​​​Chapter Thirty-Nine
Natalie

The air, the cold. I can’t feel them anymore. It was a mistake, I think, working my way down Denise’s front walkway. The lingering bit of nausea in my belly multiplies, and I upchuck my small lunch of saltines and deli ham into the planter next to Denise’s brick mailbox. When I look up, she’s no longer in the window and neither is the child I’m assuming is Ronnie. 

I shouldn’t have come. There was no reason to tell her any of that. I wasn’t clearing the air. I wasn’t doing the womanly thing and owning up to my actions. I was trying to hurt a woman I’ve always wanted to be.  

But never will.

Women like that just don’t get it. They think it’s easy. They just fall into marriage, have the kids and bingo bango, life’s a dream. I’m ignoring the fact that Denise’s husband is a sleeze who entertains women in their own bed when Denise isn’t around. But she’s aware of the arrangement. Perhaps, she’s even the brains behind it. Wouldn’t surprise me with a woman like that.

I think about Mack. I couldn’t have let him do that, not just to me, not just to Wren but to himself. I know, I know. I’m no fun. Why wouldn’t a good romp in the hay only serve to strengthen a man? But if there’s only one thing I know, it’s hearts. How they lay bare, even when you attempt to seal them up. And Mack’s heart was messy. It couldn’t bear the weight of another one shouldering it’s way in, attempting to play house, even if only for a night.

Someone like Hootie? It’s different, maybe. Duplicitous, that’s the word. He’s one way with Denise, another way with all us–cringe–women. And that scares me. This little world I’ve planted two feet in, not only mine, but Wren’s, too. How you can find someone who keeps one eye on you but one eye somewhere else, and how it only makes me angry because I envy being able to look away.

Here’s what will happen: nothing. Denise won’t say a word to Hootie. I won’t either. I need the money for the abortion, so I’ll have to get it another way. Tell Jerry I want to enroll into art school, how it’s always been my dream. Bring home scraps of macaroni glued to styrofoam plates I hastily craft in my car.

I don’t know. All I know is that Wren’s eyes are working the same way. One on me, one somewhere else. And if I’m not careful, I’ll lose both for good.