“Hey, Ken, it’s Kitty. I’m about to make you the happiest man in the world.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Whitney University, Central Illinois
January 1995
This was a mistake.
My mettle lasted thirty seconds, the exact amount of time it took me to place the call to Sean. My ego has written a check my body can’t—or, rather, is terrified to—cash.
I open another wine cooler. Liquid courage shouldn’t taste like Froot Loops. I ought to imbibe something bracing—a shot of scotch, a jigger of rye, a belt of whiskey. This is the beverage equivalent of Hello, Kitty. (The Sanrio cat, not the evil roommate.)
Is sex going to hurt? And where do we do it in the room? I’m concerned the lofts won’t be safe to hold the weight of two people in one bed. (Suspect my brothers built it that way on purpose.) Last semester, Kitty and I watched 9 1/2 Weeks—I’m not going to have to do all of that, am I? How does the standing-up part work? Will I need Jell-O? Should I have painted my toenails?
I’m proactively embarrassed. As in I’m already embarrassed and nothing’s even happened yet.
What if he was just humoring me about coming over?
Yes, that’s it. He’s not coming. Why would he come? It’s bone-chilling outside and snowing like mad. No one’s going to walk all the way from the Beta house to Wadsworth Hall in this weather. I’m clear on the other side of campus.
There. Off the hook.
Simon invited me to a performance at the experimental theater tonight. They’re doing an all-male version of Little Women in an earnest, nonhilarious way. I assume the show will be truly terrible, but at the moment, it sounds better than Cats.
Yes. That’s what I’ll do. I’ll join Simon. I will grab my coat and my scarf and—
Knock, knock.
Crap. He’s here.
Crap, crap, crap.
No. I sound like Kitty. Shit, shit, shit.
“Hi, Jackie, it’s Sean.”
If I were to throw myself out the fourth floor window, what are the odds I could land on my feet? Yes, I’d likely shatter a few bones, but there’s a decent amount of snow accumulation. Injuries suffered from defenestration may be worth it. Or I could—
Knock, knock.
“You there? Did you leave the door unlocked? Here, I’m going to try. Coming in.” Sean opens the door (DAMN IT) and I have nowhere to hide. “Yo, Jackie, what’s up?”
“Hi. Is it freezing out?”
This?
This is my opening line?
Well, aren’t I the femme fatale? I don’t necessarily want to seduce him, but I also don’t want to not have the option to seduce him if I suddenly find my nerve again. Weather talk. Super sexy. Perhaps I can bring up NPR next, with a side of Nelson Mandela. Bet he’d love to hear how I use baking soda and newspaper to draw the stink out of my soccer cleats.
“Probably, but my buddy gave me a ride.” Sean shakes the snow out of his light brown hair with the swoopy bangs and shrugs off his jacket. Instead of tossing it on the floor, he hangs it neatly on the back of my desk chair. “Lemme see what we’ve got.” He takes my bottle from me to inspect the label, which includes an anthropomorphic kiwi with a strawberry in a headlock. The liquor company isn’t marketing this product to adults, are they? “What flavor?” He takes a sip and then puckers his lips. “Jolly Rancher?”
I nod. “Basically.” I’m so nervous that I reach to twist strands in my ponytail, forgetting that I cut off my hair.
He takes a seat on the futon, just like he’s done the dozens of other times he’s been to our room, acting utterly at home. Why is he not uncomfortable when I literally want to shimmy up the chimney Santa-style to get away? I realize we were friends before, but everything’s about to change. (Possibly.) (If I don’t throw up/pass out/run screaming from the room, I mean.)
“Hey, you cut your hair. I like it. Very French.”
Should he be all over me already? Or not? Is this considered a booty call? Do we make casual conversation first? How does this work? Do I put on an Al Green CD? Would Nitzer Ebb be okay instead, since I don’t have any Al Green? (Simon’s been schooling me on industrial music.)
He’s looking at me as though he expects an answer. I have to say something here. Um, okay, how about . . . “Have you been to France?”
Not bad. Not great, but not bad.
“Yeah, a few times with the family. We travel a lot. Instead of big Christmas presents or extravagant birthdays, we go on trips a couple of times a year. That’s why I don’t have a car. My mom and sister love France—it’s where we’d go every time if they had their way. I like Paris, but I’d rather hit London. Great pubs. Favorite is the Dog & Duck. They’re all named like that over there, too. The Elephant & Castle, the Bull & Bush. The English are big on ampersands, no idea why. I’ve been all about the ales on tap and the drinking age for a while. France is more for wine guys, which is not really my groove.”
“Does that mean you’re not a wine cooler guy, either?” Ahh! He’s not going to drink? Does that mean we just get to it, then? No alcoholic Starbursts to loosen us up? What irony that the only person in my orbit who could advise me here is Kitty.
He shrugs. “Don’t get me wrong. I’m definitely a free drinks guy. Didn’t realize anyone drank wine coolers anymore. Who came up with these anyway? Like someone was sitting around eating melted Fla-Vor-Ice and they were all, ‘You know what would be a fantastic addition? Cheap, carbonated wine.’”
“I burped a couple of minutes ago and I swear I could taste the rainbow.” Oh, my God, what am I saying? Shut up. SHUT UP.
“Nice. Up here.” He holds up his palm for me to slap. Is this how the American Mating Ritual begins? Exchanging high fives? Is that the protocol? High fives, then chest-bumps, then bro-hugs, then naked?
“Before I forget, I brought you something.” Condoms? Is it condoms? Should I hope for yes or no? I don’t have any. Should I have any? I’m sure Kitty doesn’t have any, either. I feel like I ought to have my first kiss before I buy my first prophylactic. “Here.”
I examine the round object he’s given me, desperately relieved to see it’s not manufactured by Trojan. I look, then do a double take, utterly surprised and delighted by his gift, which is embroidered with a fighter jet. “Is this what I think it is? A pilot patch from Top Gun training?”
I’m sewing this onto my jacket the minute I find some thread. And learn to sew. Teddy can teach me—he’s able to cuff his own pants. But that doesn’t mean he’s gay, Kitty.
“Yep. Miramar, baby. My cousin graduated from the Navy Fighter Weapons School a few years ago and he gave me this patch. Thought about you when I ran across it over break and figured you’d appreciate it. But then Kitty and I ended so I didn’t have a chance. But here we are, so there you go.”
“I love it, thank you. My brothers are going to be seriously jealous.” I’m really touched that he remembered something so important to me. “Do . . . you want a wine cooler?”
He pretends to look pensive. “Hmm. Sometimes you’ve just got to say, ‘What the fuck.’”
I feel the grin spreading across my face as slow and sure as the sunrise. “You’re quoting from the wrong Tom Cruise movie.”
“Close enough. And at least we’re not going to U of I.”
“Pfft. U of I wishes they were Whitney.”
I grab a cooler for him and sit on the other side of the futon, tucked far into the corner, to the point I feel the arm digging into my back. I do appreciate how he’s making this easier on me. He leans over and I brace myself (IS IT TIME FOR LOVE, DR. JONES?) but he just clinks his bottle on mine. “Proost.”
“What language is that?”
“That’s ‘cheers’ in Dutch. We went to Holland for spring break a few years ago. No one else says it. Kinda my thing.”
I curl my legs underneath
me and angle myself toward him a bit more. “Where else have you been? My family does a lot of hiking in national parks and we snowboard all the time, but we’ve never traveled internationally.”
“You’ve got to get on that. Travel’s the best, man. You hang out in a different country? You’re a different person there,” he says. “Like, it changes you for the better. So far, we’ve been to England, Holland, France, as I mentioned, and also Italy, Germany, Switzerland, Australia, New Zealand, Brazil, Mexico, Belize, Panama, and Dominican Republic. South America was my favorite by far. The trip we took to the DR is why I want to be a plastic surgeon. Yeah, I’ll make bank—not gonna lie, that’s a draw—but I also want to do volunteer missions someday to help kids with cleft palates.”
“How did I not know this?” I ask.
“Kitty never talked about me?”
“Not about anything important. I mean, I know how many Polo shirts you own and that you’re Beta’s pledge educator. Also, you drag your right toe on your tennis serve and it wrecks your sneakers. Might want to work on that.”
I had to talk about athletic shoes somewhere, didn’t I? I should watch 9 1/2 Weeks again because I’m pretty sure Kim Basinger never blathers about going to Lady Foot Locker. Argh.
Yet Sean doesn’t seem put off. Rather, he’s all smiley and affable, as though he’s somehow enjoying chillin’ here on the futon with me. I never really had an appreciation for Sean before, despite his Ping-Pong prowess, but I’m starting to discover his appeal. There’s something vaguely Bruce Willis about him, with the quiet confidence, piercing eyes, and strong chin. He’s kind of rugged and seems like he’ll be even more handsome as his mileage increases, like how a bomber jacket improves with age and distress.
(Am I shallow for noticing he has a better hairline than Bruce Willis? Has Kitty rubbed off on me?)
He knocks back a long sip, and then takes a perplexed look at the bottle. “Interesting. I detect notes of . . . cotton candy? As for Kitty? I’m better off without her. You want to know the most fucked-up part?”
I move closer. “Um, obviously.”
“She kept trying to negotiate with me about sex. Said she’d only do it if I gave her my fraternity pin. Listen, I’m graduating next year and I have to keep my grades up if I want to get into UCLA med school. I’ve got to buckle down so hard I’m living off campus in an apartment next year. Plus, I’m in charge of pledge education. I have a shit-ton on my plate. There’s ten solid years of school and residencies and fellowships in front of me. The last thing I’m going to do right now is get preengaged, you know? I told her, if that’s what you need, then I can wait. I’m cool. Why am I telling you this? I can’t believe I’m telling you this. Anyway, so instead of taking it slow with me, the last actual gentleman on earth, she hooks up with your brother and then lies about it? I don’t get it.”
“Yet she wanted to give it to you; I can see your dilemma.”
He grins and I notice he has a dimple on the right side. “Forgot you were funny, Jackie. Always liked hanging out with you. You owe me a rematch. You cannot consistently be that good at foosball. You can’t.”
Ugh, stupid Jackie. That name has never fit. “Do me a favor and call me Jack.”
He nods, seeming to digest my request while scanning my face. “You seem more like a Jack. Jacks are badass, you know? All of ’em. Jack Nicholson. Jack Nicklaus. Jack LaLanne.”
“Please. Jack LaLanne is, like, a hundred years old.” At this moment, I’ve almost forgotten about being nervous. Sean is smart and, by virtue of my pants still being on, chivalrous. Why would Kitty throw all this away for Teddy and his microscopic attention span?
“He’s still doing one-armed push-ups! LaLanne could kick my ass today, so my point’s valid. Who else? There’s Jack Ruby.”
“Interesting you bring him up, considering all my siblings and I were named after Kennedys.”
“See? I pay attention. And how about Jack Kennedy? All those guys he saved on his PT boat? Badass. Then you’ve got the one-two punch of Jack Johnson and Jack Dempsey, pun intended. Thesis statement? Jacks London and Kerouac.”
“I may fall spontaneously in love at your knowing how to pluralize Jacks.” Then I blush furiously, not having realized what I was saying until it was too late.
UGH, THIS IS WHY BOYS DON’T WANT TO DATE ME.
Somehow determined to save me from my awkward self, Sean says, “Eh, not the worst reason. Better than being into someone for their Ralph Lauren shirts, right? Speaking of worse, do you really want to drink these wine coolers? I’m worried they’ll give us diabetes.”
“They’re horrible, right? Like cough syrup, sans the whimsy.”
He stands, holding out a hand to help me up. His grip is warm and firm. “Let’s go do something fun. We’re young, we’re free, and it’s Saturday night. Let’s burn shit. Figuratively. Or we can go back to the Beta house, where they probably will burn something literally. Last week the pledges torched a couch. Now we have to sit on the floor in the TV room.”
I tell him, “The only event I heard about tonight is an all-male version of Little Women at the experimental theater.”
He looks at me long and hard. His gaze is . . . smoldering. Is that a thing, smoldering? Now I kind of wish he would make a move on me. Yes. I would indeed be fine with that. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that. I may have to drink this bottle of glucose to erase the image from my mind. Okay, you and me? We’re making a plan. You have boots?”
“I live in Illinois and it’s January; of course I have boots.”
“Then I presume you have a warm coat, mittens, and a hat. Possibly some long underwear.”
“Affirmative, Ghost Rider.”
“Then suit up, Maverick; I feel the need for speed.”
• • •
“You’re a lunatic. Take that as a compliment.”
“You’re a complete wuss. Not a compliment.”
“I don’t want to fall and break my hands, wreck my career before it even starts.”
“That’s a fancy way to say, ‘I’m chicken.’”
We’re at the bottom of the highest run on Squires Hill, where the sledding is every bit as good as I imagined. I just won a bet by taking the hill standing astride dining hall trays, riding them like two small, square skis. The whole crowd burst into applause when I finished upright.
“Bawk, bawk,” he replies.
The flurries are still coming down and the moon’s out, making the hill almost bright as day. I feel like I’m in the middle of a snow globe. There are dozens of other students out here with us and for once, no one cares who’s Greek and who’s not or who’s drinking hot chocolate instead of swigging schnapps. We’re just a bunch of big kids enjoying the rush. Tonight is absolutely the most fun I’ve had since starting college.
I stopped feeling nervous around Sean about three hours ago, right after I made my first trip down the hill at the front of a two-person toboggan. Told Sean I was likely the better pilot, so he acquiesced and I was the one to steer. We wiped out in a spectacular fashion because we were going way too fast, our tilted sled sending a spray of icy snow out twenty feet. I’ve crushed him so handily every time we’ve raced back up the hill that I assume I’ve inadvertently entered the Friend Zone again.
Can’t believe I’ve not suggested we arm wrestle. But I’m sure I will.
So, when Sean eventually suggests we get out of our wet, freezing cold clothes back in my dorm room, I take the statement at face value.
Um . . . way off on that.
Did falling asleep half dressed in his arms start World War III when Kitty arrives home twelve hours early, jumping to a conclusion that wouldn’t technically be true for another three months of our covert dating?
Abso-flipping-lutely.
And worth it.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
To: Undisclosed Recipie
nts
From: [email protected]
Subject: Good and bad news
Hi, all!
Thanks a million for coming to Avery’s party. Good news? She’s still over the moon about the fun and friends. You are all simply THE BEST. She’ll be sending her own thank you notes out shortly.
The bad news? Well, there’s been the teensiest wrinkle to what otherwise was the MOST PERFECT DAY! Your child may or may not have been exposed to lice. But fear not, fellow moms! I’ve already arranged to take care of any child who may have been impacted. Please call Denise at Hair I Go Again (contact info on attached VBC) for your confidential, prepaid, in-home delousing.
Have a wonderful summer!
Brooke B.
Attachment: VBC, Click to Download
The Monaco, Chicago
Wednesday
“I vote we deal with the lice in the morning and we leave for the Monaco now,” Jack says.
“Right now?”
“Yes.”
“Like this?” I point to my yoga pants, bare face, and damp bun.
“Yes.”
I remark, “You’ve never been to a nightclub, have you?”
“I have been to clubs all around the world,” Jack replies.
“I don’t doubt that, Miss Global Entry. But how many of these clubs were in the first world? Any place the women wear those burlap sacks over their heads? Doesn’t count,” I say.
“Number one, offensive, number two, they’re called burkas, and number three, you don’t see devout Muslim women in Western clubs at all in the Middle East.”
“Let me explain something to you, Jordan—we’re not in Kabul. You might be the hottest chick to ever don a flak jacket in Over-there-istan, but here in Chicago? You wouldn’t make it past the door like that. Nor would I. Granted, I haven’t been to a club since before Kord was born, but I’m sure nothing’s changed. We show up at eight p.m. in exercise togs and the doorman will laugh us down the street. We need to work on our look before we venture anywhere.”
The Best of Enemies Page 23
