Transit Girl. Jamie Shupak

to move that part of your body to turn them on. You know every button to push and exactly how to push it. And right now I am laying on the horn like I’m about to slam into the car in front of me on the New Jersey Turnpike.

      I’m standing there butt-naked in front of him. There’s barely a pinch of fat on me, from my triceps to my thighs, and even my stomach muscles look more defined than usual—not surprising considering I haven’t consumed much of anything in the last forty-eight hours. But I look good. I look sexy—from the outside, at least. I glance over to see his reaction, and he’s looking at me the same way you stare emotionless at a traffic light, waiting for it to change from red to green. No, it’s worse, because he’s actually on the phone, holding up his hand in the space between us.

      “Five more minutes, babe,” he mouths.

      Babe. He calls me babe, she calls him baby. It’s like Three’s fucking Company around here. Defeated, I toss on jeans and an old T-shirt and head for Zelda on the couch.

      “You love me no matter what,” I say as I bury my head in her fur. We snuggle into the same position we were in this morning when all this shit started, and as if on cue, my phone starts buzzing from the kitchen counter.

      I get up to see who it is. One new text message from Gemma. I click OK.

       G, YOU OKAY? WHAT’S HAPPENING? I HOPE YOU’RE PACKING AND COMING BACK HERE SOOOON.

      “Who’s that?” I can’t believe he has the nerve to ask, as if I’m the one who’s texting people I shouldn’t.

      “It’s Gemma. You ready to go for a walk yet?”

      As I start replying to her, my phone vibrates again. One new text message from Angel. I click OK.

       SMILEY RILEY’S GOT A BIG SCOOP ON LINDSAY LOHAN TONIGHT—DON’T MISS IT!

      Ugh. I really need to fill Angel in on everything so he knows I’m in no mood for our usual snarky recap of Sloane’s reports, like how I need sunglasses to watch, lest her shiny teeth blind me through the screen.

      “Almost …” JR’s voice trails off. And then a Sam Cooke song—our song—comes wafting in from the bedroom. It’s uncanny how words like no I won’t be afraid/as long as you stand, stand by me that always meant one thing can take on such a different meaning, as if in a split second.

      I turn the corner and there he is, hand out like a professional dancer. I stare at it for a moment, unsure if I can bear to touch him. He nods his head, nudging me to take his hand. I’ve seen this look on his face before—vulnerability peppered with guilt and desperation.

      The last time I saw it was months ago, after we had that conversation about sleeping arrangements in the production house in Dallas. Before he told me I was crazy for caring that their rooms were next to each other, he’d said, “Are you really gonna argue about this with me right now? You’re here visiting for a few days, let’s not ruin it.” Not another word was spoken about it. Aloud, at least. Inside though, I was screaming. And here we go again; the refrain of our song emanates from the computer speakers as that of our relationship gets ready for playback. He leads us into each fire, and it’s always up to me to get us out of the blaze.

      Cautiously, I take his hand. We fumble to intertwine our fingers so instead he pulls me in close and begins softly whisper-singing the chorus in my ear.

       “So darlin, darlin … stand by me. Oh, stand by me. Oh stand, stand by me.”

      As he sings about the sky, should it tumble and fall, or the mountains, should they crumble to the sea, my body melts into his. I’m weak, and shivering again, so he holds me even closer. If he were to write a book about winning me back, it would be a bestseller, and the last chapter would give this ten-word-sentence advice: If all else fails, insert her name into song lyrics. Works like a charm, every time. And so he croons, the way he knows I covet the most, “and Guiliana, darling, stand by me, stand by me.”

      I look down and there’s Zelda, nipping at our kneecaps. I wish this was all just a bad dream. Can’t this just work? We love each other. Our family is so cute. I stoop down and pet the top of her head, which she takes as a sign that I want to play, and she darts off to find her toy. She’s getting anxious to go on the walk we promised her hours ago. JR motions down to Zelda, who’s back with her slobbered-up rope, begging for me to tug-of-war with her.

      “Let me finish this one email, then we can head to the park,” he says, breaking our hold.

      Zelda, seeing her opportunity, trots forward, rope in mouth. We bought it for her forever ago and despite the pile of toys in her basket under the TV, this is always her favorite. She’d dig to the ends of the earth for one more chance to put it in my hands and try to rip it away from me. I am struggling for energy, but seeing how happy it makes her, I toss it back and forth: to the kitchen, to the bedroom, on the bed, in the bathroom, and finally—whoopsie—under the couch.

      “Game over, Zelda.” Not so fast. She’s at the edge of the couch sniffing, scratching, and barking for me to retrieve it for her.

      “Calm down, girl.” She’s more frantic than usual, so I crouch down on my knees and look into the dusty land under the couch. I should really clean under here; it’s nasty. I swipe my arm from left to right. Nothing. I shuffle my body and peek again.

      “Okay, girl. I think I see it waaaaay in the back.” I get up to give the couch a nudge to the right, then plop back down to my knees. I grab for the rope and feel something else right next to it, an old sock or something. “This is your lucky day, Zelda, two toys for the price of …” Oh my god. In my left hand I’m holding Zelda’s dust-covered rope. In my right, an even dustier black lace thong. Zelda doesn’t dive for the rope. Instead, she licks my face as she does anytime she senses fear in me and wants to make sure I’m okay.

      I’m not.

      “Geeeeeeeeeet off of me!” I scream.

      JR comes flying around the corner from the bedroom just as I’m unraveling the black lace underwear between my index fingers and thumbs from each hand.

      “They must be your …”

      “No! Don’t you dare feed me that bullshit right now. Are they Courtney’s? Tell me. TELL ME NOW. WHEN WAS SHE HERE?” I pause. I wait. I think. “Hold on a second—are they someone else’s? How many girls are you fucking?” He says nothing, so I keep going.

      “Speak!” I can see his wheels turning. He knows the jig is up. “Tell me, JR. When was she here, in my home, fucking my fiancé?”

      “G.”

      “Don’t you dare ‘G’ me right now! These are a fucking medium. I know every pair of underwear I have, and surely none of them are under the couch or a fucking size medium. You’ve been looking at my ass for ten years and you know I have never worn a size medium anything.” So much for never bringing up her ample junk in the trunk.

      “G, stop. Listen …”

      The look. The tone. The balls.

      “No, you listen. I’ve waited all day for you to explain what the hell went on last night. To tell me that you love her. To tell me you’ve been cheating on me. To tell me anything. I’m done waiting for your goddamn answers. I’m done listening to your bullshit stories. It’s time for you to listen to me.”

      Suddenly a lion was roaring from within my chest, drowning all his nonsense out. A voice bellowed in me like nothing I had ever heard before. It was so loud that I actually clamped my hand over my mouth for a second to ensure a growl didn’t come out. This thong—this fucking medium black lace thong—is what I didn’t even know I was waiting for. I had been weaponless in this battle, and now, I was armed and confident.

      “It’s over, JR. We’re over. I hope you and Courtney live a long, beautiful life together. I am done. Last night was the last time I ever sleep in this home.”

      “G,