Tiffany Scandal - Jigsaw Youth

When I turned around, I saw Hope kissing Los Angeles. Everyone in our group just watching them blankly. I turned to the neon red EXIT sign and walked under it, hands in my pockets, not looking back.

The next morning, I awoke to the smell of pancakes and coffee. I sat up, confused. I was still in last night’s clothes. I walked into the kitchen and saw her there, flipping pancakes on the stove. On the counter was a French press with two mugs beside it. Hope turned to me and smiled. “Good morning, beautiful.”

Good morning. Beautiful.

I was pretty sure I hadn’t dreamed what happened. I sat down at the kitchen table, confused and trying to piece things together. I heard her say, “Are you hungover? Here, take this.” She handed me Midol and a cup of coffee.

Hope was in her underwear, wearing one of my shirts. It fit her tighter around the chest because her breasts were larger than mine. Erect nipples visible through the thin fabric. She looked good, but I needed to focus. She was an asshole. She leaned to place the items in front of me and I noticed the markings on her neck. Looked like hickies.

“What’s with your neck?”

She covered them with her hair. “Oh, nothing.” She laughed and worked the spatula.

My stomach started to churn. “Did your friend have fun last night?”

“Yeah! She wants to hang out again, but solo this time. She gets overwhelmed around a lot of people, y’know?”

This didn’t feel right.

Hope placed the plates on the table and sat across from me. She smiled, taking the first bite. Looked me dead in the eye and said that I was missing out.

Pfft.

I walked out of the kitchen. Grabbed my keys and my jacket and reached for the door. She grabbed my arm and pulled me back.

“Where are you going?”

“Out. Somewhere. Anywhere but here.”

“What’s wrong with you? We were having a good time last night and you left without me.”

“Are you mental? You were having a good time. You don’t think I noticed? The hand holding? The way your lipstick was disappearing? How she talked shit about me and all you did was laugh? You have hickies on your fucking neck.”

Hope leaned back, looking wounded. Tears welling, She pursed her lips to stifle her cries. “Fuck you,” she whispered.

“We’re done here.”

She hit me open-handed across the face. I didn’t taste blood, but my cheek stung.

Before Hope, I was never sure what I wanted. Now I knew it wasn’t her.

I went for the door again. She shoved me against it, spun me around and kissed me hard. I turned my head and pushed her.

“No.”

She lunged at me again, this time trying to get into my pants, pull them down somehow. I fought her hands back and cracked open the door.

“No!”

She dropped to the floor, sobbing loudly.

I was telling myself, Please don’t do this. Just walk away.

But I couldn’t. I turned. Hope was a mess. Veiled with tears and snot. Looking like total defeat. Not like the monster I wanted her to be. I got her a tissue from the kitchen.

I found myself sitting on the couch next to her, listening to stories about how she never felt loved or accepted. Traumatic events she claimed shaped her into who she was. I should have left. Actually, I should’ve stayed home and made her leave. I should have been moving on with my life. But we had the same lack of control.

Hope sighed. “When I’m with you, I’m grounded. I feel beautiful, I feel loved. You’re the only one who’s ever made me feel like this. Please stay. Please.”

No.

“. .I know you can help me be a better person.”

No.

I was about to tell her to get the fuck out, that no one could fix her. But when I opened my mouth, all that came out was this pitiful. . “okay.”

Okay!

I wanted to hit rewind and do that moment over.

And surprise — things never got better.

It took a three AM phone call to finally break free. Hope had been ditched at a party on the other side of town. She was hysterical, crying, muttering that she’d blown a random guy so she could do a line with him. She wasn’t upset because she’d cheated on me, but because she’d done a drug she thought she’d grown out of . “I don’t know how I’ll even get home. I don’t have any money.”

I wanted to hang up, but I kept thinking Leave No Woman Behind.

“I’ll call a cab for you and have them pick you up.”

“Thank you. . and hey, I’m really sorry.”

“Okay.”

I put the spare key to her apartment in an envelope and wrote IT’S OVER on the back. I walked the few blocks to her apartment and slid it under the door. I didn’t hesitate and it didn’t hurt as much as I’d expected it to, but it hurt enough. I called a taxi service. Sent her a text that a cab was on its way, then shut off my phone.

Once I got home, I bolted the door shut. She didn’t deserve my tears. I was taking clothes she’d left out of the closet and putting them in a box, needing to purge her from my world, when I noticed my Telecaster. It’d been a long time since I’d played. I’d almost forgotten about it. The strings were corroded and the body was filthy. I tuned it by ear and played until my fingers split, until I fell asleep with it in my arms.

It was still dark out when I opened my eyes, smiling.

You are beautiful. You are stronger than you think.

My fingers were sore and I didn’t care. I didn’t bother checking my phone.

I told the night I was going to start a fucking band.

I met a rad drummer today. Her name’s Ira. She’s got blue and purple hair, and plays as good as anyone out there. She has tattoos and is obsessed with cats and Lana Del Rey.

I think we’re going to be best friends.

I woke up to you fucking me. My sweats and underwear down around my ankles. Your slender frame and tiny dick wriggling between my legs. Pathetic flesh seeking to prove itself a conqueror. I thought this was a nightmare. I couldn’t move. Hypnagogic fear.

We’d met through mutual friends about a year earlier. You had a girlfriend and she was phenomenal. You lived with her and claimed to love her very much. I was single, yes, but not interested in dating, especially not men. I thought you’d be safe.

I remember getting coffee with you. Shooting the shit about music, feminism, literature. We made each other laugh. I thought you were good people.

Then this happened.

You were wearing that cologne, M7 Fresh or something, which you said was “expensive and exotic,” but really, you just smelled like fucked up Fruity Pebbles. We went out for drinks, and watched the Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence perform. When it got late, too late for public transit, and because I lived nearby, I offered to let you crash on my couch.

I unfolded the couch for you. Brought out extra sheets and a pillow. I gave you an XL t-shirt and some ratty drawstring sweats to sleep in. We were the same height and you were thinner, so it was easy to find something you could change into. It was four in the morning and I was tired. I said good night, retreated to my room and shut the door behind me.

Then you were in the bed with me. I could hear you, could feel you. I was facedown. Hot breath whispering to me. “Umph. Fuck. You feel so good.” I imagined your breath burning me, leaving only ashes.

I struggled, trying to get you out of me. But your arm came down and pinned me back into the pillow. Trying to get back inside. I was afraid, but also angry. I tensed up and pushed myself up as hard as I could. You fell backward, slipped on the blanket and hit the floor.