“My brother is in town with his fiancée. We’re having dinner to welcome the poor girl into the family.”
“Oh.” She stared at me with sad doe eyes. “I better get ready for work.”
I watched her walk into the bathroom and step into the shower. Then I rolled onto my back and placed the pillow over my head. “Shit, shit, shit.”
* * *
Normally, Ethan and I met at the coffee shop on Saturdays. But when he couldn’t make it, we rescheduled. Meeting him would help take my mind off my impending family dinner.
“My god, Ethan, she looked at me like I had just run over her dog and had then backed up and run it over again.” I sipped my chai and stared out the window at College Avenue, the main street of Fort Collins. “I’m so screwed.”
He nearly choked on his coffee. “Can you blame the girl? Not only did you plan dinner with your family and not mention it for a whole week, but you are meeting your brother’s fiancée. She has to be wondering why you didn’t invite her. Hasn’t she moved in with you?”
“N-no,” I stammered. “Not completely. She’s still paying rent at her place. She just stays with me every night…and most of her stuff is at my place, but it isn’t official. We have not moved in together.” I turned away from his knowing glare and stared at the other patrons in the coffee shop.
“How long are you going to string this girl along?” He shook his head. Not a hair was out of place.
Ethan and I had been really good friends at one point. We worked together part-time at the college library. I was just starting my PhD program in history, and he was starting his in English. Since we studied the same time period, we talked a lot about our classes. After working together for two years, Ethan quit the program on completion of his Masters. He opted for teaching at a high school in a neighboring city, and we didn’t see much of each other.
But then, out of the blue, we met for coffee. We had so much fun we started to meet for coffee once a week, and continued to for two years. Then both of us hit rough patches in our lives. His marriage was on the rocks. My relationship fell apart completely. We became therapists for each other.
Our weekly meetings switched from discussing our research and learning, to bickering, fighting, and calling the other person on their shit. We had fun doing that, too. No matter how brutal we were to each other, the next week, both of us would be right on time. Dysfunctional: yes. Bizarre: yes. But we needed it. Or at least that was what I told myself.
We would tell each other things we wouldn’t dream of telling our loved ones or partners. We knew each other better than our significant others did, indulging in an odd, sometimes intrusive intimacy that never went beyond our coffee dates.
“I don’t know what you mean.” I eventually answered his earlier question, staring across the table at him, watching his nervous habit of pulling at the corner of his neatly trimmed moustache. How does he make it so narrow and precise? I wondered. We sat in the back corner, hiding from a gaggle of college students in the shop. “I’m not stringing her along.” Again, I avoided his eyes. Instead, I stared over at the barista, who was making a Frappuccino.
Ethan took off his Coke-bottle-thick glasses and cleaned them on a serviette. “Yes you do. Don’t try that shit with me, Lizzie.”
“I don’t know what to do, Ethan. I care about her, but when I look at her—sometimes, I don’t feel anything. When she’s sleeping at night and I’ve got insomnia and can’t sleep, I get annoyed that she is in my bed. The other night, I was on my back and she was up against my left side with her leg draped over me and her arm around my chest.”
He frowned impatiently and motioned for me to get to the point.
“Wait, that’s not the weird part.” I continued. “She was holding my earlobe! The arm she had draped over me—she was holding my earlobe. And I started to think: why? Why was she holding onto my ear? Then I couldn’t stop focusing on the fact. I mean, who does that? Who holds their girlfriend’s ear while she sleeps? Who?” I threw my arms up in the air in exasperation. “She wasn’t rubbing it. Not feeling it. Just holding it. I don’t think I slept at all until she rolled over. Who holds someone’s ear?” I took a nervous sip of my chai, embarrassed by my rant about Sarah. Why did it even bother me so much?
“I’ll admit that it’s a little weird. But it doesn’t seem like something you should obsess about. She probably didn’t know she was doing it. Do you think maybe it had something to do with your insomnia? When you can’t sleep, you focus on anything and everything you find annoying. You’re a freak, and so is she. You two are perfect for each other.” He gave his southern smart-ass smile.
“Very funny. You might be right.” I took another sip and said, “Oh, have I mentioned that she has started to say ‘I heart you’ now.”
He raised his delicate eyebrows.
I shook my head. I really didn’t want to tell him why she had started saying that, but then I caved. “We’d only just started saying ‘I love you’ and I wasn’t very comfortable saying it, and then I saw this hanger in the bedroom, from the drycleaners. Anyway, I noticed that it had an advertisement on it that said ‘We love our customers’ but instead of the word love, it had a heart. What is up with that?” I detoured again, hoping he’d forget I mentioned it. “How did the heart come to symbolize love?…Really, it’s just a muscle.”
He motioned for me to stop stalling. “Oh, all right. Right after seeing the hanger, she was getting ready to leave, and I said, ‘I heart you.’”
Ethan burst out laughing.
“She thought it was adorable. Now it’s kinda our thing…I guess.” I rolled my eyes.
“Lizzie, I didn’t know you were such a romantic.” He batted his eyes at me.
“Yeah right…” I took a deep breath. “Are these feelings and thoughts I have about her…about us…are they normal?”
“Not after this long. Maybe after twenty years, but you two should still be in the honeymoon phase. You should be running home from classes so you can rip her clothes off. Staying up all night talking in bed, naked bodies intertwined.” He wrapped his gangly arms around himself in a weird contortion.
Ethan was slim, tall, effeminate—the kind of man everyone thought was gay. He adamantly refused he was, but being such a scrawny, open-minded Southern boy did not help his cause.
“Naked bodies intertwined,” I mocked. “Tell me something, oh relationship guru, why should I listen to you? You hate your wife.”
Ethan had been married for four years. A year ago, he confessed to me that he wanted to leave, but he hadn’t told his wife yet. Deep down, I think he’s afraid his friends and family will think he is gay for sure.
“Low blow. Very low blow, Lizzie.” He pulled his keychain from his pocket. A nail clipper dangled on the chain. Ethan proceeded to clip one of his nails, and then he carefully put the keychain away.
“Do you expect anything else from me? I despise my own girlfriend. Why would I treat my best friend differently?” I raised my chai in his direction in salute, and said, “Yes, my friend, I am a bitch.”
“Oh, I never doubted that. That, my dear, is why we are best friends. You are a bitch, and I am a stuck-up bastard from Mississippi. Neither one of us has any morals or standards.”
Despite being a Southerner, when he moved out west, Ethan had soon discovered it was better to lose his southern accent—especially as an English major. His department was full of snooty kids who believed they were elite students. His accent made them look at him like he was a Neanderthal who had married his sister.
I took another sip, and watched the traffic crawl past. “She wants us to go to therapy,” I confessed. “Apparently, I don’t open up enough. She wants us to learn how to communicate effectively—whatever the hell that means.” I waved one hand in the air.
Ethan spat out his coffee. “Are you serious?” He wiped his mouth with a napkin and then used it to mop the coffee off the table. “You’re just now telling me this. What
did you say?” He couldn’t stop laughing.
“I said I would think about it. Who do you and Lisa see? Is it working for you two?”
He threw his stir stick at me. “God, you are a bitch!”
“And you, my friend, are a wimpy intellectual. Throwing a stir stick at me…Ooooo…I’m scared.” I threw it back at him.
My cell phone interrupted. “Speak of the devil,” I said, as I looked at the caller ID. “I better get it.” I opened the phone, and said in an overly cheery voice, “Hey, baby, how’s your day going?”
Ethan whispered, “Don’t overdo it.”
I quickly covered the mouthpiece and kicked Ethan in the shin.
He yelped louder than necessary to get back at me.
“Yeah, I’ll be leaving in a few minutes. I don’t want to be late. My mother can be a bitch sometimes.”
“That’s where you get it from.” Ethan giggled. I kicked him again, much harder this time.
“Ok, honey. I won’t be very late tonight.” I mumbled, “I heart you,” and then I closed my phone. “You can be such an ass,” I told Ethan. After chugging the rest of my chai, I stood up. “So what’s the excuse tonight? A pulled groin muscle so you don’t have to screw your wife?”
Ethan stood too. “Nah, I used that one last week. I may have to slip her some sleeping pills.”
I stopped in my tracks on the way to the trash can. Turning back to him, I asked in disbelief, “You don’t actually do that do you?”
He winked at me and threw his cup away.
“So,” Ethan asked, as we walked to our cars, “when was the last time you saw your folks?”
“Christmas, or one of those holidays. I’m not sure if it was last year or the year before.”
“It’s August. Are you going to be okay tonight?”
I shrugged. “Don’t know. My mother can be brutal. She’d have no qualms about ripping the heads off of kittens.”
“Well, good luck. Call me if you need to talk. By the way, I dig the pinstripe power suit. You look hot.” One hand leaning on the roof of his car, Ethan gestured with the other to my clothes. “I wouldn’t worry too much about losing Sarah. You’re beautiful, and successful, and I think she loves you. Oh wait…she hearts you.” He snickered.
“Thanks. I think.” I shook my head. “Are we on for Saturday?”
“Of course. You know Lisa thinks we are having an affair?”
“So how long are you going to string her along?”
“Touché.” He stooped and climbed into his car, turned the engine on, and then rolled down the window. “I heart you.” He waved limply and smirked as he drove out of the parking lot.
I watched him pull away. Briefly, I stared at my key in the car door. Was
I sure I wanted to do this?
Chapter Two
When pulling into the parking lot, I tried to remember the last time I had been to the country club. I used to eat there all of the time as a child. The food wasn’t even that good, but that didn’t matter to my folks. All that mattered was that people saw us there several times a month. I always hated it. We lived in Colorado, not on the East Coast, for Christ’s sake. Our family didn’t come over on the Mayflower.
The hostess watched me approach and asked in a snotty voice, “May I help you?”
“Yes I’m meeting the Petrie family for dinner?”
“Oh, are you a friend of the family?”
“I’m the daughter.” I smiled wearily and straightened my blazer to look more presentable. I had my hair down, instead of in my normal ponytail, and I had put on eye shadow and mascara. Usually, I only did that when I was out with Sarah, but even then, I preferred the au naturel look—or at least that was my excuse.
The hostess tried to soften her bitchy look. “I didn’t know they had a daughter.”
I’m sure she didn’t. My parents didn’t really spread the news about my existence.
“I think I am early, though.” I changed the subject.
“You aren’t early. Your party is already seated.” She tilted her head like a confused puppy.
I looked at my watch and noticed it was a quarter to seven. Nice, Peter—telling me the wrong time.
I followed the hostess through the maze of tables surrounded by overdressed, pompous asses. I recognized several of them—women who had been under the knife and hadn’t changed in the past ten years. Or maybe I didn’t recognize them. Rich women were a dime a dozen here. It was how they made it known they had money. How they made themselves feel superior whenever, in fact, they felt inferior.
“May I ask what time my party arrived?” I quickened my pace to keep up with the lanky hostess.
She turned to me, obviously puzzled. “I think they’ve been here thirty minutes.”
Bravo, Peter. Bravo. Tell me 7:30 p.m. and then show up a little after 6:00 p.m. I should have known.
As the hostess led me to the table, she asked, “Do you live far away?”
“Not really. I live in Fort Collins.”
“Oh…you’re right. That’s not very far.” She looked disappointed in me.
“I’m working on my PhD. I don’t have a lot of free time to hang out.” Why was I justifying myself to this girl?
“That makes sense.”
Well, thank goodness the hostess accepted my excuse. As if I needed that haughty girl’s approval for my absences from family dinners at the club. We reached the table.
“Here’s the last member of your party.” The hostess plastered a huge fake smile on her face.
“Right on time, Elizabeth.” My brother stood to shake my hand. I’d never understood why he always insisted on shaking my hand, or on using my full name. Everyone else called me Lizzie.
“Hello, Peter. I thought dinner was at 7:30.” I stared at him angrily. Then, following a deep breath, I blurted out, “Hello, everyone. I hope you haven’t been waiting long.”
Mom answered, “Half an hour. That sounds about right for you.” She took a sip of her scotch.
“Peter told me dinner was at 7:30 p.m.” I threw him another nasty look. Mom’s statement had already pissed me off. I was usually the annoying person who showed up early for everything. Whenever I went to a party, I had to wander around the neighborhood so I wouldn’t show up too early and annoy the host. Yet, Mom preferred to think of me as a complete and total fuck-up.
Peter smiled at me, his usual backstabbing, shit-eating grin. It was one of those charming smiles that could make most women believe anything. His clean-cut appearance helped. Tonight, my brother was going casual; his tie was loosened. “I remember telling you 6:30 p.m.”
I turned to the woman I assumed was my brother’s fiancée. My mouth fell open; I think my jaw may have even hit the floor. Oh, my God! She was stunning, easily the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. Finally, I found my voice again. “Hello.”
I reached out to shake her hand and she rose graciously and accepted it. Long blonde hair. Stormy, ocean-blue eyes. Flawless skin. Very little make-up. And arched eyebrows that suggested a devious side.
My brother’s fiancée flashed me a smile that almost made me wet. “I’m Madeleine,” she said. “But my friends call me Maddie.”
Madeleine. What a beautiful name.
“Very nice to meet you, Maddie. People close to me call me Lizzie.” I shot a look at Peter, hoping he’d get the hint. I despised being called Elizabeth.
“Geez, my bad. I’m sorry I didn’t introduce you two. I don’t know where my head is.” Peter kissed his fiancée before sitting back down and placing his napkin in his lap. Why he had stood that long in the first place baffled me.
“I apologize for my tardiness,” I said.
“Always the schoolteacher, Elizabeth.” Peter tsked.
I took my seat opposite my father. A man of few words, my father gave me a nod of acknowledgment. I knew he wouldn’t talk much, if at all, during dinner. My mother, unfortunately, hadn’t learned from him.
“Oh, it doesn�
�t matter,” stated Maddie. “I’m just glad that you made it here. I hope the drive went well.”
“Yes. Quite pleasant. It’s always good to get some time to relax.”
“I definitely know what you mean. I love to drive. Whenever I’m stressed out or need time to think, I jump in my car and drive my worries away.”
“I hate driving. Too many fucking assholes on the road,” said Mom, following her statement with another swallow of scotch.
“Maddie, do I detect a southern accent?”
The blonde flushed and looked over at Peter and then at my mom. “Well, I was born in Alabama, but my family moved to California when I was in high school.”
My mother bristled. Not only was she from the South, but she was also from California. My mother always believed herself to be a great woman, ranking herself among the Rockefellers and Carnegies. The idea was preposterous, of course. She was a small town girl from Montana who had married a man who became wealthy. Before that, they lived in a trailer. It was hard not to say anything to ruffle my mother’s feathers, but I didn’t think that was the best way to get to know my future sister-in-law. Everyone else in the family already hated me. It would be nice to have one ally in the bunch. I wondered why Peter had taken such a risk. He had to know Mom wouldn’t approve of a Southerner. I bet her family had connections to his work.
The waiter came over to take my drink order.
“Don’t bother offering her alcohol,” said Mom. “She can’t drink.” She raised her scotch glass and took another slug. Then she set the glass down and smoothed her navy suit.
The suit covered the whitest shirt I had ever seen, and a pearl necklace ringed Mom’s over-stretched neck at the collar. The pearls and shirt were stark against her olive skin. The combined effect was Mediterranean.
I ordered a Coke. “It’s not that I can’t drink, Mother. I don’t like to drink when I have to drive.” Her statement embarrassed me. My mother always referred to my preference for drinking only at home. I was such a lightweight that one drink gave me a buzz and forced me to find a cab. In Fort Collins, there was no cab service; hence, I never drank in public.
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