by Kaela Coble
As it is, I feel like a horrific cliché: the girl crying in the bathroom at the school dance. How pathetic. I stare myself down in the mirror and give myself a no-nonsense-style pep talk. I look pretty, and I should go out and find some other loser who doesn’t have a real date and dance with him. I wish Danny were here. He would dance with me, and he would have snuck in a flask. That would make this whole thing more bearable.
When I finally come out of the bathroom, Taylor is lingering outside. I force myself to brighten, like nothing is bothering me, and ask her if she’s having a good time. She smiles, either faking her warmth or genuinely tolerant of her boyfriend being at prom with another girl (for some reason I don’t understand, I really feel like it’s the latter). She says, “Murphy’s waiting for you by the stage. Sorry I’ve been hogging him!” I feel guilty, and cover it by saying, “Of course not!” I am amazed at how good I’ve become at this fakey girl shit I’ve always hated, but if I don’t play along, I end up looking even more pathetic than I already do.
I find Murphy waiting where Taylor said he would be. Wordlessly, we start dancing to a fast song, Murphy spinning me around and shaking his hips goofily. We dance to three fast songs in a row without stopping, laughing the whole time. I’m the one who taught him to dance, if that’s what you call this. It was the first time he was the only one to show up at my house after school, and he confessed he didn’t know how to dance and that’s why he always sat on the bleachers at dances. I turned on music and made him show me. It turned out he wasn’t a bad dancer, just a silly one, which made it all the more fun. When a slow song came on, I showed him where to put his hands for a slow dance—“No, not there, you perv,” I had said.
Like then, the music slows now, and I shuffle backwards to make my exit so he can dance with Taylor, but Murphy grabs my elbow and pulls me close to him. His cologne, which he always wears a touch too much of, fills my nose. He’s been wearing the same kind since we were freshmen—some uncle brought it down from Montreal for him. I got him a new bottle for Christmas this year, noticing the one in his bathroom was running low. He says, his mouth right up against my ear, making me shiver, “I’m sorry if I’ve been dancing with Taylor too much.”
“Oh, stop it,” I cover, pulling back slightly. “Don’t worry about it. She’s your girlfriend, you can’t just ignore her! I’m the one who should be sorry. I’m feeling a little stupid now that we’re here. It’s like you’re my big brother and our mom forced you to take me.”
Murphy slows his swaying almost to a halt. “That’s not what it’s like,” he says. “I brought you because I wanted to.” When our eyes lock, I feel something shift inside me.
Before I can put a name to it, the fire alarm goes off.
Our look lingers for another second before a couple bumps into us on their way to the exit. I glance around to see if anyone noticed our little moment, but all I see is the blur of all my classmates making their way out of the gym. Murphy puts his hand on the small of my back and guides me through the crowd.
It’s raining when we get outside. Of course. Mrs. Parizo, my Advanced English teacher, tells us the alarm was triggered by the fog machine, and we can’t go back inside until the air has cleared out a little. I look around for our friends but don’t see anyone, even in the stilts I’m wearing for shoes. They must have gone out one of the other exits. All the girls around me are freaking out because their hair and makeup are getting ruined. I look at Murphy and say in a mocking tone, “Do I still look pretty?”, knowing full well my up-do is now both flat and frizzy and my makeup is smudged.
He shakes his head and pulls me in so that his lips touch my ear again. “Beautiful,” he says. I shiver again, and he thinks it’s because of the rain, so he covers me in his tuxedo jacket.
When we’re given the all-clear to go back in, we decide to go have our official prom picture taken before we forget. The photographer positions us in the classic cheesy-couple pose—Murphy standing behind me with his arms around me, both of us facing the camera. I try to explain we’re not a couple, but he says this is the best way to show off the dress, so I comply. Murphy holds me a little tighter than is really necessary and cracks a joke about the photographer’s coffee breath, making me laugh just as the camera goes off.
After the King & Queen are crowned and it’s not Ally and Aaron (which Ally refuses to admit she’s been expecting and waiting for), we all disperse. Danny picks up Emmett and Tara, who are in charge of getting one of Emmett’s brothers to buy us beer for the night. Aaron and Ally go to pick up snacks for later. Murphy says goodnight to Taylor, who has curfew and isn’t allowed to come to Tara’s for the after-party because she let it slip there wouldn’t be parents there. I wait patiently, but feel a weird little twinge when he kisses her goodbye.
It’s just me and Murph as we walk down the ramp to the parking lot. The rain stopped at some point when we were inside, so the air smells like fresh, damp earth, and the clouds are clearing to show the stars. The moment is too quiet, something I’m not used to when I’m around my best friend, so I complain about my feet hurting. He scoops me up without a word and carries me in his arms until we get to the car. I force myself not to ask him what’s gotten into him. The answer might ruin everything.
We’re the first ones to get to Tara’s, so we use the Hide-A-Key under the frog statue, as Tara instructed. We head to separate rooms to change into the casual clothes we packed into overnight bags earlier. I feel sad changing out of my dress. It’s the prettiest I’ve ever felt, and I’m not ready for that to be over. I sit at Tara’s vanity and stare at myself, then lift a piece of the skirt to my nose. It still smells like Murphy’s cologne. After a minute, I hear a soft knock on the door. I open it, and it’s Murphy. He’s in jeans and a T-shirt, and has two beers in his hand that he must have stolen from Tara’s fridge. I make a mental note to replace them when our beer gets here, so Tara’s parents are none the wiser.
“Just wanted to see what’s taking you so long,” he said, raising his eyebrows that my appearance hasn’t changed at all.
“I couldn’t reach the zipper.” I’m too embarrassed to admit I’m already feeling nostalgic for this night, for senior year, for our crew as we know it, and it’s not even over yet. He crosses behind me and starts unzipping my dress. I close my eyes and feel his breath on my shoulder blades. Suddenly I’m transported back to a few months ago at Danny’s house. The rest of the crew in bed already, Murphy sneaking up behind me, whispering in my ear. Before I knew it we were kissing, and we barely closed the door to the spare room before we started stripping off each other’s clothes. That was it. Nothing caused it—no sweeping romantic declarations or any special circumstances that brought us closer. It just was.
We hear one of Aaron’s signature burps, signifying the crew’s arrival. I’ve never been so grateful for his gas in all my life. I tell Murphy thanks for the help and he’d better get downstairs. He does.
The girls and I change into our normal clothes but leave our hair up and makeup on. There isn’t much choice in the matter. Removing the clips and bobby pins now would leave a Bride of Frankenstein mess of our hair, and none of us feels like completely showering off our fancy looks yet.
We drink and get a little high and smoke Tara’s mother’s secret cigarette stash. We play Asshole and continue to dance, staying up most of the night. People start trickling off to one of the many bedrooms, but Murphy and I stay up, continuing to play cards, as if we have some unspoken agreement that we need more time for just the two of us. Finally I declare I’m ready for my last cigarette. Even though Murphy never smokes, and normally complains when I do, he comes outside to the porch with me. It’s cold, so Murphy takes off his coat—this time his trusty blue flannel in place of the tuxedo jacket—and drapes it over my shoulders.
Once again the moment is too quiet, the crickets and my sporadic exhalations the only sounds. So I say, “What’s with all the chivalry tonight, Murph?” I mean it to be funny, and I expect him to overcompensate by giving me
a brotherly cuff on the arm, breaking the tension. But he’s quiet. He opens his mouth, closes it. Opens it again. Closes it.
My heart starts to beat harder, because I think he’s trying to figure out a way to kiss me, and I don’t know what to do if he tries. I thought we were past this. No matter what I’ve been feeling tonight, Murphy has a girlfriend. After Hardy I swore I would never do that again, and I won’t let Murphy become a cheater, either. Just because it’s too soon for Taylor to give it up, doesn’t mean I’m his automatic sexual consolation prize. Besides, all those feelings before—I was simply swept up in the whole prom mania. Twinkly lights, overplayed love songs, all that chiffon. Murphy’s my best friend, and that’s all. Right now, he’s just trying to get into my pants. It’s bound to happen; he’s a dumb, horny boy.
Then he says, clearly but softly, “I love you, Ruby.”
Oh.
CHAPTER TEN
RUBY
Now
I lie in Murphy’s bed, comfortable enough, considering I’m naked and slipping around on satin sheets. Murphy Leblanc—little Murphy, who was chunky until the tenth grade, whose proverbial cherry I am personally responsible for popping—now has satin sheets. It’s nauseating and hilarious all at the same time. They positively reek of his cologne, or maybe my nose is just hyper-aware. They say scent is the most powerful of the senses, the one most tightly connected to memory. I catch a whiff of this smell or something similar in the city from time to time, getting off the subway, in a crowded theater, at the bodega across the street from the office. It never ceases to make me simultaneously anxious, aroused, and headachy.
We both lie on our backs, staring at the ceiling, catching our breath and our thoughts. Outside, it has started to rain, as if nature itself is displeased with our union. Neither of us knows what to say. At least I don’t know what to say, and I’m not sure if Murphy cares enough to say anything. It’s silly that I’m surprised when he breaks the silence with a joke. “So . . . .how you been for the last ten years?” he asks.
I laugh, clutching the smooth sheet in my hands. He laughs too, and it sets me off into a fit of giggles, like we’re fourteen and on the phone until way too late.
He asks me about New York, and I tell him how mind-numbing my job is. I tell him I spend time in bookstores and cafés, hoping to be inspired by all the pretentious hipsters jabbing away at their MacBooks; but instead of inspiring me to write, the trips usually end with a return to my couch to eat potato chips in front of bad reality-TV shows. I tell him something I haven’t yet said out loud, that I’m thinking of going back to school to get my Masters in Fine Arts, if for no other reason than to force myself to write something other than apologetic emails to clients who are annoyed their ads didn’t get better placement. He likes the idea, he says, because then the countless hours I spent reading my short stories to him over the phone will have been worth it. I tell him about how much I love the city—MoMA, Central Park, the shops with freshly cut flowers on every corner. How you pass a million strangers and none of them know anything about you. I tell him about the monthly (more like quarterly) dinners I have with my father. Away from my mother’s penny-pinching, he has his assistant book us at exclusive restaurants I wouldn’t otherwise even be able to get a reservation in, let alone afford to split the check.
He asks me about my friends, and I tell him about some of my coworkers I occasionally have drinks with. He tells me they don’t count. I tell him I live with my sister, but she’s always away on shoots, so I only see her three or four times a year. I tell him about Greta, my roommate from the London years, who moves freely about the world as if things like working visas and health insurance are of no importance. I’ve gotten a free place to stay in Brazil, Vietnam, and (my favorite) Turkey as a result. When I mention that my favorite thing about Greta was how she didn’t care what anyone else thought, that she slept with anyone and everyone and had no qualms about discussing the gory details, his interest is piqued. I especially loved when she talked about her conquests in front of Jamie. His princely manners disallowed him from any comment, so the best part was watching him squirm.
It’s not the first he’s heard of Jamie, Murphy tells me. Apparently Nancy and Cecile swap stories when they run into each other at Martin’s, the grocery store. Nevertheless, he asks me more about him. I tell him: yes, Jamie’s good-looking. Yes, as good-looking as you, but in a different way. Yes, he made me laugh, too, also in a different way. Murphy’s cautiously satisfied with this answer, but still wants to know more.
So, I tell him how we met: Jamie was the professor’s assistant in my Gothic Literature class when I studied abroad. He resigned halfway through the semester, and as the dozens of other lovestruck girls fawned over him after his announcement, I suddenly had this surge of panic that I might never see him again. So I asked him out. We went to a coffee shop and talked about books for hours; Jamie teased me when I tried to impress him by “casually” dropping in references to Chaucer and Hawthorne. He told me he had resigned because he wanted to “give writing a go.” I found out later he comes from a pretty well-to-do-family, which is how he could afford this luxury. I hasten to tell Murphy that, beyond Jamie’s impeccable table manners, you wouldn’t have suspected he came from money. Especially with that sloppy hair and the corduroy blazer with the elbow patches, frayed at the edges, straight from the clearance bin at Professors ’R’ Us. It feels important that Murphy doesn’t think I spent three years in a relationship with a snob.
It took a while before I knew I loved Jamie. Instead of coming home and attending NYU graduation, I had (much to Nancy’s dismay) skipped the ceremony, signed another lease with Greta, and took a job at The Sun in their sales department. I swore it wasn’t about Jamie, that I loved London and my job and Greta and loathed commencement ceremonies (based solely on my high-school experience), but of course it was about him. It wasn’t until about a year afterward that I knew for sure. It was when I read the pages of his first book. I remember how nervous he was to hand them over. We had been in bed, just like Murphy and I are now, when he carefully placed them on my lap. Instead of watching for my reaction as I read, which would have been vain and obnoxious, he simply got up and left the room. His writing was so beautiful, yet simple, just like we were. With each turn of the page, I knew, finally, that I was in love.
“So what went wrong?” Murphy asks.
I think for a moment. “Timing.”
“Explain.”
“I’d rather not.”
He holds up his hand, his fingers clenched like talons. “Tell me or I’ll give you the Aaron claw.”
We both laugh. And then, because it’s Murphy, and because before we fucked everything up we used to spend hours dissecting stuff like this, I tell him the truth. The only thing Jamie and I ever argued about was living together. He was approaching his thirties toward the end of our relationship, so all his friends were settling down and he was ready to take steps that I wasn’t. He wanted me to move into his gorgeous flat, live off his family money, and start writing. What a prick, right? I should have leapt at the chance, but I couldn’t make myself want it. I didn’t feel comfortable not paying my fair share (and I never could have on my salary; even if I had kept my job, I could barely afford the crap-shack Greta and I stayed in), and I already had a good thing going with Greta. I liked living with her. She was entertaining and fun. She cooked things I still can’t pronounce, and I cleaned up after her. I got to hang out with Jamie when I wanted to, and be on my own when I wanted to. It worked for three years. But then Greta, the bitch, decided to follow this guy she’d been seeing for just four months to Ghana, of all places, and it sort of held this giant magnifying glass up to our relationship. Jamie asked me one more time to move in with him, and when I refused, he ended it.
What I don’t tell Murphy is that my reasons for not moving in, although true and valid, were only branches on a whole tree of excuses. The root of the problem was I was twenty-two, then twenty-three, twenty-four, and twe
nty-five, and I wasn’t ready to move in with Jamie. With anyone. It wasn’t Jamie. He was practically perfect. It was that the closer we got, the more I felt the weight of my past holding me back. I started to feel like I couldn’t breathe. The better he treated me, the more I resented him for being overall better than me—a better writer, a better partner, a better person.
I hate myself for what I’ve done. For what I am.
Since Jamie, there’s been no one of significance. Sometimes I meet someone interesting and go on a date. We go see a movie or comedy show, or for dinner somewhere trendy, a walk through Central Park, or to a museum. It rarely goes past the second date. I’m not very interested in third dates, the famous one where you’re supposed to have sex with a person you barely know. The guys I’ve gone out with are attractive enough, it’s just that none of them have made me feel as safe and loved and adored as Jamie. And none have made me feel as alive and excited and crazy as the guy lying next to me. I definitely don’t tell Murphy that. And I don’t tell him that, considering Jamie and Greta are still my best friends and neither even lives on this continent, I’m a little lonely.
I switch the subject to him, bracing myself for a report on the ins and outs of every girl in Chatwick. But instead he tells me more about his business, how happy he is to be building homes and running his own crews. “There’s always a finished product, a good home for a family to be raised in, and it’ll be there at least as long as I’m alive, if not forever.” I picture him driving in his truck, a grandson in the passenger seat, pointing out the buildings he’s responsible for. It’s a nice picture, but it also makes me sad.
I ask about his mother, realizing she is another person once a part of my life and now all but forgotten. “She gets tougher with every sunrise,” he says, as he’s always said of her. Cecile is one of the toughest ladies around, but not many people have seen the soft side I’ve seen. After I got Blue but before Murphy got his first truck, (a gap of about a year, which felt like ten for him), I used to shuttle him back and forth from baseball practice, doing my homework in Blue in between. The first time I came to pick him up, Murphy had read his schedule wrong and I was an hour early picking him up from his house. Cecile’s small but solid frame thundered in after dealing with a rat situation at one of their apartments, and she was in no mood to have “dead weight” hanging around the house (she actually used that term). She put me to work in the kitchen, chopping onions for the dinner she would heat up when I brought Murphy back from practice. Nancy was going through a black period at the time, which meant a frozen dinner on a TV tray on a good day, so the experience of chopping and chatting with Cecile felt blissfully normal and domestic.
