When Stars Collide

by Sara Furlong-Burr

  “Oh, hey,” Jo greeted me, removing an earbud from one of her ears, a full trash bag dangling from her wrist.

  “Would it kill you to bring home a broad who’s my size for a change?” I held the blouse up against my body, much to Jo’s consternation. “I have a suit coat that would have looked good with this in a size small.”

  “I could, but then I would have to start dating midget waifs with no tits.”

  “I prefer the term vertically challenged, and I’m amused that this passes as dating to you.” I chucked the blouse at Jo, who caught it mid-air, her eyes widening.

  “Damn it.”

  “What? It won’t fit you, either?”

  “Hardy har. No, it’s just that, if she left this here, then she’s still wearing my favorite hoodie.”

  “So, call her.” I threw my purse on the kitchen counter and picked up a piece of paper with a telephone number scribbled on it in lipstick.

  “Are you crazy? That’s exactly what she wants me to do.”

  “Is it now? You don’t say.” I held back a laugh when I saw the completely serious expression on her face. “Then maybe you just need to quit being so damn delightful.”

  Jo grumbled something under her breath as I examined the handwritten note, punctuated with a heart instead of a period. Now, wasn’t that just all kinds of cute?

  “Look on the bright side, at least you can’t get what’s-her-name pregnant, so there’s a perk. No little bundles of joy nine months from now.” I smirked, catching sight of Jo rolling her eyes while she pretended not to hear me. “And speaking of what’s-her-name, did you happen to get the identity of your latest conquest this time?”

  Jo paced the floor in a huff, one wisecrack away from throwing a tantrum. “Yes, I know her name.” She looked me square in the eyes, probably already surmising that I held that valuable piece of information in my hand.

  “And?” I asked, raising an eyebrow as I glanced from the paper to Jo and back again.

  “M-Mary.”

  I shook my head.

  “Brooke?”

  “Try again.”

  She threw her hands up in the air, reaching her frustration limit. “Gertrude.”

  “Really? You know you’re losing, so instead of giving it one last college try, you break out Gertrude? I’m thoroughly disappointed in you.”

  “Hey now, my grandmother’s name was Gertrude.”

  “Which makes that whole exchange even worse.”

  “So, is it Gertrude or not?”

  “It’s Madison.” I threw the scrap of paper at her, watching it float in the air before landing gracefully at her feet like a feather.

  “Huh.” Jo bent down to pick up the paper, promptly crumpled it up, and threw it in the trash bag around her wrist. “No wonder she got pissed when I called her Julie.”

  I shook my head. “Lesbians.”

  “You damn heteros and your attention to details.” Smug, she returned to tidying up the rest of our apartment. “Speaking of heteros, how’s my buddy Monroe doing? It’s his turn to come here in a couple weeks, right?”

  As much as Jo could love anyone of the male persuasion, she adored Peter; and he, her. Sometimes it felt like they had been separated at birth. They even looked oddly similar. Jo was tall with the same shaggy, dark hair and light turquoise eyes. The only thing she was missing was a nose that was just slightly disproportionate in size to the rest of her face.

  “It would have been, but a recent development has caused us to make a change in our plans.”

  Jo dropped the trash bag and bounded her way over to where I remained standing in the kitchen. A comical scene, considering she wasn’t the bounding type.

  “Tell me everything.” She positioned herself on a stool at the countertop, resting her elbow on the Formica, her hand planted squarely on her cheek.

  “Peter wants me to meet his son, and since he has him every other weekend and I can’t make the trip next weekend, we decided that I would fly out there in three weeks.”

  “Whoa.” Her eyes widened. “That’s big, Mena.”

  “I mean, it’s an important step. It’s Peter’s son—his whole world. But I figured it would happen eventually. As a matter of fact, I would have been a little offended had it not, you know?”

  “Mena a mother. Will wonders never cease?”

  “I am not a mother,” I corrected her. “Jackson has a mother. To him, I’m just his dad’s super cool, blindingly beautiful girlfriend.”

  “Sure, until you’re his stepmom.”

  ******

  I lay in bed that night, waiting for Peter to call me. After dropping out of college, he’d accepted a position at a plastics factory, where he made buckets and other forms of containers. He’d always meant to go back and finish his degree in engineering, but then Jackson was born, and his priorities changed overnight. He worked second shift and would be taking his lunch break sometime in the next ten minutes, like he always did. I’d gone to bed two hours ago, too tired to stay up to chat with Jo, yet too wrapped up in my own thoughts to sleep. Mostly, I thought about what Jo had said. Despite knowing about Jackson before Peter and I rekindled our relationship—around the same time Elle and Luke had rekindled theirs—I hadn’t put much thought into the concept of what I would become if Peter and I were to ever marry. Jo was right. I would be a mother. Just like that.

  My phone rang, startling me away from my thoughts. Peter was right on time, as always.

  “Landed just fine, and Jo is pissed that you won’t be coming here in two weeks. Quick recap of my night for you,” I answered.

  “Sounds pretty much like I anticipated.” He paused to take a drag from the cigarette he always smoked during his few precious moments of freedom.

  “Oh, and you need to put that cancer stick down.”

  “You and I have been over this before. It’s going to happen … someday.”

  “So is Armageddon. I would just prefer to be alive to see your someday happen first.”

  “Christ, Mena.” He chuckled. “This conversation has quickly taken a dark turn.”

  “That’s the way I like it.” I paused, my thoughts overtaking me once more, unsure of whether or not I should trouble him with what had probably been all too obvious to him from the start of our relationship.

  “Are you okay? You’re not your usual chatty self. Did you contract laryngitis on the plane and it’s only now beginning to manifest?”

  “I’m fine,” I answered, deciding to take the easy way out for the night, “just a little bummed that we have to go three weeks between visits this time.”

  “Now I know you’re sick, because you don’t usually get sentimental on me. Maybe you should have Jo take you to the hospital.”

  “Look at you trying to make the jokes, like you have some comedic game or something.”

  “Don’t hate the player.” He took another drag from his cigarette, accompanied by an unusually long pause. “Are you having second thoughts about meeting Jackson?” he asked as though he had been using those extra seconds to build up the courage to ask that question. “Because if you are, we can postpone it for another time.” A subtle shake in his voice betrayed his otherwise cool, calm, and collected exterior. He rarely ever showed his vulnerability, and hearing it made me want to do whatever it took to assuage his fears.

  “No! No, of course not, Peter,” I assured him in as soothing a tone as my voice could muster. “It’s just been a long day—a long weekend, really. A lot to process with Luke and Elle’s wedding. A lot on my mind, in general. Not to mention, I have work in the morning and I’m not the least bit tired with all the adrenaline from this weekend. It’s going to be a long night that will lead to me dragging major ass tomorrow morning.”

  “I know how hard it is. I have the same problem getting back into the swing of things when I get back home, too. We just have to keep telling ourselves that this arrangement isn’t forever.”

  “It’d better not be. Because as a woman in my thirties, I’
m at my peak sexually, and this twice each month shit isn’t cutting it. I’m just about ready to don a habit and go by the name of Sister Mena Getsnodick.”

  “Getsnodick, huh? Is that Polish?”

  The spark had returned to his voice once more, his insecurities satiated for now. I wasn’t used to hearing him genuinely worried. It was like a snowstorm in the middle of June, jarring to anyone caught in the middle of it.

  “So,” he began, “I’m regrettably going to have to get back to the place that keeps my lights on, but if you’re going to be up for a bit, I may know something you could do to keep yourself entertained until you’re tired enough to actually go to sleep …”

  I could almost see the smug expression on his face through the phone. He wasn’t the greatest at being coy. Whatever was on his mind must be good.

  “Oh yeah, what’s that?”

  “Well, I was thinking, since we’re going three weeks between seeing each other this time, that maybe we could send one another a little something to tide us over.”

  “Something like?”

  “You’re seriously going to make me say it, aren’t you?”

  “Are you in the break room?”

  “Yes, you know I am.”

  “Then, yes. Yes, I am.”

  “You’re insufferable.”

  “But you love me for that,” I replied, stressing the ‘o.’

  “Ugh, yeah, I do.” He fell silent, most likely waiting for an opportune time to come out with his request. When he spoke again, his voice was a whisper, just barely audible, but still discernible, nonetheless. “I was thinking maybe you could send me photos of yourself … you know, with very little clothing.”

  “Peter, I’m sorry, what was that? There must be a connection issue, because I couldn’t hear what you said.” I stifled a laugh as I struggled to maintain my serious composure.

  “Mena.” He emitted a painful groan, clearly annoyed. “Fine.” He upped the volume of his voice an octave. “Maybe you could send me a half-naked photo or two?”

  “I’m sorry, you’re still not coming through very well.”

  “Damn it, Mena, send photos. Sexy, scantily-clad pictures,” he fumed, quickly composing himself a second later. “Hey, Chuck. How about those Titans?”

  “Send Chuck my regards.” The laugh I’d been holding in managed to break through the flimsy barrier that had been keeping it at bay.

  “You could hear me the entire time, couldn’t you?”

  “Loud and clear.”

  “That’s what I figured,” he moaned. “What do you think?”

  “You mean, like nude photos?” My voice came out just as hushed as his had been, despite knowing that Jo’s bedroom was at the other end of the apartment and she wouldn’t be able to hear me.

  “No, I meant what I said, but you won’t hear any complaints from me either way.”

  “Then I guess I’ll see what I can do, and just how much I really like you.”

  “At this point, I’d take you in sweatpants and a flannel shirt.”

  “You see, now that I can do.”

  “Listen, I seriously have to go this time. I’ll give you a call tomorrow?”

  “Oh, I suppose, unless it’s going to impede upon my plans with all my other suitors.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Goodnight. Try to get some sleep.”

  “Goodnight, Peter.”

  I lay back in my bed, contemplating Peter’s request while I clutched my phone. Before Peter Monroe, all my relationships had been of the blink-and-you-missed-them variety. Here today, gone tomorrow. There was no trust, no loyalty. With Peter, it was different, and to be honest, it unnerved me to care for someone as much as I cared for him. Trust wasn’t something I handed out freely, but trusted him I did, implicitly. And it scared the hell out of me.

  “Ugh, Peter, what are you doing to me?” I sighed as I rolled out of bed and stood in front of the full-length mirror situated in the corner of my bedroom near my closet. Somehow, I didn’t think my cotton pajama pants with the flattering make-my-stubby-legs-look-longer vertical blue and white stripes and matching navy-blue tank top were going to cut it.

  If you’re going to do this, you may as well go all in.

  I turned sideways, examining my body from different angles, trying to find the right one, if it even existed. Soon finding myself defeated in my quest for the perfect pose, I tried flipping my hair and squeezing my lips together in a pout that looked less like a smoldering sex symbol and more like someone who’d been punched in the face. Still, I persisted as though doing any of these things would make the key to becoming Instagram-model-famous magically appear before my eyes.

  Filters, perhaps.

  I flipped through the available options on an app on my phone, quickly concluding that I was approaching yet another dead end.

  Nope, that’s a negative. I’m fairly sure a half-naked woman with the ears and nose of a Golden Retriever is the opposite of a turn-on for him; and if it’s not, then we need to have a serious conversation.

  Frustrated, I tossed my phone on my pillow and flopped down on the upholstered storage bench at the foot of my bed. “Well, at least now I know I have no future in porn. I’ll cross that off my list of back-up plans,” I muttered, rubbing my temples.

  Come on, Mena. He’s seen you naked. Just grab some panties and a matching bra and snap a couple of pictures. Let’s do this!

  More resigned than inspired, I shed my pajamas, pulling out one of my least frumpy bras with coordinating pair of green bikini briefs from my dresser drawer and slipped them on, retrieving my phone from my pillow.

  Okay, camera. You hate me and I hate you, but for the next couple of minutes we need to set aside our differences, get our shit together, and produce a couple photos of me where I don’t look like an emaciated troll. We can then resume our otherwise tumultuous relationship. Deal?

  Extending my arm out just slightly above my head, I enabled the front-facing option on my phone’s camera and began snapping away, turning my body ever so slightly after each shot. When I’d taken somewhere in the ballpark of two dozen pictures, I switched my camera off and sat down on my bed to look through the results of my amateur boudoir photoshoot.

  No … No … Definitely not … Could be worse … That one isn’t too terrible.

  After some contemplation, I managed to narrow down the candidates to the two I found to be more acceptable than the others, and then proceeded to my contacts, scrolling through for Peter’s name.

  Incoming.

  He wouldn’t see the text until early the next morning, probably before I woke up to get ready for work. At no point in our relationship had Peter ever made me feel in any way inadequate. Be that as it may, I was still nervous over what he would think when he opened that text, whether he would be disappointed in some way. Maybe he would have preferred my purple bra or, better yet, the one that enhanced my cleavage even more than the one I’d selected. My mind raced back and forth between the rational and the irrational, and it was entrenched in those thoughts and my own insecurities that I eventually fell asleep with my phone in my hand.

  *****

  Groggy the next morning, I managed to stumble halfway down the hall toward the bathroom before I remembered the message I was certain to have waiting for me on my phone. My eyes flew open at the same time my legs did an about-face and headed back to my bedroom, all traces of exhaustion abandoning me.

  Moment of truth.

  Anxiety building, I checked my phone, only to discover that I had received no text messages of any kind.

  Your fingers had better be broken, Peter, I fumed as I once again made my way back to the bathroom with my phone in hand. Maybe I forgot to hit send? The thought occurred to me, and I paused outside of the bathroom door to check my messages. Huh, I don’t remember sending a text to Phineas yester—

  “No! God, no!” I let out the equivalent of a squeal/scream hybrid as I collapsed against the wall, my hand shaking.

  Jo’s bedroom doo
r flew open. Frantic, she ran out, tearing through our living room and hurdling over an ottoman with impressive agility, all while nervously looking around our apartment.

  “Is the building on fire? What the hell was that God-awful noise? Did you step on the cat? Wait, did we get a cat?”

  “No. It’s worse,” I managed to choke out. “I accidentally sent half-naked photos of myself to my boss.”

  Jo stared at me, her adrenaline-charged brain processing this information. A second later, her lips pressed together into a hard, thin line, and the laugh she was struggling to suppress made its way out by way of a snort she usually only made when she was on the verge of tears from a hard laugh.

  “I’m sorry,” she apologized after catching a glimpse of my less than amused face. “You know what, no I’m not. I’m totally not.” By this point, her body was shaking so much she had to brace herself against the wall for support.

  “Are you finished?”

  “Hold on,” her shoulders shuddered when she answered, “I’m getting there.” She sucked in a deep breath, slowly exhaling it as she straightened her body back up to its full height. “Nope.” Jo punctuated that statement with another laugh that once again tore through her body.

  “I’m happy to see my utter humiliation is providing you with so much amusement this morning. How am I going to explain this? My job as an editor is to catch everyone else’s stupid mistakes, yet I couldn’t even keep my fat thumb from selecting Phineas’s name instead of Peter’s.”

  Jo composed herself, her guffaws now only sporadic, like a light sprinkle, a drop here and there to keep you guessing whether another downpour was coming. “Hold up,” she stretched out her arm, her palm facing me, “your boss’s name is Phineas? What is he, like seventy? If that’s the case, you’re in the clear, because he probably doesn’t even know how to check his text messages, anyway.”