Crashed

by Julie Kriss

  “When in Rome,” I said to myself, and started stripping my clothes off.

  Eleven

  Tessa

  * * *

  “You know what?” I said half an hour later as I sat on Andrew’s couch, eating a sandwich. “I liked sitting down in the shower. It’s relaxing and civilized.”

  Andrew bit into his own sandwich—which, in the end, I’d made him. Turkey, mayo, and fancy mustard, just as he ordered. “I’m glad you find my shitty life interesting,” he said.

  I lowered my sandwich. “Am I being offensive?”

  He paused, too. “Are you going to ask me every thirty seconds if you’re being offensive?”

  We stared at each other for a second. “Okay,” I said, “let’s make a deal. If I’m being offensive, just tell me off.”

  “I do that anyway,” Andrew said.

  “Yes, but that might just be because of your everyday crabbiness. The point is, I don’t actually know when I’m being offensive.”

  Andrew shrugged and put the last of his sandwich into his mouth. “Do you want a code word or something?” he asked. “If I say it, you’ll know you’re being an ass.”

  I blinked. “You mean like a safe word?”

  “Something like that. How about this? If you’re being offensive, I’ll say ‘Bea Arthur.’ Then you’ll know.”

  “Bea Arthur? Are you for real?”

  “It’s as good a safe word as any.”

  I laughed. “I’m not sure why I like you.”

  “Me neither. Probably because I have air conditioning. How do you become a bra model, anyway?”

  I swallowed my bite of sandwich and took a drink of water. I was showered and dressed in a navy blue sundress, and I felt like a new woman. A new, hungry woman. “Well, you start by traveling the country with your hippie parents, who don’t supervise you as much as they should. Then you develop boobs and catch the eye of sketchy older men who say they want to take pictures of you.”

  Andrew froze mid-bite. “Are you fucking serious?”

  “Yes, I am.” I shrugged. “I was never actually assaulted, but I chalk that up to pure luck and survival instinct. I’d been in some dangerous situations by the time I was fourteen.” Those experiences had led me to crash and burn, but I didn’t want to talk about that. “Anyway, looking pretty was what I knew how to do, so when I was sixteen I signed up with a reputable modeling agency and tried to get work. That was in Denver. My first gig was modeling a nursing bra, if you can believe it.” I put down my drink and mimed. “I had to pose demonstrating the clasp, you know? The one here that opens the nipple flap. I was seventeen. I made a hundred and fifty dollars.”

  Andrew leaned back in his chair. “That is deeply weird. And not a little disturbing.”

  “There’s a whole world of modeling out there,” I said. “Not everyone goes on a runway, wearing Victoria’s Secret. Bras have been sold in catalogs for decades, and someone has to model them. Hand modeling is a big thing, too, though my hands aren’t quite nice enough. There’s watch modeling. I knew one woman in L.A. whose specialty was shampoo and hair spray ads. She stood with her back to the camera and did this.” I shook my hair, brushing it back from my shoulders, though of course my hair was too short to demonstrate properly. “Before I cut my hair I did some calls, but my hair wasn’t quite right. I also did some leg auditions—for razor and legging ads. Legs are hard, though. They have to be perfect, and you can’t fake it. My calves are too thin.”

  Andrew was watching me, his sandwich in his hand. “Your legs are nice,” he said.

  That gave me that giddy feeling again, the one you get when a great-looking guy notices that your legs are nice. “Thanks,” I said. “Nice doesn’t cut it in the modeling world, though.”

  “Huh,” he said thoughtfully. He took a bite of sandwich and swallowed. “It sounds like your whole career is about being told your body parts are subpar.”

  “It sounds that way, but I’m used to it. It’s better than being a nurse, I guess. Less schooling, and not as much work.”

  “You wanted to be a nurse?”

  Of all the topics we’d talked about, that one made my cheeks burn. I didn’t know why I’d said that; I never talked about wanting to be a nurse with anyone. “I know, it sounds dumb. A bra model wanting to be a nurse. I don’t have the brains, and I definitely don’t have the money.”

  Andrew frowned, thinking. “You would if you sold your grandmother’s house.”

  “But then I’d have nowhere to live.”

  He was watching me closely with that gaze that missed nothing. “Still, you’ve thought about it,” he said like a psychic. “It’s one of the reasons you left L.A.”

  No. There was no way that Tessa Hartigan, daughter of hippies and semi-failed model, was going to be a nurse. So I did what I always did when I wanted to distract a man: I changed the topic to sex.

  “I left L.A. because, as you say, none of my body parts were quite good enough. Except for these.” I straightened my spine and gestured at my boobs, now demurely covered by the navy blue dress. “These, I’ll have you know, are flawless. Every casting director says so. In fact, you might be looking at the world’s most perfect breasts, right here.”

  He narrowed his eyes as if he saw through my ruse, and then he corrected me. “I’m not looking at them.”

  It was true. His eyes were carefully aimed at my face. I suddenly wished he would look lower, which was the opposite of how I felt with every other man. I wanted Andrew to see. “Do you know what makes the world’s most perfect breasts?” I asked him, pushing him harder.

  “Tessa, really.”

  That shiver again when he said my name. I loved this—getting a reaction from him, seeing if I could make it the reaction I wanted. “It isn’t just size,” I explained. “The shape matters. Like a teardrop. They can’t sit too high or hang too low. Fake boobs don’t work for the really good casting agents—the boobs don’t look quite right, and sometimes they’re uneven or the scars show. Mine are real, of course.”

  It was working. He was definitely distracted now. “Of course,” he said.

  “They also have to be proportioned correctly with my torso.” I gestured to the sides of my ribcage. “It has to be pleasing to the eye. It’s mathematical. My body is x wide, so my breasts are—”

  “Okay.” Andrew’s voice sounded a little choked. “I get the idea.”

  “Oh, please. I thought you watched porn all day. You don’t want to talk about breasts?”

  He ran a hand through his hair. “It isn’t my usual topic of conversation, no. But please continue.”

  I watched his expression. Was he turned on? Why did I hope the answer was yes? I spent most of my time fighting men off. Why did I want Andrew to get closer?

  And still, I hadn’t pushed far enough. I could never leave well enough alone. “Do you want to see them?” I asked him. I put a hand to the strap of my dress, as if to pull it down.

  Andrew put his sandwich plate down next to him. “No, Tessa, I do not.”

  I tugged the strap half an inch. “They’re really impressive. I have a bra on.”

  “I’m sure they are, but no. Keep your dress on, please.”

  I dropped my hand and sighed in disappointment. “You’re the first man who’s ever said that to me.”

  Andrew was silent. For a second his gaze was dark and intense, looking at my face, my throat, and yes, my breasts through the navy blue dress.

  I was playing with fire. And I liked it. My blood was hot in my veins, my ears buzzing. I had the urge to touch him. A hand on his arm, anything. I bet he would be warm, his skin firm. I had always liked the way men felt, the way they smelled. I’d just always ended up touching the wrong men.

  “Is that what you do at these casting calls?” Andrew asked, his voice low and serious. “Just show up and take off your shirt?”

  “That’s the idea.”

  “You don’t even know these guys.”

  He was concerned, I rea
lized. It only made me want to touch him more. “It’s professional,” I told him. “I realize it doesn’t sound like it, but this is business. There are other models there, plus photographers, marketing people, assistants. It isn’t a creepy audition in a back room.”

  “Still, text me when you get there,” he said. “And while you’re there. And when you’re leaving.”

  I swallowed, touched. Everyone in L.A. was so hungry, so busy striving for the same selfish version of success, that they never looked out for each other. I wasn’t used to it. I could handle myself; I’d handled myself at dozens of auditions. And still, I said, “Okay, I will.”

  “And you know what? Text me from the bartending interview, too. Guys who run bars can be fucking creeps, even if you keep your dress on.”

  “Okay,” I said again. “I’ll be careful, Andrew. I always am.”

  He was quiet for another moment. Then he looked away as if something had hurt him, his face hard.

  “Good,” he said. “Now finish your sandwich and get going. You don’t want to be late.”

  Twelve

  Tessa: I’m here at the casting call. In the waiting room. There are other models here. We’re hanging out, waiting for our turn.

  Andrew: Good. Also, that director has a hard job.

  Tessa: You’d be amazed how many of them are gay. Makes things simpler sometimes.

  Andrew: Do you still have clothes on?

  Tessa: For the moment, yes. What are you doing?

  Andrew: Right now? Sending Lightning Man on a mission to the underworld, where someone is posing as his evil twin. The evil twin has fooled Judy Gravity and Lightning Man must rescue Judy and save her life.

  Tessa: …

  Andrew: What?

  Tessa: I think that might be the best answer I’ve ever read in my life.

  Andrew: It’s just comics. It isn’t literal rocket science.

  Tessa: Still, oh my god. Your life is very cool.

  Andrew: Hello? Wheelchair.

  Tessa: You’re still cool, sorry.

  Andrew: You need a wider circle of friends.

  Tessa: So we’re friends now?

  Andrew: I admit nothing.

  Tessa: They’re calling me, I gotta go.

  Tessa: Okay, I’m changed and in the dressing room now. To prove I’m okay, here’s a selfie.

  Andrew: I did not need a photo of you in your underwear.

  Tessa: Technically not MY underwear, but you’re still lying. You liked it.

  Andrew: I’ve deleted it.

  Tessa: Okay, here’s another one.

  Andrew: …

  Tessa: You’re typing and not sending anything.

  Andrew: …

  Tessa: Still doing it.

  Andrew: I’m terrified I’ll get another photo if I send anything.

  Tessa: Send me one back.

  Andrew: I’m dressed. And I don’t do selfies. Literally ever.

  Tessa: Take your shirt off and do it, Mason. Expand your horizons, I dare you.

  Andrew: If you’re trying to get me naked, it won’t work. I recognize the signs. Women try to get me naked all the time.

  Tessa: They’re calling me again, gotta go.

  Tessa: Can I ask you something?

  Andrew: Does this mean the casting call is over?

  Tessa: Yes. I’m dressed and everything. I still have a question.

  Andrew: Okay.

  Tessa: I was bored, and I was Googling things. My question is kind of personal. Okay, it’s very personal.

  Andrew: Oh, God, here it comes.

  Tessa: What?

  Andrew: You’re going to ask about sex.

  Tessa: Wait, what? People ask you about that?

  Andrew: It’s the number one thing people are curious about. You see why I don’t leave the house.

  Tessa: What is wrong with people? That is so fucking rude.

  Andrew: Are you going to try and tell me that wasn’t your question?

  Tessa: No, it totally was my question. But we’re friends. I gave you a Hi cake. I slept in your bed. You’ve seen me in my underwear!

  Andrew: Fine. I’ll fill you in. Some people with spinal injuries have it worse than I do. My legs and feet don’t work, but I can take a shit by myself, I can do anything that doesn’t involve walking, and I can fuck. Does that satisfy your curiosity?

  Tessa: A little excessively, but yes. So you have girlfriends?

  Andrew: Sure, women flock to me. Seriously, Tessa, what do you think?

  Tessa: I think you need work. Luckily you have me to take you on.

  Andrew: Don’t you have an interview to go to?

  Thirteen

  Andrew

  * * *

  It didn’t seem possible, but for the next few days Tessa and I settled into a sort of routine. During the day, I did my thing while she ran errands or tried to get auditions. She got the bartending job, so she’d go to the bar from four until midnight. When she was done her shift, she’d come back to my house to mooch my air conditioning and sleep in my bed.

  Without me, of course. I slept on the sofa.

  We’d argued about it long and hard. I wanted to be a gentleman and give her the bed. Tessa didn’t want to make a guy in a wheelchair sleep on the sofa. Both of us felt like an asshole, and neither of us wanted to give in. But I pulled rank in the end because it was my house, so I gave her the bed and took the couch.

  It didn’t matter much to me. My sofa was actually pretty comfortable. That wasn’t what was pissing me off.

  What was pissing me off was that I’d been stupid. I’d broken my own rule. I’d let Tessa in. And now I wanted her there.

  I liked her there all the time, no matter what she was doing. Even when she was invading my bathroom or drinking the soda in my fridge. Sometimes she hung out with me quietly while I drew, reading back issues of Lightning Man comics and eating my snacks. Sometimes she talked, which in turn made me talk.

  I never talked. Not if I could help it. But with Tessa, I talked.

  “I don’t know,” Tessa said a few days later as she came out of the kitchen. I was sitting on the sofa, surfing the internet on my laptop. She handed me a glass of ice water and sat down next to me. “I think the best Spider-Man was the first one. Or was it the second one? The one where he kisses her while he’s hanging upside down.”

  I rolled my eyes. “The usual layman’s opinion.”

  She sipped her iced tea. She was wearing a knee-length skirt of some kind of thin, swishy material and a tank top. “There’s such a thing as an expert in Spider-Man?”

  “Is there such a thing as an expert in bra modeling?”

  Her blue eyes widened. “Touché.”

  “That version of Spider-Man isn’t the best one,” I said. “Everyone knows that.”

  “What’s the best version?”

  “They haven’t made it yet.”

  “So they have to keep making them over and over forever?”

  I raised my eyebrows. “Is there a question in there?”

  She leaned back against the cushions, smiling. “Right. Comic-book geek.”

  “What tipped you off? The fact that I’ve illustrated hundreds of pages of comics, maybe?”

  She sipped her iced tea. “Your comics are better than any of the Spider-Man movies,” she said dutifully.

  I clicked another page on the website I was on. “I told you, I don’t write them. Nick does. Do you like pickles?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’m ordering groceries. I know you like terrible bright-yellow mustard on your sandwiches, but I don’t know if you like pickles.”

  She folded one long, bare leg and tucked her foot under her other thigh. Whoever said her calves were too skinny was either blind or crazy. “I love pickles. You don’t?”

  “Sure, I love something that reeks of salty, disgusting brine. What’s not to like?” I clicked the pickles and added them to my cart.

  “But you’re still ordering them,” she said.

&
nbsp; “Because I’m an excellent host, yes. I’m also ordering the yellow mustard.” I also added ginger ale, because she liked that, too.

  “My sandwiches are going to be amazing,” Tessa said, smiling. “Maybe I won’t get my air conditioning fixed after all.”

  She had a repairman scheduled to come in two days. Then she’d go back to her house, because she’d have no reason to come to mine. It crossed my mind to go across the street and sabotage her fucking air conditioning just to keep her here, but I wasn’t very agile and I’d probably get caught. So I tried not to think about being alone again.

  Nick was due back in a few days, anyway. But the words of Donna the wellness therapist came back into my head. He’s found his union with another. That leaves you alone. The honeymoon only outlines what you know deep down is true.

  Nick was married now. Maybe there’d even be a kid soon, or more than one. Sad old Uncle Andrew in the wheelchair was going to get fewer and fewer visits.

  Yeah, maybe I’d still sabotage Tessa’s air conditioning. Her heat, too, so she’d have to stay here in winter.

  “What’s Nick like?” Tessa asked, as if she was reading the thoughts going through my mind. “You don’t have any family photos in this house or anything.”

  “Nick is ugly,” I said emphatically, clicking to check out my grocery cart. “He’s hideous. His personality sucks. It’s possible he’s a serial killer. He has zero personal hygiene. And he is very, very married.”

  She licked a drop of iced tea off her bottom lip, and every nerve below my waist jangled. The ones that still worked, anyway. “So he’s hot and awesome like you,” she said. “Interesting. I’d like to meet him.”

  “You’re forgetting about the married part,” I reminded her. “Also, he’s gay. Married and gay. Not someone who would interest you at all.”

  “He’s that great, huh?” She gave me a look that made my working nerves jangle again. She was only a few feet away from me on the sofa, and I could smell her scent. It was the same scent that was on my sheets and pillows at the moment. “Are you jealous of your brother, Andrew?”