But the men? That’s me grabbing for a handhold as I fall to my doom. And just like with Carlo, all my relationships blow up in my face. Usually not with a blow to the face, but I’m quite familiar with the get-your-shit-and-go. No one wants to be a handhold. And the guys that don’t mind…they’re not stable either.
I press my ear to the door. Carlo’s gotten quiet. Maybe he’s cooled off.
“Carlo?”
Nothing. I wait a minute, and then I rise to my feet with caution. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Damn. I’ve sweated so much I’ve got Cher “If I Could Turn Back Time” hair, and there’s blood splatter on the drapey neckline of my gold cocktail dress.
“Carlo?” Still no answer. Maybe he left.
Where did I leave my jacket? If I make a run for it, I’ll need it. It’s forty degrees out. Did I hang it up? I’m sure I didn’t. I probably threw it on the recliner. Or on the floor?
“I’m coming out, okay? I’ll get my shit and go.” I ease away from the door, duck into the shower, and grab my shampoo and conditioner. My crazy, beautiful curls are a legacy from my Jewish grandma on my dad’s side. Hair products aren’t cheap.
I’ve got a bottle in each hand when there’s a thud, a crack, and then the door flies open so hard it immediately swings shut again. I scream and scream at the top of my lungs, grabbing shit and hurling. Air freshener. A shaving brush.
Carlo muscles in, ducking the projectiles, and grabs me by the arm.
“Shut up!” He drags me into the living room, and I buck and flail, knocking over a lamp. He’s heading toward the front door. He’s going to throw me out. That’s good. That’s what I want.
Stop it, Nevaeh. Cooperate. Let him drag you out.
Oh, but I can’t. I’m pure adrenaline, one hundred percent reaction. My arms and legs have their own mind, and it’s not giving up. I kick and flop and scratch and bite. I’m not going down easy. I fall silent, past words, all body, all fight. The sound of grunts and panting and the slap of flesh-on-flesh fill the apartment. We’re almost to the door.
Open it. Please. Open it. Throw me out.
Then, inches from the foyer, my stupid, flailing fist connects with Carlo’s cheek, and his head jerks back. My brain doesn’t even have time to register the hit before I’m dangling in the air, slammed against the wall, Carlo’s hand tightening around my neck. I dig my nails into his forearms, and I pull, but I can’t breathe, and I’ve got no leverage. Blood is trickling into my eye, blinding me.
How did this happen?
I want to take it back, take it all back. I’ll go quietly this time. Keep my mouth shut at dinner. Turn Carlo down when he sidled up to me on a dance floor eight months ago.
“I’m going to put your body in the trunk of your shitty car and drive it into the river,” Carlo spits as he leans his weight forward, bearing down on my chest.
Black spots float across my field of vision. I jerk my knee up, but there’s no room between us. I scrape my nails down his arm, clawing, but my fingers slip down the fabric of his suit jacket. He tightens his grip.
My lungs burn. I want to go home. Please. I’ll fix everything. I’ll change. I’ll make it right.
I want to go back. I didn’t mean for any of this to happen.
There’s a loud pounding on the door, mixing with the roar of blood in my ears.
“This is Greg and Don from 10C. We’ve called the police. Whatever’s going on in there needs to stop. The police are going to be here any minute.”
Carlo’s head jerks as if he’s waking up, and he drops me. I collapse to the floor. Tears spring to my eyes, and I gulp down a wheezing breath. My throat burns. Everything’s bright and blurry.
“Open up!” a very serious, very official-sounding voice orders.
Oh, thank the Lord. Greg and Don! They invited me over once when we ran into each other at the trash chute and got to chatting. Carlo had been running late. We shared a bottle of Glenfiddich and Greg showed me his memorabilia from when he competed in the Tour de France back in the early nineties.
Greg and Don don’t like Carlo, so that was the only time we hung out in person, but we follow each other on social media, and Don and I play Words with Friends.
“Nevaeh? Are you okay? What’s going on in there?” That’s Don. He speaks like a cross between an evening newscaster and a Kennedy. I try to answer, but all that comes out is a croak.
“You goddamn bitch,” Carlo hisses, and he runs a hand through his black hair. He’s still wearing his gray suit jacket, but the buttons have come undone. There’s blood splatter on his white dress shirt.
I used to think he was handsome with his sharp cheek bones and his perfectly even teeth. I can’t believe I didn’t see it before. His face looks like a skull.
He pinches my chin and squeezes. “When I come back, you’re gone. Every trace of you is gone. Capisce?”
I try to nod, but he won’t loosen his grip.
He spits in my face, hot splatter hitting my cheek, and he digs his nails into my jaw one last time. Then he flings open the front door and strides off. A man shouts, and then Greg and Don are crowding in, two silver foxes fresh from the gym, and they gape at the mess.
“Oh my God!” Greg rushes forward, helping me up, guiding me to the sofa. “Don, we need to really call the cops.”
“No.” I croak, hardly loud enough to be heard. I hack, clearing my throat, and it hurts so bad. “No cops.”
“Of course, we’ll call the cops. You’re bleeding.” Don digs in his pocket for his phone, and panic breaks through my shock. If he makes that call, I’m dead for sure.
“Don, listen,” I pant, voice raspy and thin. Don’s a lawyer. He’s not a trial lawyer, but he knows this town. He’ll understand what I’m about to say. “Carlo and I were at dinner tonight. With Dominic Renelli. No cops.”
Don freezes, exhales a low sigh, and after a pause, he nods. Greg looks confused, but he’ll follow Don’s lead. “Okay. No cops, then. You’d better get out of here.”
“Not a problem.” I slide on the shoes I’d kicked off by the door and grab the yoga pants and T-shirts I keep in the dresser drawer Carlo finally gave me a month ago. I retrieve my coat, shampoo, and conditioner from the floor. There’s no way I’m going to be able to carry all this. I dig through some kitchen drawers, looking for a plastic bag, and I come up empty.
Shit. I need to bail. If Carlo comes back, he could hurt Don and Greg. Greg’s still recovering from knee replacement. I should just run. Screw the shampoo. What am I doing digging in the cupboard?
And then my eye catches on Carlo’s precious messenger bag, sitting on the kitchen island.
You know what?
Screw him.
He can buy himself a new man purse. I dump all his papers on the counter, jam my stuff in, and buckle it closed.
“I thank you, gentlemen. Sorry to have interrupted your evening.” I do a stupid bow-salute thingy. My brain’s still woozy and reeling. Even though I have this awesome superpower where I can pretend horrible shit isn’t actually happening while I’m in the moment, I’m past it. I’m shaking so hard that it’s a miracle my high heels don’t snap.