by Kat T. Masen
“Well, you didn’t hear me knocking. What was I supposed to do? We’re ordering pizza. What do you want?”
“I’ll pass,” I say casually. “Besides, I cooked. Remember?”
“You’ll pass? I know you cooked, but you never pass on pizza.” He stands before me, rubbing his five o’clock shadow with curiosity. “Remember that time we went to All-You-Can-Eat Pete’s? You had four plates of Pete’s ribs, including the side of lobster, and still ordered pizza on the cab ride home.”
“It was that time of the month.”
Checkmate, Drew. He hates menstrual talk. His body shudders when I mention it. I don’t want to invite any more questions.
“All right. We need to talk. Something’s up, and you’re acting really weird, Zo. Kristy has a shift that starts in two hours and mine starts in four, so we’ll talk then. But seriously, what flavor?”
“Hawaiian.” I sigh.
He leaves my room without another word while I sit on my bed, sulking. I am weak. Day one of my new life and everyone thinks I’ve gone cuckoo.
Is there even a point in trying?
And who am I trying for?
Me? Or for a man who hasn’t walked into my life yet?
Chapter Six
Drew
I can’t stand it anymore. Zoey’s acting all weird, and trying to read her mind is like reading a Chinese novel upside down. Wearing a dress on a Sunday not to mention an apron on top. It’s like I’ve walked into the 1950s, and all I need her to say is, “Honey, dinner’s on the table.”
Being the stubborn woman she is, she refuses to acknowledge that something’s wrong, carrying on pretending everything’s normal between us.
I called bullshit the second I saw her, but Kristy was beside me at the time, and I didn’t want to have a heated argument with Zoey in front of her. Kristy had kept me occupied for most of the day, and despite what one may think, she’s not interested in me. Having broken up with her boyfriend only a week ago, she confided in me the fact he was abusive, emotionally and physically, and she needed to find herself. I respected that. Hanging out with her was easy. Kristy’s pretty laid-back despite the traumatic events she endured.
Normally, Zoey chills with the girls I bring back, yet this time she retreated to her room. I let her be, hanging out in the living room with Kristy, watching reruns on MTV. When Kristy’s stomach growled, she suggested we order some pizza. Miss Moody declined the offer to have some, but in the end, she caved.
I’ve made it my business to get to the bottom of this the second Kristy leaves for her shift.
I tap on Zoey’s door wanting an end to this saga. She doesn’t answer, so I open the door anyway, but not without warning her that I’m coming in. She’s sprawled across her bed in her sweats with that book she was talking about, not a single movement to acknowledge I’ve entered the room.
“All right, what’s going on, Zo? All day you’ve been acting weird. Ever since last night when you stormed out of—”
She drops the book onto the comforter and turns to face me. Her eyes are doing that thing where it looks like the pools of green are circling rapidly like a cyclone. Her lips tighten as she bites her tongue, warning me I should have probably never walked in here and opened my mouth. Smart move, you idiot.
“I didn’t storm out. I was pissed at you that you thought it was more important to go find some pussy than hang out with me.”
And there it is. The truth comes out like the rain after the crack of thunder. Stunned at her choice of words, I sit on the edge of her bed trying to find the right thing to say. Talking to women can sometimes be like walking on eggshells while carrying barbells. Choose your words carefully. Do not anger the beast.
“It wasn’t like that… it’s hard to explain,” I fumble almost incoherently.
“Really? That’s the best you can come up with? We’ve known each other for, like, what? Four years. I’ve seen you vomit on yourself. I’ve even rubbed your belly when you had that bout of stomach flu,” she quips. “And the best you can tell me is it’s hard to explain?”
“Okay, the kiss made it awkward,” I confess.
Her hands toy with the cover of her book until a sheepish, annoying, smile sweeps across her face. At first, it’s small giggles, but soon her laughter erupts into a coughing fit. “Of course, it was awkward. How long did it take you to realize that?”
“All right, whatever. Can we move on from what happened?”
“Sure. But just admit I’m right?”
“I’ll admit you have a strong point.”
“Admit I’m right.” She moves closer to the edge of the bed where I sit settling on her knees as she rubs her hands in delight. She’s watching me intently, and I can’t stop grinning knowing full well that Zoey will lose if she attempts to arm wrestle, again. But hey, let’s humor her into thinking she has a chance.
“And what if I don’t? Whatcha gonna do, Richards?” I tease.
“Try me,” she warns with a smirk.
I don’t say anything. What could this girl possibly do? Zo is tiny compared to me, plus she’s a girl. I stretch my arm propping it into position and ready to wrestle when she grabs my forearm and twists the skin until it burns.
“Ow! What the fuck? Let go,” I bark.
“Admit I’m right?”
“Fine, you’re right.”
With a satisfied smile, she lets go. The little bitch left red marks on my skin, and the burn is still stinging like crazy. I rub the skin on my arm to soothe the pain.
Raising my voice at her again and irritated by the persistent sting, “Fucking hell that hurt.”
I’m still reeling in pain while she turns her attention back to her ‘Jerk’ book acting as if nothing happened. I sit on the edge of her bed in silence until she utters, “So what time does your shift start?”
“Got to leave in an hour. And listen,” I tell her. “Kristy just broke up with her boyfriend and let’s just say he makes Jess look like an angel. I’m not hooking up with her, she just needed someone.”
She puts the book down and focuses her attention back on me. Her face softens, the compassion evident in the way her eyes glaze over. “Is she all right? I mean, you know. Does she need any help?”
“To be honest? She puts on a good front, and I can’t divulge the rest.”
It was last Wednesday when I’d learned of Kristy’s relationship with her boyfriend of five years. I was grabbing some supplies off the shelf when I accidentally knocked into her side. She instantly recoiled and winced in pain. At first, she said she was fine, but I’d seen enough in the hospital to realize something was wrong. She eventually showed me the extent of her injuries, and boy did I see red. She admitted to her family that he’d been abusing her and finally put a restraining order on him. I’m glad she finally sought help, but she wasn’t the first person I had encountered who was suffering in silence. They all had their own stories to tell and their reasons for why they stuck it out so long.
This is one of the pitfalls of working in the hospital. Emotionally, I had to harden up. It’s a tough job, but one I fought so hard for. I just never expected it to be this difficult. I considered myself a good listener, yet when it comes to offering advice, I’m not a psychologist. I know only what I know and what I think is the right thing to do.
“Drew,” Zoey says softly. “I admire you for following your dream. I can’t even begin to imagine how difficult your line of work is.”
Difficult is an understatement. I could have chosen any career path, but deep inside I knew I chose this path because of what happened to my mother. My parents divorced when I was only three, and my mother died shortly after. She had suffered from a nasty virus, and because she lived in a rural town in Australia, they didn’t have the resources to medically attend to her, sending her home with a fever they thought painkillers could manage. I was only four when it happened, and because I had been back and forth between my dad’s and my mom’s, my memories of her were foggy. To me, she was just
a woman who cared for me on the weekends. It was my dad who raised me.
“You do what you have to do, Zo.”
“I know, but you could have chosen to do anything. I understand how great the reward is, but why choose a career that defines who you are as a person?” she questions seriously.
“I just want to help people,” I half admit. “As much as Dad wanted me to be a mechanic, I felt like I needed to be someone who made an impact in people’s lives. Helped them. Maybe because I felt so helpless in my own life back then, and all I wanted was to feel important. Like I mattered.”
“Whatever you choose to do, you will matter to someone,” she tells me.
“Well, growing up, I felt the opposite.”
She shifts her body closer to mine and places her hand on my arm. The warmth of her touch comforts me—it always has a way of doing that. “I get it, you only had your dad, plus you were awkward looking.”
I turn to face her, amused by her comment. “Gee, thanks for the uplifting compliment, Zo.”
“But you turned out hot. Just like Tom Cruise.”
“You’re comparing me to Tom Cruise?”
“Brad Pitt, George Clooney, you name it. They all had their I-wouldn’t-touch-them-with-a-ten-foot-pole awkward phases.”
“And I guess you never had that? You’ve just been a goddess your whole life?”
She shakes her head and jumps off the bed moving to her shelf where she pulls out an album. It’s fluorescent pink with stickers scattered all over the cover. Placing it in front of me, she opens a page. The pages look worn and fragile, the background tinged with yellow. The binder is barely holding the album together, the spiraling metal bent out of shape. There’s a photo of her with a couple of girls. She is dressed in a cheerleading outfit.
“You were a cheerleader?” I ask, eyes fixated on the photo.
She looks gorgeous. Well, she is gorgeous. The kind of girl I would have fantasized about in high school yet never gone near for fear of being laughed at and given a wedgie by the cool crowd.
“Uh huh. In senior year.”
“You looked hot for a sixteen-year-old,” I admit.
“Oh, just you wait a second.” She flips the pages back showing me a different photo.
Taken back by the difference, I zoom in closer to look properly. It looks nothing like her. In the photo, she’s wearing some granny jumper with patterns of roses all over it and awful, mustard-colored baggy jeans. Her face is covered in zits, and behind her smile are braces.
I pull a face, not intentionally wanting to offend her. “You look…”
“Awkward? Hideous?” She laughs. “I’ve never shown this photo to any guy. It’s like my worst nightmare. Secret-business-type stuff that I should burn but don’t want to regret letting go of the memory.”
“I’m flattered I got to see your pic that will give me nightmares,” I joke.
She punches my arm softly, laughing along with me. We both relax on the bed chatting with ease about our high-school memories. With Zoey rambling in my ear about some fashion faux pas in her senior year, while I turn the page back to the first photo she showed me of her in the cheer-squad dress. The uniform’s royal blue and yellow, tight, and typical of a cute cheerleading outfit. There are four girls in the photo with Zoey standing proudly in the middle, perfectly posing with her hand resting on her hip. Her blonde tendrils are tightly curled sitting just above her waist. The green in her eyes captures the moment, sparkling with her lips curled into a cute smile.
She’s beautiful.
And if life had a different way of working out, just one moment with a girl like her would have completely changed everything. Given me the much-needed confidence boost during the years when I thought Andrew Baldwin didn’t deserve to be here.
The year when Lacey Everson, the homecoming queen, blatantly said to my face that I was a worthless geek who should go home, turn the car on, and close the garage door behind me. A motherless waste of space with a poor loser of a father. Her words are still engrained in my memory to this day.
This is what the popular girls did. Beat the not-so-cool boys down for their own pleasure. And I was definitely not in the cool crowd.
The memory disturbs me sending this chilled moment into the shadow of a dark cloud. Zoey is still chatting away at record speed, and with my head wanting an escape, I listen and catch the end of her conversation.
“As much as I would love to stay and chat, I need to go get ready for work.” I stand up and stretch my arms, my shirt pulling up, exposing my skin. “Zo, are we all good now?”
Her eyes are lingering on my stomach watching me with an odd stare. She doesn’t realize she’s biting her lip until she catches me watching her, and immediately covering her embarrassment by over-smiling and distracting herself by playing with her hair.
“Yes.” She grins, disguising the red face. “Sorry for my bitch fit.”
“Sorry for my awkwardness and for accidentally getting a boner when we kissed.”
She scowls then tilts her head back laughing painfully and holding on to her stomach, trying to control the outburst. “See, I had no idea. Must be the little peewee,” she babbles in baby talk.
I seriously want to pull my pants down to prove her wrong, but then that would be equal to the shaving incident. There goes my stupid brain for bringing up that image again.
“I know what you’re thinking, Baldwin. Don’t you dare. This weekend has already scarred me, and I don’t need your baby wang to throw me over the edge,” she warns me.
I give up. Upon exiting the room, I hear my name again as she scurries behind me. I turn around, stopping her fast in her tracks. She fiddles with the ends of her hair—her signature move when she’s nervous or needs a favor from me.
“Totally forgot. So you know how I saved you yesterday? I need a favor.”
“Don’t you mean I saved you?” I remind her.
“Yeah, sure, you saved my life, uh huh, super nice of you. But hello, Mickey would still be here if it wasn’t for me and imagine the peewee talk.”
Zoey batts her eyelashes pretending to be innocent and sweet. This is the look of pure evil. I hate when Zo has something to hold over me. It never ends well.
Taking a deep breath, my voice tightens as I bellow, “What do you want?”
“I need a date for Mia’s wedding.”
“When?”
Responding promptly, “Two Saturdays from now.”
Argh. I hate weddings. I don’t think any man likes them. Maybe the groom, but that’s because it guarantees him pussy for life. They drag on all day, plus I have to put on a suit. Hmm, a suit, eh? Suits attract women. Weddings swarm with single women. Maybe, just maybe, this isn’t such a bad idea.
“Will there be any hot single ladies there?” I query, folding my arms in anticipation.
Zoey’s face quickly drops. Her eyes shift toward the mint-green painted wall, ignoring my presence. A moment later, she glances my way, then follows with a perky—albeit fake—smile. “Mia is one of five girls, so chances are, yes.”
I wink. Leaning in, I kiss her forehead. “You got yourself a date, Richards.”
Chapter Seven
Zoey
Sunday night blues—when a case of the Mondays is just around the corner.
After Drew left to go to work, I finally finished my book and am suffering from the worst book hangover in history. It’s like the life has been sucked out of me. I dreaded nearing the end when I knew the story would be all over. So, they got their happily ever after. Where’s mine? Three fucking days these characters have consumed me. People often commented on how invested I become in the books I read telling me often if I devoted this much time into my love life, I would be married with three kids by now.
People—meaning my mother.
She’s never understood my love of reading. At an early age, I would lock myself in my room and finish an entire Babysitter’s Club book in an hour, then bug my mom to take me back to the store to buy a
nother one. In the car ride to the store, she would complain about how I should be outside riding my bike like the rest of the girls my age.
The rest of the girls my age were hiding behind trees making out with boys, and competing over who had the biggest hickey. I thought that was gross until I turned fourteen. The world suddenly became a different place filled with cute boys and even cuter college men.
And sure, I do invest a lot of time into reading. Books have a way of transporting me to another world when my own’s so boring and mundane.
Yet, here I sit completely numb.
Happy but numb because I have no clue what to do now. Start a new book? Move on? This happens to me every time.
I even use social media to contact the author telling her how much I love her book, needing a pierced ‘Jerk’ in my life, and to hurry up and write her next book because I’m having massive withdrawals.
My eyes stare at the clock on the wall watching the hands tick past at what seems like a very slow pace. There’s nothing left to do except scroll through my iPad and play a game of online poker. Something I occasionally do when I was that bored. My disinterest in the game urges me to go all in and anger the rest of the online gamers. Apart from one guy, Derek Smith. He has the balls to ask me what I’m damn well wearing. When I respond with, “A red wig and a clown suit,” he suddenly goes offline.
Derek Smith doesn’t know what he’s missing.
A couple more games, then I retreat to YouTube watching episodes of Family Ties.
Michel J. Fox—what a heartthrob. After two episodes, I settle on watching Back to the Future until I remember how annoying Biff is, shutting down my iPad to refrain from swearing and possibly throwing it against the wall.
Bored and alone, I wander across the hall to see if my neighbor, Gigi, is home. I tap on the door, not surprised to hear the sounds of Gloria Gaynor’s I’ll Be There blasting through the small apartment. There’s no chance that Gigi will hear me with the music loud, so I grab the spare key on top of her porchlight and open the door. I yell out down the hall as she dances past and stops mid-step.
