“Tess, I…I can’t. Tess…it’s not right…we can’t…” Feeling like a by-product of her decision, I get up and leave. I walk out into the cold night sky, unhitch the caravan, get into my truck, and drive home. I leave my girl, the only girl I’ve ever wanted, the one person I’ve craved for more than fifteen years. The one woman whose touch I want…raw flesh against flesh, my body inside of hers. Our souls dancing and mingling and sated finally. But not this way, not in the center of the hypocrisy of her life.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
TESS
I lie huddled under the downy blankets in my new gypsy caravan, the most amazing birthday gift ever from my Scout. My Scout, who just walked out on me. Scout whom I love and adore. Scout who remembered my birthday…as he does every year. Scout, whose kiss makes my heart cave in. Scout, who stole my heart fifteen years ago and still to this day does. Scout, who if he had kept going would have been fucking me right this very minute. What exactly was the something that made him stop, the something that made him get up and walk without anything more than a few words and my name?
Clearly I’m living in my own fantasy world. I feel so many things right now, but more than anything, I feel foolish. What is it with us? I know what that kiss held. I felt it. I know he had to have too…the depth, the want, the crave. He sends my senses spinning, though my feelings and desires for him leave me with a stab of guilt over my nearly-here wedding. But I’m listening. So damn hard. Harder than I ever have in my entire life…listening to him, for him. And I’m listening to me. This rich sense of humiliation and confusion is partly my doing. I’m a partial spectator at this performance we’re both involved in.
Maybe I’m not showing enough consideration for his feelings… I am, after all, the one getting married. I’m the real pretender here. If he had gone ahead…kept going…made love to me like I was craving…if he had done that—then maybe, just maybe, I could have called off the wedding and maybe Scout and I could have had a chance at being more than just friends. I want him to prove me wrong. I want so much to feel what it would be like to have him with me in that way, loving me further than he ever has. But clearly we are just friends in his mind. Just friends who kiss like that? Friends who grind into one another like that? Is that what kind of friends we are?
*
The week flies by and Scout never once reaches out to me. Seems like a pattern with us. He’s not exactly keeping a tight rein on his signals these days. I, of course, have him on my brain non-stop, as I can’t help wondering what it was exactly that took us from hot-and-heavy mouthfucking, grinding, and lusting to him abruptly walking out. Right now we’re a hell-born combination if ever we were. I can’t help but wonder, can I win this race without losing the prize? Not even a text? Not even an “I’m sorry”? It’s feeling like a two-way collision at best.
I stay in my studio twelve hours every day, all week, working feverishly on new holographic concerts, burying myself in the distraction of work. We’re at a point where I have a team of ten people I direct, all of who function out of our headquarters in town. Scout spends most of his time there in the recording studio where he’s videoed a few days a week on green screen, which allows me to create all kinds of amazing video graphics within each concert. We have clients at this point who even want custom Scout Steele concerts. Easy. Anything for the right price.
I’m currently working with a loaded-beyond-the-bajeezus guy who owns a string of islands in the Caribbean, quite possibly Scout’s biggest fan. He wants his concert to be reflective of the island life, so he flew our crew down to his islands to video a four-day stint so that I could have endless footage for my team to mess with. The beauty of it is, our contracts are written in a way that they give us the right to own all of the concerts, even though the client is paying for the entire thing to happen. After he uses it for six months, it’s ours to do with what we want. Imagine the bars, hotels, and resorts around the world in coastal spots that will love using that! Its almost too easy.
Thursday rolls around and I pack my truck for the trip to my ski cabin as it’s my bachelorette party weekend. Scout and I had plans to drive together; he was going to help me get everything set up for my naughty, raunchy party. Naughty right down to the cock cake filled with cream and the Pin the Junk on the Hunk game. My girlfriends are joining us via two other cars a day later. My plan is to leave this afternoon so that I’m there before dark.
And, here I am again…now what? Do I uninvite him? Do I tell Rox to talk to him? Then I remind myself that I’m twenty-nine years old. A mostly mature, smart-thinking woman…not a twelve-year-old ding-a-ling like I was in the seventh grade. Hey, why don’t I fold a note into a football shape, then punt it to him with my fingers while I’m at it? Be a grown-up. Channel your inner adult. On that note, had I not been channeling my inner slut a few nights back, I wouldn’t be sitting in this predicament, now would I? I go with the obvious: a quick text to give him the easy way out. Guys don’t like drama…especially not Scout.
hey
hey
I’ve decided it might be better if it’s just me and the girls for the weekend, i think they’ll be more comfortable if no guys are there
no prob—totally get it—have fun
yeah, thanks…see ya next week?
sure.
My heart sinks to bottom of my gut and sits there like a lead apron. Sure? No prob?
I’m such a fucking idiot. I feel my veneer shedding. I’ve done this to us. I get it now. This time it’s my fault. I can’t blame the guy. One minute I’m getting married; the next I’m shoving my tongue down his throat. What the hell is he supposed to do? Scout’s a good guy—he couldn’t have fucked me even if he’d wanted to. He knows I would have been cheating on Creed, and he knows never, not once, have I ever cheated on a guy I’ve dated. Why is Scout feeling like an acceptable exception to my rule? Can I feign lovesick crazy? I feel as if I’m sitting at the bottom of a steep rise.
Well. That’s that. Scout’s off the hook and so am I. Now I can have a perfectly wild weekend with my six girlfriends and not worry what he’s thinking every time I sink back another penis-colada Jell-O shot.
CHAPTER TWELVE
SCOUT
“Rox, you cannot be serious—she’s there by herself?” The image of her there alone, on this of all weekends, forks through my gut.
“Um, hello, six girls stranded on a highway during a blizzard is not an option, Scout. There’s no way we’d make it. I’m one of the drivers and I’m calling uncle. I can’t put this entire group of women in danger so that we can all play pecker piñata while dancing around in our underwear. What the hell am I supposed to do? You think I’m happy that she’s stuck there alone?”
“I have to go. I’m her best friend. We had a shitty week of no contact and now she’s alone a week before her wedding at what’s supposed to be one of the best weekends of her life.”
“Oh, my God. Cue the barf bag. You are so friggin’ superhero I’m going to vomit. Seriously, do you think she can’t handle a weekend alone? She’s a big girl. She’ll be fine without you, Prince Charming. Anyway, shouldn’t her fiancé be the one swooping in to save the day?” Rox hits me with her gift of sarcasm.
“Fuck you. I’m just doing what I do with her.”
“Which is what, exactly? Torment her? Make her think you want her, then never man up with any moves? You think you’re helping her?”
And, yes. She’s playing her hand rather well.
“God, you can be a bitch. Just let me love her in my own way, all right?”
“That’s the problem, Scout: it’s your way. You never give her more than that. It’s like a sneak preview of the greatest movie…you’ve got your mouth full of popcorn and that super-sized Coke ready to guzzle and then…bam! you shut the damn movie off before it even begins.
“Do you not get that? Do you not see the way she looks at you? Do you get that the only reason she’s marrying that smear of smegma is because you’ve never so much as offered to
take her on a date? Oh, but you couldn’t stop that steamy kiss at her fitting, now could you, Romeo?”
“Would she have wanted that? With me…dating?”
Do I sound confused? Yeah, I’m pretty sure I am. Because Roxanne’s commentary is hitting me like multiple blows to the jaw.
“Hang on. Can you unzip your pants for me and text me a package-selfie? When exactly in the last fifteen years did you get the nut removal surgery? How have you bagged as many girls as you have and not get that the one standing in front of you is the one? God, Scout, you’re like a textbook idiot. Oh, here you are on Wikipedia—it’s the page called head-in-ass.”
I’m feeling like living proof as she railroads every truth I already know.
“She’s always with someone else, always has a new boyfriend…hell, she’s fucking engaged, Rox.”
“Well, why do you think that is, shit-for-brains?”
“I can’t be the one who ruins her chance at a happy married life with kids, Rox.”
“Then stop being a douchebag and don’t…what are you not getting? Be in her happy married life. Have the kids with her. Be the man. Be the baby-daddy. Is this really so complicated for you? She moved across the country to work with you, sure, but she moved across the country because you, darling Scout, asked her to. Get it? You asked her. Not even on one knee, mind you.”
“I can’t ask her not to get married.”
“Why not?” she says with an indulgent laugh chasing her words.
“I’m leaving. I have to get to her—I can’t let her stay there stranded. She doesn’t even know you guys aren’t coming because there’s no service up there—she’s going to feel like everyone forgot.”
“Listen to me, guns. If you go there, then you better not leave her stranded. Do you read me, sarge? Do I have to crowbar this into your brain? Don’t fuck this up.”
*
What should have taken me three hours took me six, four of which were white-knuckle driving. Thank God Rox and the girls hadn’t tried to brave it or I’d be on a rescue mission instead. Well, now that I put it like that, I sort of am on a rescue mission. For what exactly? We’ll see soon enough.
Tess has no idea her girlfriends are not on their way. The cabin is perched deep in the mountains at Snow Bluff Ski Resort. I helped Tess find it three years ago when she was looking for a little real estate investment that would be closer to Echo Mountain instead of the East Coast, which is where she was living at the time. The reason people flock to Snow Bluff is because it’s a true escape from the world, since you really cannot reach anyone.
Before I got on the road, Rox and I transferred all the bachelorette party goods into my truck so that Tess could at least see the efforts the girls went to for her. Yeah, right down to the rainbow penis lollipops and the Mr. Stud blow-up doll. You can imagine my fear of the highway patrol finding my truck flipped over while a yard sale of penis paraphernalia lies scattered across all four lanes. Rox claims I have half a nut now. Jesus.
I arrive at eight and it’s pitch black outside. A thick blanket of snow muffles every noise as the blizzard comes at us in full regalia. Even with chains on all my tires, the trek here was a blinding doozy. The cabin looks to have every light on, including Christmas twinklers that glow like fireflies under the mess of snow that covers them. Music is blaring loudly—I’d say ten out of ten on the volume dial—as I walk into the cabin.
Tess is nowhere, even when I yell like a bear for her. The smell of cinnamon, vanilla, and evergreen hits me like a syrupy nasal bomb as I make my way to the kitchen and set down the boxes full of party stuff. Looks like Tess made some headway on the party decorations as I notice the pecker piñata hanging in the middle of the living room, along with stacks of games and tubs full of beer all capped with plastic penises. I yell out a few more times for her, then walk to the back of the house where the bedrooms are.
The master bedroom is my first thought; it’s most likely where she’s getting herself all dolled up to party with the girls. There’s not a chance she could’ve heard me come in. I can’t even hear myself think because the music is even louder back here. Shoes, bras, panties, and makeup are scattered all over her bed in an explosion of color and chaos. On her nightstand is a gargantuan vibrator that looks like something King Kong’s bride could get off on. That’s my girl. I see two empty shot glasses, and one half empty beer sporting a penis topper. Oh, you can bet she’ll be thrilled to see me. I go toward the bathroom door, calling her name out again through the thunderclap-like decibels and the blow drier. Nothing. I walk just to the edge of the door and peek in, hoping to hell she’s not on the can or in some other precarious position that I’d catch hell for if she saw me looking.
And there she is.
Buck naked, back to me. Her golden frenzy of hair flying as she’s dancing. I mean dancing hardcore…singing into her hairbrush, the whole nine yards, and while I’m startled seeing her in this really sexy way, I’m violently shocked and stunned by what else I’m seeing.
Fifteen years in and never one word. Fifteen years is a long time to never know something this immense, something so incredibly alarming that even I can’t look away. The catastrophic blur zipping through my head is moving so fast, I can’t even speak. And then, as I’m about to touch her shoulder, she turns her head to me and catches my eyes. My fingers aren’t even to her as she’s scrambling into the towel rack to cover herself up.
And here I am again. I can’t seem to get it right with her. We can’t seem to get it right. I walk out of the bathroom, sit on the bed, and sink into the idea of what’s about to come down, because tonight all hell is going to break lose between me and my best friend Tess.
*
“Fifteen years Tess. Fifteen!” I’m yelling. Even after I’ve turned the volume on the stereo down to a three.
“Fifteen,” I shout again, as I try to sort through the secret she’s imprisoned inside of her for all these years.
Of course she’s crying. Again. I’m pretty sure this is going to be a winner of a night. I grab the bottle of tequila on her dresser and slam back two shots. Then I hit a third one for good measure…and luck.
“So let me get this straight.” I’m talking very loudly, so she can hear every single word. My tongue is hot, fast, and sharp. I’m mad, sad, outraged. She’s likely all of those, too, along with a heap-load of other emotions that I can’t even begin to dissect.
“It was okay for me to hold your hand while you got an abortion… Yep, they let me—an eighteen-year-old kid whose baby it was not—stay in the room to hold your hand. That’s right, Tess.” I don’t want to make her feel small or insignificant like I feel right now, but I do need to shake her a bit.
“It was okay for you to give me all the dirty details about the night that Striker popped your cherry in high school. Me, Tess.” I feel akin to a stick of dynamite. I think it’s the only way we’re going to be able to move this amount of earth, though.
“It’s okay that you tell me every goddamned time you’ve got your period to the point where I can tell you the exact day it’s coming. And I’m a guy, might I remind you.” I’m actually chuckling now. It’s an evil, cold chuckle but at least I’m finding a wisp of humor in the fact that I’m good for something to my best friend.
“It’s okay that I know you have a waxy build-up in your left ear but not in your right ear. What else do I know about you, sweetheart? Well, I know where your mother is buried and that you go there with violets every spring on the very same day she died and place them on her grave. I know you like the rainbow jimmies on your pancakes, but not the chocolate ones, and that you take one lump of sugar in your tea, not two. You like pickled Brussels sprouts in your martinis, not olives. You carry a small peppermill in your purse with you everywhere you go. I know that your tongue tastes beautiful, like mint tea and cloves. I know that you have the greatest ass from New York to California. I know that your singing voice is better than Liberty Storm’s, but you’re too intimidated to use it becau
se of my Grammy status.” Quite a diatribe for a guy, huh? I’m just getting going.
“Now, on the flip side, what don’t I know about you?” Apparently plenty.
“Well, I don’t know if you currently have a Brazilian or a Hollywood wax because you haven’t shared that with me in a while. I don’t know what it feels like to lie naked, skin-against-skin, next to you, but I would imagine it’s lovely. Though I’m guessing, I now know why you never did want that from me, huh, Tess? I guess I know why we never got it on. Or got past kissing. I don’t know if you’re marrying Creed because you love him or because you’re too afraid to find out what could happen with us if you did break it off. But somehow you must be okay with him knowing your secret…but not me? Me, Tess!”
I could give a flying fuck if you think I’m being mean right now. We—me and Tess—we’re better than a lifetime full of bullshit lying.
“Oh, yeah, and one more thing. I’ve known you for fifteen fucking years, Tess. And never—not once—did you ever tell me how the fuck your entire back got melted like a fucking ice cream sundae as though someone took a blowtorch to you.”
She slams the door. And locks it. And you know the fuck what? This is bullshit. I have a bottomless pit full of questions for her, and in the next few days I’m going to get all the way down to that dark, locked-up pit. I go out to my truck and grab my toolbox. Then I crowbar the trim off the door, and jimmy the lock back to the other side, because I’m not doing this her way anymore. I’m going to MacGyver my way in whether she likes it or not. I’m done guessing. I’m over her Morse code crap. I’m doing it my way. I’m forcing myself in and she’s got nowhere to go because we are stranded like Noah on Ararat, and I’m pretty sure it’s gonna be a few days before we get out of here.
A Mess of Reason Page 8
