Stepping on Spiders

I really don't like nightclubs.

But here I am anyway, sitting at the bar at Club Ice in downtown Manhattan with a virgin Shirley Temple, watching my best friend of nine years descend into the depths of an alcoholic stupor.  Jesus, this is awkward.  I'd much rather be at a quiet park somewhere drawing the famous city skyline.  Or at my current lay's apartment, sharing a pot of fondue.  But of course not tonight.  Tonight is Abby's "one night a month," where she gets to choose the place we go to hang out after work.  Since she's always trying to get me drunk, she of course picked Ice, which is definitely not my kind of party, but whatever.  I agreed to come, so here I am.  I just hope she doesn't throw up on me like she did last time.  I don't want to clean vomit out of my favorite shirt again.

This is all her fault.  She's always commenting to her other friends on how I'm such a prude... Ha.  I've probably banged more guys than she has.  But then again that's probably not saying much.  In reality, Abby has trouble finding men that are interested in her, and I know it hurts her, but just because I'm quiet and don't really like alcohol, she has to go running her mouth to make herself feel better.

Of course all her work friends are more inclined to believe her than me.  They like a good juicy story to gossip about later, so they latch on to whatever Abby tells them and repeat it the next day over their Lean Cuisine and bottles of Diet Sprite.  Whenever someone who isn't in their little circle walks into the break room they instantly clam up or change the subject, which is how I know they've been talking about someone.  I don't like it, but I always get a kick out of sitting down with them and beaming fake smiles their way; watching Rachael Greene's gossipy little mouth tighten into a thin line is completely worth knowing they're talking about me.

My thoughts are interrupted when I notice a tall man out of the corner of my eye who looks like Chris, the man who proposed to me last year.  I told him time and time again that I would never be the marrying type, and he still convinced himself that I was "The One."  Oh, shit, it really is him.  And he's seen me?!  What do I do?  Act casual.  God, I'm freaking out.  I hope I don't make a fool out of myself by choking on my Shirley Temple or something.

"Julia?  Jules!  Hi!"  I can barely hear him over the pounding nightclub beat, but I would recognize that overjoyed puppydog look on his face anywhere.  He's getting closer.  I have to find Abby and get out of Dodge, now.  But she's nowhere to be found… Looks like it's into the Lion's Den with me.  Move over, Daniel, here I come.

"Hi, Chris."  I take a sip of my drink right as he leans in for a kiss—nice deflection!—and try to gather my wits enough to make a clean getaway.  This is getting awkward, fast; he's looking at me like I'm the only woman in the world.  Don't do that!  "How are things with you?"

"I miss you, Julia.  I'm not gonna lie."  His hazel eyes well up; I think he's drunk.  God, I can't stand to see this man cry… it makes me go all soggy and nurturing.  Don't let him do this to you, Julia.  Absolutely not.  You are a powerful woman.  You own a damn apartment in New York City, for Chrissake.  You don't need a man.  Especially not one as sweet, loving, and sensitive as Christopher Bayles.  Especially not one who promised to take away all the loneliness forever.

"Um… I have to go."  Victory!  As I get up from my bar stool, I accidentally brush my hand against Chris', and he acts.  He knocks over both my stool and the one he had been standing next to, and I nearly tumble to the floor.  Before I can protest, he has caught me around the waist and I am in his arms and he is kissing me and I want to fight him and I want to tell him about the Other Man and I want to run away and I want to find Abby and get the hell out of here, and all I can do his kiss him back.  I don't know what to do.

When he finally lets me go, I am frozen.  What just happened?  I kissed him back.  Chris Bayles, the man who thinks I am The One, just kissed me and I, who swore I would never take back a man I'd dated before, kissed him back.  And definitely not in a platonic or drunken way, either.  In my head the little thought-beetle I was so sure I'd squished crawls in and buries itself in my synapses.

The night he asked me to marry him flashes in my memory.  We had taken a walk in Central Park around 11PM on a snowy November night.  I've always loved the snow; it reminds me of my childhood, when my mom and I would catch snowflakes on our tongues and make snow ice cream.  When she died, I thought I'd never go out in the snow again unless I absolutely had to, but Chris changed all that.  He took me to the park and showed me the first snowfall of that year, which was probably the most romantic thing anyone has ever done for me.  We stood side-by-side on a footbridge overlooking a small koi pond, and he took my hand.  I knew what was coming, and I know part of me wanted to accept, but when he got down on one knee and took that beautiful Tiffany diamond out of his pocket, I panicked.  I wanted so badly to tell him yes, to throw myself into his arms and—

NO.  I am not allowed to love this man.  No matter how much I want to.  I don't love men; I use them for sex.  I am the Black Widow.  No, no, no.

Chris is staring at me, and I'm still standing right where he left me.  My lips are tingling, my heart is pounding, my head is light.  I don't dare say a word, or he'll know.

"I'm so sorry, baby.  But I can make you happy, Jules."  His eyes are full of tears.  I can barely hear the club's music anymore… all I hear is Chris.  All I see is his face, all I know is I want him.  I want back what we had—the quiet nights we spent in my apartment watching old movies and eating popcorn, the silly little tiffs that were always resolved in the bedroom, even the way his dark hair flopped into his eyes when he'd work on a news piece for the paper.  I can't fight this; it would be like pitting a kitten against a fairytale dragon.  Oh no.  Oh no.

"I... I have to go." I say.  I spot Abby across the bar and try to dash her way, but before I make it two steps Chris grabs my wrist and kisses me again, tenderly and with finality.  Stop that, you infuriating man!  I don't want to care about you!  But I can't help it.

I have to get out of here.  Abby will know what to do, she always does.  Even if she's a little crazy, and a lot frustrating, she's my best friend and she always makes me think logically.  Oh, god, where is she?  I just saw her!

They say it takes three days for the brain to adjust to a major change in its environment, but I don't have three days.  I have about five minutes to find Abby, pay the tab, and get out of here before Chris finds me again and I'm forced to call my own bluff.  For a split second I think about going back to him and letting go of the Black Widow persona forever, but I don't think I can.  Just thinking about it makes my palms sweat and my heart race.  What if I do go back to him, and it's all wrong once we move in together or get married, or whatever it is that committed couples do?  I can't be let down like that, not like my mother.  She lived her whole life waiting for the man who was my father to come back after I was born.  I refuse to let love abandon me the way it abandoned her.

But Jesus. Chris is perfect.  He's never done anything to hurt me on purpose.  He asked if we could wait to have sex until we'd dated for at least a month, because he wanted it to be right.  He never belittled me, humiliated me, or made me feel stupid.  He cared about what I had to say, and when we would disagree on something, he wouldn't get angry and demand his own way.  I always felt safe when I was with him.  

Even my aloof cat Romulus liked Chris.

I shake my head and try to clear my thoughts.  It's no use thinking about how amazing he is; that's just going to cause me more trouble.  Just find Abby floats through my head like a mantra.  Get out of here before you change your mind.

Oh, god, I think it's too late.  My mind was made up the second his lips touched mine.  The walls that I've built for myself are crumbling into dust; the little black spider with the hourglass necklace is curling herself up, and soon rigor mortis will set in.  The panic I've felt since I first saw him tonight is being replaced by an eerie calm.  I've somehow made up my mind, the Other Man be damned.  Chris makes me feel like no one else could.  How could I have been so blind?

It takes me a minute to realize that I've turned and am pushing my way back through the crowds toward the bar, toward him.  People I've pushed past twice have stopped dancing and are staring at me, but I don't care.  All that matters is getting to him before he leaves and I miss my chance.  Please still be there.  Please.

My stomach clenches as I catch sight of him.  He's standing right where I left him, but now he's holding a still-full glass of whisky in his hand.  I don't think he sees me yet, and I'm grateful for that.  I want to look at him for a minute, to give myself the chance to change my mind.  This is crazy, you know, I tell myself.  He's just going to leave you like your father left your mother, and you'll be all alone again.

Shut up.  I quickly shove that train of thought as far away from me as I can.  I'm done running from love.  In my mind, the little beetle named Chris Bayles breaks free from the dead spider's web and begins to shed its old shell, allowing one that is even more beautiful to take its place.

"Chris?  Chris, I was wrong.  I should never have let you go… I love you.  I'm so sorry.  Can you ever forgive me?"  I reach out my hand, which is shaking, and lay it gently on his arm.  He stands frozen under my touch for an agonizing moment, and I am so afraid he's going to turn me down.  I've been so awful to him… how can I expect him to take me back after this?  Tears prick at the corners of my eyes as I think about all the things I've done to hurt this wonderful man.

But then the moment is over, and I'm in his arms again.  He is holding me tightly and I can feel his tears splashing into my hair, while my own tears soak into the cotton of his shirt.  We stand there, unmoving, until he pulls away and takes my face in his hands.  I try to tell him how sorry I am for hurting him, how wrong I've  been, but he interrupts me with a kiss.

"There is nothing to forgive," he says, leaning close so I can hear him over the music.  "All that matters is that you came back.  Do you know how much I've wished for that to happen?  God, Julia, you've just made me whole again."

But he's wrong.  I haven't made him whole, he has made me whole.

For the first time in my life, I am truly happy.