by Holly Kerr
“What did Annette say about it?” she asks in a quiet voice.
Annette is my mother, but no one who knows her would ever refer to her as my mother. Biologically, yes, she did give birth to me. Emotionally—well, that’s another story.
“What she always says,” I say blithely. “Ruth, you’re not living up to your potential.” After years of practice, I mimic Annette’s voice to perfection—high-pitched and nervous, with a mixture of disapproval and disappointment thrown in to make it even more unpleasant to listen to.
“Maybe you’re not,” Flora says carefully.
I throw my head back, not admitting the sting of her words. “You know as well as I do, my potential was laid out long ago for me, and I failed. Failed so big she’ll never forgive me for it. So what’s the point? She’s never going to approve of me or my life. Why should I care about what she thinks?”
“Because you do.”
I don’t like Flora’s words because they’re true. I do care what my mother thinks of me, way too much. So much that I’ve always acted out so she would think of me.
I should be in therapy.
“Hey, is that Trev?” Flora asks suddenly. So deep in thought, I never noticed the figure with the big dog approaching us. She nudges my arm. “I recognize the hair.”
“He does have nice hair,” I say dismissively. “It’s probably his only redeeming feature.”
Flora shoots me a look but that’s all she has time for because the huge dog with Trev decides he’s doing the leading and pulls him forward with eagerness to meet Cappie.
“Trev?” Flora calls, stopping under a streetlight. “I didn’t know you had a dog.” She seems almost as happy as Cappie, who sniffs and snorts around the ginormous Great Dane. The bulldog’s entire body is wagging.
“I didn’t know he had a life,” I mutter.
Flora gives me another sideways glance. “Hey,” Trev says, his smile fading as he catches sight of me. “Fancy meeting you here. This is Drogo.”
“What a great name!” Flora coos over the monster who stands quietly and allows Cappie to inspect him. He even sniffs gingerly at my fingers when I hold out my hand.
“You don’t like dogs?” Trev asks. It sounds more like an accusation than a simple question.
“I don’t compete with my aunt,” I say coolly. “She’s the dog lover. I tolerate them.”
I can’t read Trev’s expression as he stares at me before turning to Flora, and something inside me lurches at the thought of his easy dismissal.
“Thanks again for the party,” Trev says. “It was fun.”
Flora glances at me. “Ruthie told me what happened with your sweater. I’m glad the stain came out.”
“Thanks to me,” I say.
“You’re the one who spilled it all over me.”
“I was bumped. Entirely not my fault.”
The dog whines and leans against Trev’s leg. “It’s okay, Drogo. The strange lady doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”
“Someone bumped into me and made me drop my drink,” I say loudly.
Trev holds up his hand. “Drogo doesn’t like loud noises.”
“Does he know he’s a dog? They bark.”
“I got him as a rescue dog. It took me a while to teach him how to trust,” Trev says, with an irritated expression. “He’s still scared of loud noises.”
“Oh.” Holding out my hand to the dog, I wait until he gives it a good sniff, then bend down so that we’re at eye level. “I’m sorry, Drogo. I’ll never yell at you,” I promise solemnly. “Maybe at your master, but never at you.”
“I’m sure he appreciates that.”
“Just like I appreciate your sarcasm.” I give him a snide smile as I stand up.
Flora is watching us as intently as a Grand Slam tennis match.
“I have no idea what’s gone on between the two of you, but I’m cold and Cappie’s ready to go home,” Flora says. “Trev, you’ll have to bring Drogo over sometime, since at least he and Cappie seem to like each other. Ready, Ruthie?”
“And waiting,” I say, turning without a goodbye to Trev. I do wiggle my fingers at the dog though.
Trev
The waitress sets our beer on the table with a shy glance at Clay. I’m happy to say he doesn’t notice, or if he does, he doesn’t give her the full-on Clay smile that makes women fall to their knees.
I don’t have a smile like that. I must have something that attracts women, but no one has ever said it’s the smile.
It’s Friday, the end of a long week but finally, the bell ringing at three-thirty marked the beginning of my two-week Christmas break. I’m ready to celebrate and, luckily, Dean and Clay are able to meet me after school for a quick beer before they go about their evenings with Flora and M.K.
Clay raises his glass. “Good to see you out on a Friday night,” he says. “I thought Freyka keeps you pretty booked for the weekends?” He frowns, the furrow between his eyes not even detracting from his Tom Cruise-good looks. “Now that I think about it, I don’t think I saw her at the party last weekend.”
What does it say when one of my best friends doesn’t notice the absence of my girlfriend? Or that I haven’t even told him that she isn’t my girlfriend any longer? Freyka would suggest there were issues with my friendships but now that I’ve taken a big step back, I see there were issues with Freyka.
“Because she wasn’t there.” I take a long pull of my beer, the cold brew coating my throat and splashing its way down to my stomach. How could I have ever given up beer for a woman? “We broke up.”
Clay doesn’t look surprised. “What happened?”
I shake my head. “Nothing really. Apparently she was on the prowl for marriage and I wasn’t into it. She walked out of Thai Bo Bowl last week.”
“They have good pad thai,” Dean says.
“I like their spicy noodles. Freyka didn’t.” I stare into my beer. “She didn’t like a lot. Do you know that beer in my hand at the party was the first beer in weeks and I didn’t even get to drink it because of Ruthie?”
“Speaking of who, what did you do to her?” Dean demands. “The other night she came back from walking with Flora practically cursing your name.”
“Me!” I raise my hands in protest. “I didn’t do anything. She’s the one who ruined my sweater.”
“Are you still peeved about that?” Clay asks across the table from me. He looks happier than I’ve ever seen him, but has dark shadows under his eyes. “I saw it happen. It was kind of funny.”
“If she wasn’t such a—” I bluster, but Dean holds up his hand before I continue.
“Please don’t,” he pleads. “I don’t want to be caught in a war between you and Ruthie, especially since she’s staying with us.”
“What did she say?” I ask, despite myself.
“She said you have a nice dog,” Dean admits. “That’s about the only positive thing. Something about foul-tempered—you know, it doesn’t matter.”
“I’ll talk to M.K. Maybe Ruthie can stay at her place,” Clay suggests.
I frown at the sudden change in conversation. What did Ruthie say about me?
And why does it matter?
“Are things okay now with her and Theo?” Dean asks him. He looks around to find a waitress. Now that Dean and Evelyn aren’t a thing, I find my friend has taken a serious liking to pub grub—all the things Evelyn frowned at him eating when they were together.
I know the feeling. Even though I was only with Freyka six long weeks, she managed to put a damper on my eating habits as well. Nothing tastes as good as this cold beer, but a plate of chicken wings and mozzarella sticks might make it even better.
“I think we’re good now.” Clay beams. “We’re still figuring out the living arrangements. From what I got, she was scared, and there’s stuff about her mother that I don’t really understand, but I think we’re good. I hope. I don’t know what I’d do without her.” Clay recently became a father to a four-month old baby, t
hanks to an ex- girlfriend who kept the pregnancy quiet. From what I’ve gathered already from the conversation, his present girlfriend, M.K. wasn’t keen on the idea at first.
Dean claps Clay on the shoulder. “I’m really glad, bro.”
“So what gives about Ruthie?” I find myself asking. Not that I want to know anything more about her. Seeing the glossy, colourful peacock in her glory at the party, with every man hanging off her words, was enough for me.
But why can’t I stop thinking about her? Now I can’t walk Drogo at night without wondering if I’ll bump into her and Flora. The sight of a Christmas tree makes me think of the green of her jumpsuit, which leads to the memory of her bare shoulder, which then leads to the memory of her bare legs.
I grimace with the effort of pushing away the image of Ruthie’s feet with the painted toenails.
“Flora says she’s always looking for attention because she never gets any from her mother. Something about another daughter.” Dean shakes his head, his thumb rubbing on the condensation on his beer glass as he glances around for the waitress again. “It’s not really my thing to tell. But Ruthie has a good heart. She’d give you the last of her clunky, chunky shoes if that’s what you needed.”
“I don’t know her very well,” Clay puts in. “But I think…you know, she’s pretty sexy. Free-spirit and all, and with the height thing.”
“So says the guy who’s living with a peanut-sized girl who likes to micro-manage,” Dan says drily. “And you said things are good with M.K.?”
“It’s nothing about M.K.,” Clay quickly adds. “I love her, seriously love her.” He grins sheepishly. “I really do.” Just as fast, his grin is wiped off his face. “Does that mean I’m not allowed to notice other women? Because as much as I love her, it might take me some time to get used to that.”
“You can notice, but don’t touch,” Dean advises.
“Not about to, especially not Ruthie,” Clay assures him. “She’s like the little sister of a friend. Cute, but that’s it.”
I remember the sweep of the strange-coloured hair against her back as I followed her up the stairs. I wish I could think of Ruthie as a little sister.
I wish I could stop thinking about her.
“Besides, you both know I’ve never had a type,” Clay continues, pulling me back before I can bring back that odd sensation of being so close to her in the bathroom. “Unlike Trev here.”
“I don’t have a type.”
Dean and Clay share a knowing glance. “There’s nothing wrong with having a type,” Clay assures me.
“I like women who look good and like to plan and…” I trail off, unsure of what else binds my relationships together. Annabelle was smart, pretty, ambitious; same as Freyka. The others were—
“You like them strong,” Dean chimes in.
“Opinionated,” Clay adds. “Neither of which are a bad thing. But it’s how they all seem to be kind of on the cool side that gets me.”
“Cold as a freaking frozen cucumber,” Dean says helpfully. “And no offense, but that’s not usually a good thing. I think we can all say I’m a good judge of that.”
I stare at them with confusion. “So you’re saying I have a type, and it’s not a good one?”
Another glance between them. “Pretty much.” Clay shrugs, lifting his beer. “I’ve always thought you could use a little warmth in your women. Some heat. Less planning, more passion, if you ask me. That girl you dated last year—what was her name?” He glances at Dean for confirmation. “Hela? Ella?”
“Helga?” Dean suggests. “The one who came to our game and got all bent out of shape because we didn’t allow women on the team.”
“I’d love a couple of women on the team,” Clay says with a gentle thump on the table for emphasis. “But we play in a men’s league. There are women’s leagues and co-ed teams, but we don’t play on them.”
“Olga.” I’ve managed to block out that night because I had the whole team, plus most of the wives and girlfriends looking at me with blood in their eyes because Olga never shut up with the complaints the entire game. And she was loud about sharing her thoughts to everyone.
She didn’t last long after that.
“Yeah, her,” Clay says. “She was seriously good looking, but intense. I mean, could you even give her a hug? And I don’t want to even think about what went on in the bedroom.”
I give a wry chuckle, unwilling to get into the countless things that were wrong about my time with Olga. And that was just in the bedroom. “She was a bit prickly,” I admit. “But that doesn’t mean all the girls I dated are.”
Silence falls onto the table like a broken glass. And then, like shattering of said glass, names erupt.
“Kimberly?”
“Patricia?”
“That redhead—Angelina? She was an icy one, with those blue eyes and death glare. Not as bad as Jennifer.”
“Oh, I remember her.” Dean laughs. “She was scary.”
“You’ve dated a few women in the years I’ve known you,” Clay marvels.
“Not as many as you,” I point out. There’s been a line of women moving in and out of my life in the last three years, but I haven’t let myself get close to any of them. It’s probably why none of them ever work out.
I notice Clay doesn’t mention Annabelle in that list. Dean hadn’t been in the city when everything happened, but Clay was.
Clay was there for all of it.
I lost Annabelle over two years ago and it still hits me at the strangest times.
I stare into my beer, the thick head of foam dissipating to leave a thin film. I always miss her more around Christmas. It’s her favourite holiday.
It’s not surprising that I’m not upset over Freyka, since even I can admit I’ve had a shield around my heart since Annabelle.
We had been together two years, and she still refused any public displays of affection. Cool, composed. Even when I proposed…
I swallow the sudden lump in my throat. Regret, mixed with disappointment, adding to uncertainty sums up the end of my relationship with Annabelle. I thought she had been as happy as I had. Now I’ll never know.
There’s so much I don’t know. To make it worse, now I keep wondering if I’m able to make any woman happy.
“Where do you meet them?” Dean asks. “Online?”
“From my mother, actually,” I confess. “I don’t know where she comes across them, but she’s always passing names and numbers to me.”
My mother thinks the best way for me to move on from Annabelle is to find someone else. She keeps telling me about women she meets at church, or at the doctor’s office, or when she gets her nails done, passing on their names and numbers in her attempts to make a love connection for me. It’s easier to give in and call them then to argue with her.
I’ve been brought up not to argue with my mother.
Clay looks horrified at the thought. “Does your mother have a type then?”
I throw up my hands. “I have no idea! How did we get on this subject anyway? Because I’m ready for a new one right about now.”
“We started with Ruthie,” Dean says with a frown. “I think.”
“At least you’ve got that in common with her.” Clay laughs and lifts his beer. “M.K. says she’s always with a new guy, same as you and women.”
“Ruthie’s a heartbreaker,” Dean admits. “Flora tells me guys keep wanting to marry her. She’s been engaged like four times, and proposed to more than a dozen. And these aren’t just any guys—she was dating this Ultimate Fighter guy once and the son of an MP last year. She’s like a magnet.”
“I don’t feel the pull,” I say coolly. “Doesn’t do anything for me. She’s not my type. Because apparently I have one.”
Clay claps me on the shoulder. “The sooner you acknowledge it, the quicker you can do something about it.”
“So you haven’t liked anyone I’ve dated?”
This time there’s no shared glance, but I can tell they wan
t to.
Dean never orders food, and after we finish our beer, both tell me regretfully that they have to take off. I wave goodbye as the tinny Christmas music drifts out from stores.
It’s a week until Christmas and I’m as bah humbug as they come. Unfortunately, I can’t even blame the break-up, because Freyka’s irritation with me had been evident before she dumped me; I had made no effort to pick up on the hints of what she wanted for Christmas.
Maybe that’s why her thoughts on marriage had been such a surprise. Instead of dropping hints for a ring, I knew she wanted me to get her the latest Fitbit. I probably would have gotten it for her, since an activity tracker was better suited to our relationship than anything sparkling and shiny. I make a mental note to plan on spending some time tomorrow finishing my gift-buying. Without a girlfriend, I don’t have many to buy for.
I’m glad I’m not the plan-ahead type of guy. What would I do with Freyka’s present if I’d gotten her something?
Even if I’m newly single, I should get into more of the Christmas mood. My mother needs a present, as does Travis. And I like to get Trace’s wife something special, since my sister-in-law has been one of the more consistent women in my life lately.
I slow down as I pass by a store with bags and purses in the window. Tessa has had the same black bag since I’ve known her. Maybe it’s time for something different for her. Maybe something more colourful.
My gaze catches on the vibrant purple over-sized bag at the forefront of the display. That would be something Ruthie would carry, something bright and gaudy and—
I keep walking.
Who wants to shop on a Friday, especially when it’s the last day of school for me? I need to do something fun. But options elude me as I continue up the sidewalk. Clay was right. I’ve spent the last six Friday nights with Freyka and I’m at a bit of a loss on what to do with myself. She liked to plan and organize more than anyone I’ve met. Our weekends had been full of plans with friends or latest restaurants or theatre productions.
