by Julia Kent
Best friends can read you so well.
Too well.
“Nothing. That’s kind of, well — nothing. It was just — “
“Just?”
“Okay. Ryan was pretending to be my date. I was so embarrassed with everything involving Jamey. He was a gentleman and stepped up to the plate, acting like my date. It was all fake,” I confess, throwing my hands over my face and peeking between my fingers.
“Then he’s a damn fine actor, Carrie. That didn’t look like he was pretending. And everyone knows you’re incapable of lying. One look at you and your feelings for him were obvious. In two years of dating my brother, I never saw you look at Jamey like that.”
“It was all in good fun.” The words taste like pity, a bitter, acrid flavor I never want to taste again.
“Carrie.” She touches my knee, her rings glittering. “You don’t have to pretend with me.”
Commence waterworks. As Jenny watches me with eyes so close to Jamey’s, so kind and understanding as I turn my latte salty with my own tears, she can’t help but look like my polar opposite. Jenny’s tan and happy and well-fucked.
I’m pasty white and pathetic and, well —
fucked.
“It’s just that I, I was pretending! I really was! Ryan offered to be my pretend date so I wouldn’t look like the pathetic unwitting beard that Jamey turned me into and so I went along with it.”
“Mmm, hmmm?” Jenny hands me a handkerchief. Perfectly pressed, monogrammed with her married initials, smelling like baby powder and lilac.
“And, and it was great! Ryan was the perfect fake boyfriend.”
“But it wasn’t fake, was it? You really care about Ryan.”
“It wasn’t fake for me!” I wail.
“Good grief, Carrie. I’ve known you had a thing for Ryan for a while. Jamey wondered, too.”
My sobs turn to a single sound like Godzilla gagging on a Xanax. “What?”
“You two are perfect for each other. Ryan’s casual and smart. So are you. You both love those stupid reality television shows. You even like the same kind of pizza!”
“But he’s my friend.”
“So? Aiden was my friend before he became my husband.”
“Yes, but you and Aiden are well matched.”
“What does that mean?”
“Look at me! Ryan and I have a 6.5 point difference!”
Her head snaps back. “You do not!”
I am so grateful I can speak in code and not have to explain the attractiveness math scale to her.
“He’s a 10.5! I’m a 4!”
“This again?” she groans. “You’re not a 4!”
“Then why did he ghost on me? And after we slept together at your wedding?”
“You did?” she squeals. “Was it good?”
“What do you think, Jenny? I finally sleep with a guy who thinks a woman’s body is a buffet after only being with guys who treat me like I’m gruel. Of course it was good.”
She snorts.
“It was great,” I admit. “It was everything I never knew I was missing.”
“Then why aren’t you with him?”
“Because he disappeared right in the middle of your reception. Came to work a couple of days later and commented on how it had been ‘fun’ pretending.”
“Ouch!”
“I know. Trust me, I know.”
“Carrie, I know how he looked at you at the wedding. He wasn’t faking.”
“Jenny, no offense, but you were too busy complaining about the squeaky corks in the Chardonnay to notice how Ryan looked at me.”
She doesn’t deny it, regret clouding her face. “I’m sorry. I really was too self-absorbed. Jamey’s breakup with you and coming out was an emotional rollercoaster on top of the wedding. But Jamey told me. Commented on it. I think Ryan managed to make my gay brother a little bit jealous.” I could do without her waggling eyebrows.
“I am not even going to attempt to parse that out. I need three psychologists, a sex therapist, Dan Savage, and a Freud puppet to even try.”
“Bottom line: your gay ex could tell Ryan feels more for you than some pretend feelings.”
“Then Ryan has an awful way of showing it,” I sob, sniffling and dabbing my eyes with logo-covered napkins. Coffee shops should be stocked with tissues. Preferably the kind with lotion built in, so criers like me don’t look like coke fiends after having a good cry in our lattes.
“Sounds like a big misunderstanding to me.”
“No. He was clear. He disappeared right after that one dance we had, and then all I got was a stupid text. I asked him where he went and he just said, ‘nowhere.’”
“Huh. I don’t know him that well, but it doesn’t add up.”
“Right. It doesn’t. And when things don’t add up, you know what that means?”
“It means you need to talk to him to clear the air.”
I was about to say you avoid, avoid, avoid, but okay. I’ll let Jenny think she’s right.
“I guess so.”
Too bad Ryan’s been gone from work for over a week. I have no idea where he is, or why he hasn’t been at work, and aside from Chloe’s offhand mention of a health problem his dad is having, I know nothing.
And why should I know anything? It’s not like I’m his girlfriend.
Bzzzz.
I look at my phone. Chloe.
“Oh, man.” I stand and sniff, then blow my nose. “I need to get back to work. Customer service phone problems.”
Jenny stares at me, hard. Then her eyes get huge. “No way. O really went for the phone sex line? Last year they were thinking about it, but I never imagined they’d actually do it.”
I shrug. “Never underestimate the power of a determined woman.”
“You mean desperate and sex starved.”
“Same thing.”
We say our goodbyes, and by the time I’m back at the office, Chloe’s at my desk, beaming.
“Carrie! You’ve been crying!” she says, dismayed, as I hurry into my cubicle, head down, wondering if Ryan’s back yet and praying he’s not. Her smile has turned to a concerned frown.
“Allergies. You know.”
“In November?” Can’t fool Chloe.
“Climate change,” I say, as if that explains everything. “Why are you in my cube?” I ask, trying to change the subject. “Not that you’re not welcome, but…”
“We got a new bid on the phone system for the master masseurs. Forty percent cheaper than the other guys.”
“And will the new vendor be forty percent less sexist?”
We share a knowing look. “You can’t have everything,” she says. “But Nick was impressed with Ryan’s coding knowledge and took his advice on a few things. Between you and Ryan, this project is going to fly.”
“That’s great.”
She hesitates. “What’s actually going on between you and Ryan, though?”
Do I seriously have a face that shows every single feeling I experience?
“Um, nothing.”
“Carrie.”
“That’s just it, Chloe. Nothing is going on between Ryan and me! NOTHING!”
Here I go again. Dehydration via crying is a real thing. Someone get me coconut water and alpha hydroxy night serum.
“Well,” she says, frowning. “I guess that’s good, then.”
“Good?”
“It’ll make it easier for you to take the promotion and transfer.”
The promotion.
“I really, really think you should take it, Carrie.”
I do, too. But not for the same reasons Chloe thinks. Mom and Dad will be sad I’m moving even further away from Michigan, but I gave up a long time ago on the idea that they’d ever visit me in my own life. I shouldn’t make them a factor in deciding.
This is mostly about Ryan. And Ryan’s made it very clear I’m not a part of his life anymore. So...
“Okay. I know. And I will.”
A big smile spreads across
her face. “Make it official. Send an email to corporate and cc me.”
Bzzzz. That’s my phone. I do a quick check.
Then a double take. Tessa. Ryan’s sister? Why is she texting me?
Carrie I’m so sorry. Ryan’s out of town and I have a babysitting emergency. Carlos got hurt at work. Is there any way you can you help me?
My expression makes Chloe give me a sharp look. “What’s wrong?”
“Ryan’s sister. She’s having an emergency. Her husband’s hurt. Needs a babysitter.” A helpless feeling fills me.
“For God’s sake, go!” Chloe makes a shooing gesture. “Don’t worry about work. Any mom in that situation is more important. Go!”
I run out of the office, pause at my desk, and text Tessa.
I’m coming right now, I say.
The drive to Tessa’s is miraculously only twenty-three minutes. Amazing how clear Route 3 can be in the middle of the day. I have to actually concentrate on driving faster than a turtle, which is unusual. My life experiences are set by external factors – rush hour with everyone else, grocery shopping on evenings and weekends like everyone else, vacation when everyone else goes.
You get the picture.
I pull up to Tessa and Carlos’ house, a small raised ranch in a Boston suburb. It looks exactly like the houses in my hometown, but actually costs six times as much, with a fourth of the land.
Why do I live where everything is so expensive? And why am I about to move to a housing market that is even worse?
Pushing all that aside, I race to their front door and knock hard, wondering how bad Carlos’s injury could be. What kind of occupational hazards do accountants face? Finger sprain on the calculator?
The front door flies open. No one’s there until I look down to see Elias, wearing a Batman hat and Spongebob underwear. Nothing else. Just that.
“Carrie!” he squeals.
“THANK GOD!” Tessa shouts. As I scoop Elias into my arms, he gives me a big hug, then wiggles down, doing a running leap onto the big L-shaped sectional by the television. “Carrie, thank you so, so much! I’m waiting to hear which hospital Carlos is at.”
“What happened?”
Tessa rolls her eyes. My fear and worry instantly goes down a notch. “They have this corporate wellness competition at work. Never get a group of desk jockey accountants together and throw a fitness challenge with financial incentives at them. It’s a recipe for injury.”
“Huh?”
“They went to a giant fitness center and had to do an obstacle course. Part of it involved a rope climb. You know, the knotted rope hanging from the top of the roof?”
“Yeah. I hated that as a kid.”
“Everyone hated it! So, of course, they made that part of the challenge.” Tessa keeps nervously looking at her phone. “Apparently, Carlos made it up, but his ankle got caught. He lost his grip and was suspended at the top for about ten minutes, upside down.”
“Oh my,” I gasp, covering my mouth with my hand. I’m actually trying not to laugh. The image is pretty bad.
“Go ahead. Laugh.” Tessa snorts. “I would laugh, too, except he may have broken his wrists trying to untangle himself.”
“Couldn’t anyone get him down?”
“None of them could climb that high. Took a while to find gym staff capable of getting up there. Meanwhile, Mr. CPA insisted on trying it himself. Got halfway down and then bam! He fell. Broke his fall with his hands.”
“Ouch!” I shudder. “Did you say wrists? As in, plural?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh, my God!”
“They should heal before tax season, but still.” Her eyes are unfocused, the words robotic. Shock makes people say strange things.
She checks her phone again. “I really appreciate this, Carrie. I’m pretty sure they’re taking him into Boston, so as soon as I know, I’ll leave. My mother-in-law will be here in about four hours, so it’s not forever.”
“Even if you need longer than that, it’s fine. Don’t worry about the boys. I’ve got them.” I give her a big hug. She grabs me back, hard. I can feel her worry through the facade of emotional control she wears.
You can tell she’s Ryan’s sister.
Tessa pulls back and looks at me, eyes a little watery, but she’s not letting herself cry. “You’re so nice. I see why Ryan fell for you.”
“Why Ryan… what?”
Tessa does this twist with her mouth that makes her look so much like Ryan for a second. Must be a family trait. “Oh, screw him. He’s so stupid. Why are men so stupid about love?” She sighs. “Ryan’s liked you since the day you two met at work.”
“What? He said that?”
“He never had to. I know my brother.”
“But he never said a word!”
“You were taken. You met Jamey the same day, Ryan said. Something about Jamey visiting his sister and you started dating right away?”
I did meet Jamey the same day I met Ryan. Jenny was training me for my new job, and we had lunch together at a little Asian-fusion place on Congress Street. Jamey popped in, saw his sister, and an hour later he asked for my number.
A simple twist – being trained by Jenny – changed everything between Ryan and me?
“Carrie?” Tessa hands me a half-full pint of my favorite ice cream. I take it and open it, eating directly from the pint. I don’t care.
“Ryan’s right. I met Jamey at lunch that first day at O. But it’s not like I was engaged to him. I mean, Ryan could have — ”
She squints at me. “You expected my brother to snipe you from another guy? My brother, who didn’t have his first date until he was nineteen? Little Ryan Donovan, who never went to a single dance in high school?”
“WHAT?” I practically scream, the chocolate brownie mixture in my mouth muffling my surprise. “Ryan what?”
She gives me a rueful look and walks past me, bending down before a big bookcase with cabinet doors on the bottom. Rifling around, she comes back with a big photo album, flipping through pages. Tessa settles on one and thrusts it at me.
Class of 2008, the picture says. A very thin guy who looks like he’s twelve is in the picture, all glasses and braces, wearing a t-shirt with a joke from the television show Big Bang Theory.
“Who’s the twelve-year-old?” I ask, my voice trailing off as I recognize the muted brown eyes behind those coke-bottle lenses. The melted ice cream in my mouth turns to cement. “No way!”
Tess a laughs. “Yes way.”
“That’s Ryan?”
“He was a late bloomer.”
I stare at the picture. “That’s like saying sloths can be a little slow. He was, um...”
“Not at all like he is now.”
I swallow my mouthful and stare, dumbfounded. “No. Not a bit. He looks so much like the guys I dated in high school.”
“Really?” Her voice floats so high with skepticism.
“Other than my gay high school boyfriend, yeah.”
“Oh, honey. We all had that one gay boyfriend back then. Hell, I grew up in the Bay area. It was basically a rite of passage.”
“But what does this have to do with Ryan never telling me he, that he — ”
“Loves you?”
The room spins, and not just because Elias and Darien somersault into me, making my ankles weak. They giggle in stereo, then look up at me. Elias looks so much like a little version of Ryan that I just stare, time stopping. All I can do is breathe.
Love.
Bzzz. Tessa grabs her phone, looks at a message, and rushes out the door, shouting.
“Speaking of love — Carlos! Got to go. Only one hand has broken bones. The other one just aches. He says they transferred him and now I need to go to Beth Israel Deaconess. He says the best hand surgeons are there.” Freezing, her eyes go unfocused, staring over my shoulder. “Hand surgeons. Oh, geez.”
Tears spill over her lower lids and her hand grasping the phone starts to shake. I reach for her, holding her shoulders.<
br />
“Do you need me to drive you? We can all pile into a car and I can drop you off.”
She sniffs and wipes her tears, squaring her shoulders, stretching her neck. “No. I’m fine. It’s just — ‘hand surgeon’ makes this more real.” She looks over at the twins, who are deeply engrossed in a Peppa Pig episode. “I guess I should be grateful it’s just his hands.” She sniffs again. “When it rains, it pours. You heard about my dad?”
“Your dad?”
“The stroke? Ryan didn’t tell you?”
“Um, sure,” I lie. “I heard about it. Is he okay?”
“Better than okay. They think he had a slow brain bleed that led to what we thought was dementia. He’s got more clarity now than he’s had in a while. Still not out of the woods. Ryan’s been there for over a week.”
“Oh. Right. The last thing you need is Carlos getting hurt.”
She shrugs. “That’s the risk.”
“Risk?”
“Of life. Of love. Getting hurt. Watching them get hurt. It’s all part of being alive. The alternative isn’t all that great.” She gives me a quick hug. “Thanks. I’ll keep you posted.”
And with that, she dashes off, leaving me reeling.
RYAN
“I’m so glad you made the time to come home, sweetie. It’s been wonderful having you here for so long.” Mom pours coffee out of the same machine she bought when I was in high school. Having an old-school engineer father means that every product in the house is meticulously maintained, fixed instead of thrown away, on strict maintenance schedules. I’m sure Mom cleaned the coffee machine with a vinegar cycle at some point this month.
And if she didn’t, Dad did.
The four-bedroom house where we grew up is outdated but clean, a well-oiled machine that’s a throwback to the 1970s, when Mom and Dad bought it. As the Bay Area gentrifies and billionaires consider our modest two-story a “teardown,” we call it home.
For now.
I’m in my pajamas, sucking down a second cup of coffee, about to go for a run. My oldest sister, Ellen, bursts through the front door, her arms filled with bags of yarn.
Taryn, her oldest daughter, tags along behind with a little yappie dog on a leash. The dog, Cupcake, is a new addition to Ellen’s growing menagerie of animals.
“Thanks for the help, Ry,” Ellen says dryly as I watch her stagger into the house and dump the yarn on the couch.
