“Well, because if you’re not going home, you’re coming here,” Brandy says, her face bright once again.
“I am?”
Will lets out a small snicker. Brandy shoots him a reproachful look as she leans forward and pats me on my knee. “Yes, of course you are. Every year I do a big Thanksgiving meal, and everyone who doesn’t have somewhere else to be is invited.”
“Oh,” I say. “Okay. Well, thank you for inviting me.”
“So, you’re coming?” Brandy prods. Her face is illuminated and her happiness is tangible and I can’t say no, although the idea of going to a Big Bilby Thing kinda makes me want to find a big hole and crawl in it.
“Um, sure. Yeah. I mean, unless…” I stop, realizing that if my family was going to ask me to come home, they would probably have done it by now. Thanksgiving is just a few days away. I decide that Re-imagined Carly both can and should attend a party, even if it’s with strangers who are not bound by the laws of blood to like her. Me.
“Yes.” I pull on a Re-imagined Carly smile. “Thank you.”
Will’s eyes meet mine and I can tell he’s pleased. My stomach does a little roller-coaster maneuver, and my smile widens. Brandy settles into her chair and I can feel her watching us. I turn my attention back to my knitting.
“So,” she says, not indulging even the slightest hint of subtlety, “Will mentioned that you two already knew each other, but he didn’t tell me how you met.”
“At a wedding, actually,” Will says.
Brandy raises one eyebrow and smiles. “Really? What a small world, huh?”
“Yeah, my sister’s,” I add quickly. “Will and Ella used to date.”
“A long time ago.” I look up to see Will looking at me. “Centuries, actually.”
Our eyes lock for a moment, and I have this weird impression that he’s making a point.
“And my littlest sister is totally in love with him,” I say. My face is growing warm. This is just stupid.
Will laughs. “Five’s a great kid.” He puts a slight emphasis on kid.
Our eyes meet again and I accidentally poke myself in the leg with the knitting needle.
“Ow!”
“You okay there?” Will asks.
“Fine,” I say, rubbing my leg. “These are dangerous.”
“Most things are.” Brandy turns her attention to Will. “Can I get you something to drink, Will? I have tea, water, wine…”
“Wine sounds great,” he says. My face continues to flush, and I hate it. Between Seth and Christopher, I already have enough road-kill on my romantic highway. I am in no position to be smitten with my next-door artist.
Brandy smiles at him. “You know where it is.”
I glance up. Something passes between them, and I remember how they were when we were all in the bed together the first morning I was here. It occurs to me again that they might be sleeping together, which throws the Janesse-Brandy-lesbian theory out of the window, along with any other ideas I might be having about Will.
“Ow!” I say again, as I stab the palm of my hand while trying to cast on.
“Maybe you should have some wine, too,” Brandy says. “It might relax you.”
“I’m relaxed,” I say, my voice sounding tense even to my biased ears. Will returns carrying a wine bottle and three glasses. He looks at me and smiles. “Do you like cabernet, Carly?”
Ordinarily, if it’s made from grapes and has any sort of alcohol content, I’m in. But at the moment, the thought of staying there drinking wine with them like a big third wheel makes me want to run screaming from the place.
“You know what?” I say, standing up. “I just remembered. I’ve got a thing… a book. A phone call. I have to go.” I gather up my yarn and needles and stuff them in the small canvas project bag Brandy gave me. “I’ll just see myself out.”
Brandy stands up. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah.” I back toward the door, almost trip over a pile of quilts, then turn and scurry toward my escape, waving at them awkwardly over my shoulder.
“Thanks,” I say. “See you tomorrow.”
I shoot out the door and almost flip ass over teakettle on Brandy’s stoop when I hear the door open behind me. I turn around and there’s Will, a bemused half-smile on his face as he looks at me.
“Hey, Will.” I sound more like a fifteen-year-old than ever, and I clear my throat.
He tucks his hands in his pockets and dances easily down the steps. I’ll bet the satanic door buzzer doesn’t zap him, either. Psychic’s pet.
“Hey,” he says. “I was wondering. What are you doing tomorrow?”
“Um, nothing.” I have the day off from Janesse’s and the only plans I’d really made were to drink some wine and work on my scarf-turd.
“Well, I was wondering if you might want to go on a little hike through the foothills. There’s a big, flat rock on the east side with a cool view of the valley. It’s the perfect place for a picnic.”
“It sounds nice, but…” I lean forward a bit and lower my voice. “I don’t really hike.”
“Well, I have a secret for you.” He leans forward and lowers his voice as well. “Hiking is just walking. You can walk, right?”
“That’s up for debate.”
His smile quirks up one side of his face and I have to prevent myself from sighing.
He straightens up. “Pick you up at ten tomorrow morning?”
I nod, my attempt at playing it cool. “Sure. Step out of your front door and take a right. I’ll be there.”
Will watches me for a moment, and I think he’s going to say something, but then he just turns and jaunts back up the steps and into Brandy’s place. I stare at her front door as it closes behind him and then turn to walk back to my cabin, only stumbling once on the way.
Yay me.
***
Will, as it turns out, is full of shit. Hiking is not walking. Walking is something you do on a nice, level surface - like a sidewalk, or a path, or a floor - to get from Point A to Point B. If Point A and Point B are too far apart, you get in a car and drive, the way God intended.
Hiking, on the other hand, involves climbing over rocks and stepping through foliage that doesn’t particularly want you there. And Point A and Point B? Are very far apart. By the time we get to the big, flat rock, I’ve swallowed two bugs, ripped a hole in the knee of my jeans while stumbling over a branch, and formed a blister on the heel of my left foot.
Despite this, I’m still having a pretty damn good time. Hiking out here in the wilderness ingesting bugs, I’m about as happy as I’ve been in recent weeks, and this is all the proof I need that I have a huge, unwieldy, ill-timed and yet undeniable crush on Will Kelley.
“You doing okay?” he asks as I pull my sad self up onto the rock. He’s already unpacked a fleece blanket and laid it out and is now pulling cheese and crackers out of his big, yellow outdoorsy-guy backpack.
“Fine,” I say. I throw myself down on one edge of the blanket and lie back, face to the sky, dramatically gasping for breath. “You’re right. View’s gorgeous.”
He laughs, sits next to me and grabs my hand to pull me up to sitting. He motions out toward the valley and I have to admit, it’s pretty. It looks almost European, all the buildings huddled together in the valley, their asymmetric roofs winking in the sunlight between the vibrant red soil of the copper-rich foothills on either side.
“It’s beautiful,” I say, and mean it. Will grins and dives back into his pack, from which he pulls out two plastic wine glasses, just the cup part, with a tiny plastic screw sticking out of the bottom. He hands the decapitated glasses to me, then sticks the equally pathetic plastic stems in my hand.
“Make yourself useful,” he says. I screw the stems onto the glasses and he pours the wine. I feel positively wooed, and I have to admit, I like it. We clink our plastic glasses and drink, looking out at the scenery. It’s beautiful. It’s perfect. I grab a cracker and a slice of cheese and chew happily.
“I
thought this might cheer you up,” he says. “This is where I come when I’m feeling… I don’t know. Just when I’m not right with the world. It helps give me perspective.”
I feel the cracker stick in my throat and wash it down with a bit of wine as I realize that this isn’t a date. It’s therapy. If this is the case, I’m pretty sure Will hasn’t brought enough wine.
“You know, I’m really okay,” I say, grasping at the flailing threads of my frayed dignity. “Really. I know I must have seemed like a total basket case the other night, but I’m okay. Really.”
He gives me a little smile and nods out to the valley, pointing to a spot off in the distance.
“See those? That’s where we live.”
I squint. He’s right. I can see Brandy’s roof at the edge of the valley, where the foothills begin, and then nestled within the foliage behind her place are our two smaller rooftops.
“And that,” he says, shifting his index finger down and to the left, “is Janesse’s art shop. And there’s the café.”
I stare at it, transfixed with wonder. “It all seems so tiny.”
“See?” he says. “Perspective.”
I’m fairly sure I’ve never felt this embarrassed. I try to regroup, appreciate the gesture for what it is - an attempt by a really nice guy to help his total case of a neighbor. I grab another cracker and decide to be gracious and pleasant. And to immediately change the subject.
“So, what’s the deal with Brandy and Janesse?”
He gives me a surprised smile. “You don’t know?”
I shake my head. “No. But every time I mention one of them to the other, they both get weird.”
Will gives a small, sad smile. “They used to be married.”
I blink. “Lesbians can get married in Arizona?”
He laughs. “They’re not lesbians.”
I am silent, drowning in dumbfoundedness. Will leans forward, throws me a bone.
“Janesse used to be Jamal.”
I feel like I should be saying, “Ohhhh,” but I still don’t get it. And then…
“Ohhhh,” I say. “Oh. Oh, man. Wow. Really?”
Will nods. My initial reaction is to be kind of annoyed, because Janesse is a thousand times prettier than me. She’s gorgeous. He’s gorgeous. Wait, no. She.
Yeesh. I’m confused. I can’t imagine how Brandy must feel.
“Poor Brandy.”
“Yeah.” Will brushes some crumbs off his knee. “She took it pretty hard. I think it’s still hard for her.”
“When did he… I mean, she… become a she?”
“About three years ago. I moved into the cabin right after the big blowup, so I mostly just witnessed the aftermath.”
“Ah, so I guess that’s when you and Brandy…?” I start, not sure how to finish the sentence.
“When me and Brandy what?” There’s a slight twinkle in his eye, and I get the distinct impression that he’s enjoying making me grope around on this one.
I roll my eyes and look out at the horizon. “Nothing. Just… you two seem… close.”
“We are.” He leans toward me a bit. “Not like that, though. She needed a shoulder to cry on and I happened to have one available.” He smiles at me. “We’re just friends.”
“Oh, good.” Way to play it cool, Zuko. ”Not that it matters, you know. I mean, it wouldn’t bother me or anything if you two were…”
Oh, man. This is just sad. I stuff a cracker in my mouth to shut myself up.
“Good crackers,” I say, and a few crumbs fly out of my mouth. I. Am. Smooooooooth.
“Glad you like them,” he says, his voice thick with amusement. I grab my wine and wash down the crackers.
“Did you bring Brandy out here, too?” I ask tentatively. “You know, to cheer her up?”
He keeps his eyes on mine, and a small smile quirks at one edge of his mouth. “No.”
I am shamelessly happy to hear this. We sit in companionable silence for a while. I stare out at the valley, and this is when the thinking starts, which is followed soon by the talking.
“I think there’s something wrong with me.” The words are out before I realize I’ve said them, and I instantly regret them.
“Just one thing?” Will shakes his head and takes a sip of his wine. “You got me beat, then.”
“No, I mean…” I sigh, feeling stupid. But then again, I’m not weeping all over him, so yay me. “I don’t feel like me anymore.”
He looks at me for a moment, his eyebrows knit slightly. “I don’t understand.”
I swallow hard. I didn’t fully realize this until now, and I’m a little nervous sharing it with him, but I keep going anyway. “I used to be confident. Strong. Articulate. I knew what was what and who was who and suddenly, it’s like I don’t know anything.” I close my eyes and blurt out the rest. “The other day, I was watching Oprah and she did one of those long-lost family reunion shows…”
“And what?” he says. “You cried?”
“No,” I say. “I wept. With blubbering and everything. For an hour.”
He seems nonplussed. “Those shows are sad.”
“You know the commercial with the talking baby?”
He pauses. “The one for the sub shop?”
I look at him, challenging him to make that redeemable. He grins.
“Okay. You win. You’re emotionally unstable.”
“Thank you,” I say. “And it’s not just the crying. Allegra talks about sex and her two daddies and beta-males being good in bed and I get all flustered and awkward and change the subject to the weather.”
“Well, I don’t think getting flustered around Allegra is all that unusual…”
“It is for me. I don’t get flustered. Ever.”
Will shrugs. “Maybe it’s just that you’ve never had the option.”
I look up at him. “Huh?”
He stares off into the sky, his face thoughtful for a moment before he looks back at me.
“When we were dating, Ella talked to me a bit about what happened. How your dad kind of hid in his work after your mother left, really relied on you to take care of Five. You basically became a mother at the age of twelve. That’s gotta be hard. Maybe now that you don’t have those responsibilities anymore, maybe your emotions are just catching up and it’s throwing you off your game.”
This is a little too Psych 101 for me, but since it’s Will and I’ve under the influence of the Big Crush, I try to look as though I’m considering it.
“Maybe. I don’t know. All I know is I used to have it together and now I feel like I don’t know anything about anything.”
“Well,” he says with a shrug, as though the answer is obvious. “You’ve been Towered.”
I stare at him, trying to see if he’s kidding or not. I can’t tell, but my vote would be not. “What the hell does that mean, anyway?”
He laughs. “I don’t really know. It’s a Brandy-ism, I usually just nod and smile. As far as I understand it, it just means that your life has been kinda bulldozed, you know? And now you have to rebuild it.”
We share a smile. I grab a cracker. “Have you ever been Towered?”
He picks up the wine bottle and refills my glass.
“I’m in Bilby, aren’t I?”
***
At work the next day, Janesse is still prettier than me. I find myself staring at her all day. She’s tall for a woman, definitely, and now that I’m looking for it her wrists do seem a bit bigger than those of most of the women I know. Her feet don’t look that big, though, but then again, mine are size six and every foot bigger than mine kinda looks the same to me, so…
“Who told you?” she asks as she sidles back behind the counter. I realize I’ve been leaning on the counter and straighten up, wondering if I was too obvious with the staring.
“Who? Told me what? Hmm?” I ask in what I hope passes for casual.
She raises one eyebrow at me. “That I used to have a dick.”
“Oh. That.” I sigh
and relax. Big deal. She used to have a dick. Get used to it. Welcome to Bilby. “Will. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to stare. Was I staring?”
Janesse laughs. “Honey, if staring bothered me I would have ended up like Mr. Trimble a long time ago. I’m used to it.” She shoots me a sideways glance and a smile plays on her lips. “But really? You didn’t know?”
“No,” I say. “I had no idea.”
She giggles and turns to me. “No, seriously. Even with these hips?”
“What hips?” I say, rolling my eyes at her.
“Exactly. Real women have hips. And booties.” She turns her back to me and shakes what she’s got. “I have no ass.”
I grin at her. “You are one hundred percent woman, trust me. Men are not insecure about their asses.”
She turns back to face me and sighs. “I guess it’s just our curse.”
“Can I ask you something?” I say.
“Sure.”
“Your breasts are gorgeous. Did you have them done?”
She mocks an offended expression. “No way, baby. These are all mine.”
“But… how?”
“Hormones.” She touches her hip. “Little patch, right there.”
“Wow.” I step back and take a good look. They’re not big, but they look great on her, and they’re perky as hell. Then again, they’re only three years old. “They’re beautiful.”
Janesse beams and practically dances into the stockroom. The bell on the front door rings and Mr. Trimble comes in. I make no eye contact as I walk to the charcoals, pull out a box for him, ring it up at the register, and accept his ready four dollars and eighty-six cents. He leaves without telling me to fuck off. I consider this a win-win.
A moment later Janesse comes back from the stock room with a box full of oil paints for me to stock.
“Why doesn’t he ever buy paper?” I ask.
“Hmmm?”
“Mr. Trimble. Twice a week, with the charcoals. No paper.”
“Baby,” Janesse says, “there are some people you just don’t ask questions about, and Mr. Trimble is one of them.”
I accept this and take the box of oil paints. Janesse and I hum companionably to the Sting song on the radio as we stock the oils and I find myself, for the second time that day, smiling involuntarily. As I stock, I try to recall the last time I caught myself smiling like that. I can’t remember.
The Fortune Quilt Page 11
