Marilyn Brant: According to Jane

Then I looked back.

Holy shit.

There’d been times since high school ended, times over the past four years — indeed, a great many times — when I’d wondered what I’d say or do if I ever ran into the loathsome Sam Blaine again.

I imagined myself holding my head high and carrying on with whatever I was doing without acknowledging his presence.

Or, I thought I might lift an elegant eyebrow in greeting and say with perfect indifference, “Is that you, Sam? I hardly recognized you. You look shorter.”

Or, maybe, I’d be in the midst of laughing over something hysterically funny when someone else would break in and introduce us. I’d shake his hand and pretend not to remember him until he insisted we’d gone to kindergarten and all twelve grades of school together. And that we’d spent one really memorable night in each other’s arms…a night that had inexorably shaped my view of love. Then I’d reply with an amused “Oh, yeah. Sam. That’s right. Sorry, your name slipped my mind.”

That night, in sad reality, I stood utterly still and gaped at him.

He moved toward me and, as recognition dawned, his handsome features contorted into a look of pure horror.

My God. I must’ve looked pitiful.

Turn away, Jane commanded. You need not speak to him.

But I couldn’t make myself turn away.

“Ellie?” he said.

“Sam.” His name came out of my open mouth with a veritable squeak.

He cleared his throat. “I’m surprised to see you. I almost didn’t recognize you.”

I laughed aloud, and Sam shot me an odd look. Yeah. Irony was a bitch.

“Same here,” I said, though we both knew better. I pointed to the auburn-haired chick, who’d been watching our exchange curiously. “Your girlfriend?”

He nodded and introduced me to Camryn, a fellow future med student with sharp, assessing green eyes in addition to all that TV-commercial-worthy hair.

Dominic, of all people, chose this particular instant to stride up to us and lay his hand on my shoulder. “Hey, darlin’,” he said to me, but he fixed his gaze on Sam and Camryn. “We’ll be outta here in just a couple of minutes. Mick’s trying to find an article for me in his bag.”

He pointed in his buddies’ direction, where Mick alternately puffed on a cigarette and dug through a rumpled backpack. I knew this task would take another half hour at least.

“We’ve gotta get you to your birthday dinner,” Dominic continued, punctuating his bald-faced lie with a possessive squeeze.

I forced a grin at the jerk. “Take your time, um, sweetie.”

Dominic looked back at me, his eyes widening in surprise. “Uh, thanks.” He nodded to the couple in front of us. “Hi. I’m Dominic, Ellie’s boyfriend. You guys old friends?”

Camryn started to shake her head, but Sam said, “Yeah,” before she or I could reply. “Very old,” he added.

“Yep. Ancient-history old.” I smiled toothily at the other three and took a long swig of my wimpy wine. Crap. I wanted a margarita now , heavy on the Jose Cuervo Gold. If ever there was a time for strong drinks, this was it.

Do whatever you must, Jane said, with hot fury in her voice, but get away from that despicable man.

I wanted to listen to her. I really did. But my feet were rooted to the spot for the duration.

Camryn’s gaze ping-ponged between her boyfriend’s face and mine. Her green eyes narrowed. “Pleasure meeting you both,” she said to Dominic and me, her gritted teeth indicating her definitive lack of enthusiasm. “But I’ve been waiting all day for a daiquiri, so, we’ll see you later. Enjoy your birthday…Emmy.”

“It’s Ellie,” Sam said, beating me to it.

Camryn cast him a lethal look and began to walk away.

Hmm. So that was how it was.

Sam opened his mouth but then closed it again. He lifted his arm up in a half wave and followed his girlfriend to the bar.

Dominic squinted after them, turned back to me and shot me a puzzled look before rejoining his fellow mavericks.

Jane, who’d begun ranting with fervor since Sam appeared on the scene, scarcely paused for a breath between words. That rake! That rogue! The nerve of him to cross your path again after what he did. How insupportable!

I let her continue her tirade of antiquated English insults a while longer, but the combination of seeing Sam again and Jane’s marked displeasure had given me the headache from hell. Swift action was required. With a sigh, I told Jane to please calm down and gulped the rest of my drink. It was going to take an act of God to stop me from getting one very necessary and immediate jumbo birthday margarita. For medicinal purposes.

I sized up the people sitting at the bar, scanning for a good spot to squeeze in. Sam and Camryn were up there, and they’d just ordered their drinks. I watched the bartender hand Camryn a pink daiquiri with a cutesy umbrella. He passed a foamy beer to Sam.

I hoped they’d sit down. At a dark table. Preferably in some other bar. Like one in downtown Pittsburgh. (Too close?) Then I could get a jigger of fortifying tequila in peace. But they seemed ensconced where they were, leaning up against the padded side of the bar, facing each other. And I was getting desperate.

I pushed the smoky air out of my lungs, edged up to the corner of the bar’s counter and tried to blend in with the other patrons.

“What’ll you have, Ellie?” the bartender boomed in a jovial voice.

I gave him my margarita order, attempting to concentrate only on the task at hand. I studied the bartender who, after a dozen of my visits, had spent more time talking to me at The Bitter Tap than my own boyfriend. He was a nice guy. About thirty. Slightly overweight. Smooth, cocoa-colored skin. Always wore a gold chain around his neck and a warm smile. I worked hard to keep my attention focused on his friendly face.

But the ever-obsessed psycho in me wouldn’t take the hint.

My gaze kept drifting to Sam’s beer glass, the way he held it and brought it to his lips. I hadn’t forgotten a single detail about Sam’s mouth, his hands. My cheeks warmed at the memory of those inquisitive fingers touching my body that long-ago night, then they burned as I remembered the shame and hurt that followed.

I got my drink and licked the salt off half the rim before taking my first swallow. The sting of tequila short-circuited my senses for, maybe, thirteen seconds. Not long enough.

I glanced at Dominic, who’d returned to pontificating about some post–Cold War, Baltic-immigration policy that apparently had international significance, then over at Sam again, who was staring right at me, his jaw tense.

I looked away.

Can’t say I was proud to admit this, but I was still really mad at Sam.

Well, no. That would be a prime example of my ability to utilize subtlety and massive understatement, which had proved helpful in my university lit courses. Long live English majors.

More accurately, I was insanely, unrelentingly furious over the way he’d let things end between us. I wasn’t over it, like I should’ve been. I hadn’t moved on, like a true adult would have.

In fact, four years after that particularly painful one-night stand, I’d go so far as to claim I felt more pissed off there in the bar than I’d been back then. And that was saying something.

Clearly, these thoughts didn’t reflect well upon my maturity level. I knew I should’ve grown up, walked away, traveled on, let it all go — or, at least, chosen to go into denial or therapy. But, see, a Zen-like acceptance of my fate just wasn’t my reality.

As I watched Sam steal glances at me while lounging at the bar with Camryn, I had only one prevailing thought — I wanted to get bloody even with him. A few related thoughts followed: