The last bite of my sandwich is too big. I hate chewing with everyone watching our table. I take a sip of water and try to wash it all down. The bread is dry and scratches my throat.
The waiter takes our plates—mine scraped clean, Matthew’s with his untouched sandwich—and asks if he can bring us anything else. It’s all I can do not to ask for that sandwich wrapped up to go. The looks I would get are only slightly sharper than the hunger I never seem to chase away.
“Just the check,” Matthew says.
I want to ask our waiter to pull up two extra chairs, one for the me I thought I’d be if I married Matty, and one for the me I really could have been if I had.
One is pregnant and sweaty, strands of peroxide blond hair sticking to her flushed face, wearing a smocked maternity dress from Sally Ann’s over stretchy stirrup pants. A gold ring jammed on her swelling finger; tiny diamonds in a clump, trying to look like one decent-size one.
The other me is smooth. A glossy brown bob cut to fall in her face so she can push it away. Impossibly white teeth, the snaggly one finally fixed. A big square diamond on a platinum band. Her black dress skims her sculpted figure, without a trace of lint or panty lines. Her underwear comes wrapped in tissue paper, not plastic, and always matches her bra. She wears sky-high heels that cost more than my guitar.
For a moment, I think that I’d happily swap lives with either girl. Either version of me would be easier than this one.
A woman appears at the edge of our table, two decades older than us at least. Hands shaking, the slightest hint of tears in her sharp brown eyes.
“Do you mind?” she asks, handing Matthew a pen and a scrap of paper from her purse.
“Of course,” he says, flashing those brilliant teeth.
“To Mary Jo, jay oh.” There’s a breathless quiver in her voice, like she’s just been blessed. “My sister. Oh! She’s never going to believe I met you.”
I watch him sign like it’s just one more autograph and realize that if I’d stayed, neither of those other versions of me would have happened. If I hadn’t been the one to go first, Matty would have left me. He’d still be Matthew now, and he wouldn’t have brought me along.
The woman leaves. The waiter brings us the check.
“I have bad news,” Matthew says, handing the waiter his credit card without looking at the bill. “I can’t make it to your show tonight.”
It’s not my show, just a set at a coffeehouse. It was last minute, hardly even pays, but I don’t tell him that. I don’t want him to know I’m less than what he thinks I am. That we’re even further apart than it seems.
“I’m so sorry,” he says. “It’s a publicity thing. It’s in my contract. I tried.”
“It’s okay,” I say, nodding. “I understand.”
“But I was thinking—do you have a place to stay?” He gives me his crooked Matty smile again.
I let myself imagine going home with him. The strawberry birthmark on his thigh and expensive sheets. I let myself think he wants me back.
Then he says, “I don’t have a guest room, but the couch is really comfortable.” Because really, who wants some bruised up girl who smells like corn nuts in their bed?
“Yeah, I do.” I take my napkin off my lap and fold it up next to my plate. “Have a place to stay.”
He looks mildly disappointed, but not as much as I wish he did. I’m not what I used to be to him. I never will be again. He will never be my home.
The waiter brings his card and the receipt in a little black book. Matthew adds the tip, signs it with a squiggle and shuts the book with a slap. “It was great to see you, Ape. Really.” He stands and grabs the CDs. “I’ve got a costume fitting in fifteen, so I got to run.”
He kisses me on both cheeks, pulls me in for another hug. “The next time you’re in town…”
“Of course.” My throat tightens. I don’t want to let go, but he pulls away. I blink and look up at the ceiling so my eyes don’t drip. “Of course.” I give him the biggest smile I can.
The whole restaurant is watching. He kisses my forehead, grabs his jacket and dashes out the door.
Before I leave, I go into the bathroom to clean up for my set. I avoid making eye contact with myself in the mirror and concentrate on smoothing my hair. When I come out of the bathroom, no one watches me leave.
* * *
I blow town right after I play my set. Don’t even stay to sign CDs, just sneak out the back. It was a tough crowd and my music didn’t fit. Everyone else’s songs were edgy, less melodic. Leaving my car parked in the city costs way more than I’d ever make in CD sales. I know when to cut my losses.