The difference between envy and jealousy is subtle but distinct, once you know the flavors and contours of both. Jealousy is wanting what someone else has, like for example, wanting the same kind of car or house as a neighbor. (Or wanting to be the man who owns your girlfriend’s heart rather than some WASP-y asshole who probably has a drawer just for all of his cuff links.)
Envy is hating the fact that someone else has something you don’t, and hating them for having it, like wanting to slash your neighbor’s tires because he doesn’t fucking deserve a BMW and everyone fucking knows it, and if you can’t have it, then it’s no fucking fair that he gets to have one either.
Sterling fell into this last category. It’s not that he wanted Poppy necessarily, not beyond the way he probably wanted other things in his life—a new vacation home, a new yacht, a new tie bar. But the idea of someone else having her chewed away at the inside of him, an insatiable parasite of possession worming away in his gut.
I had a lot of time to think about this today because Poppy was apparently MIA. At first, after Sterling had left, I’d tried to play it cool, pacing in my office and calling her and then texting her, the manila envelope like a scarlet letter burning a hole on my desk. What would I say if she picked up? I would simply tell her that Sterling paid me a visit, and oh, also he’s been stalking us, and oh, also he’s blackmailing me into letting you go, totally normal Friday, want to watch Netflix tonight?
But she didn’t answer my calls or my texts, and answering promptly was something she normally did, and I spent a long hour walking tight circles around my office. I should just go over to her house. This was really important, and we needed to talk about it right now, but with Millie’s confrontation still front and center in my brain—not to mention this fucking black-hole-burning-pyre-beating-guilty-heart of an envelope inches away from me—I was too frightened to walk over to her house lest we be caught…again.
And then I wanted to yell at myself for being such a pussy. We needed to figure this out and that was more important than anything else. And I would just go on another run, that was all. Everybody was used to seeing me running at all hours of the day and night, and if I happened to run past the old Anderson house, nobody would think it odd at all.
I quickly changed into my running clothes and strapped my phone to my arm, and I was at Poppy’s house in less than two minutes. Her Fiat was in the driveway, but when I slipped into the garden (grateful once more for the overgrown shrubs that provided such great cover) and knocked on her door, there was no answer. Where the fuck was she? This was pretty important shit and she was unavailable? Was she taking a nap? In the shower?
I knocked and waited. Texted, knocked and waited. Paced and waited and knocked some more and then growled fuck it and unlocked the door with the key under the bamboo plant pot.
But I could tell the moment I walked in that she wasn’t napping or in the shower. There was the kind of silence filling the corners that only came with emptiness, with absence, and sure enough, I saw that her phone and purse were gone from the place she usually kept them on her desk, although her keys were still there. So she’d gone somewhere without her keys. Had she walked into downtown? To the coffee shop or maybe the library?
I turned to leave, and then a thought formed and stabbed me in the chest like an icy blade.
What if she was with Sterling?
I actually sagged against the wall. It made sense. What, I had thought he’d come all the way up here just to warn me? That he’d declare battle and then wait a few more days to fire his opening salvo? No, he’d probably gone straight to Poppy after leaving the church, and while I had been pacing the worn carpet in my office like an idiot, he’d been here persuading Poppy to go somewhere with him. To dinner. To drinks. To some sleek hotel in Kansas City where he’d fuck her against a floor-to-ceiling window.
That icy blade stabbed me over and over again, in my throat, in my back, in my heart. I didn’t even bother to fight the twin dragons of jealousy and suspicion as they coiled around my feet, because I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that I was right. There’s no other reason she would be ignoring my calls and texts.
She was with Sterling. She was with Sterling and not with me and I was utterly powerless to make it otherwise.
After realizing that Poppy wasn’t at home that afternoon, I’d run by the coffee shop and the library and the winegarden, just to double-check that she hadn’t stepped out to work someplace other than her desk. But no, she hadn’t been any of those places, and when I’d gotten home and unstrapped my iPhone, she still hadn’t texted or called.
Bishop Bove had.
I didn’t call him back.
That night at youth group, I was a mess. An angry, distracted mess, but luckily it was Xbox game night, and my frustration and tension blended in with those of the rowdy teenagers also playing with me. And at the end of the night, I made our prayer brief and to the point.
“God, the psalmist tells us that your word is like a lamp to our feet—that even though we don’t always know where you are leading us, you promise that you will show us the next step. Please keep your lamp burning for us, so that our next step, our next hour and our next day, is clear. Amen.”
“Amen,” the teens mumbled, and then went home to their concerns that (to them) were as troubling and stressful as mine. Homework and crushes and unsympathetic parents and a graduation date that seemed too far away. I remembered those problems acutely, even though they’d been so massively overshadowed by Lizzy’s death. Teenagers felt differently than adults—they felt keenly and powerfully, without the frame of experience to remind them that they wouldn’t be broken by a bad grade or an unrequited love.
But I had that frame of experience. So why did I still feel like I could be broken?
After youth group, I sat in my living room with my phone in my hands, wondering if I should call the bishop back, if he’d called because Millie or Jordan had told him about my shattered vows, wondering if I could even keep up my own pretense if he didn’t know. And that’s when I saw it—the picture message.
It came from an unknown number, but I knew who it was the second I opened the message and saw the picture, a shot of Poppy in a car, her face turned away toward the window. The light was low, as if the person taking the picture hadn’t used a flash, and it appeared to be taken in a back seat, which made me think that they had a driver. I could just barely make out the wisps of hair around her neck and ears, the glimmer of the small diamond studs she sometimes wore, the pearlescent sheen of her tie-neck blouse.
Sterling wanted me to know that he was with her. And I knew it could be something as innocent as dinner and conversation, but honestly, when was dinner with an ex ever completely innocent?
I tried to swallow down my feelings of betrayal. What claims did I have on her time, when I could only give her stolen slices of mine? I was not the kind of boyfriend—or whatever I was—to want her to account for every one of her minutes, every one of her thoughts, in the jealous hope that this would keep her faithful. Even if I had the right to demand her fidelity—which I didn’t, given that I was unfaithful in my own way, cheating on her with the Church—I still wouldn’t. Love is freely and unconditionally given, and even I knew that much.
Besides, this was exactly what Sterling wanted. He wanted me to stew and fume, he wanted me to brood over his victory, but I would not grant him that satisfaction and I would not do Poppy the disservice of lobbing accusations via text or voicemail.
We would wait to talk about it until she came back. That was the reasonable thing to do.
But strangely, having a plan of action (or a plan of inaction, as it were) didn’t help. I tried to watch TV and read, I tried to sleep, and in every pause of dialogue, in every paragraph break, was that picture of Poppy and all the unbidden, awful images of her and Sterling talking and touching and fucking. Finally I gave up on it all and went downstairs to the rectory basement where I lifted weights and did sit-ups until the moon started to sink, and then I drained four fingers of Macallan 12 and went to bed.
I woke up that morning with sore muscles and an even sorer conscience and a phone still devoid of missed calls or messages. I indulged in the quiet fantasy of dropping it into a boiling pot of water and walking away or maybe microwaving it—punishing it for everything that had gone so terribly wrong in the last twenty-four hours—but I settled instead for leaving it behind as I went to prepare for Mass and then for the pancake breakfast.
The morning went by in a robotic blur—especially after Millie told me that Poppy had called in sick to volunteer (this was followed by a look that was not exactly scathing but was certainly grumpy and I must have looked fairly pitiful, because she relented and gave me a dry kiss on the cheek before she left.)
And then I found myself with a Saturday afternoon with nothing to do but try to avoid feeling my feelings, and you know what? I decided that I was going to work out some more.
And drink. That too.
When I finally finished cleaning the church basement and went home, I saw that Bishop Bove had called again and sent me a badly garbled text message that also included several what I assume were accidental emojis.
I should call him back.
But instead, I changed into my gym shorts, grabbed the half-empty bottle of Scotch and trotted downstairs, where I turned up the Britney as loud as the speakers would go, and brutalized my screaming muscles with more weights, more sit-ups, more squats, chugging whisky straight from the bottle in between each set.
I would drink and sweat until I forgot that Sterling existed. Hell, I would drink until I forgot Poppy existed.
And I was getting close. The drunk push-ups were beginning to drive home how much my body did not appreciate the concurrent intoxication and exertion, and my arms were about to give out when the music stopped abruptly, and I heard my name called by the only voice I wanted to hear.
Startled, I got to my knees as Poppy walked over to me, wearing the same pale tie-neck blouse that she was wearing in the picture last night. Did that mean she spent the night with Sterling? The Macallan and exhaustion destabilized me enough that I wanted to ask—no, accuse—just that.
But then she got to her knees too, and without hesitation, wove her fingers into my sweaty hair and pulled her face to mine.
The moment her lips touched me, everything else flared up and burned away, like so much flash paper thrown into the air. I forgot why I was punishing my body, why I was drinking, why I hadn’t been able to sleep last night.
She slid her arms around my waist and parted her lips, beckoning me inside her mouth, and I went where I was summoned, finding her tongue with mine and kissing her with everything I had. I seized the back of her neck with my hand, gripping her in the way that I couldn’t grip her commitment or her time, and my other hand reached under the wrinkled pencil skirt she was wearing and found the lace of her thong, pushing it aside to find the soft skin between her legs. Without preamble or prologue, I pushed a finger inside of her pussy, which was tight and not entirely ready for me, although I could tell that she was getting there.
She moaned into my mouth at my intrusion, breaking our kiss with a gasp as I started rubbing her clit with my thumb while I crooked my finger inside of her.
She leaned against me as I worked her cunt, and God forgive me, I was so jealous that Sterling might have touched it the night before that I couldn’t discern whether I was touching her for her benefit or mine—as if I could reclaim her if I made her come.
Watching her pant into my shoulder with her day-after hair and day-after makeup, her creased clothes, that general walk-of-shame look, was so fucking hot and so goddamn infuriating at the same time, and it was no wonder she flinched at my voice when I said, “On your hands and knees. Facing away from me.”
She swallowed and slowly obeyed. “Tyler…” she said, as if realizing for the first time that maybe she owed me an explanation.
“No. You don’t get to talk.” My voice was raspy from the workout and the Scotch. “Not a fucking word.”
My dick had been stiff the instant I heard her voice, but by the time I moved her skirt over her hips and pulled her thong down to her knees, I was so hard it hurt.
I should warn her that I’ve been drinking. I should warn her that I’m angry.
Instead, I pulled my shorts down to expose my cock, nothing in my mind but fucking that pussy, but the moment I notched my head against her cleft, my jealousy got the better of me. My jealousy and perhaps my conscience, which was beaten and gagged, but still not ready to let me fuck a woman drunk and in anger.
So I withdrew and instead of having sex with her, I fisted my cock, staring at her ass as I stroked myself. It was not quiet—I grunted every time my hand slid back up over my glans, and my hand and my dick made the distinctive sound of jacking off—and Poppy cried out, starting to turn back to me.
“That’s not fair!” she protested. “Don’t do this, Tyler—fuck me. I want you to fuck me!”
“Turn around.”
“You’re not even going to let me watch?” she said, and she sounded hurt, shut out.
Well, boo fucking hoo, Macallan Tyler thought and Good Guy Tyler winced. But no. No, she should atone. Somehow.
I smacked her ass and she jerked against my hand, letting out a low groan that told me she wanted more, and I wanted to give it to her, but part of me also didn’t want to give her anything, not until I knew that she wasn’t back together with Sterling, but then fuck it, it could be part of her atonement, and I spanked her again and again, the flat of my palm landing on her ass, alternating cheeks, until it glowed pink.
I could see her getting wetter, her cunt practically weeping for me, and I didn’t care, let it weep, and then it was there like a vicious riptide, and I shot all over her day-old clothes, a climax that was powerful, but harsh and nasty and short, because she wasn’t there with me. She wasn’t satisfied, and so I wasn’t either, although it hadn’t been about satisfaction, it had been about some kind of revenge, and God, I was a fucking asshole.
I sat back on my heels, my cheeks flushed with shame. I should touch her; I should spread her legs and lick her until she came. What kind of bastard did this to a woman—while drunk and jealous—and didn’t return the favor? But how could I touch her now, when I felt so disgusting with all of my sins and failures, when I was still so suspicious and upset that I couldn’t trust myself to be in control of her body?
I couldn’t. It was a dick move, but it was even worse to touch her with the kind of feelings I had inside of me.
After stuffing myself in my pants, I grabbed her a towel and wiped my semen off her clothes as best as I could.
“Are you…are we not…” She turned around and faced me, not bothering to fix her clothes, and the sight of her bare cunt sent a jolt straight to my dick. I’d be hard again in a minute.
I forced myself to look away. “Let me help you up. And then I think you should go home.”
She stood and pressed herself against me. “You’ve been drinking,” she said, looking up into my face. “You look like shit.”
She reached up to caress my cheek and I caught her hand, holding it in the air as I wrestled back the thousands of dark temptations, the feeling that if I fucked her hard enough, I’d pound the memory of Sterling right out of her.
I let go of her hand.
“Go home,” I said tiredly. “Please, Poppy.”
Her eyes hardened, huge agate stones of determination. “No,” she said, and there was that senatorial voice, that Chairwoman of the Fed voice. “Upstairs. Now.”
I wasn’t going to argue, because of the voice and also because upstairs was the way she needed to go if she was going to leave, but once we got to my living room, she put her hands on my shoulders and guided me to the bathroom instead of going to the door, and I was way drunker than I’d originally thought because I could barely make it without weaving into the wall, and crap, it was still daylight outside. I’d managed to get shit-faced and fuck over the world’s most perfect woman all before four p.m.
Tyler Bell: American Hero.
I let Poppy guide me to the edge of the bathtub, where I sat.
“Why won’t you go home?” I asked plaintively. “Please go home.”
She knelt and unlaced my sneakers, tugging impatiently on the strings. “I’m not leaving you like this.”
“I don’t need taken care of, dammit.”
“Why? Because you feel too vulnerable? Is that why you wouldn’t fuck me? Or touch me? Or even look me in the eye?”
“No,” I spluttered, even though it was the truth and we both knew it.
“Stand up,” she ordered, again in her Madame Secretary voice, and I obeyed, not enjoying the submission, but enjoying the interaction, the way she was fussing over me like she cared about me. Like she loved me.
She tugged off my shorts so that I was naked and then she reached past me to turn on the shower. “In.”
I made to protest until I saw that she was unbuttoning her blouse and slipping out of her heels. She was going to join me.
The warm spray felt like heaven on my sore muscles, and then Poppy was there, and there was something clean-smelling and a washcloth, and for a while it was just the fresh smell of soap and the massage of the washcloth and the soft rain of the water, warm and comforting. When she had me kneel so she could knead shampoo into my hair, I dropped to my knees without question, pressing my face against her stomach, wondering if there was a word for the skin there that meant more than supple, meant more than soft and sexy, that meant all of those things combined.
I closed my eyes and groaned as she massaged my scalp, her fingers applying the kind of pressure that relaxed and stimulated at the same time. I turned my face and kissed her navel, a supplicating kiss. Supplicating for what, though, I didn’t know.
What I did know was that for the first time in twenty-four hours, I was not roiling with hot-tempered emotions, I was not brooding with guilt, I was not punishing myself. I was with Poppy and her pussy was so close to my mouth, and I bent down and kissed the top of her clit, feeling her quiver.
But then she put her hands on my shoulders, pushing me away from her. “Not until I finish taking care of you,” she said firmly and rinsed the shampoo out of my hair. Then she had me stay there while she quickly washed her own body and shampooed her own hair. She wasn’t putting on a show, she wasn’t trying to be sexy, but it was still one of the sexiest things I had ever seen, the way her nipples slipped between her fingers as she soaped up her breasts, the way the suds funneled down her stomach to stream over her cunt and thighs, the way water poured over the smooth globes of her ass as she held her head back and stood under the spray.
By the time she shut off the water, I was as hard as a fucking rock, and I caught her staring at my erection out of the corner of my eye, staring in a hungry way that made me want to tackle her right there on the bathroom floor.
But I was also sobering up (not very much) and coming to terms with what a jerk I’d been to her down in the basement and also realizing how much I didn’t deserve this sweet treatment she was giving me now. So I didn’t tackle, I merely toweled off and let myself be meekly towed to the bed.
“Lay down,” she said. “And go to sleep.”
She wasn’t staying with me? Fuck. “Poppy, I’m so sorry. I don’t know—”
“What came over you?” she finished for me. “By the looks of it, half a bottle of Scotch. But,” and here she lowered her eyes, “I guess I deserved that.”
“No,” I said firmly, but not very firmly because now that I’d settled into the pillow, I’d realized the room was spinning around me. “You didn’t deserve anything of the sort. I feel so ashamed of myself right now, and I don’t deserve you even being here. You should go.”
“I’m not going,” she said with the same firmness I hadn’t been able to muster. “You are going to take a nap and I’m going to read a book, and when you wake up, I have a way for you to make it up to me. Okay?”
“Okay,” I whispered, not sure if I deserved a chance to make it up to her or not. But also I wanted her to know why I’d been such an ass, why I’d acted like such a phenomenal bastard. It was that stupid human desire to justify one’s actions, as if I could erase the wrong of it all if only she saw my reasons.
As someone who heard people’s wrongdoings and the reasons for said wrongdoings on a professional basis, I should’ve known better. But I was desperate for her not to hate my guts, and yes, maybe there was a tiny part of me that also wanted to shift the blame, because let’s face it, she’d spent the night with Sterling and then showed up in her day-after state, and how the fuck was I supposed to react?
“I know that you were with him last night,” I blurted and then held my breath, terrified that she’d confirm it and even more terrified that she’d try to deny it.
But she didn’t really do either. Instead, she sighed and drew the blanket up to my chest. “I know you know,” she said. “Sterling told me that he sent that picture.”
And then she looked away. “I fucking hate him so much.”
That heartened me a bit. Maybe last night had been sex-free after all. Maybe this wasn’t all an elaborate prelude to her telling me that she was leaving for Sterling.
“I didn’t screw him, Tyler,” she said, noticing my look.
And I believed her. Maybe it was the clear, open way she said it. Maybe it was her eyes, wide and innocent. Or maybe it was something more ephemeral than that, some spiritual connection that knew her words to be true.
Either way, I chose to believe that she was telling me the truth.
She took a deep breath. “We’ll talk more when you wake up. But I didn’t—nothing happened. I didn’t touch him…he didn’t touch me.” She found my hand and squeezed it, and that squeeze was the axis on which the room drunkenly tilted. “I only want you, Father Bell.”
