by Gemma Weir
Shaking my head, I push away my maudlin thoughts and head into my kitchen, opening the fridge and grabbing a bottle of beer and some left over Chinese food. While it reheats in the microwave, I twist the top off my beer and flick it across the room and into the trash can. The microwave pings, and grabbing a fork, I take the box from inside and slump down onto the sofa.
The Moo shu pork is hot and spicy, and I eat it while I flick through channels on the T.V. Finally, I settle on a re-run of The Office and laugh at the cringeworthy situations.
It only takes about fifteen minutes for the walls to start to close in around me. I fidget, trying to force my mind to engage with the T.V. show, or to tire enough that maybe sleep might be a possibility. Frustrated, I stand up and pace the room, cursing my inability to forget her. If only we’d never met all those years ago, everything would be different.
Tired of pacing, I slump back down onto the sofa, drumming my fingers against the cushion to try to stop myself from going to find it. I know I should have destroyed the photo years ago, but no matter how many times I try to rip it up or set it on fire, I can never bring myself to actually do it.
The Office ends and a David Attenborough documentary takes its place. Slowing my breathing, I compel myself to stay put. I tell myself that looking at it won’t help. That no matter how obsessed I am, how sad I am, nothing will change. She can’t ever be mine.
“Never going to happen,” I say into my empty apartment.
But ten minutes later, I’m pulling the photo from the inside of my passport and staring at Taylor’s smiling face. We’re sixteen in the picture, posing with our arms wrapped around each other. She’s staring at the camera and I’m looking at her. I can see every ounce of love I have for her reflected back in my face and even though this photo makes me feel sick to my stomach, I still rub my thumb over the image reverently.
I need to let this go, let her go, but as much as I try I can’t. It’s been years since I saw her. She could be married with five kids; she could be a raving bitch and I could hate her on sight. But I’m not obsessed with the real her; I’m obsessed with the girl from all those years ago. The Taylor I knew, the one that should have been mine. The girl that would have been mine, if it hadn’t have been for my fucking bastard of a father.
Rolling my eyes, I silently listen to my best friend talk through the phone. Taytay is one of those girls who can have an hour-long conversation with you, but never actually needs you to talk back. This isn’t the first time I’ve listened to her rant about Derek; in fact this isn’t the first time I’ve listened to this rant this week. The closer the wedding gets, the more she seems to find to moan about.
I’d tell her that I think she’s making a huge mistake; that I’ve never met two people less suited to a long-term commitment than her and Derek, but she doesn’t want to hear that. Taytay lets the truth roll off her, like water off a duck’s back. She has this amazing ability to only hear what she wants to hear, and anything that deviates from her line of thinking is either ignored or just totally disregarded.
I met Taylor on the first day of college. She was stood outside our dorm room crying her eyes out and screaming into her cellphone. More than once over the years I’ve wished I hadn’t asked her if she was okay that day, but I did and from that moment on I became her shoulder to cry on, her ear to vent to about the men in her life, or as she likes to call me—her best friend.
My brother Eric pushes open my office door and when he sees me with my cell pressed to my ear, he shakes his head, annoyance clear on his face. Dropping into a chair, he lifts his feet and rests them on the edge of my desk. I gesticulate at him to move them while still making uh-huh noises and general sounds of agreement down the phone.
“Rosie, get off the fucking phone,” Eric snarls loudly.
Scowling at him, I flip him my middle finger.
“Rosie, Rosie, Rosie, Rosie,” Eric chants, getting progressively louder and more annoying.
“Taytay, I’m sorry. Eric just came into my office. I have to go. Stop stressing, it will all be fine. I’ll speak to you later, okay? Love you, bye,” I say, then end the call before she has a chance to speak.
Dropping my head to the desk I exhale audibly, exhausted from having the same one-sided conversation with Taylor that I had yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that. You get the idea.
“You need to cut that girl out of your life. She’s a fucking nightmare,” Eric says.
I raise my head a few inches from my desk and glare at him. “She’s my best friend.”
He throws his head back and laughs.
Rolling my eyes at his amateur dramatics, I drop my head down to my desk again and groan. “I can’t wait for this wedding to be over,” I say, my mouth muffled by the paperwork beneath my face.
“Oh the wedding is just the start of it; you wait until she gets pregnant.”
My head snaps up so quickly, my neck cracks in protest, and I stare at my brother, my mouth open in a horrified ‘O’ shape.
He smirks and nods his head slowly. “Exactly.”
“Oh my god,” I cry. “I won’t survive it.”
“What did she want today anyway?” He asks.
“Same as every day for the last two weeks. She hates him. She thinks he cheats on her. She wants to cheat on him to get even.”
“He does cheat on her,” Eric says.
“I know,” I say wearily. “She knows, and he knows she knows.”
“So why are they getting married?”
“I have absolutely no idea. They’ve been doing this exact same thing since high school. But they love each other.”
“That’s not love,” Eric says dryly.
“Who the hell knows what love is? I sure don’t. If this works for them, who are we to judge?”
“You get to judge all you want, because you’re the one who has to listen to her bitch and moan about him all day.”
Sighing, I straighten and lean back in my chair, quickly turning my cell to silent just in case Tay tries to call back. “Did you need something?”
“I decided to quit,” Eric says.
“No, you haven’t.” I say, clicking my mouse and checking my email.
“No, I haven’t, but you should. You’re wasted here and everyone knows it.”
“I like my job,” I say defensively.
“I know you do, but I really think you should consider that job offer.”
Waving him off, I grab for the pile of mail on my desk and start to rip an envelope open. “I’m happy here,” I say, looking at the junk mail in my hands like it’s the winning lottery numbers.
“You’re stagnating here.” He snaps. “I love you, Sis, but you need to take a risk, step out of your comfort zone. This job could be so great for you.”
“Why, when I’m happy, successful and content, would I rock the boat? That makes absolutely no sense to me,” I say, pointing at him with the leaflet still clutched in my hand.
“Because you’re twenty-six years old and this is the only job you’ve had since you left college. Because you’re single and have been since Geoff left, and because you could be so much more than content. There’s nothing wrong with being content when you’re in your sixties and you’ve lived some life, but in your twenties, you should be wild and free, and adventurous,” Eric says, rising from his chair and bracing his hands on the edge of my desk.
I stand too, needing to be as close to eye-to-eye as I can get at my pathetic five feet, three inches tall. “That’s you, not me. I’m happy here. I’m happy being single and working in a safe, secure job. I like my life.”
Eric sighs and looks at me sympathetically. “Sure you do, Sis.” Then with a dramatic slump of his shoulders he turns and leaves my office.
Looking from side to side, I try to figure out what the hell just happened. I’m a journalist for a small paper in my home town of Rolling Hills, California. I got this job straight out of college when Earl, the previous beat reporter had retired, and I
love it. Yes, maybe reporting on the weather, parking violations in the town square, and the new all-you-can-eat corn restaurant that just opened in town might not be exactly what I envisaged my career would entail, but in the current job market I’m lucky to have a job at all.
All this is just Eric’s pissy reaction to Taylor. He hates her, always has since the day I introduced them when he came to visit me at college. He’s always telling me that I should ditch her; that she uses me, and I guess there’s an element of truth to that. But Taylor’s my friend and, yeah, maybe she sometimes takes advantage of our friendship, but I know she loves and appreciates me and if I needed her too, she’d drop everything to come help me.
Eric’s attitude toward Taylor has gotten so much worse since she and Derek got engaged. I think somehow he hates Derek even more than he hates Taylor and considering he’s only met the guy a handful of times, I really don’t understand his attitude.
My cell flashes to life on my desk and sighing I reach for it, pausing when I see Taylor’s name on the screen. My best friend doesn’t understand boundaries, or the idea that I can’t spend three hours a day on the phone whenever she has a crisis. I have a job and she doesn’t understand that either.
Taylor is from Palos Verdes, one of the super-rich towns within commuter distance of LA. I’m not entirely sure how she graduated from college, but I’d guess it had a lot to do with her ability to charm everyone she meets, including professors and their TA’s. So far, she hasn’t found a career that as she puts it, ‘inspires her’, so instead of branching out on her own, she moved home after graduation. Now, just like her mom, she spends a lot of time at the gym or at lunch and seems to have made spending her daddy’s money a bit of an art form.
Taylor isn’t stupid by any means; but she’s shallow and self-absorbed, and like she’s told me many times in the past, why would she choose to look after herself when she can find a husband to look after her instead?
Pushing my cell to the side, I ignore it, and instead open my desk drawer and pull out the letter that came a few months ago. My eyes scan the typed words and I can’t help but smile. It’s an open-ended job offer to join the writing team at a kitschy art and lifestyle magazine. I’d applied for the job on a whim one day, when my editor had asked me to cover what he thought was a breaking story about the abundance of red cars in town.
My job morale had been at an all-time low, and the lure of a real writing job with a young, fresh, and creative magazine, had been too tempting to resist. I’d been shocked when they’d invited me out to their Houston based offices to interview, then even more surprised when they’d offered me the job.
I’d said no of course, but for a few glorious days I’d thought about it. Taylor had had a complete meltdown about the job, when I’d told her they’d offered it to me. She’d begged me not to go, burst into tears, and told me she simply couldn’t survive without me, and of course I’d assured her that I had no intention of taking it.
I’d been beyond surprised when the editor had told me that they loved my work so much, that when, or if, I ever changed my mind, there would always be a job for me. Sighing wistfully, I slide the letter back into the drawer and push it closed, turning my attention back to my laptop and my latest expose on price fixing at the two grocery stores in town.
The phone in my apartment is ringing when I push through the front door laden down with my purse, laptop bag, and the takeout I grabbed on my way back from work. Dropping all of my bags onto the kitchen counter, I lunge for the phone, grabbing it and pressing it to my ear. “Hello,” I pant.
“Why haven’t you been answering your cell?” Taylor demands.
“Taytay, I’ve told you a thousand times, I have a job and they expect me to actually do it, not just sit on my cellphone all day talking to you.”
“Then quit, because I needed you and you weren’t answering,” she says, her voice whiny.
Tucking the phone between my neck and ear, I pick up my purse and carry it across the room, hanging it on the hooks on the back of my closet door. Then I grab a plate and serve my Indian food, taking it to the sofa and sliding down into it, with Taylor still talking into my ear.
“Are you even listening to me?” She asks.
“Of course I am sweetie,” I lie.
“So it’s a yes then?”
I wrack my mind, trying to see if anything she’d said in the last few minutes had actually sunk into my brain, but I hadn’t been listening. “I’m sorry Taytay, yes to what?”
“To a week-long bachelorette mini-break,” she says huffing loudly.
“What?”
“You remember Amber from college, right? Well she just moved to New York and she friend requested me on facebook the other day. We got to talking and she said that we should come see her. And well that’s perfect, because I don’t want to just go to a spa or something for my final hurrah as a free woman. So I booked for us to go to New York, in this super exclusive boutique hotel that has this amazing club in the basement.”
I can hear her speaking, but I’m not sure that her words are actually being processed in my brain. “You want to go to New York for your bachelorette party?”
“Mini-break.”
“Yeah, mini-break, whatever.”
“It’s all booked, we go the week after next.”
“I don’t have any holidays booked, Taylor. I can’t just take off work.”
“So quit. It’s all booked, Ro-Ro. I can’t go without you.”
“Taylor, if I quit my job, I won’t be able to pay my bills.”
“God, you’re such a drama queen,” she says dramatically. “Look, it’s booked and paid for and it’s going to be fabulous. Okay, I have to go. Derek just got here to take me out to the club for dinner. Love you bye.”
The line goes dead before I have a chance to say another word and I lower the phone from my ear and just stare at it for a moment. Turning the handset over I dial the first four digits of Taylor’s cell, then press the button to void it instead. There’s no point in trying to tell Taylor that I can’t go. She won’t understand, and knowing her, tomorrow I’ll find her in my office charming my boss.
I do have holiday that I need to use, and I suppose I am the maid of honor. Looks like I’m going to New York.
Pulling the latex gloves from my hands with a snap, I watch as my client dances over to the mirror to admire her new tattoo. The girl is hot: dark black hair, smooth mocha-colored skin. I should be panting over her half-naked body in my chair, but my cock doesn’t even twitch. Girls like this are ten-a-penny. She’s so skinny, I can see every one of her ribs, and her obvious attempts at seduction are sort of pathetic.
She’s beautiful, but she seems to think that gives her a free pass to any guy she wants. I hate girls like that. Throwing me a seductive smile, she struts toward me, her shirt still pushed up exposing all of her bare stomach and the outline of her breasts. When she reaches me, she strokes her sparkly fingernails up my arm and I sigh and glare down at her. Twisting to the side so her hand falls from me, I step away. Her eyes narrow for a moment, then she turns back to the mirror. She lifts her shirt even higher, under the guise of checking out her new ink, and accidently, but obviously on purpose flashes a nipple at me. She fakes shock and quickly lowers her shirt, but when she looks back at me, her eyes are hooded and I know she’s putting on a show.
Turning my back, I blatantly ignore her and tidy up my station, throwing away all of the ink pots and stripping the plastic from my guns and spray. I couldn’t be making it any more obvious that I’m not interested and when I eventually turn back around to face her, she’s dressed and slinging her purse over her shoulder.
“I need to wrap your ink up, then you can head out front and Greg will sort out your bill.”
“Sure, baby,” she coos, lifting up her shirt again.
Quickly and mechanically, I cover the tat in Saran wrap and tape the edges down. “Leave it covered for a few hours, then follow the care instructions Greg gives you
.”
“Maybe you could come to my place later and take care of me?” she says breathily.
Sighing, I cross my arms over my chest. “No thanks.”
Her mouth falls open, like she can’t believe I just turned her down. “Wow, are you gay or something?”
A callous laugh falls from my lips. “I have to be gay to not be interested?”
“Well yeah. Have you seen me? I’m hot.”
“Baby, you’re not that hot. Head on out, Greg will help you with your bill.”
With an outraged huff, the girl leaves the room and I close the door behind her. Sinking down into my chair, I pull my cell from my pocket and dial Smoke.
“Park,” Smoke answers.
“Brother, wanna go cause some trouble tonight?”
He chuckles “Oh it’s gonna be one of those nights is it?”
“Hell yes. I’ve tatted four fucking butterflies today, I need to blow off some steam. I have no idea why these basic bitches want fucking butterflies. Why not have some actual art, something with some soul? But no, they wait six months to have me tattoo a stock fucking pink butterfly on their ass.”
“Brother, I would swap with you in a heartbeat. The amount of hot ass and tits you see every day is like manna from fucking heaven. You sure wouldn’t hear me complaining.”
“It loses its appeal real fucking quick. Nothing sexy about a bony ass or tiny tits on a bitch with a body so skinny she looks like a skeleton. I like my women to have some meat on their bones, tits, and ass. So, are you up for a night out?”
“No can do. I’m working at Beavers tonight.”
“Fuck,” I hiss.
“I ain’t complaining; the view is not fucking bad. Come keep me company. Peaches has been pining for you. I know she’ll put you back in a good mood.”
“Peaches was a one-night thing.”
