugarcoat any of what I said. I was honest, and she pulled away, even after I apologized. Why couldn’t she see that I tried? What did I need to do? What would—
Betty’s roar and furious pedaling pulls me back into the world, my languid, Sunday-stroll speed making me look like a fool next to her.
“Woo!” She yells, finally slowing down. “Fuck yes!” She hops off the bike, whooping and hollering, like she’s ready for a fight.
She smacks me in the back, way too hard, and it knocks the wind out of me, causing me to lean over the handlebars. “Hell yes, Amy! Go for it! Fucking GO!”
***
“Oh my god, Amy, I’m so sorry,” Betty says, helping me step into the ice bath. It is as cold as I imagine, and I hate it.
"It’s okay, I’ll be okay." I won’t, but I can sleep it off for two weeks. “Do you do this every morning?”
Betty sinks in, without issue, up to her neck, making a satisfied groan. "Yes. And it’s not that cold."
"What?"
"I keep it at 72 degrees."
I let the frigid fucking water reach up to my neck, my body shivering uncontrollably. “You…said…55 d-d-d-degrees…”
“For a plunge, Amy. Take a few more seconds and get into the jacuzzi." She points to the hot tub.
I don’t waste time, but my legs are jelly. The walk is much longer than it needs to be, but it feels. So. Good. The warm water envelops me, and I go under for just a second.
The world goes quiet. Life makes sense. Right in here, in the warm water, feeling every nerve on fire, away from old friends justifiably pulling away from you because you called them to hook up and ended up learning they’re a beautiful woman and—
Shit I’ve been under too long. I sit up, and Betty is standing over the tub. “You alright? Ready to talk about it?” She asks.
I blink the water away, pull my hair out of the way. “Yes. Sort of. No. Maybe.”
“Erica?”
I nod. “I called her.”
Betty leans over. “Booty call?”
“Yes.” The water is so warm, so comfortable. I want to stay here forever, away from Aiden and Will, Robert and fucking Lacey and her lip fillers and her fake tits…
Erica definitely has fillers and fake tits, she never half-assed anything, from rebuilding that old Mustang to learning to do makeup so I could look good at parties. I saw that picture. I wanted to see the bottom half…
Okay, convo at hand.
"Who knew?" I ask.
"Not many. Story was that…’he’…left town. Alex and I knew, our girlfriend Emily—"
"You and your husband have a girlfriend?" Is everyone having more fun than me?
"Yeah, Emily’s trans, she wanted to help, Erica took it."
"I never knew," I say. “So, Erica, was she…”
“No. Erica was a bit too…sweet for Alex. He likes women mean, and Erica is the complete opposite.
"And as far as announcements go, no one was supposed to know until recently, when she started coming out publicly. Come on, out." Betty gestures for me to leave the warm and safe hot tub.
"So I wasn’t supposed to know?" I ask.
She shakes her head. "No. For sure, no. I worked with her, kind of—you know my old practice—she had a list of priority friends. You two were so close, I’m sure it might have gotten lost in the shuffle. I imagine you should have been number one on her list.
"But why did you call her?"
Taking a towel, I dabbed my face. "Why else would I call?"
"And you got a surprise," she says. "Bad one, right?"
I hide my face in the towel, wishing I could just not pay any fucking attention—to Betty, to Erica, to my own short-circuiting desire. "Bad how?" I ask.
"I mean…you know…unfortunately heterosexual?"
I pull the towel from my face, and a grimace like I’d shit my pants makes Betty’s eyes go wide.
"Amy. AMY. SHUT. UP.”
The red creeping up my neck was wrapping itself around my cheeks.
"Oh my god our newest baby bi!" She pulled me into an embrace. "I knew you had it in you!"
***
Betty asked if I was off today. I called my boss and said, “I’m off today.” He didn’t argue. I have the hours, the seniority. And the entire thing falls apart if I quit, so…
Point is, I’m doing a spa day with Betty. She is having her monthly maintenance trip, and she moved heaven and earth to get me scheduled with her. Massage, facial, mani/pedi.
It’s at PauseIt, a super fancy spot that opened up a few months ago. Betty told me there was a spat between corporate and store level management and Lainey Gomez, which made some money stuff implode.
It ended with Alex footing the investment at Betty’s behest.
The way she talks around it makes me think it’s personal, but I’ve been on the outside of the friend group for so long I probably have no idea who the fuck anyone is.
But it’s nice to hear adult gossip again, with stakes and swear words.
My massage is great, the facial is confusing, and now we’re doing our nails.
“So what do you want to do?” Betty asks.
“I want her to for—no. I want to talk to her. Explain myself, or whatever.”
“Is she okay with that?”
“No.” Not yet, I hope.
“How much have you tried to contact her?”
“Too much.” The nail tech has a rack of polish. I choose a deep ruby red. “I got carried away. Like I HAVE to talk to her.”
Betty turns to me. “Do you want friend advice, or therapist advice?”
“Therapist, then friend.”
“That’s new,” she says. “But okay. Elizabeth Becker, LCSW, says: leave her alone. She doesn’t owe you anything, and she deserves her space to process.”
“Oh. Yeah. Figured you’d say that.”
“But, Betty Bothways, your old friend, says: try one thing. Just send her a message or an email, clearly stating what you did, why you feel bad, and what you want. You’re not asking for forgiveness, you’re asking for space to apologize. They’re very different things.”
“Right.”
“I’m serious!” She says. “You messed up.”
“Hey!”
“You called her for a selfish reason, and clammed up when the reality didn’t match your expectation. Do you know how many times that’s happened to her already?
“And for it to come from you?”
Nobody was as close as us back then. Friends, then lovers, then gone.
I call her out of the blue and freak out, instead of trying to catch up.
“You’re right.”
“I know I am,” she says, “which is why you need to be very careful about what you do next. Your heart is in the right place, and she’s probably dying to talk to you again, but if you make this about her like that, she’s just going to see you like everybody else.”
There are a lot of weird, uncomfortable question marks floating around in my brain, but that’s not one of them.
I want to see Erica, and I want Erica to see me.
Nothing else matters.
My fingernails are drying. The color is deep, vivid, a little bit of gleam. The color feels familiar.
That lipstick. That night. Before we had to say goodbye.
***
“Okay, okay, Amy, you have to show me sometime,” [Erica] said. “I need to see how badly you did it.”
“You’re rude.”
[Erica] laughed. “And you’ve already told me you don’t know anything about makeup.”
I groan. “I’m a girl, of course I know.” I step aside, letting [her] look at [herself] in the mirror.
[She] examines [her] face in the mirror. “You made me look like a porcelain doll. My foundation color is almost white. Look at my cheeks!”
“No,” I said, “you look like a whore.”
[She] turned to me, eyes wide. “Was that intentional?” He asked. (No. She. SHE asked.) “But,” [she] continued, pointing to [her] lip, a deep red with a metallic shimmer, “this is amazing.”
I flushed with pride. “Thank you.” Then, I looked side to side, conspiratorial. Leaning in, I said, “I’ve always wanted to bed a working girl.” I was being honest—I think. Working girl? What the fuck did that mean?—but I also wasn’t going to argue with her—she was right, I did a horrible job. Easier to roll with it, see where it took me.
“That mean we’re staying in tonight?” She asked.
“I’ll get pizza after we’re finished.”
“Sold.” And she kissed me. It was going to smear everywhere, and it would be glorious. A little bit of Erica all over me.
Hoo boy! Isn’t that something?
See you next week!