The Standout Read online

  “People have totally forgotten about me,” I tell Nick.

  But he always says the same thing back: “That’s just what you want to believe.”

  And I have to concede, that at least here in Des Moines, some people still pay attention to me. Nick believes that’s why there were photos in The Register, and why the footage was played on a local TV station. So for the last week, people at the grocery, the gas station, and the deli stand have been congratulating me. But today I haven’t been out much and there’s not a lot of traffic in my studio/store either. That suits me because I’m in a reclusive mood, happy to do some beading on the Downton Abbey-style cocktail dress I’m working on.

  Eventually I get bored and take a break by checking my email. There is a message from an unknown source: [email protected]. The subject line says, “You need to read this.”

  I click it open.

  “Robin,

  I’m giving you options. You never gave me any options before you stole everything I had, so consider yourself lucky!

  You can. . .

  Dump Nick. You’re not good enough for him and you know I am right.

  Leave the country and never come back. (You can’t tell anyone where you’re going!)

  Be honest about who you are. Let the world see you are a worthless whore and then you won’t have to dump Nick because he will dump you.

  Do one of these things and I will give you back all your accounts and delete the pictures and videos. If you simply ignore this email then I will be forced to make the choice for you and I guarantee you won’t like it.

  Stunned, I stare at the words, and after a while they blur together, forming into dark clumps of pixels that have no real meaning. I take a deep breath, hit “reply” and type out my response:

  I’m going to the police the second you try anything. Don’t screw with me. You won’t like it.

  I hit send before I can think too long about the wisdom behind it. It doesn’t matter, because a second later I get a response: Mailer-Daemon@Bricker_Robin.com

  This message was created automatically by mail delivery software. A message you sent has not yet been delivered to one or more of its recipients. . .

  I press delete and then it’s just my inbox that’s displayed on my computer screen, with Fashion Queen 82’s message at the top. I Google “Fashion Queen 82” but find nothing.

  Looking off, out the window, I see that it’s begun to rain. Gray clouds hang low and heavy in the sky and I feel like there’s one directly over my head. That email could be from anyone. It could be some random person who has seen me on TV, someone who knows about Nick’s proposal, someone who knows how to send email from an anonymous address, and who has now arbitrarily decided that she hates me.

  Or it could be from Clara.

  Chapter 4

  The rain never lets up, and it’s one of those afternoons when I’m wet and shivering just from darting from my car to the front door. I unlock it and enter, and a chill rolls through me right as there’s a loud clap of thunder and a flash of lightning.

  “Hello?” Only the emptiness of the house answers back. That’s okay. I’m dreaming of a hot shower followed by some mac & cheese and bad television. Then my cell phone rings.

  I’m still dripping in the entryway as I answer. “Hey, Saul” I say, recognizing Nick’s father from my caller ID. “How are you?”

  “Irritated,” he replies. “I don’t know why stores don’t value their coupons. I was going to buy steak today but they lied about the price and there’s no way I’m paying twelve bucks for a piece of meat.”

  Nick’s dad likes to gripe about things, but really, don’t we all? I know that Saul tests the limits of Nick’s patience, but personally I prefer a crusty temperament to an overly cheerful one. “So were you able to find anything to eat?” I ask.

  “Tuna,” he grumbles. “I suppose I’ll have tuna again.”

  This is my cue. “Why don’t you come here for dinner tonight? We’d love to see you.”

  He mutters his assent and promises to be over soon. I text Nick: Saul is eating dinner with us. You have to pick up steak.

  Later, Nick and I are in the kitchen while Saul watches television in our living room, several feet away.

  “I’m really not in the mood for my dad tonight.” Nick speaks low, grimacing while he seasons the steaks. Nick pretty much represses all of his Oedipal anger and resentment in the name of sonly duty, but he wants freedom from his Dad’s harsh criticisms and neediness.

  I take a paper towel and wipe the counter. “Sorry, but what was I supposed to do? I kind of had to invite him.”

  “No you didn’t. But he knows you’re a soft touch, which is why he called you instead of me.”

  I throw the paper towel away, and find a corkscrew so we can break out our most expensive bottle of wine, the one that cost twelve bucks on sale. “Don’t you think it’s important to have him over, Nick? We need to keep our family close. . .”

  “. . .and our enemies closer?” Nick retorts. “With my dad it’s the same thing.” Impatient, Nick grabs both the bottle and the corkscrew from me.

  “I was going to open that,” I protest.

  “You were messing it up. It was going in crooked.”

  “No it wasn’t.”

  Nick sets his jaw as he opens the wine and he looks so miserable that I can’t even be annoyed. “Hey. . .” I step close and brush my lips against his. “I love you.”

  “I love you too,” he concedes, but he doesn’t let go of his tension. Instead, he sets the uncorked bottle down and looks at his watch. “When is Andrea getting back?”

  “I don’t know. Why don’t you call her?”

  “I did already and she didn’t pick up.” When he exhales I can feel the pressure lingering in the air. “She’d better be home for dinner. I need her for reinforcements.”

  “Why? We’ll be fine.”

  “He’s just on better behavior when she’s around.” Nick sighs again, softer this time. “I swear, something’s up with her. She used to be so responsible, now half the time I can’t even reach her.”

  Years ago, after Nick’s mother died of breast cancer, Nick became Andrea’s guardian and he’s basically raised her on his own. Saul sort of suffered a breakdown, so now he spends most of his time online, reading about conspiracies and running his own blog, Conspiracy News Today. Nick also has an older sister, but she was a groupie until she got married and became busy with her own family. Now Andrea’s a senior in high school and Nick is her hero. He adores her as much as she adores him, so that’s a lot of adoration to compete with.

  Did I say compete? No, no. . . It’s not a competition. Actually, Andrea and I get along great, in that we don’t fight and she lets me be nice to her. There are absolutely no problems there.

  Andrea doesn’t pick up when Nick calls her again, so he cooks those steaks and I make a salad and pour the wine, and soon we’re sitting in our dining room, just an ordinary dysfunctional family enjoying dinner on a rainy weeknight.

  “Is there going to be more food?” Saul grunts, pushing the chopped zucchini around on his plate. “Not that this isn’t delicious, but a few vegetables and one small piece of meat aren’t enough.”

  “The steak’s big, Dad.” Nick taps his fork against his plate. “And with the walnuts and the feta in the salad, you’ll be plenty full. Just give it a chance.”

  “I’m not criticizing,” Saul answers. “I was just asking.”

  “I could make you some toast,” I say. “Would you like some toast?”

  Saul twists his mouth at the idea. “I’m not trying to be a bother, but usually with steak you serve potatoes.”

  He says this looking only at me, his voice measured and overly patient.

  “Sorry,” I tell him. “I didn’t think about potatoes.”

  “Actually, I was in charge of dinner,” Nick interjects. “Robin volunteered to make a salad and I handled the main course.”

  “You two need to wo
rk on your system.” Saul scratches his neck, his skin flaking off and sprinkling our dark blue tablecloth with tiny white specs.

  Nick clears his throat. “Robin and I have news, Dad. We’re getting married.”

  Saul’s craggy face doesn’t even flinch. Maybe he already saw the proposal on TV? He blinks a couple of times, as if he’s thinking slightly harder than usual, and says, “Congratulations. That’s great. What are you going to do about money?” He directs his words only at Nick. “I have no idea how you managed to snag someone so pretty, but Son, be realistic. Robin could be a trophy wife if she wanted to, spending her days spending some rich guy’s money. You’d better have a plan.”

  If Nick was capable of forcing steam out of his ears, he would do so right now. “That isn’t funny, Dad.”

  “Of course it is,” Saul laughs. “It’s hilarious! Robin’s going to marry an aspiring high school music teacher with massive student loans.” He turns to me. “Have you looked in the mirror lately, sweetheart? Don’t you know you could do much better than becoming a Davies?” I know answering his hypothetical question will only incite him, besides, he redirects his attention back to Nick, jabbing his fork in his direction. “You need to be careful. It’s always the pretty ones who take you for everything you have. It’s the pretty ones who will steal your soul. I should know. Your mother stole my soul before she died.”

  Nick’s mouth drops open, probably because he can’t decide who to defend first: me, or the memory of his mother.

  I step in. “By ‘stealing your soul,’ don’t you mean that you just really loved her?”

  Saul’s face is disarmed for a mere moment before I see his guard go back up. “Of course I loved her. Still do and always will. But if I had it to do over I’d be more practical.” He reaches over and pats me on the hand in a semi-fatherly gesture. “You’re a lovely girl and I’ll be lucky to have you as a daughter-in-law. But marriage is the most difficult thing in the world, so before you make the jump you both want. . .”he waves his hand in the air, grasping for labels, “to be successful at teaching, or at sewing, or whatever flaky things the two of you are calling your careers this week. Otherwise, I give you two years, tops.”

  Nick becomes more and more like a coiled up spring with every word his father utters. He’s clenching both of his fists and his jaw, and I’m afraid that one more wrong word will send him bouncing around in a conniption.

  Then, mercifully, the front door opens and Andrea calls out, “Hey, sorry I’m late.”

  She comes in, her long braid swishing back and forth as she walks. “Is there any food left? I’m starving!” But she senses the tension in the room, and asks, “What’s going on?”

  “We told Saul about our engagement,” I answer.

  “I expressed a couple of concerns,” argues Saul, “and now I’m the bad guy.”

  Andrea’s cheeks turn pink. “Well then let’s talk about something else, okay? Because I’m super-happy about Robin and Nick getting married, and I don’t want you to spoil it with negativity.”

  If she’s “super happy” that we’re getting married, it’s the first I’ve heard of it. “Begrudgingly accepting” is a better term and Nick is right; ever since we told her, she’s been quiet and rarely home.

  Saul slaps the table. “How am I negative? Negative and practical are two separate things! You’d be wise to learn that, young lady!”

  “O.M.G!” Andrea cries. “I can’t take this tension!” But she sits down, shoves a bite of zucchini and walnuts into her mouth, and speaks while she chews. “Dad, tell us about the latest ploy by the government to bring down the working man. Please! Anything to change the subject.”

  Saul wrinkles his forehead and purses his lips. “I don’t like your sarcasm. However, you should all know that Obama’s parents were both actually Communists and he plans to turn the U.S. into a Communist regime.”

  “Dad, that’s ridiculous,” Andrea answers. “I just came from my AP US History study session, and we were talking about communism.” She explains, they argue, and Nick leans over and whispers in my ear. “If you can’t marry into this family, I totally understand.”

  I lean away, look at him with wide eyes, and Nick shrugs. “I mean,” he mumbles. “I’ll be heartbroken, but I will understand.”

  Chapter 5

  As soon as Saul leaves Nick pulls me into the bedroom and pounces, smothering me with kisses and pressing himself against me. I don’t exactly push him away but I do hold back a little. “Andrea will hear us.”

  “I don’t care.” He plants rough kisses along my neck and gropes me in a way that would feel inexpert if Nick didn’t hold an advanced degree in my body. The pleasure is distracting. “I have to make love to you, now,” he says, “or else I’ll explode.”

  “Umm. . . isn’t exploding the goal?” I laugh.

  But Nick doesn’t crack a smile. His lips are bright red and parted, and lust pools in his eyes as he tugs my clothes off. “God, I hope so,” he says. He undresses me completely and I comply, happy to be what he needs. As we come together on our squeaky-springed bed, I’m able to forget about that horrible dinner; I forget about everything except the glorious feel of him.

  Afterwards we’re lying side by side and I’m breathing in the musky scent of his skin, when he murmurs something.

  “What’d you say?” I raise myself up so I can see his face.

  “I said I was sorry.”

  “For what?”

  He scratches at his thick eyebrow, squints and breaks my gaze. “Where do I begin? I’m sorry for my dad and everything he said, I’m sorry that all I have to give you are my student loans. . .”

  “Oh come on, Nick. I thought we were past all this.”

  “We’re not. We’ll never be past it.” I search his face for a sign that he’s joking but there’s neither a twitch of his lip nor a gleam in his eye. “I wish I had more to give you and I’m incredibly flawed. You should know what you’re signing up for.”

  “Okay. . . I’m pretty sure I do. Do you know what you’re signing up for with me?”

  He reaches over and turns on a reading lamp. The hard light does little to soften the growing darkness. “I think so. Unless there’s stuff you’re not telling me.”

  I pause for a second. There was a time when I didn’t talk much about my past. Yes, early on Nick and I compared stories about losing our mothers and it was Nick’s warmth and resilience that made me fall in love. But I kept my tragic college romance locked away, and I certainly didn’t tell him about the string of guys that came later, ones I specifically chose because they didn’t value me. I still feel the urge to shower when I think about my low standards and poor judgment but I’m even more horrified that several months ago, my tight-lipped stubbornness almost made me lose Nick. Since then I have resolved to expose my heart to him, every chance I get.

  “I might have heard from Clara today.”

  Nick turns his body sideways, toward me, and props his head up on his elbow. “What do you mean?”

  “I got this weird email.” Nick raises his eyebrows, urging me to continue, so I do. “It was anonymous and it seemed like it could be from her. But it could have been from someone else too, like some crazy person who hated me on The Holdout. Whatever; I don’t think it’s a big deal. I mean, I changed all my passwords and everything so I’m really not worried, but it’s a reminder of all the terrible choices I’ve made.”

  He kisses my forehead. “You’re human, Rocky, and most of your choices have been good ones. After all, you’re with me, aren’t you?” He smiles so devilishly that I reward him with a grin and a kiss. Then he gently rubs my temple, like his love could alleviate all our fears and negative thoughts.

  And maybe it can.

  But that doesn’t stop me from wishing I’m a better person; that no gap of integrity stretches between Nick and me, that our thoughts, actions and temperaments hold less of a discrepancy. And as I drift off to sleep, I’m struck with a realization. Whether or not Clara
is responsible for that email, I should find her and apologize. I may be years too late and volumes too lame, but it’s what a good person would do.

  No. A good person wouldn’t have anything to apologize for. But apologizing is what a decent person would do, and I can at least try to be decent.

  Chapter 6

  I google Clara for a current home or work address, but I can’t find anything. I don’t even know if she and Robert are still married. So I drive to her parents’ home, and now I’m sitting in my car, which is parked along the curb, trying to work up the nerve to get out and ring the doorbell.

  What will I say if her mother answers? Sorry about that mishap several years ago, when I had sex with your son-in-law and ripped your daughter’s heart out. Could you put me in touch with her so I can offer a real apology and appease my guilt?

  I lean my head against the seat-back and realize that’s pretty much exactly what I’ll say, leaving out the sex part. No need to go into specifics. Be brave, I tell myself, and I release my seat belt and open the car door.

  My heart is beating so hard there’s an echo in my ears, but I carry myself up to their front step and demand that my finger press their doorbell. For a moment it’s just silence, and I think, Oh well, I tried, but then I hear footsteps and the door opens.

  The face that greets me is older than I’d expected. I’m pretty sure it’s Clara’s mom, but it’s like she’s aged decades in the last few years. “Mrs. Thompson?” I ask.

  She nods her head, which is sparsely covered with gray, thin hair. Years ago her hair was thick, wavy, and chestnut brown, like Clara’s. “Hi,” I stutter. “I don’t know if you remember me. I was a friend of Clara’s -”

  “I remember you.” Her firm voice doesn’t match her diminished appearance and my head snaps back in shock. “You’re Robin. You came for that awful Easter, years ago.”

  “Yeah. . .” I shift my weight, aware that she’s not going to ask me in. “Sorry about that. Actually, that’s why I’m here. You see, I’m engaged now, and I’ve been thinking about marriage and the sanctity of it and, well, I would love an opportunity to really apologize to Clara. I tried before, but I think it was too fresh, so, um. . .”