by Julia Kent
“If you stretched these peels out end to end, they’d reach to Worcester.” It’s been so long since I spent an entire day alone, I am starting to talk to myself, just to see if my voice works. “Springfield maybe.”
No answer, either to my comment or my text. Maybe I should get a pet to talk to. A Betta fish. They have to live alone, too.
I make the pastry for the crust and roll it out. You didn’t know I had these culinary skills, did you? The granddaughter of Emmeline Shelton was not raised to buy frozen piecrust at the supermarket, no sir. It cracks a little in the center but I pinch it together. No one will know.
By 5:00, the scent of hot apples, cinnamon, and sugar fills my apartment and probably the apartment across the hall as well.
By 7:00, a golden brown and beautiful pie is sitting on my counter, cool and ready to cut. I briefly consider an Instagram shot, but truth be told, the lattice crust is patched in two places; Jamey would not approve.
At 9:00, I take a fork from the drawer and dig in, eating from the center of the apple pie out to the crust. Why bother with a plate? There’s no one here but me. I lick the syrupy juice from my finger.
Still no answer.
RYAN
We have five kids in my family: Ellen, Michelle, Dina, Tessa …and me.
Notice something different about that last kid?
Yeah. Mom and Dad heard it once I was born. “Kept trying till you had that boy, huh?” Wink wink. Nudge nudge.
Pretty sure it got old pretty fast.
Being the baby boy in a family full of older sisters means there are loads of picture albums with me wearing makeup, dressed in heels and dresses, and being paraded around like a pet. That’s pretty much what I was — a pet.
Because Mom and Dad didn’t expect to have a bumper baby at 43.
Tessa is the next in line, seven years my senior, and she lives on the South Shore outside of Boston. Everyone else is back home, in Concord, California, outside San Francisco. I came here first, a few years ago, and Tessa’s husband happened to get transferred here a year later.
I’m thinking about Tessa because I’m staring at a text from her right now. It’s Saturday. She has twin four-year-old boys. Which means this text is about:
We need you to babysit so we can go to a hotel and have wild monkey sex for a few hours, the text reads.
Tessa has no filter.
Carlos has blue balls. The buildup of semen is so bad, his irises are losing color. If this continues, his accelerated hair growth will be a function of the semen pressing on the hair roots.
STOP! I text back. None of that is biologically possible, but I get the picture. When do you want me to babysit?
How about four days ago? she replies.
I don’t have a time travel machine, I tell her.
Can’t you invent one, Mr. Cal Tech Engineering Grad? Slacker.
Oh, brother.
Er… sister.
Tonight? I’ll get pizza and watch Mythbusters with the twins.
Sounds good. Just don’t teach them how to build a toilet bomb. Be here at 3.
Toilet bomb? What kind of uncle does she think I am?
That’s for second grade. They’re still in preschool. Molotov Cocktails first, then we’re going to hack musical birthday cards to play burping sounds. A man has to pace himself, I reply.
Once a nerd, always a nerd, she answers. I have pictures of you when you were a kid. Get too cocky with my twins and I’ll embarrass you, she shoots back.
Show pictures of me when I was younger to anyone I care about and Carlos will drown in his own semen.
I get a smiley face in return and run through my day.
It’s Saturday. A rare weekend night off for me.
Carrie just got dumped and turned me into Friend Central. Call me Mr. Huggy.
Zeke’s grinding me mercilessly about being a wimp.
And he’s right.
Tessa’s dig about my former nerdiness makes me decide my next move. Lifting. When you lift, your world becomes nothing but metal and gravity. People pay thousands of dollars a year for testosterone supplements. I just need my apartment set of adjustable weights and some music to pump by.
Lifting is the answer to everything.
Bzzzz. It’s my apartment door. I press the call button.
“Yeah?”
“It’s me.” I only know one person with that accent.
“What do you want, fuckface?”
“That’s what my hens call me, Ryan. Unless you plan to actually fuck my face, you get to call me Zeke.”
“Why would I want to do that?”
“Because I’ve got a damn fine face. Let me in."
“Why?”
“Because I can outlift you and you need someone to push your testosterone levels back into man range. I swear you have a tampon string hanging where your dick should be. I caught you braiding Carrie’s hair yesterday. You need an intervention."
“Fine.” I buzz him in just as I get a new text on my phone.
It’s my oldest sister Ellen again. You sure you finished the grad school application?
I type back, What grad school application? because I love imagining her head exploding.
RYAN! she screams via text. Don’t think it can’t be done. My sisters are masters at it.
Mission accomplished.
You have asked me twenty times. Every time I tell you yes. Stop asking, I respond.
Just making sure, she replies.
I’m not twelve years old, I answer.
In my mind, you are. Plus, it’s important to Mom and Dad. Having you move back home is really critical.
I’ve applied to grad school in California. Berkeley, Stanford, and Cal Tech. Made the mistake of telling my sisters. Ellen hasn’t stopped asking about it for two months.
No one here knows about my application. Not even Carrie.
Zeke bangs on the door before I can even try to shove that thought away, saving me from my own denial. Dad’s slow slide into early dementia has meant increased pressure from my sisters to go back home and help.
“I’m thinking about a change in hairstyle,” Zeke announces, walking in with a giant gym bag and two smoothies from a juice bar down the street. “Can you give me some highlights and lowlights?”
“Lowlights for a lowlife?”
“Do you braid pubic hair? Chloe would love to add that to the spa menu.”
“How would I do that when every woman who comes to O gets a full Brazilian? There hasn’t been any pubic hair on women since 2005.”
“Leave it to Chloe to figure out a way. Maybe you’ll single-handedly create a bush fashion trend. If anyone can do it, you can, mate. You were epic today.”
“Thank you.”
“Epic fail.” He studies me. “I don’t get it, man. Really. Just make a move. You haven’t even kissed her.”
From pubic hair braiding to Carrie in two seconds.
“Yes, I have,” arguing automatically, cringing as I say the words.
“That mistletoe at the office Christmas party two years ago doesn’t count.”
“Not that.”
Eyebrows up, Zeke grabs my weight set and starts doing curls. “Spill.”
“The other night. She came here, upset because she was dumped. And she kissed me.”
“She kissed you?”
“Yeah. But I kissed her back.”
“And?”
“And what?”
“Did you sleep with her?”
“No.”
He recoils like I poked him with a hot iron. “Why not?”
How the hell do I answer this? While my logical brain tries to figure that out, my stupid brain spits out, “Because she was worried she has a broken vagina.”
Stupid brain has impulse control issues.
He squints. “There are tests for that. Easy. Go to the health department, get some antibiotics, you’re good to go. Not that I would know,” he adds quickly.
“Not that. She felt… vulnerable. Worried about
what it meant to be dumped by a gay guy again. I couldn’t just make a move on her in that state, so — ”
“Again? This wasn’t her first gay boyfriend?”
“Damn it.”
“What the hell are you doing here, Ryan?” He hands me a 55-lb dumbbell and I work my triceps. “Either act or move on. Sounds like she’s a hot mess.”
“Carrie is great. Better than great. You’re the pot calling the kettle black.”
“I’m a pot who gets laid. Unlike you. I don’t get it. You have some weird, crazy hang-up about her. She’s not a unicorn. There are plenty of other women out there if she rejects you.”
When, the voice inside my head says, crackling like a handbrake on a train being pumped. When she rejects me.
I shrug. “Why are you so obsessed about this? It’s my life.”
“Because it’s too painful to watch, man. You’re pining away for her and she likes you, and you don’t see it.”
“We’re friends. She doesn’t like me.”
“You said she kissed you.”
“To prove she’s still attractive to men. Or something.”
“She picked you to kiss. Not me.” Shrug. Lift.
I grab the second dumbbell from him and work on toe lunges while he starts doing burpees. “So?”
“Women don’t just pick random guys to kiss when they’re trying to prove a point. Guys are random. Women aren’t.”
“You’re suddenly an expert in human psychology?”
“Aren’t we both? You have to be to do our jobs at O.” He powers through more burpees, panting hard. “Think of Carrie like she’s a client at O.”
I groan at the thought. “What?”
“Seriously. Apply work standards to her. You know when a client has the hots for you, right?”
“Yeah.”
“What tips you off?”
“The crotch grabs.” I make it through another set of lunges and drop the dumbbells. “Carrie hasn’t gone in for the kill.”
“Yet.”
I don’t even dignify that with an answer.
“She spends all her free time with you. You curl up on the couch and watch prepper shows. You share pints of ice cream. I’ll bet you even share the same spoon.”
No comment.
“We’re friends.”
“She lets you braid her hair.”
“Friends.”
“She came to you in a moment of weakness and kissed you to prove a point.”
“Friends.”
“Does she do that with her female friends?”
I’m losing this argument.
“If — and I’m only hypothetically entertaining this to prove you wrong — if Carrie’s into me, she has a terrible way of showing it. After that kiss, she pulled back and went on and on about what a good friend I am, how she’s so glad we’re friends, friends, friends, friends.”
“That’s your fault.”
“I know.”
I give up.
“You need to fix this. Go for it. Kiss her. Be the aggressor. Kiss her like you mean it, then screw her silly.”
“I don’t want to screw her silly. I want more than that.”
“A silly screw would be a start. You need to start somewhere.”
I hold the 55s over my head and turn, doing pivot lunges, calves screaming.
“You’re right,” I grunt out.
“Excuse me?”
“You’re right.”
“About time you admitted it.” His face is beet red as he grabs a water bottle and chugs. Then he sets his jaw in a funny way, rubbing his chin as he watches me with cat-like eyes. “What about the wedding?”
“What wedding?”
“Jenny’s wedding.”
“You going?”
He gives a half grin. “Hell, yeah. I love it when my exes get married.”
“You slept with Jenny?”
“Years ago. Way back. She was fine.”
“Jenny and Carrie are best friends.”
“And Carrie needs a date.” Zeke’s words fill my living room. So does a strangely compelling odor. Some guys get sweaty and just smell like effort. Other guys get sweaty and smell like —
“Jesus, Zeke, did you have sex before you came over here?” I sniff the air.
“Yeah. Uber driver.” He grins.
“You had sex with an Uber driver?”
“UberX, man. Eight-passenger SUV. Nice, flat backseat. She had bottled water and snacks and everything.” He shakes his head. “Never knew how convenient those little travel packs of baby wipes could be.”
“You met a complete stranger through Uber and had sex with her in her car?”
“Trust me. Better than PlentyOfFish or Match.com.”
“Uber isn’t an online dating app!”
“It is now.”
“You reek of pussy.”
“Glad to know you remember what it smells like.”
“I know what it smells like.”
“I meant other than sniffing your own armpits.”
“Remind me why I am friends with you.”
“Because I give you all the good ideas. Ask Carrie to be your date for the wedding. We’re all going.”
“Why would I be her date?” He’s onto something, though.
“Because you like her. Because chicks love weddings. Weddings are like stirrups at the gynecologist’s office, mate.”
I don’t want to know.
He doesn’t wait for me to ask what he means. “They make women’s knees fall wide open.”
“You’re sick.”
“I’m not the one walking around with blue balls.”
“Speaking of blue balls,” I say, looking at the clock, “I need to go help my brother-in-law.”
Alarm fills Zeke’s face. “Man, have I been wrong about you and Carrie? You’re into guys now?”
“What? No!”
“Then how the hell are you helping him with a blue balls problem?”
“Babysitting. Remember the twins?”
“You mean the demon spawn.”
“They’re not that bad.”
“Those two little Tasmanian devils gave themselves a powder bath in my five gallon bucket of protein shake mix. Burned through a couple hundred bucks of whey. I’m still finding powder in crevices in my apartment after that time you brought them over. Why would you willingly babysit on a Saturday night?”
“To help my sister.”
“You gonna braid her hair too, mate, or is that just for women you’re afraid to hit on?”
“Shut up.”
“Ask Carrie to the wedding. Tell her something. Hell, tell her you’ll be her fake boyfriend. Anything to get an in.”
“An in?”
“Think about it. Spend a weekend on Cape Cod making her look good in front of her friends. She’s already been humiliated by being dumped by a guy who likes hot dogs more than vertical tacos.”
“Vertical…” My mind forms an image. “Jesus, Zeke. You’re disgusting. Seriously.”
“What? Tacos are delicious.” He winks at me. “Going as her date is genius. Tell her it’s all pretend. You’re doing her a favor. Be affectionate in public. Be the hot guy she landed on the rebound. Then make your move.”
I can’t believe I’m considering this, but he might be onto something.
“Offer to rescue her,” I say slowly.
“Right. Be the nice guy who’s going already. Give her a way to save face while you figure out how to get her to sit on yours.”
I throw a towel at him. “Stop it.”
“Stop what? Telling you the truth?”
“Talking about Carrie like that.”
“Jealous?”
“No. Just… don’t.”
“You realize she’s hot, right? Hot enough for some other guy to make a move before you do.”
My balls turn into ice cubes at the thought.
“You need a date, anyhow. Something other than babysitting rugrats.”
I snatch the
towel up and walk away. “Speaking of which, gotta shower.”
“That’s it? I thought we were lifting.”
I look at the clock. “Fine. Let’s run stairs.”
Zeke hates stairs. He groans.
I grin.
* * *
Walking into Carlos and Tessa’s house is like going to a daycare center run by hummingbirds who moonlight at Starbucks.
Before I can shout “hello,” I step on a pile of LEGO blocks, lose my balance, catch myself on the edge of the couch, and feel warm breath on my calves.
“UNCLE RYAN!” two little boys scream, lunging at me.
“Did you bring soda?” Elias asks, his little butt firmly on the top of my foot. His brother, Darien, is settling into the same position on my other foot. I carefully lift each foot, wondering if I could do toe lunges with one kid in each hand.
“Good thing your mom didn’t have triplets,” I announce, looking down at them. I feel like the Jolly Green Giant.
“Why?”
“Because then I’d need to grow a third foot.”
“But you can’t. You only has two foots,” Darien explains seriously. He looks like Carlos, with deep chocolate eyes and dark, wavy hair.
“Two feet,” Elias corrects him. With features like Tessa’s, only translated into XY versions, Elias looks more like the men in our family.
Which means when I take my nephews out in public, everyone assumes he’s my son.
Surprisingly, I don’t mind.
“MOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMMMMMYYYYY!” Darien screams. “Can people have three feet?” He gives me a fearful look, pressing his palms against my calf. “Where would it grow out of?”
“What are you telling them now? People can’t grow extra feet.” Tessa comes around the corner from the hallway, her fingers working an earring.
“I said if you’d had triplets, I’d need a third foot.” I start shuffling around the room, using the little boys’ backs as brooms to push toys aside. They don’t seem to mind.
“If I’d had triplets, I’d trade your third foot for a third breast. Way more useful.” Tessa looks me up and down. “You look good.”
“Um, thanks? You suddenly become a client at O? Why are you commenting on my appearance?”
She studies my face. I study her right back. Her hair’s been cut and styled, and she’s wearing makeup. A dress. Her feet are in high heels and a light, floral scent fills the room.
Tessa generally lives in yoga pants and whatever shirt she threw on after her nightly bath, so….
