Penelope lived for another year, but without her husband and her daughter, she just didn’t have the will to fight when she got splenic cancer.
Probably the most difficult thing I’ve had to deal with since Lights was Ben’s trial. I had to testify about everything that had happened, and that took more out of me than I thought I had to give, but in the end, the jury came back unanimously: guilty on all counts.
He tried to play our entire relationship as if I was constantly pursuing him, and he said that the bruises I got, I had asked for as part of some ultraviolent roleplay. I kind of wanted to go up there and give him another face full of my forehead, but the presence of the judge and bailiff sufficiently convinced me to reconsider.
He can rot in prison for all I care.
As for me, well, the job offers are still coming in. I’m just waiting for the next script that’s going to have that spark—Damian likes to call it “heart,” though he always seems to laugh after using the word.
Right now, though, I’m heading home.
The house is quiet when I get there and I just sit out back with a nice, tall Long Island iced tea. I’m hardly settled when some invasive prick decides to move his filthy shadow directly between me and the sun.
What most people don’t understand is that Damian and I don’t do so well with labels. Well, really, it’s just him that seems to have the issue with it.
If someone asks if we’re still together, I say yes. If they ask if I’m still Damian Jones’s girlfriend, I say no.
In the end, really, it was my choice.
After that day in the front seat of my car when dumbass couldn’t find his fucking tongue to speak, I insisted that we stop thinking of or referring to each other as boyfriend or girlfriend or significant other or any of that. Even the term “relationship” is used a little sparsely around the house.
Once the words changed, Damian stopped having such a problem when it came time to move on to the next level. His presence here and now is testament enough of that.
In normal people terms, Damian and I are about the equivalent to people in a serious relationship who live together, but in our terms, we’re roommates.
“Saw the show,” he says, “you did great.”
I sigh. “You know,” I tell him, “if you’re going to blow smoke up my ass at least do the legwork beforehand.”
“What are you talking about?” he asks.
“The show doesn’t come on until 10 o’clock,” I tell him.
“Yeah,” he says, “but I’ve seen enough of your performances that I’m going to stick with what I said. Call it a preemptive compliment.”
“Where’s Danna?” I ask.
“She’s off with some guy,” he says. “I don’t remember his name, but he’s the one with all the tattoos and the piercings.”
“Uh…” I’m trying to think. “That would be Carl, right?”
“I don’t even know anymore,” he says. “After she decided to take her ass off of layaway, it’s gotten impossible to keep track of all her guys.”
“He seemed like a pretty nice guy when I talked to him,” I tell Damian.
“I’m sure he is,” Damian says. “I’m sure they all are.” And now I don’t know if he’s joking or not.
When Damian and I first talked about moving in together, Danna was the first thing that we talked about.
She and I had gotten off to a bit of a rocky start, but after that day and after that talk show, she and I finally started getting along. Now, whenever shithead (Damian) is out of the house, it’s the two of us, Danna and me.
I think all she really needed was assurance that I didn’t think I was, neither did I think I would or could, replace Jamie. That was never my goal.
I never knew Jamie, but I know enough about her to know that she meant a great deal to Damian and Danna, and I have no reason to feel I need to replace her in their memories, not that I could of I had wanted to anyway.
“What are we doing tonight?” I ask.
“I thought the three of us might go out tonight,” he says. “I heard about this new seafood restaurant that just opened up downtown and I got us some reservations for later. Does that work?”