by Everly Lucas
So far, no one’s measured up, which means no one’s been worth getting my mom worked up about. For Leah to mention Claire, or to even know about her, tells Mom all she needs to know—there’s a new woman in her son’s life.
The best tactic is to state simple facts only. No details. Nothing that might lead to follow-up questions. “She’s a friend.”
“A beautiful friend he happens to spend every weekend with.”
My sister is dead to me.
“Est-elle ta petite amie?”
Oh, God, there it is. There’s the look of hope I was trying to avoid. Nothing makes me feel shittier than disappointing my mother. Plus, I’m the only one who’s supposed to be disappointed by my friend-zone status with Claire.
“Not a girlfriend, Mom. Like I said, she’s a friend,” I say, biting back as much bitterness as I can.
She gives a knowing nod, and judging by the twinkle in her eyes, she’s already picturing my wedding. I guarantee she has her mother-of-the-groom dress picked out, and possibly the floral arrangements…and the menu, the guest list, the venue, the band. So when a look of alarm overtakes her excitement, I can only guess the imaginary wedding planner ordered carnations instead of peonies.
“You will have to cut your hair now, Benjamin. A woman doesn’t want a man who looks like a little girl.” She shakes her head in despair and tsks. Yes, she actually tsks. Leah uses her napkin to cover the grin I can only imagine is threatening to split her face in two.
I’d like to say Mom’s comment comes out of left field, but no. She’s been on me to cut my hair since middle school. What can I say? It was the grunge era, and Kurt Cobain was my idol. Refusing to chop it off has been my one and only form of rebellion in a lifetime of good behavior. Vive la résistance!
Besides, my hair isn’t the reason Claire doesn’t want me.
“Did you say something, mon chou?”
Apparently, I did. Looks like I need a brain-to-mouth filter replacement. All sorts of inappropriate thoughts fight for release when I’m around Claire. If one ever escapes, I wouldn’t just lose her friendship. I might lose her.
As soon as Mom drives off after brunch, I turn to watch my sister’s retreating form as she makes her way to her car at twice her normal speed. Gee, could she be avoiding me? I can’t imagine why. Unfortunately for the little sprite, the length I cover in one stride is more than she can cover in two, so I catch up to her with little effort.
“And where do you think you’re going?”
My question stops Leah dead in her tracks. She spins around and tries to look innocent. She almost pulls it off. “Home. Lots to do.”
“Uh huh. You know what else you have to do?” Playing dumb, she shakes her head. “You have to tell me what the hell I just agreed to.” More anger slips into my tone than I intend. I’m not happy with my sister, but lashing out at her accomplishes nothing.
“Okay, so, you know how you love me and would do anything for me because you're the best big brother in the world?”
Her saccharine voice nearly does me in. Nearly. “If you’re trying to butter me up, it’s not working.”
“Fuck it, then. You’re hosting my wedding reception at your house on Saturday night.” Her words tumble out so fast, I have to concentrate in order to keep up with them.
“Seriously, Lee? You do remember how small my place is, right?”
“It won’t be a lot of people. Twenty, tops,” she says, in an attempt to reassure me. I’m not reassured. If—and that’s a big if—she can cap the invite list at twenty people, we’d still be packed like sardines in a can. I’ve always loved Trinity houses, but they weren’t built for entertaining large groups. “You, me, Andy, Mom and Dad, and Henry’s family. Plus some friends…like Claire.”
“No friends.” Though I do intend to invite Claire. Once that seed was planted in my brain, it quickly became a fully grown decision with thick, deep roots.
Leah rolls her eyes and huffs. She’s never been a fan of not getting her way. “Fine, fifteen people. Please? I’ll talk Andy into letting us use the first floor, too. Then we’ll have the backyard.”
I already know I’ll give in. Why put it off any longer?
“Since, technically, I already agreed to do this—and because I love you, you little brat—you can have the party at my house.”
She emits a window-shattering squeal and does her patented happy dance. “Thanks, Ben! And I meant what I said—you really are the best big brother ever. Just don’t tell Andy I said that. You know how fragile his ego is.”
At that, we both buckle over with laughter. It’s impossible to imagine anything being a threat to Andy’s massive ego. But not because he has an overinflated sense of self-worth. He works hard at everything—his teaching job at the University, the mural project, his advocacy for the arts in Philadelphia. Not to mention his physical appearance. And then there’s his relentless loyalty to me and everyone he loves.
Without a doubt, Andy is a better friend than I ever imagined I’d have. I just hope I’ve been as good a friend to him in return.
Leah and I part ways, with her driving back to her house in Wissahickon and me walking down the path along Penn’s Landing, taking in the fresh city air mixed with the unique smell of the Delaware River. The sun is strong today, and my immediate thought is that I hope Claire’s found a way to keep cool.
Would she agree to come to Leah’s reception next weekend, or would it be too much for her? She was dazzling at the party last night. Well, until her simpering, waste-of-space ex showed up. Then she was a wreck. Oh, she tried to hide it, and maybe she managed to convince everyone else she was fine, but I know her too well. The signs were all there. The light vanished from her eyes. Her smile, as lovely as ever, lacked its usual sparkle. And she barely spoke until she made her goodbyes.
I wonder what thoughts were polluting her brain, what feelings seeing her ex stirred up in her. Whatever they were, they couldn’t have been good.
Turning right to cross the bridge onto South Street, I pull out my phone and send her one word.
Coprolalia
When she doesn’t respond right away, I leave it at that. If she wants the definition, she’ll have to text me back. Or she could look it up online, but I’m hoping she’d rather get it from me. Stuffing my cell back in my pocket, I spot a used book store and duck inside.
Tables piled with children’s books and travel guides dominate the front of the shop, but aside from that, there doesn’t appear to be any rhyme or reason to how things are organized. Each shelf is packed tight, with the books stacked both vertically and horizontally.
I’m overwhelmed, about to throw in the towel and leave, when I spot a girl with dyed gray hair and purple frames. Even if she’s not an employee here, she looks like she’d be familiar with the place, so I approach her.
When I ask where the romance section is, she tells me to follow her. Well, first she gives me a speculative glance, then she tells me to follow her, and we end up in a back corner of the store.
“Are you looking for anything specific?” she asks with a barely suppressed smirk.
“No, just browsing.” Which is true. I have no idea what I’m looking for, but I’ll know it when I see it.
The first novel I pluck from the shelves has an intriguing cover—a blonde woman at the center, with a half-naked man kneeling on either side, worshipfully gazing up at her. Not exactly a message I want to send to Claire. Plus, it’s smuttier than I’m going for, so I shove it back where I found it. Fifteen minutes of searching later, I strike gold.
This cover is more romantic than the others, by which I mean far less skin is exposed. Sure, the cover of the paperback she was reading the day we met featured an oiled-up man wearing only tattoos and a guitar, but I don’t want to give her anything too sexual and risk making her uncomfortable. I might be toeing that line, as it is, but at least these characters are fully clothed.
The hero embraces a striking redhead from behind, similar to the way I h
eld Claire at the museum. The memory is so vivid, I can still feel her phantom body pressed to mine.
Before I can second guess myself, I bring the book to the grey-haired girl behind checkout counter and make my purchase. The bell above the door chimes as I exit onto the busy sidewalk, and I fish my phone from my pocket, finding two texts from Claire waiting for me.
are you going to keep me in suspense forever?
A little while later, she’d texted,
if you don’t tell me in the next three minutes, i’m googling it, mister.
Looking at the time, I see I still have one minute left, so I type as quickly as my thick fingers allow.
Excessive, involuntary use of foul and dirty language.
oo! that’s a fun one.
I imagine her bright smile. She may have even laughed, too. Just the thought of it has me grinning like a fool and not giving a shit about any funny looks I might be getting. This is South Street, after all. If you’re not doing anything to earn funny looks, you’re in the wrong place.
I just came from brunch with my sister.
It takes her a couple minutes to respond.
omg, you made me choke on my soda, you jerk!
How did I do that?
your sister has a serious problem with profanity.
perfect two-bit word choice. ;)
Yep. Totally made her laugh, and I got a winky face. I fucking rock today.
Are you staying out of the heat?
She’d better say yes. I don’t want to spend the rest of the day worrying about her…more than usual.
yep. i’m camped out at the café until they evict my freeloading ass.
Good.
And are you okay? After last night?
If I know her like I think I do, she’s going to lie to me. She won’t want to give me any cause for concern. I admire her strength, but it has to be exhausting, never sharing her burden with anyone, or even just letting them in a little. Hell, I’m tired for her.
like i said last night—i’m fine.
I have a fleeting moment of satisfaction over being right—I do know her well. But I won’t let her sugarcoat this, not when she’s hurting. She needs to know I see past her bullshit, and that I’m here for her, no matter what. There’s a good chance it’ll piss her off, but, in this moment, I can’t bring myself to care.
You’re not fine, Claire.
For an agonizing two minutes, typing dots appear and disappear on my screen, driving me crazy wondering what she’s writing and deleting over there.
maybe not. but i will be.
It’s a start, and I’ll take it. She told me the truth, so I tell it right back.
Yes, you will.
Fourteen
Claire
I’m just going to say it—the past four weekends have been the best of my life, by the widest margin imaginable. The theme of the first half of my summer was, I don’t know…flux? Uncertainty? Misery? Way too much time spent in my own head? Yeah, pretty much all of the above.
Then I met Ben.
All of a sudden, I went from being alone to having someone who makes me laugh. Someone who understands me without knowing what it is he understands. And, of course, Andy gets an honorable mention for comic relief, and for becoming the friend I never expected to have—not in a million years.
These guys are the bright spots in my life these days and, I hope, for a long time to come. And yes, this is me ignoring any inevitable emotional complications. For the time being, those complications are meaningless, and they’re perfectly happy with their spot under the rug.
Yep. That’s the lie I’m telling myself.
There’s no doubt about it. I’m hooked on these guys—as friends, of course—and I look forward to every single Saturday, knowing I’ll see them again. Which is why Ben’s text catches me off guard.
We’re having a wedding reception for my sister this Saturday.
Well, damn, that’s disappointing. Now I’m kicking myself for becoming so dependent on him for companionship and, hell, happiness. But aside from this past month, I lived my entire life without Ben. I can make it through one stupid Saturday. At least, I should be able to. It’ll be an interesting experiment.
It’s at my place. I’d love it if you came.
Oh, thank God. I talk a big game, but in no way did I convince myself I’d survive the weekend alone.
Andy will be there. Not sure if that’s a draw or a deterrent.
Draw. Shit. Deterrent. I meant deterrent, I swear.
I am so fucked.
And what the hell is up with these two using each other as an inducement to get me to go somewhere? Whatever their reasons, I’m sure I don’t want to know the thought processes behind them.
My fingers are poised to tell Ben yes, of course I’ll go to Leah’s party, when the dreaded second thoughts creep in. It won’t just be Ben, Andy, and Leah at this thing. Parents will be there, too. Maybe extended family and some friends. I’m not big on being in a roomful of people I don’t know, and I don’t want the guys feeling like they have to babysit me the whole time, like they did at the unveiling last night.
wouldn’t it be weird, though? will there be many people there?
Some family and some friends of my sister and her husband. Nothing huge.
Just say yes. It won’t be any fun without you there.
Is he trying to manipulate me? Oh man, he totally is! That’s a side of Ben I never saw coming. Even still, he’s been so amazing to me, I’d have trouble denying him anything. Okay, some things are a little too easy to deny, but let’s not go there.
i’m in.
You just made my day. :D
And that text just made mine.
I rush to my laptop and open up the program I’ve been using as a diary. Ever since I vowed to work through my issues, I’ve forced myself write down a few thoughts each day. More, if I feel the necessary emotional fortitude.
So far, I’ve tackled my relationship with Cameron and the progression of his emotional abuse. It took an entire week of journaling to finally attach that label to what he put me through. I thought it would be satisfying, a relief, to admit that to myself, but it’s not. It’s not enough. Thing is, I have no clue what enough looks like.
My fingers hover over the keyboard. There’s something I need to type—something important—but my mind has it under lock and key. I can feel it kicking, hear it shouting for release, but it’s still inaccessible.
Tomorrow, I promise myself.
I make that same promise the next five nights, breaking it each time.
Standing in front of my full-length mirror, I twist and turn, examining myself from every angle—especially the all-important rear one. Panty lines are not invited to this party. I wonder if there’s some form of neck yoga I could do that’d let me check out my own ass without straining something. I could always go lady-commando, just to be sure.
On second thought, that’d be worlds worse because, tonight, I meet Ben’s family. And I am not meeting those people sans-panties. He and I might be just friends, but this…I don’t know. This feels significant. Like, anxiety-inducing significant. But it’s important to Ben, so it’s automatically important to me.
Not sure when that correlation happened, but I’ve decided not to fight it.
I suffered a mini panic attack going through my closet last night. What grown woman doesn’t own a freaking dress? This grown woman, that’s who. The fanciest thing I could find was a denim miniskirt, but I wouldn’t leave the apartment in that, let alone mingle with a bunch of classy Main Liners. I’d rather stay home than subject myself to that level of embarrassment.
So this morning I hit up a high-end consignment shop in Chestnut Hill. Designer on a dime, which just happens to be the exact amount remaining in my bank account. I was all set to buy a shapeless, attention-deflecting shift dress when I saw the one. The blush pink color was what called to me from the rack, but it was the way it wraps around me like the ballet skirt I wore to dan
ce class as a kid that sealed the deal.
And that’s how wanting to feel girly and pretty totally beat out wanting to be overlooked.
In my opinion, the dress is eye-catching enough on its own, so I’ve kept the rest of my outfit simple, with nude strappy heels and a delicate strand of pearls I inherited from my grandmom. Nothing flashy. I let my hair air dry in twists all day, so my unruly waves are tamed into loose curls.
If only I could do something about my cleavage. It’s been years since it last tasted freedom. What if my breasts decide they want more? Objectively speaking, there’s nothing obscene about the amount I’m showing, but even this tiny bit makes me feel naked.
I wonder if I have time to go back and grab the puritan-chic shift dress. Hell, I’d settle for a potato sack at this point. I could throw on a belt and call it good.
Luckily, I’ve run out of time for second-guessing. I could spend hours talking myself into and out of showing up to the party with my tits hanging out, but a text from Ben lets me know the Lyft he sent is waiting outside. When I step onto the sidewalk, a sleek black town car idles in front of my building.
Well, damn. I feel all fancy, now. Way too fancy for potato sack dresses.
We pull up to Ben’s house, and the driver comes around to open my door for me. Making my way up the steps, I take a deep, calming breath or five and raise my finger to the buzzer. The red door swings open before I get the chance to press the little black button.
Ben stands before me, wearing the shit out of a white dress shirt and tan slacks. No tie, sleeves rolled up, all casual-like. And, of course, his usual man-bun and five o’clock shadow.
Now would be a good time to close my mouth and not make a dribbling fool of myself. But, my God, the man is delicious.
