Jennifer Close - The Hopefuls

In all the months we’d lived at the Dillons’, they almost never came to the basement — I could count the number of times Ash had been down there on one hand, and that was only after I’d called upstairs for her to come and give me an opinion on what I was wearing. And I was pretty sure Jimmy hadn’t stepped foot in there once. They did this on purpose, I’m sure, trying to give us privacy to make it feel like it was our own space. And they’d done such a good job that I’d almost forgotten this basement belonged to them. Jimmy seemed out of place in it.

“What time does everything start tomorrow?” I asked, at the same time that Jimmy said, “You must be ready to get out of here.” We looked at each other, both smiled just a little, and then I answered, “Maybe. It feels sad now that it’s all ending, doesn’t it?”

“You have no idea how sad,” Jimmy said, and I felt like an idiot.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “Of course, I didn’t mean—” But Jimmy held up his hand.

“It’s okay,” he said. “I know what you meant.”

“How are you feeling? I mean, I guess that’s sort of an obvious question.” I felt like I was tripping over my words.

“Not that obvious. Do you know that no one’s asked me that? Not Ash or my parents. No one.”

“I’m sure they just don’t want you to have to talk about how disappointed you are. They already know.”

“Yeah,” Jimmy said. “It just sucks though, you know? That’s really all it comes down to.” He set his beer on the table and put his head in his hands and the first thing I thought was, Oh God, please don’t cry. But I didn’t see his shoulders moving and his breathing sounded normal.

“Hey,” I said, getting up and moving next to him, putting my hand on his back. “It’s okay.”

He looked up then, and I was aware of how loudly my heart was beating. I hoped he couldn’t see it. My mouth felt dry as I said, “It won’t seem so bad with a little distance.”

“I know,” Jimmy said. My hand was still on his back, and he put his hand on my leg. “You should listen to your own advice sometime.”

It had been over ten years since I’d been in this particular type of situation, and I was surprised at how familiar it still felt — those seconds when you’re with a guy and know something is about to happen, when both of you feel the possibility, the electricity between you; but you also know it’s still early enough to get out of it, that one of you could shift or look away and let the moment pass, leaving you to wonder later if you’d made up the whole thing in your head. Our eyes met and I told myself this was a bad idea, that I should stand up or walk out, or just do something.

And then, a split second later, we moved toward each other. He had his hands on my hips and lifted me on top of him in one quick movement, and then we were kissing, quickly and with an urgency I hadn’t felt in a long time. He moved one hand to cup the back of my head, and before I realized what was happening, his other hand was under my dress, pushing my underwear to the side, not bothering to take it off before putting his fingers inside me. I pressed back against him, moaned as he said, “You’re so wet,” in a way that felt like a compliment, like it was something I could control.

I could feel him hard underneath me, and he started to unbuckle his jeans, which brought me back to reality for a second and I said, “Wait,” and then he pulled my mouth back toward him and we were kissing again. It was only when he said my name, when I heard him say, “Beth,” in a hoarse voice, that things became clear and I pulled away, sat up sharply, looked at him straight on. It was then that we both heard footsteps above us, and I stood up quickly, realizing as I did that Jimmy’s fingers had still been inside me.

I would like to think we would’ve stopped then anyway — that whatever crazy spell I was under would’ve broken, that we would’ve returned to our senses. That’s what I tell myself, that anyone can lose her mind for a few minutes. But the truth is, I don’t know for sure.

As Matt walked into the room, I was standing next to the couch, where Jimmy was still sitting. There was nothing inappropriate about it — we weren’t in any sort of compromising position — but we were flustered and rumpled and our faces must have given us away, because Matt looked back and forth between us a few times, slowly, and then he said, “What the fuck?”

“Matt—” I started, but he gave me such an angry look that I stopped. I glanced over at Jimmy and could see through his pants that he was still hard and wondered if Matt noticed.

“What the fuck is happening here?” he said.

“Nothing,” I said.

“Nothing,” Jimmy echoed. “Kelly, it’s nothing.”

Matt lunged at him so quickly that I barely realized he’d moved before he was across the room, grabbing Jimmy by the collar, pulling him up off the couch, and pushing him against the wall.

“What the fuck is going on here?”

“Nothing. Look, I was upset and Beth was comforting me and we were a little too close for a second, but that’s all.”

“Don’t fucking talk to me about my wife,” Matt said. Never in my life had I heard him use the word fuck so often in such a short span of time. It was so frequent that it was almost ridiculous, like a teenager who’s just learned to swear and is trying to sound tough. It sounded wrong coming out of his mouth — he was too proper for that. But each time he said it, everything around me sharpened into focus, like I was waking up from a dream.

“Matt, really,” I said. “It was nothing.”

“Nothing?” he asked, looking at me and then turning back to Jimmy. “Were you about to fuck my wife?” He pushed him against the wall again. I’d never seen Matt get in a fight, never seen him get physical with anyone. It wasn’t his style. He was too practical, too levelheaded to act like this.

Even with my heart beating fast and my cheeks burning, knowing I’d just acted in a horrible and stupid way, the scene in front of me was so dramatic, so over the top that I almost laughed. It was absurd. This wasn’t real — things like this didn’t happen to people like us. This was an episode of Jerry Springer, not real life. Certainly not my real life.

Jimmy wasn’t fighting back at all, was just letting Matt push him against the wall, and this seemed more an admission of guilt than anything. Because really, if we hadn’t been doing anything wrong, surely he’d be defending himself.

“No,” Jimmy said. “I wasn’t. Nothing was going to happen.”

“Fuck you,” Matt said, and then Jimmy actually did react, shoved Matt in the chest once with both hands.

“Go ahead and punch me,” Jimmy said. “I know you want to. You’ve wanted to for a long time now, so here’s your chance. Do it.”

Matt shook his head. “You’re such a piece of shit,” he said. “You know that?” And then he turned to me and said, “Let’s go.”

—

It occurred to me that Matt was so angry (on top of having had two glasses of port and drinks at dinner) that he shouldn’t be driving, but I didn’t say anything about it. We climbed into the car — I’d somehow remembered to grab my dress, and I held it in my lap, squeezing the material in my fists. “Matt,” I said. “I’m so sorry. You have to believe me that it was nothing. Jimmy was upset, and—”

“Did you fuck him?” Matt asked. Again, with the word fuck. I felt the urge to laugh, which has always happened to me in inappropriate circumstances (I let out a giggle at my own grandmother’s funeral), but fortunately, it went away.

“No,” I said, trying to make it sound as if that were the most ridiculous thing he could’ve suggested. “We kissed for a second, but it was nothing. Nothing.” Without really meaning to, I left out the details of Jimmy’s hand under my dress, of his fingers inside of me, like I’d already forgotten it had happened. I couldn’t tell him that — it was too confusing, would make the whole thing seem much worse.