by Ryan Schow
And that’s why I don’t call him, why I suck ass as a friend.
The closer I get to home, the more I can’t stop thinking of Netty, about how she’s got Brayden’s child in her and she’s not telling him and so I don’t call her either. What a twisted web of secrecy we’re starting to have amongst each other! It’s no cozy ordeal, that’s for sure.
“I’m so pathetic,” my mouth says out loud. I laugh a little, and then I do my best not to cry.
For being this mighty thing, this genetic super-freak, immortal and all powerful, I feel like such a vagina right now. So not-strong it’s humiliating. The truth is, I want Orianna. All the blubbering infant wants is her mommy…
That, of course, is exactly why this stubborn child is headed straight home.
3
When I arrive at my mother’s house, she pulls me into the biggest hug. Like she hasn’t seen me in eons. I’m like, “Mom, you’re crushing my ribs!”
Reluctantly she lets go.
We just started being like this, and I sometimes don’t know how to take it. I’ve been mad at her most of my life. I spent years hating her. Years! She never really loved me, and that was a problem neither of us could resolve. Now she does. I feel her love not only in her words, but in her actions as well. In the end, I really don’t care why she loves me, I only care that she does.
Of course, it’s because I know my father will be killed sometime in the future and she will drive herself head-on into traffic killing herself and two kids that I don’t put up much of an argument when she wants to practically suffocate me in a hug. She won’t be around long, so I get my hugs where I can.
After a pleasant dinner, I stay overnight in her guest bedroom. The next morning, despite her begging, I tell her I have to go. She tells me she loves me about ten times then almost breaks into tears when I finally go. I pull out of her driveway, and she waves to me from the front door, bundled up in her robe looking so beautiful it hurts my heart. I wave back, then get on the freeway and head south.
I’m not really sure where I’m going, but it doesn’t matter. There is freedom in this. I have no where to be, no one to answer to, no responsibilities. I see why future me craves the idea of being a nomad, why I rail so hard against injustice and the slavery to come.
The preservation of freedom drives me that much.
So I end up in L.A., driving the city aimlessly, not caring where I go, not worried about being lost because, if you’re somewhere, you’re never really lost. I end up in a posh restaurant as the only girl eating alone and I think I see Cameron Diaz and Zac Efron, not together, but in the same restaurant.
Thinking of how much I hated the whole High School Musical side of Zac makes me realize he’s changed a lot, and I do like the guy. Especially after seeing his film, “We Are Your Friends.” Which is great because he comes over and asks why I’m eating alone and all I can say is, “I simply prefer my own company to others lately, and not because I’m shy or some shut in, or friendless, but because I just can’t stand all the f*cking noise.”
For whatever reason, he laughs, then sits down with me and orders a drink. He orders me one, too, and the waiter doesn’t ask my age. He just keeps looking at me like he’s in love. Which he thinks he is, even though he knows he isn’t. After a second, though—and maybe this is just me always being down on myself and suspecting the worst—I wonder if this is the Zac Efron, and not just some guy in the best Zac Efron disguise ever.
That would be my luck.
I work diligently not to read his mind, and it works. I pretend it’s him. He’s friendly in a way I would not have expected. And hot. OMFG, he’s hot! We have this stimulating conversation about this and that, and then he leaves me his number (and only his number—no name) and says “If you’re ever back in town…blah, blah, blah,” and with a huge smile, I’m like, “For sure. Thanks for not being so noisy.”
He laughs, and then he’s off and I’m back alone. Finishing a drink. Wondering if any of that happened. Wondering if that was really Zac.
Deep down, I want to believe it was, so I won’t crawl his mind in case I’m wrong. I’ve got to say, I’m so freaking tired of disappointment these days that I can’t take any more. If I learned he was not the celebrity, that I was going all gaga over a faker, this might be the straw that breaks the camel’s back. Me being the camel. Or I might call him and make a formal date, who knows.
I make my way through Santa Monica, trying not to remember the beating I took when I came here to kill Demetrius Giardino. Spellbound and uncertain, I merge onto Hwy 1 heading south. From there I’m dying to see the beaches: Manhattan Beach, Hermosa Beach, Redondo Beach. After that it’s Laguna Beach, Huntington Beach and Seal Beach. When I cruise into Long Beach it’s getting dark and I want to see the town in the morning. I locate a bed & breakfast with what I’m told are promising views and book the night. The minute my body hits the bed, I’m passed out cold, sleeping soundlessly all the way through breakfast and into the late hours of the morning.
Holy cow, I sooo needed that!
Driving around town, I take in the sights even as my stomach grumbles like crazy. Finally I pull over and ask this hot guy with long hair and groovy sunglasses where the best place to eat breakfast is.
“The Breakfast Bar by far. It’s on Atlantic, you can’t miss it.”
Sure enough, the place is amazing. It’s owned by these really sweet people who make me feel welcome. I’m not used to people being nice, so this is a treat in itself. I order Uncle Marcee’s Omelet Casserole, which takes me back to my earlier years when I was rotund and in love with food. For some reason, my breakfast leaves me feeling joyously nostalgic. I think I actually cry a drip or two eating a potato pancake. The owner, she comes and asks me what’s wrong and all I can manage to say is that I grew up too fast, and this pancake is the best thing I’ve had in years.
After breakfast, I head to Aquarium of the Pacific and I swear to Jesus, it’s the most enlightening decision I’ve made in my whole life. Who knew about these wonders of the sea? Not me. I knew about the wonders of donuts, the wonders of processed food, the wonders of taking a good dump and vomiting after a meal, but to witness so much life under water? Ah, the things I’ve been missing! This, of course, seems to illuminate the purpose of my journey, and that is to be both everywhere and nowhere. Going rogue, experiencing these things, not confining myself to Palo Alto or the Bay Area or Astor Academy, it’s me seeing what could be if only I let go.
I leave the Aquarium four hours later, feeling like I’ve overstayed my welcome, but the jellyfish alone left their impression upon me. They seemed so graceful, so at peace with themselves. Can I ever feel that way? I wonder. Could I ever possess such elegance?
After Long Beach, it’s more beaches: Seal Beach, Huntington Beach and Newport Beach. To be honest, something in Huntington Beach speaks to me so I head back there and locate a picturesque rental house with beach access and ocean views to die for. I book it for the entire week, paying in advance. If I stay this long or go early, it won’t matter. Right now I’m happy. A stranger to everyone. I’ve no past, barely even a present—hell, I’m not even a blip on anyone’s radar! Did I mention gorgeous people are everywhere? Guys with big muscles and surf boards, girls on roller blades with bikinis strung so far up their asses you have to appreciate not just their butt cheeks but their fearlessness. And it’s busy. We’re talking about people on bicycles, scooters and skateboards. People with dogs and beach towels. People splashing in the water and sunbathing and chit-chatting with beach-towel neighbors and other attractive people.
Everyone seems in great spirits. Not at all driven into depression by the woes of life. There are no angry drivers, no smug faces, and everyone smiles and says hello like they mean it. That’s about the time I start talking to strangers. Just having conversations. Making up shit to talk about just so I can be a part of something…different. This culture, oh boy…it’s heaven.
4
First things first: I
buy five hot AF bikinis, a big beach towel, and a BPA free jug to hold ice cold water. I’ve never been to the beach before, so the feeling of sand in my toes is delicious, borderline sensual…a feeling I won’t forget, and…did I say there are guys with carved muscles and bronze bodies and yummy six-packs all over the place? Tons of them.
Like gobs of them!
Day one on the beach: Holy balls. I am nobody. Perfectly anonymous. So not very important to anyone I can’t help smiling. Face in the breeze, big Prada sunglasses on, I can’t stop smelling the ocean water and how the salty-soaked air seems to draw out all my stress. Plus, I look good.
No, scratch that. I look f*cking amazing.
I’m not flaunting my shit in a butt-floss bikini or anything so scandalous, but I’d be a motherfreaking liar if I said I wasn’t thrilled about all the attention coming my way. Talk about refreshing! These guys tearing off my bikini with their wanton gazes, they aren’t Astor Academy kids. They’re just…normal. Not moneyed or blue blooded or tucked away from the useless eaters in a high school designed to teach them how to take over the world. No, these are normal guys with normal jobs and normal lives. Guys with their eyeballs all over me. Guys with their smiling mouths and the kind of roaring testosterone you can practically taste in the air.
A few of them ask me out; one or two stop only to talk, to tell me they like my hair, my skin, my ass, my good looks.
Like I said, normal guys. As opposed to genetically modified hot guys.
Then there is this one kid with sandy blonde hair cut short, eyes like melted chocolate and a deep tan even I’m envious of. He’s maybe nineteen or twenty, not much older than me in years. Yet the way he talks with me—the way he so fearlessly holds my gaze—he seems much older, more mature. I’m on my beach towel, lying on my back shading my eyes from the sun when he approaches me. I’m feeling a bit vulnerable and exposed, and it feels good. Exactly what I need. No one can hurt me, I tell myself, so I don’t worry. And because I don’t worry, I feel the way I should feel, which is wanted, appreciated.
So this kid, he’s standing there with his Muscle & Fitness pecs, his ripped stomach and his brand new board shorts and he says, “So is there a boyfriend in the picture or is this a solo outing?”
“No boyfriend,” I say, shading my eyes, “but my girlfriend will be here soon.”
His mouth, with its perfect teeth and a good looking five o’clock shadow around it, makes this awkward sort of wanting grin, like he can’t decide if he likes the idea of me being into chicks or hates the idea that I’m not into dudes. I can’t help feeling amused.
Then again, this makes me think I could be into him if I was a local.
“So, girlfriend…hmmm,” he muses. “Are we talking about a friend who’s a girl with boobs and popcorn sleepovers? Or are you talking about the kind of girlfriend that goes down on you after four or five glasses of wine? If I’m not being too personal, or crass, of course.”
“Of course,” I say.
The way I respond, as if he’s mildly entertaining—and how I don’t answer—it’s me making the most of my assets. It’s me understanding the art of the tease.
“Just laying on that towel, looking…um…so damn tasty, I’m thinking it’s pretty shitty of you to not answer me.”
“Did you know communication is eighty percent non-verbal?” I ask.
“I do,” he says, changing tact. “What is my body saying now?”
I laugh, once again denying him any response. Through my sunglasses, I can see my effects on him. Then, when he’s about to break, right when that charming, confident mask starts ever so slightly to slip off his face, I say, “Come back in half an hour and if we’re not going down on each other, we’re not girlfriends. And if she’s not here altogether, then perhaps you can fill in for her until she arrives.”
“Fill in?”
“Yeah, as beach buddies. That sort of thing.”
“Half an hour?” he says, his confidence returning. “How about I wait for her, and if she doesn’t arrive by then, I’ll just stay.” Sitting in the sand beside me, he says, “I like that idea so much better.”
And that’s how I met Sebastian Fray. Sweet, sexy Sebastian Fray who smells exactly like all the hair products he’s named after. He tells me his mother was a cosmetologist, and that when he was born, Sebastian products were the absolute shit. She loved the name. Loved what it represented as a brand.
“Your name,” I say, “it totally fits your look.”
“What do you mean?” he asks. I see the anticipation in his eyes, how he is starved for feedback from me, how he’s dying for me to tell him something that’ll make him think he can have me. Because he wants me so bad I can practically digest the sexual tension between us.
“You know what I mean,” I tease, playing with my hair. A beach breeze blows over my skin—face, stomach, legs—and I feel myself tingling with want. He looks at how my arms have broken out into goosebumps, and how I’m leaning my body toward his.
All without a word. All non-verbal and in sync with each other.
“If you get me, and you very well might by this point, then you know what I want.”
I do.
Pushing my glasses up so he can see my amethyst eyes, I grin and say, “You can start by taking me to dinner. If I like you—and that’s a gargantuan if—then perhaps I’ll let you buy me an after-dinner drink.”
“Perhaps?”
“Yes. Perhaps. As in not no, but not yes either. It’s totally noncommittal. It’s more civilized than a maybe, but certainly not a definitely. If you know what I mean.”
“I do,” he says, enjoying me. “Are those your real eyes?”
“Are those your real abs?”
He laughs and in that moment, I don’t even have to crawl his brain to know he’s praying I won’t let him down. That tonight we can enjoy each other. Some emotions you can’t hide, like how a hot guy looks at a girl he craves, and how he’s gazing so deeply into her eyes while thinking about her lips. It’s refreshing, this not knowing. So I stay out of his brain, allow him his secrets, his charm, his nervousness and his lust. And I read his body language instead.
Looking at the time on my cell phone, I say, “Time for you to get going.”
“I have no where to be,” he says, digging his feet into the sand.
“You’re not taking me out to dinner in board shorts,” I tell him. I’m sure he knows that, though. He strikes me as cultured enough to understand basic first date etiquette, even if I don’t.
“Why not?” he says, playing the game, being extra charming, but not in a sick, syrupy way.
“Because I’m not going to stare at your nipples while I eat,” I reply, giving him a light sideways shove on the defined slope of his shoulder. He savors the contact. I like it, too. His skin is warm, firm, lightly slicked with either sunscreen or sweat. The feel of him, the mass of his body beneath my hand, it has me thinking about the kinds of things a girl like me shouldn’t be thinking. But then he laughs at my joke about his nipples and I find his laughter disarming. Like we could have a conversation and sex and both would actually have some deeper meaning.
“Fine, if you insist,” he says. “Text me your address and I’ll pick you up at eight.”
I text him; he receives it, and then I shoo him off. He stands up, brushes sand off his toes, then winks and heads up to the bike path where he slips into a sea of roller skaters, casual bicyclists, joggers and walkers. He looks over his shoulder twice. The second time he looks, I wave and he smiles. My God, he’s got one hell of a smile.
5
Before meeting Sebastian, I drove all over the state to get here. Not because I was headed somewhere specific. I drove everywhere because I was dying to be nowhere. With my music loud, I drove, I felt the beat of each song, savored it in my bones as me and my Audi made a real connection with the road. For a short while, I understood peace. Now I’m in Huntington Beach in a stunning beach home getting ready for a date. A real date! Shouldn’t
I have the first date jitters? Um, yes!
But I don’t.
Maybe it’s because if the date is a flop, I don’t care. Nothing gained, nothing lost. But maybe there is something to gain, my inner goddess tells me. Not a boyfriend, or sex—if I want it. No, what I stand to gain might just be a sense of normalcy in the midst of being all powerful.
I am all powerful, I tell myself.
It’s a weird sensation, trying to be normal with all the things I’ve done. I’m not even sure that I deserve to feel this sane. I mean, is this how criminals feel in everyday situations? Is this how a super hero feels? I’m at peace, though, and that’s something. A start. No one is melting my genetically fresh body, or hijacking my mind; no one is rejecting me or chasing me or telling me they’re from the future and old AF and trying to resuscitate a dead wife.
Right now I’m going on a date with a boy.
Wow!
Sebastian shows up to my beach house right on time, which I appreciate since every chick flick I’ve ever watched has the guy showing up so early the girl is not even ready. I am. I’m ready and gosh dammit, I feel great!
From the beach house’s wall of windows, which has gorgeous views of the water, I see him. He pulls up in a lime green rag top VW Bug (which looks restored and flawless), gets out, looks at my RS5 with the kind of eyes boys get when they see their first Ferrari.
It stops him.
Without crawling his brain, I imagine he’s realizing for the first time that I might have money. Not that it matters. We’re not dating, or marrying or whatever, so he doesn’t have to feel like he’s got the smaller dick between us. Even if he does.
Besides, I can’t stop looking at him. He’s in light blue ripped jeans and a white button up with the sleeves rolled and two open buttons up top. On his wrist is a white, coral bracelet and when I open the door to him, he smells like he just showered.
He’s all man at this point.
