by Lisa Ferrari
“I think it’s just a precaution, in case there are boats in the area, so they don’t crash into the rocks.”
Ten seconds later, the horn sounds again.
Another ten seconds later, it sounds yet again.
“Is it going to do that all night?” I ask, sitting up.
“Probably. You want to go somewhere else?”
“Nope. I want to stay right here. With you.”
Kellan finally opens his eyes and looks at me. “What time is it?”
I check the clock. “Eleven-eleven. Make a wish.”
“I wish–”
“Wait, don’t say it out loud.”
“Why not?”
“Because it might not come true. Just say it in your head.”
“Okay.”
I make my wish, too. I wish that Kellan and I get the movie roles together and somehow I don’t completely mess it up, and the movie does well, and I win an Academy Award, and Kellan and I get married and live happily ever after, and we have a whole bunch of little muscle babies to love, and everyone who ever doubted me has no choice but to go eat a dick.
I’m still high enough to think it could actually happen.
KELLAN AND I spend the entire weekend in our room.
Naked.
High.
Screwing our brains out.
Making noisy, sweaty, passionate love.
Room service arrives for breakfast. I hide, nude, in the bathroom.
Room service arrives for lunch. I hide under the covers and Kellan puts a couple of pillows on me so I look like a lump. He snaps a pic of it on his phone as the bell hop kid stands there wondering why a big muscle dude in his boxers is taking a picture of a messy bed.
We laugh uncontrollably at this while we eat.
For dinner, Kellan makes me open the door for the bell hop while he hides in the bathroom, trying not to laugh. I’m wearing only the hotel’s complimentary white terry cloth bathrobe. We found two of them in the closet. Kellan is far too big for his. But I love mine. It’s so soft and luxurious, I want Kellan to inquire about buying it.
I hand the bell hop a hundred and he leaves.
I catch him staring at my chest three times.
When Kellan comes out of the bathroom, he stares at my chest, too.
I look down.
My robe has slipped open, revealing a long, thin V of skin from my neck all the way down to my belly button.
“Trying to give the poor kid a boner?” Kellan asks.
“Maybe.”
“It’s working.”
Kellan’s penis is indeed slowly lifting up.
I get down on my knees and begin fellating him quickly and intensely, almost violently. I continue for about thirty glorious seconds, sucking with my mouth and squeezing and pulling with one hand while I caress his scrotum with the other.
I stop suddenly and begin to eat, savoring the lasagna I ordered.
Kellan stands there, hard as a rock, looking at me, wondering what just happened.
He comes over and takes the fork out of my hand. He gets down on his knees and begins giving me oral pleasure and caressing me with his strong fingers.
I know exactly what he’s doing, but it feels so good I am powerless to stop him.
He’s working my clit perfectly, and I desperately want to come again.
Kellan stops suddenly, grabs his bowl of ravioli, and begins to eat.
I try not to act as frustrated as I feel.
“Payback’s a bitch,” Kellan muses nonchalantly into his bowl. I can see he’s grinning. It’s going to be another long night of playful lovemaking.
THE NEXT DAY, we check out and drive home.
I’m sad to go.
I really needed this.
I feel a million times better, pretty much back to my old self.
Kellan drives slowly and we enjoy the scenery of the northern California coast. A lot of people drive beside us and take pictures of the Mister Beaumont on their phone. We smile and wave.
I get a text from Denise. She sends me a link to Cosmo’s website. There’s a new article about how to make your pancake butt pop. The article references me and has a frame extracted from the beach clip, when I’m carrying Chavez. My butt does look good.
There’s also a photo of Calista giving a guy a piggy back ride on the beach down in Redondo somewhere.
The conclusion of the article is that women need to start carrying men, even more than they already are.
I’m aware that there’s been a silent epidemic of men struggling in life and oftentimes moving back into their parents’ house after college or a divorce, and it suggests a lack of basic knowledge about how to be a man, information they aren’t being taught. But the tongue-in-cheek tone so typical of Cosmo still seems like a low blow and rubs me the wrong way.
Plus, I wonder if Calista and I ought not be compensated for using our likenesses. I don’t recall being asked to sign a release or being remunerated.
Kellan and I stop for lunch at In-n-Out Burger and I show him the article while we wait for our food. He agrees that they can’t simply do that. He’s going to speak to Sheila about it.
Kellan eats four double-doubles, protein style; I eat two. We share an order of fries.
Once we’re back in the car, I broach the distasteful topic of Thanksgiving dinner. I tell him that my mom is expecting me, and I’m not going without him, so he pretty much has to come.
“We could go to Sheila’s,” Kellan suggests. “Would your mom and dad be pissed?”
“Probably.”
“Is Beth going to be there?”
“Oh yeah.”
“Is she married?”
“No.”
“Does she have a boyfriend?”
“I’m not sure. She was dating a guy who is a general contractor, but I think he went back to his ex or something. But we should probably go. It might be nice to spend some time with my family so they can get to know you.”
“Okay.”
“Really? You’ll come?”
“Of course. You’re right. Family comes first.”
Kellan kisses the back of my hand he’s been holding since we left In-n-Out. I love him even more.
THANKSGIVING DAY ROLLS around.
And with it, a big fat serving of terror garnished with a side of anxiety.
I manage to coerce Nancy into letting me have the day off, arguing that I’ve worked every Thanksgiving for the past four years, and since it is a buffet, they don’t need me.
Miraculously, she agrees.
As Kellan and I are preparing to go to my parents’ house, I’m so worked up that I can’t find my shoes or my phone. I run all around the house, searching. I go through my bags twice, dumping everything onto the carpet.
“What are you looking for?” Kellan asks. He’s buttoning his shirt. He looks sensational in his black slacks and button-down blue silk shirt and shiny black dress shoes. If I weren’t totally freaking out, I’d want to have sex with him.
“I can’t find my shoes or my phone.”
Kellan laughs.
“It’s not funny. Don’t fuck with me, Kearns. Not today.”
“Claire…” He takes me in his arms. “I love you so much. Do you know why?”
“Why?”
“Because your shoes are on your feet and your phone is in your hand.”
I look down at my feet, and then at my hand.
Kellan’s right; I’m wearing my shoes and holding my phone.
“What is wrong with me?”
Kellan hugs me. “Sshhh… it’s okay.” He rubs my back gently, soothing me. “Do you want to smoke some pot? It’ll calm you down.”
“It’s very tempting, but no, it’s not a good idea. I already have enough to be nervous about. I don’t need to get paranoid wondering if my mom and dad can tell that their little Claire bear is high as a kite.”
“Okay, well, take some deep breaths. Try to stay calm. You’re an adult now. You are in charge of your life,
not them.”
“I know. It’s just that every year at some point during dinner, they start in on me. They always have a litany of careers I should’ve tried or that I still should try, seeing as how I don’t have a career. I could’ve been a doctor. I could’ve been a sales rep for a pharmaceutical company making six figures. I could’ve joined the FBI and been a handwriting analysis expert. I could’ve sold phones at the Verizon store and worked my way up the corporate ladder. I could’ve worked for the A.T.F. and traveled around the country administering polygraphs.”
“A.T.F.?”
“Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms.”
“Polygraphs?”
“My dad knows a guy who used to do that. One of his patients or golf buddies or something, I don’t know.”
“But you already have a career. You’re a writer.”
“Believe me, I’ve told them that.”
“Don’t worry. It’ll be okay. If they start in on you, just say ‘thank you for your input’ and then change the subject, ask a question about them to redirect them the way you do with a child. It works every time.”
“Really?”
“Trust me.”
DURING THE DRIVE to my parents’ house, Kellan asks if we should’ve brought more than just one bottle of wine. Kellan took it from his personal inventory. He doesn’t have a lot of bottles of wine, but the ones he has are good, high-quality, expensive wine, usually at least $50 per bottle.
He asks if we should’ve brought a pie or something.
I explain that if we show up without pie, my mom will make a comment about how everyone expects her to do everything; if we show up with a pie, my mom will make the opposite comment, suggesting I’m obsessed with food and I need to lay off the pie.
I ring the doorbell and squeeze Kellan’s hand tightly.
“This is going to suck,” I mutter.
“It’ll be fine. Think positively. Let’s focus on what we want.”
My mom opens the door. She’s wearing a shiny, baby-blue velour top, green pants and her customary apron which has an orange hazard symbol triangle and reads Caution! Thanksgiving Dinner in Progress! The welcoming aromas of turkey and freshly-baked rolls accompany her.
“Hello, Claire. Happy Thanksgiving.”
“Happy Thanksgiving, mom. This is–”
“I know who this is. The bodybuilder. Kellan, is it?”
“Yes, ma’am. It’s nice to meet you. Claire and I brought some wine for dinner. It’s an excellent Napa Valley Pinot Grigio. It should go very nicely with the turkey.”
“Heavens, Claire, did you tell him we’re all a bunch of alcoholics?”
I scream silently, explode and implode, crushing down inside myself until I’m nothing but flats and a cell phone and a little puddle of ectoplasm goo. I feel like I’m in an episode of SCRUBS. I’m J.D., getting my butt chewed (as always) by Dr. Cox. My mother and Kellan gaze quizzically down at the puddle I’ve become.
I snap out of it, struggling to formulate a cogent rejoinder, a real zinger. Like, You’re the one going to A.A.
But Kellan is laughing. “Even a stopped clock is right twice a day.”
I have no idea what that means, not in this context, but my sense is that he’s just insulted my mother.
And gotten away with it.
“Won’t you come in?” my mom says.
“If we must,” I say.
“That’s enough, Claire,” my mom murmurs, smiling.
Kellan meets my dad and says hi to Beth. Beth seems cool but my dad looks Kellan up and down several times. Kellan does his best to ignore it. He opens the wine and pours everyone a glass and we sit down to eat.
My mom makes a show of offering me every single dish on the table.
“Claire, have some turkey.”
“Claire, have some ham.”
“Claire, have some stuffing.”
“Claire, have some potatoes.”
“Claire, have a roll.”
“Claire, have some asparagus.”
“I think Claire is quite sick of asparagus,” Kellan says, “but I’ll take some.”
“Why would Claire be sick of asparagus?” my dad asks. “Claire loves asparagus.”
“You’re absolutely right, Claire does like asparagus. It’s just that we eat it almost every day.”
“What kind of person eats asparagus every day?” my dad asks.
Shit. Here we go.
“Claire and I train hard and maintain a very strict nutrition plan in order to get in shape for the upcoming audition. Asparagus is an excellent source of fiber and micronutrients. Plus, it helps get your metabolism going and helps you burn fat.”
“She certainly does have a lot of fat to burn,” my mom says, shaking her head yet smiling defiantly because she’s had the courage to speak the truth.
“We all do, Misses Valentine. According to the latest study conducted by the U.S. Food and Drug Administration, the average American has thirty-five to forty pounds of fat to lose.”
“Well, Claire certainly is average,” my mom continues, “aren’t you, darling?”
“No, mom, I’m not.” I’m starting to get pissed. I have that wild, frightened feeling inside me that tells me I might say or do anything right now.
“There’s nothing wrong with it,” my mother goes on. “Plenty of people are average. The world needs those people. They’re the ones who work all the jobs no one else wants to do. Like carrying trays at weddings.” My mom is actually smiling at me. She is a master of the backhanded compliment, I will give her that. “Take your sister, for example. She’s not average. She’s one of the top brokers in her office. Did you see her new BMW out front? It’s gorgeous. It’s black, but it’s gorgeous.”
“Thanks, mom.” Beth rolls her eyes at me. At least I’m not the only one taking fire.
“Carrying trays is not a bad thing,” my mother continues. “Imagine how big you’d be if your job weren’t so physical… what with the way you like to eat. Plus, you’ve been working there a long time and you could be the catering manager some day or maybe even the restaurant manager in another five years.”
“Thank you for your input,” I say. “So, mom, the stuffing is delicious. Is this Stove Top or did you make it from scratch?”
“She should’ve gone to medical school, the way we planned,” my dad says, his mouth full of pink ham. A little piece of it flies out of his mouth and lands on top of the sweet potatoes. “She could’ve been a pediatrician and had her own clinic by now. Or an anesthesiologist. They make three hundred thousand a year.”
“They also pay a hundred thousand a year in liability insurance,” Kellan puts in.
“She could’ve been a school teacher,” my dad says.
“Quite a step down from a physician, don’t you think?” Kellan asks.
“Some people have a calling to do great things,” says my mom. “Other people…carry trays.”
“She could’ve been a pharmaceutical rep,” my dad says.
“If you guys don’t stop talking about me in the third person, I’m leaving,” I say.
“If you don’t stop eating the way you do, you’ll be a third person,” says my dad, laughing with his mouth open, showing us more wet, masticated ham. He’s very pleased with his pun.
“Dad, I’ve lost a lot of weight.”
“I can see that. I won’t ask how you’ve done it.”
“Bulimia is not a long-term solution, sweetie,” my mom says, knocking back the last gulp of the Pinot Grigio Kellan poured for her.
“Why don’t you be a substitute teacher?” my dad continues. “You can get certified in about a week. Or why don’t you join the California Highway Patrol? They’re always looking for strong women.”
“What do you mean, strong women, dad?”
“You know. Big girls. Women who can handle themselves around…unruly male types.” My dad points his fork at Kellan.
“Or,” he continues, “why don’t you learn to sell houses like your s
ister? She’s one of the top brokers in her office.”
“Dad, I’m not a broker yet. The broker owns the agency. I’m just a licensed agent.”
“Same difference. Think you could get her a job there?”
“She doesn’t have a license.”
“You can help her get one.”
“I don’t want to sell houses. I’m not a salesperson,” I say. I’m having difficulty suppressing the rage. It’s a good thing I’m not David Banner or I’d be turning green and hulking-out right now.
“You need a career,” my dad says. “You’re not getting any younger.”
“Your father is right, Claire,” my mom says. “These days, a woman needs to depend on herself. It’s not like it was back in our day. In our day, a woman knew she had a man to depend on.”
“Claire can depend on me,” Kellan says.
“Uh-huh.” My dad takes a long drink of the wine Kellan brought. “Is that your Corvette out in front of my house? How much steroids did you have to sell to pay for that car?”
“Jesus, Dad!”
“We all know it’s true,” my dad says. He’s quite good at acting innocent, as if he’s the victim because he pointed out the truth. He and my mom could give seminars on insulting people.
“You know,” Kellan says, “whenever Claire speaks of you guys or talks about you, it’s always with overwhelming sadness. She tells me stories about what you wanted her to be. She feels that you disapprove of her choices in life. She feels that you are critical of her. You criticize her for not doing what you want her to do. Then, when she does what you want her to do, you criticize her for not doing it correctly.”
“If it ain’t right, it ain’t right,” my dad says.
“Who died and made you king?” Kellan asks.
Oh shit. He did not just say that to my dad.
Kellan continues, “Claire is the most amazing woman I’ve ever met.”
“That’s a testament to how we raised her,” my dad says.
“Actually,” says Kellan, “it’s more of a testament to her ability to shake off all the bullshit you saddled her with throughout her life. Have you ever stopped to think about why Claire has struggled with her weight for most of her adult life? She told me she was fourteen when she first began putting on extra weight. And that it continued from then on, year after year. Do you know why that was?”
