Best Friends Forever_A Marriage Pact Romance

by Jess Bentley

  “Oh, shit, Penny,” he sighs. “You made dinner.”

  “Yes I did,” I swallow, my mouth dry.

  “We had a date tonight,” he says out loud, stupidly.

  “Well, we did,” I shrug. “About two hours ago.”

  On my personal TV show, the love interest squeegees his reddened eyeballs like a cartoon character with his fists and heaves a sigh. The main character flips through her personal Rolodex of witty things to say, unable to pick one.

  “Okay, I’m an asshole,” he finally nods.

  In this TV show, I don’t have any stage directions. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. I already burnt one half of dinner, and the other half is a solid mass in a colander in the sink. Lettuce leaves are wilted. Bottled salad dressing is now room temperature. The TV screams comically in the background.

  I can’t move. I feel completely abandoned. This was supposed to be a really nice night. Now it’s all jacked up, and the person who jacked it up is too high to even try to fix it.

  “Well, I should go,” he sighs dramatically, slapping his knees before he stands up.

  Despite myself, I am surprised.

  That was a plot twist, I think. I could have kicked him out. I could have read him the riot act. I could have smashed a plate at his feet.

  But no. I didn’t do anything.

  He squints at me sideways. “I guess we both knew this was coming, right, Copper Top?” he finally drawls, puffing up his chest before he walks to the door and opens it again.

  No, we didn’t, I say to myself as the door closes behind him. Actually, we didn’t see that coming at all.

  Chapter 3

  Clay

  “Did you see that blonde by the Deer Hunter machine? She was totally checking you out.”

  Taking a drag on my cigarette, I shrug and look down. “Whatever, Ron.”

  “No, I’m totally serious,” he says, blowing smoke out his nose. He holds the cigarette between his first two fingers and points at me meaningfully. “Twenty bucks says she goes home with you tonight, just for asking.”

  I toss my smoke in the five-gallon bucket next to the brick wall. The orange light buzzes over our heads as the exhaust fans come on, drowning out the sound of crickets all around us.

  “Do you actually have twenty bucks?” I ask, rolling up the sleeves on my plaid shirt.

  “I will after the gig,” he shrugs. “Assuming we don’t drink it all again.”

  “Exactly,” I nod as the back door bangs open and Mike steps out into the darkness.

  “Hey, we’re on,” he calls out, jerking his chin back toward the bar.

  “Blonde, big tits, Nine Inch Nails T-shirt,” Ron says as he stubs out his smoke. “Just check her out. You’ll see what I mean.”

  “Okay, okay, whatever you say,” I mumble as I follow him back into the bar.

  The whole place smells like an ashtray filled with month-old beer. It’s dark and filthy, but it’s the only bar that actually pays for bands around here. I guess in a college town, there’s no shortage of guys with long hair and guitars.

  Brodie’s is at the end of the warehouse district, in a century-old brick building that backs up to a retention pond. If you like mosquitoes, this is the club for you. And if you like college girls. Maybe even the occasional ambitious high-schooler with her older sister’s ID.

  It’s not a huge crowd, but it is Friday night after all. The place will naturally fill up. About a hundred college kids stumble around in the unlit interior, careful not to stay in one place too long or their feet will stick to the floor. Though I am doubtful, I can’t help but scan the crowd as I strap my Fender back on and turn the volume up.

  She’s not by the video games. As I scan the room I find her leaning against the bar, her elbows back and her boobs out, her head tipped to one side so that all her wavy blonde hair is pushed over one shoulder. Her gaze is intense, expectant.

  “See what I mean?” Ron smirks as he plugs his bass back in. “She’s hot. Ten bucks says she’s ready to go.”

  “You said twenty bucks,” I remind him, but he just grins and backs away as Mike saunters up to the microphone and grunts out a theatrical check one check two.

  “You guys ready to rock?” he calls out.

  One guy by the pool table bellows at the top of his lungs.

  “I said, are you guys ready to rock?” Mike demands again, and this time the crowd plays along, hooting as our drummer kicks off a medley of hard-rock songs.

  I play automatically, shifting through the chords as I watch the crowd, my eyes habitually darting back to the blonde. I always feel nervous at the beginning of a set, afraid that people won’t like us. Or worse, that they will be bored and leave.

  But the nervousness fades quickly as I see small groups of people turning toward us to hear the lyrics, swaying, some dancing with mounting enthusiasm. That’s good. They’re into it.

  The more the crowd loves it, the more I enjoy myself.

  As soon as we hit the first guitar solo, I’m ready to go. My fingers fly over the fretboard, working out a solo that I picked up off the radio version of this Pearl Jam tune, but with some extra stuff that just occurs to me on the spot. It feels good. I can even see the metalheads nodding approvingly as they notice my changes and don’t seem to mind at all.

  With every note, I’m more confident. I’m more into the songs. Mike is really killing it too. Sometimes when he’s hung over his voice is a little ragged, and not in a good way. But I know he had an economics exam today so he was probably not out too late last night. He is solid.

  We are all solid.

  The set seems to fly by. A little Metallica, a little Alice in Chains, some Jane’s Addiction that we play ironically. Through it all, the blonde stays attached to the bar, her head bobbing rhythmically, the low light dancing over those blonde waves.

  It gets hot on stage. Mid-September in southern Illinois is still 90-degree days most of the time. I’m not even sure this bar has air-conditioning, but under the stage lights it has got to be at least 95 degrees. I wish I could take my shirt off, but I’m only wearing this white tank underneath and every time I do that, Mike thinks it’s funny to make jokes about my skinny arms to the crowd. I don’t think they’re that skinny. I think he’s just defensive about his weight, but I don’t really want to go through that right now.

  More people have come in, and they are dancing happily as we get to the last song of the set. I can see the band after us is already lined up against the wall by the bathrooms, looking us up and down from under their fluffy hairdos. I just stick to what I’m doing, blazing through the solos like I’m on fire. It feels really good. I can feel her eyes on me, too. That also feels good.

  “You guys have been great!” Mike yells out as our drummer bangs out an extended solo over the last chord. “We are The Graceless Pigs! Thanks for coming out! Drive safe and stick around for The Blazing Saddles up next! Good night!”

  The crowd yells maniacally, some belting out “one more song!" a dozen times or so before giving up when it is apparent that we are not going to play one more song. We just squint into the stage lights and wave politely as we gather up our gear and shuffle to the side. The Blazing Saddles smile politely at us as they bring up their own gear, ready to play for their time slot. It’s funny how bands look at each other sort of suspiciously, like we are timid street gangs in hairspray and plaid. When you’re a jet, I sing in my mind.

  “Dude, I fucking told you!” Ron growls as we head toward the tiny green room, which is really more of a closet with dilapidated sound equipment stacked floor to ceiling.

  “I couldn’t really tell,” I shrug. “Are you sure?”

  “Fuck you!” he scoffs as he chucks me on the shoulder. “If you don’t hit that, I totally will! Just say the word, because I totally fucking will!”

  “Yeah, yeah,” I sigh as I snap my case closed again.

  He raises his eyebrows at me expectantly. The half-formed smile on his face indicates he is
totally serious.

  “So, I can ask her out?” He grins, his braces glinting subtly.

  “No way, dude,” I smirk. “Guitarist gets the girl, that’s just the law of nature. And you’re going to owe me twenty bucks!”

  She is still standing there as I make my way through the crowd. A few people clap me on the shoulder and congratulate me on a good set, especially people I can tell are musicians. It’s an honor thing.

  The bartender jerks his chin at me in greeting. “On your tab?”

  “Yeah, MGD,” I answer, aware of her eyes as they slide over my profile.

  The bartender pushes the bottle toward me and hurries away to serve a group of fraternity guys. I turn toward her, tipping the mouth of the bottle in the air in a cheers gesture before taking a healthy swallow or three. I didn’t even realize how thirsty I had gotten on stage.

  “That was a really good set,” she says loudly.

  She has really deep dimples, thumb-shaped and adorable.

  “Excuse me?” I say, though I heard her.

  As expected, she leans in closer. “That was a really good set!” she says again, sliding up onto her toes to aim her mouth at my ear.

  “Glad you liked it!” I reply automatically.

  She leans her head on the heel of her hand, letting her hair drape over the bar. Instinctively, I want to pull her hair back from that surface, since it’s probably sticky and gross. But I did just meet her, after all.

  The Blazing Saddles screech out an intro. The lead singer mumbles something into the mic, some instruction to the sound guy.

  “You want to get out of here?” I ask, scowling against the noise. “It’s about to get really loud in here.”

  She raises her eyebrows into thin, parenthetical shapes. “Seriously? Um... Okay.”

  Not the answer I was hoping for, exactly, but close enough. I pick up my guitar and head for the front door, clearing a path for her. I can feel her close behind me, feel her breath cooling the sweat that saturated my shirt. I hope I don’t stink. I really do. My biology professor claims that humans are attracted to the pheromones in sweat, but I am not convinced.

  Finally we burst through the front door and out onto the few feet of concrete pavement in front of the gravel parking lot. It is definitely cooler out here, and I step to the side so she can join me.

  She leans over with a cigarette between her lips, flicking a lighter in her cupped hands. When she stands up straight again, she blows out a plume of smoke and flips her hair over her shoulder with a smirk.

  “Glad you liked the show,” I say again, suddenly aware of the tone of my voice.

  “Yeah,” she says as she exhales again. “Really good sound on that amp. The sound guy here is really good. Carl? You know him?”

  “Yeah, sure, Carl.”

  She gazes out into the parking lot with her cigarette at cheek level, squinting. “They always get good bands here on Friday.”

  “Yeah.”

  I’m not sure if her demeanor changed or what, but I definitely had a different vibe from her at the bar. Did I do something? Should I not have asked her out here? Maybe I should explain.

  “Sure was getting loud in there,” I shrug, digging my Marlboros out of my breast pocket so I have something to do with my hands.

  She winks at me. “Kind of the point, right? Bands? They’re easier to hear when they are loud.”

  “Heh. Yeah.”

  The other band starts up, and I can hear them from far away, sort of tinny and comical at this distance.

  “So, what’s your major?”

  “Oh, music,” she shrugs. “Can’t you tell?”

  I feel my eyebrows go up. “Tell? Was there something about you that says music major?”

  She rolls her eyes dramatically. “Oh, come on!” she huffs. “Hanging out at Brodie’s on a Friday night? Sound guy boyfriend? Black eyeliner? Nine Inch Nails T-shirt? Don’t I look like the quintessential music major?”

  “Oh, ha-ha,” I laugh thinly, vaguely aware of everything that she said, with the word boyfriend standing out like a neon sign.

  “Classical music, of course,” she sniffs as she takes another long drag. “But this is really living, you know what I mean? I mean you can’t really be an artist if you haven’t lived, right?”

  “Yeah, sure,” I smile, though my face feels a little wooden right now. “Why would you come to Brodie’s if you weren’t interested in living?”

  She points at me with a cigarette in her fingers. “That’s exactly what I’m saying! You really get me, Chuck.”

  “It’s Clay, actually,” I mumble as the door swings open and my band bursts through.

  Ron grins at me as Mike snatches my guitar case out of my hands.

  “No, he’s—” Ron starts.

  “—Right behind you,” I finish, cutting him off. “Nice to meet you, Brenda.”

  “It’s Bonnie!” she huffs as we hurry away, her voice thin on the night air.

  “What the fuck is wrong with you, man?” Ron hisses as he swings his bass guitar into the back of Mike’s Honda. “She was hot!”

  “Fucking music majors, man,” I scoff. “You should try for her next time. Let’s get out of here.”

  I fling open the passenger door and drop into the seat before Ron can make eye contact with me again. I hear him promise to give Bonnie or Brenda or whatever her name is a shot next time he sees her, and that’s fine with me. I guess I’m not getting that twenty bucks either.

  Whatever.

  Chapter 4

  Penny

  I hear a key in the lock and the door swings open. Slowly the guitar case enters first and then Clay’s tousled, dark hair as he carefully, quietly looks inside. His head swivels from side to side, from the still-untouched kitchen table to me on the couch with my heels tucked under my thighs. His eyes open wider.

  “Hey…” He starts carefully, his voice lowered. “Sorry to interrupt your date. We got done early and I can still catch Mike downstairs…”

  “Don’t bother,” I sigh.

  He enters the rest of the way, almost funny as he carefully tiptoes into the middle of the room.

  “So… I don’t get it? Is the date still in progress or…?”

  “We broke up,” I blurt out, startling myself.

  Instantly the corners of my mouth tug down and my hand flies up to cover my chin.

  “Oh! Don’t cry!” he barks out as he dives toward the couch.

  Before I know it, his arms are draped over my shoulders, gathering me in a heartfelt but somewhat scrawny embrace. Still, it feels pretty nice.

  “I’m not crying!” I insist as I sniffle. “I don’t even know what I was thinking! He was a jerk!”

  “A total jerk,” Clay repeats as he pats my hair. “Who names their kid Brian anyway?”

  “It was Ryan.”

  “Even worse,” he mumbles consolingly.

  I wish I could say this is the first time that I have sniffled into Clay’s sweaty shoulder in my life. But since we have been best friends since registration day, it’s definitely been at least four or five times. I’ve given him a shoulder to cry on too, just for the record. It’s even.

  “What did the bastard do this time?” Clay asks gently when I’ve stopped sniffling and slumped into a slightly more relaxed position.

  “Do?” I repeat stupidly. “I guess… Nothing?”

  Clay shifts backward and removes the bottle of wine from my hands where I forgot I had been holding it. I can see the tattered edge of the label. I must have been picking at that thing for kind of a while.

  “What is that supposed to mean?” he asks as he stands and walks to the kitchen, then unfolds the corkscrew and begins to open the bottle. The popping sound of the cork is music to my ears and he pours us a couple of glasses and comes back to the sofa before I start.

  “Oh, this wine is terrible!” I whimper as I sip it. It’s sweet and sour at the same time. Kind of smells like feet.

  “It’ll get better. Just keep
drinking,” he advises me.

  Obediently, I force myself to take a gulp. Thankfully it is pretty strong and I think it is numbing the inside of my mouth.

  “So, do I need to kick his ass? I mean, do I need to have Mike go and kick his ass?”

  “No…” I sigh in defeat. “He’s just a jerk. Not a jerk who deserves an ass-kicking. Perhaps in a universal karma way he does. But not for his actions today.”

  “Good to know,” Clay smirks.

  I smile up at him, taking a deep breath. It’s amazing how different I feel now that he’s here. Just twenty minutes ago, I felt absolutely desolate. Now, it almost seems funny.

  “First, he was two hours late for dinner.”

  “No way!” Clay scoffs. “This was your big date! What a jerk!”

  “I know, right? I worked on this!”

  “You did! I can tell! Because you are terrible cook.”

  The image of the charcoal-briquette skis that are currently hidden away in the oven flashes through my mind, but I decide not to tell him about that right now.

  “Actually? I think I have potential. Dinner was completely edible. In fact, are you hungry?”

  His eyebrows go up. His blue eyes glitter.

  “Am I hungry? Is that seriously a question?”

  “Okay, okay,” I sigh as I heave myself off the couch. “I should not let this go to waste. This is my entire food budget for the rest of the month.”

  “Oh, come on, Penny,” he scolds me gently. “You didn’t really, did you?”

  I just shrug as I turn on the hot tap water, shaking the pasta underneath it to try to warm it up. He doesn’t really need me to admit it, and I don’t really need to say it out loud again.

  “So… I guess he just forgot,” I say into the sink.

  Clay brings over a couple of plates and sets them gently on the counter next to me. After a couple of minutes I can untangle some decent-sized portions of spaghetti noodles and wrangle them onto the plates. They slide around wetly as I spoon sauce over them.

  “I don’t know if we should eat this,” I mumble uncertainly as I squint at the cold sauce and slightly-less-cold pasta.