Firsts: Book One’s

by Moore, Portia

  “This isn’t about him,” I murmur pointedly but she rolls her eyes knowingly.

  She gives me a sharp look but then lets out a yawn.

  “I’ve got an early morning baby shower I have to set up for. You can have the guest room, since you’re virtually homeless now.” Her words are harsh but she relents, giving me a soft kiss on the cheek and wordlessly leaving the kitchen. It’s just me and the biscuits now, and they don’t taste as good as they did earlier.

  * * *

  My eyes are heavy but I plow them open. It’s freezing, thanks to Mel’s preferred room temperature being frigid bitch. I grab my phone and see ten missed calls and four unread texts from Ryan. I throw my head back onto the bed and wish for sleep, but with the beaming sun penetrating the room through Mel’s large picture windows, it’s hopeless. I let out a deep breath and open the text messages.

  The first is a Hey babe where'd you go.

  Then.

  Mads what's going on?

  Finally.

  You went through my stuff?

  And I assume when he inevitably notices that most of my important things have disappeared, the phone calls begin. I don't know what to say to him, which is the reason I left. It's not that I'm afraid of conflict because I had no problem conflicting the hell out of my ex when I found out he was banging his coworker.

  It's explaining to Ryan that there's nothing he can do to fix it. To fix me.

  It's not as if he had no warning. I let him know in the beginning that I had issues, specifically with trust, and unlike most girls who say that fun is all they want and they don't need commitment, I really meant it.

  He just didn't believe me.

  Yes, I feel terrible. Ryan has a routine, one he's followed every day since I met him. Up at 5 am to go for his run, shower/sex time depending on his mood, light breakfast, and out the door. It took some getting used to being with someone so organized. I'm the total opposite. I do freelance graphic design work because I can't stand routine, and I value my freedom over anything. I can't imagine being locked down in an office 80 percent of my life. I crave spontaneity, but Ryan provided structure that I needed, even if it was boredom-inducing most times. I know Ryan cares about me. I think he thinks he loves me, even if I'm not quite sure men are capable of truly loving anyone but themselves.

  I take the phone in my hand, inhale a deep breath, and brace myself as the phone rings in my ear. It only takes two before he picks up.

  "You found the ring.” The disappointment in his voice causes my stomach to clench. I nod and squeak out a “yeah.”

  “I wasn’t going to give it to you now. I was going to wait until the right time. I know how you can get. You weren’t supposed to see it.”

  “But I did, Ryan,” I tell him, wishing that I didn’t.

  “I’m not trying to rush you into anything. You should know I’d never do that to you.”

  “It’s a good thing I saw it Ryan, even if you don’t think so. We’re on two totally different paths and it just reminded me of that.”

  “I don’t care! I love you, and I just want us to be back on a path to each other.” Tears fill my eyes and I bite my lip.

  “There’s never going to be a right time for me to see it Ryan. If you knew me, you’d know that,” I say quietly.

  “With me?” he asks snappily.

  “With anyone. It has nothing to do with you.”

  “Our relationship, a year and a half, has nothing to do with me?” he asks, anger replacing the hurt in his voice. And I’m glad. Anger I can deal with. Pain, hurt that I caused…I can’t.

  “You knew, Ryan. I always told you…”

  “You told me? I thought you’d get over whatever issues you have! I thought I showed you how much I cared, that I’d never be like the guys who hurt you. I thought I was breaking through the fucking cement walls you keep up but I was wrong then, huh?”

  “I never meant to hurt you. I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

  “You don’t mean to. You didn’t want to. But you have. How fucking selfish are you being right now?”

  “I’m so—”

  “Don’t say it.” His words are surrounded by angry laughter.

  “I’m sorry we wasted so much of each other’s time. Sorry that I thought we could build a life together.”

  I’m quiet. I deserve this. I deserve his anger, to feel him seething, realize his pain. It’s the least that I can do even though I want to hang up and hide from it. I fight the urge but then I realize I don’t have to. He’s hung up.

  I type a long text trying to explain why I am the way I am. How I wish I could change who I am and not feel the way I do and how sorry I am, but then I erase it, because it doesn’t matter and will probably just make things worse. He needs space and time, and maybe if I’m lucky we can be friends, or maybe I should just shoot for him not hating me. I throw my head back into the soft down blanket that Mel probably spent a boatload of money on. She loves luxurious things and has ever since we were kids. She was one of the only twelve-year-olds I knew who actually understood why the thread count in sheets mattered.

  When our sperm donor left, things got rough for us. We were able to stay in our middle-class suburban home in our neighborhood but my mom had to work most of the time. We had been used to her working as a nurse in a family clinic near us when she and good ole Dad were together. It was part-time so she was able to drop us off at school and pick us up. She cooked us breakfast and dinner every day and she never worked weekends or holidays. She was always with us.

  After he left she had to get a better paying job at a hospital which meant better pay but working a ton, especially nights and weekends. It didn’t put us ahead but made it where we weren’t drowning with the loss of my dad’s income.

  Melissa, who is just a bit younger than me, my Irish twin, never quite adjusted to the financial constraints we were under, but I adjusted. I would always rather have had my mom around more than having her gone all the time to make sure we had the latest new jeans or $300 bed linen. She did what she thought was best and I have no idea how hard it must have been to raise two girls on her own.

  She did a good job with us, I think. We turned out okay, aside from my commitment issues, which really have nothing to do with her, and we could have turned out a lot worse. Mel has a super successful catering business that is even more impressive considering she’s only twenty-two, though she acts like she’s forty sometimes. She just bought her own condo, has good credit, and manages to maintain a steady boyfriend—Greg—who’s an okay guy even if he’s sort of a pretentious snob. Me? My business is doing pretty well. I make enough money to buy something comfortable for myself…well, if I was good at saving, which I’m not. But when you’re a freelancer money tends to fluctuate, but thankfully in four months it’ll be three years of working on my own.

  It’s sort of how Ryan and I met. I had forgotten to send Uncle Sam his cut of what I pulled in for about a year and when Melissa found out and blew a gasket she asked Greg, who is some type of stocks guy, if he could save me from federal prison time…which of course I wasn’t facing then. She was being completely dramatic as always, but Ryan came in and got me all set up and official. He did save me, and had a pattern of doing things like that…cleaning up my messes, so to speak. I think it was one of the reasons I stayed with him so long…not because he did the hard things I hated to do when it came to life, sorting bills, doing laundry, and paying my taxes, but I knew with him I was safe…as safe as I could ever feel, at least. It didn’t matter that the sex wasn’t amazing, it was nice enough.

  I didn’t leave because he never gave me butterflies, or that I was so comfortable I maybe sometimes took him for granted. Letting Ryan go wasn’t to hurt him. It was to save him from me, because this would always have been the inevitable.

  I guess I am pretty screwed up. Well, at least I’m not on drugs…yet.

  Three

  “Nothing solves boy problems like booze,” Parker chimes happily, pouring
herself a glass in her obnoxiously large goblet. I smirk at the deep red liquid swooshing into my own glass. I can practically feel it numbing my guilt. I do a virtual toast with her through our computer screens. Parker’s been my best friend since college. We’ve shared everything from clothes, to money, successes, and defeats with each other for the past five years. If there’s anyone who can make me feel better after the mess I make of things it’s her.

  We’re perfectly aligned astrologically. She’s water and I’m an air sign, and when I first saw her she reminded me of a younger Lucy Liu, who played my favorite character in Kill Bill. And when I heard her British accent after telling off some frat guys I knew—who were planning some crappy ugly date party, and who I was already tearing into because they had invited my roommate at the time—I knew we were destined to be best friends.

  “I think I’m going to need something a little harder to get over this problem,” I admit, swallowing the dry liquid down my throat. I hate dry wine but it’s all Melissa has. It’s official now: I am single, the last year and a half of my life done and over with. Ryan just had my things couriered over, though it took him three weeks. Now I am homeless (sort of) and the thought of starting over—finding an apartment, setting up utilities, and all of the other boring stuff that goes along with it—makes me want to shoot myself.

  “I am sending you all kinds of Tequila vibes, my friend,” she says, resting her head on her hand while looking at me with empathy Melissa couldn’t mimic even if I held a gun to her head.

  “That’s what I need, but work still calls even when life is in the toilet, and you know how Tequila gets me.” She nods her head in agreement, with a laugh. She leans in conspiratorially, her jet black hair touching her elbows.

  “How long is Melissa going to let you stay at her place?” she whispers, as if she’ll walk in at any moment.

  “I don’t know. She’s been super busy these past couple of days and I’ve just tried to stay out of her way. I don’t know if I want to rent an apartment yet. It’d be amazing if she’d just let me room with her.” I shrug. Parker bursts into laughter.

  “You and Mel living together permanently. Are you both trying to end up on The First 48?”

  I grin. “Yeah, you’re right about that.”

  “You should just come to New York. We’d have sooo much fun. You can work from anywhere. It’s time to upgrade from New York’s cheesy little brother to the real thing.”

  I roll my eyes at her. It’s the one point of contention she and I have. We always get into debates about which city is better: her beloved New York or my hometown of Chicago. Which is funny because even though she’s technically a New Yorker since she was born there, she lived in London until she was sixteen. It’s always in fun even though it gets pretty heated when we’re getting shit-faced.

  “More like Chicago’s shittier loud mouth cousin.” I wink and she sticks her tongue out at me.

  “You know I’m not moving to New York, Parks, but maybe I’ll vacay soon.”

  “Have you talked to Ryan yet?” she asks more solemnly.

  “I don’t think Ryan will be talking to me anytime soon and I don’t want to push myself on him. He deserves his space.”

  “It was just a matter of time anyway Maddy. I’m surprised you made it that long. The ring just brought you to your senses,” she announces before finishing her glass. I frown at her.

  “You said you liked Ryan,” I remind her with a pout. She gives me a half shrug.

  “Ryan was great but I never thought he was great for you. I mean he’s an accountant for God’s sake. You really saw yourself spending the rest of your life with an accountant?” She tries to hold in her laughter.

  “Besides, you said the sex was terrible.” She teeters before bringing her glass back to her lips.

  “I did not! I said it wasn’t amazing. I never said it was bad,” I tell her truthfully. She eyes me knowingly, putting down her glass.

  “You know what I think you need?” she says, a wide mischievous grin on her face.

  “I know you’re going to tell me.”

  “To get fucked. Like a good one. It’s been how long?”

  “You’re so vulgar Parks,” I say dramatically though I can’t help but grin at her.

  “You’re single now. What’s the point of being sad and guilty over something that was never going to work in the first place? I think what you did is admirable. Just think, you could have kept stringing him along, accepted his proposal, and left him standing at the alter on his wedding day.”

  “You think I was stringing him along?” I ask, her statement sobering. Parker waves me off.

  “No. Well, not intentionally,” she falters. My shoulders drop.

  “It’s just, I know you, and deep down Ryan knew you too. You’re not exactly the poster child for traditional commitment.”

  “You think I’m a flake?” I ask, slightly hurt. Her small almond-shaped eyes widen.

  “No! Not at all. You know I don’t think of you like that,” she says genuinely. “I think of you like a Siren. You know—those beautiful angelic women who lure men in with their song.”

  “And ultimately causes them to die a terrible death at sea?” I ask horrified.

  “No. No! You’re being so dramatic.”

  “Then what?” I ask slightly offended.

  “I just mean that I think you’re gorgeous, and guys like Ryan see this vision of you, this dark haired vixen with these big, sad, blue vulnerable eyes, and they want to save you.”

  “But in reality they’re the ones who need to be saved from me.” I turn around; Melissa’s coming in with a big bag of groceries in hand.

  “Hi Parker,” she says dryly, setting the bag down with a thump on the counter.

  “Hello Mel,” she responds with an equal amount of dryness.

  “Want to help me put these away?”

  Suddenly we’re back in high school when I let her boss me around because her food started to become better than the takeout Mom ordered.

  “I’ll call you back later babe,” I tell Parker. She gives me a knowing grin and we hang up.

  “You could have continued your phone call,” Melissa says tightly to me, as we begin to put groceries away. Parker and Mel are complete opposites other than being beautiful and career-obsessed, but they don’t find common ground in it and they’ve never really gotten along, Mel says Parker is a bad influence and an enabler, which is ridiculous, and Parker thinks Mel is always trying to control my life. Which is not entirely the truth. As much as me and Parker are alike are as much as Me, Parker, and Mel are different. Mel is organized, a neat freak, polished, whereas I like to go with the flow, live and let live, and just see where the wind takes me. That does not equate to a good living situation and I need to rectify it sooner rather than later, but right now it’s free rent and amazing food and I can’t complain about that.

  “It’s fine,” I reply. “We were basically done anyways.”

  “You know, I agree with her,” Melissa says, surprising me.

  “You agree with Parker?” I ask, clutching my chest and feigning a heart attack. “Call the Guinness book of world records. No, Ripley’s, believe it or not. But they won’t believe it.”

  “Smartass,” Melissa answers, as she puts the groceries away. “I mean, I agree with her assessment. You’re not a siren though, you’re the beautiful creature that lures them in and runs the hell away once they get on land. You have to learn about commitment, Madison.”

  “Mel! Honestly, you really want me to marry someone who isn’t right for me?”

  “No,” she says, with a sigh. “But I want you to be with someone who I know will keep you safe, on track, and love you. I believe Ryan is that person.”

  I sigh and crack open a can of olives, grabbing a fork. Melissa raises an eyebrow but for once doesn’t scold me.

  “What are you doing tonight?” she asks. “Other than just hanging around my house?”

  “What are YOU doing tonight?�
�� I ask right back and she gives me a look.

  “I’m working, I told you.”

  “Right,” I say and pop another olive in my mouth. “That fancy shmancy party with all those rich folk. Is that what these olives are for?”

  “Luckily, I bought an extra,” she says, pointing to more.

  “Can I come with you?”

  “Where?” she asks, her attention on the food instead of me.

  “The party. The fancy one.”

  “Like...to work?” she asks, surprised, and I grin.

  “Preferably not,” I add, “unless you need me too.”

  “I don’t need you to work,” she says dismissively.

  “Well, so I don’t spend tonight drinking all your wine,” I say with a shrug. She rolls her eyes.

  “Which you didn’t ask for, by the way,” she reminds me, starting to prep containers with food.

  “The generous sister I know wouldn’t refuse her heartbroken—” I start and she glares at me.

  “Guilt-ridden sister,” I correct myself.

  She thinks for a moment. “Sure, if you help me pack up this stuff and wear something to blend in.”

  Before I can answer she looks at me pointedly.

  “Not that crazy artist getup you wear.” She glares and I roll my eyes and decide not to turn this into a debate of how boring her all-black closet full of designer labels are compared to my trendy, boho chiq finds I like to showcase.

  “I’m sure I can manage something,” I say dryly, thinking of her closet and my plans to raid it “Where is it?”

  “The Hyatt Hotel,” she says, as she pulls out a serving platter. “Nothing with a tag!”

  “What do you mean?” I ask innocently.

  “When you raid my closet,” she says knowingly, and I laugh, heading up the stairs.

  Mel has a ton of dresses, which I find interesting, because she usually wears all black to work and everywhere else. I spend a good half hour taking every dress she owned out of her closet, and eventually settle on a light blue bandage one that looks as if it landed in her closet by accident since it’s fitted, and she usually wears more conservative (aka boring) stuff. I borrow some of her jewelry, pairing the dress with my blue-stoned chunky necklace I got when I went to Africa two summers ago. After taking a hot shower, making myself presentable with the aid of some lipstick and concealer, I smile at myself. At least I still look nice...