“Oh, yeah,” I say, slightly addled. Not that I really care about the time, seeing how I have no other place to go than home, where I’m sure Jackie is furthering her research on divorce law. I glance down at my brightly colored sports watch. “Guess it is getting late,” I say for the sake of having a response.
“Hey, uh…” Ben’s voice trails in a hesitant way. He runs his hands up and down his thighs several times before stopping at his knees and giving them a solid slap. “Wanted to ask you something, Emily.”
There’s that knot in my stomach again. It’s flipping and twisting, and the pace of my breathing picks up. It’s the same feeling I had with Jaime on that second date—that nervous energy bouncing around when we shared our first kiss.
“What is it?” I manage to ask in a casual manner. I reach for my bag and stand up.
Ben, too, stands, then says, “How’d you like to go out on a date?”
I’m flummoxed. Positively flummoxed.
“Uhhh.” I scratch at the base of one of my braids. “I know Jude was not one for convention,” I give a shaky laugh, “but I kind of am. A little bit, I mean.” I nervously cross my arms over my chest. “Live your own life, yeah, yeah, but…I do have my morals, my convictions and…” I squint. “Don’t you have a girlfriend, Ben?”
He pulls his shoulders up high, gives a sideways look, and says with a loud sigh and drop of the shoulders, “Falling out. We had a falling out a few weeks ago.”
“Oh,” I say, feeling the game suddenly change. I look into his eyes and feel that loopy tummy feeling again. “I’m sorry,” I mumble, not sure what I should say.
“We’d been having a rough time for the past couple months anyhow.” Another shrug. “It was bound to happen.”
I apprehensively survey the room. There are only two people left. With the news I’ve just heard from Ben, the low light and practical privacy of this room, those blue eyes of Ben’s that I could swim forever in, and with the whole question mark hanging over the dating-others topic with Jaime, I know I need to do one thing and one thing only: get the hell out of here.
“So,” Ben says. He tucks both thumbs under his suspenders. “Coffee? Tonight?”
“Uhhh.” I try to avoid his rapturous gaze. Unfortunately, it’s not working. I can’t not look at him. I press my lips together tightly, willing myself to remain calm and leave this room with my wits about me.
My eyes unwillingly lock onto his again, and my knees turn to Silly Putty. “I’m kind of seeing someone right now,” I say in a hushed tone.
“Oh,” he says simply. “Well—”
“I’m dating. We’re dating.” I shake my head, kind of becoming confused in my swirl of heavy thoughts. “It’s nothing serious,” I blurt out. “I just—I, uh—you know?” I hug my arms tighter and ever more awkwardly to my chest.
“When you want to go out for coffee, give me a ring,” he says coolly. He pulls a small, folded piece of paper from his back pocket and places it in my palm. He then leans in to me and gives me the lightest of pecks on my rapidly blushing cheek. “Love the cornrows, by the way.” He fingers a braid and smiles. “Think about it, and call me.”
As he pulls away, leaving behind a trail of cologne that makes my knees turn from putty to straight up water, I find myself alone in the dimly lit room. Alone with some crazy-ass emotions and thoughts.
Mouth agape, thunderstruck, I look down in my palm and heave a sigh. My stomach is dancing wildly.
“Fuck,” I whisper. With trembling hands I unfold the note. It reads: Call me, gorgeous, and Ben’s number is scribbled underneath. “Fuck, fuck.”
I tighten my fist around the note and make a beeline for the door. The girls are going to have an epileptic fit over this! I’m freaking out here! Operation Blind Date just got so much more interesting!
***
“Jackie!” I shout, barging through the front door. Judging from the loud, familiar squeak of the hinges, Jackie didn’t bother herself with oiling it. “Jack! You are never going to believe what happ—”
I stop abruptly in the entrance, slowly losing my grip on the doorknob.
“Jackie,” I gasp.
I rush to the futon, where a small ball of blanket-covered Jackie is lying. I can hear little sobs and cries from underneath the pile, then a blowing nose.
“Jackie.” I take a cautious seat next to her. “What happened?”
I look about the room. There’s an empty bottle of wine turned over on its side on the coffee table as well as an opened bottle of rum and three open cans of Diet Coke, one of which is toppled over with a small circle of liquid pooling around it. There’s an empty wine glass, a small glass containing a few ice cubes, and an ashtray filled with at least half-a-dozen cigarette butts and their ashes.
“Jackie,” I say in a calm voice. I carefully pull back the blanket from where I think her head is. Wrong end. Her lacy, boy-short, pantied rear greets me. “Jackie.” I pull back the other end of the blanket, and there’s her bleach-blonde head.
She blows her nose into a tissue loudly again, then sniffles. “Go away,” she whines. She pulls the blanket back over her head, but yanks a bit too hard. Her ass is completely showing.
“Jack,” I say somewhat curtly. I give her rear a sharp smack, and she yelps.
“Hey!” She pokes her head out from under the blanket. “I’m in a fragile state right now. Don’t pick on me.”
“Oh, jeez.” I pull the blanket back down to cover her rear and insist that she sit up.
After a few heartless protests, she finally pulls herself up, draping the blanket over her shoulders.
She is a mess. Her mascara has completely run; it’s reaching nearly three-quarters of the way down her cheeks. Her eyes are all red from who knows how many tears (and drinks and smokes), and she looks absolutely helpless in her skimpy outfit: a sheer, black pajama tank top and lacy panties.
“We need to start from the beginning,” I say. I grab the glasses and some of the cans from the coffee table and traipse into the kitchen. “What on earth sent you into such a tizzy that you turned to so much booze?”
When I come back for the second round of cleanup, Jackie’s pulling a worried face, dancing a finger in a circle on the futon.
“What?” I ask meekly. “You can tell me anything, Jack. I won’t judge. I want to help, but I won’t judge.”
“I know that,” she says, voice hoarse.
“Smoking cigars again?” I scan the room, sniffing the air. My eyes alight on the guilty stogie in an ashtray on the end table.
Jackie looks berated, so I soften up and add, “You should save your cigar moments for when I’m around, girlfriend.” I give her a wink.
I toss the cans and wine bottle into the recycling bin and return to the living room, ready to grab the packed ashtray.
“Sorry,” she says.
“I’m teasing, babe. Of course I don’t think you should smoke like a chimney in the apartment. Technically not allowed. The drinking, tho—”
“No.” She wrinkles her brow and looks up at me with guilty eyes. “I’m sorry for this.” She points her dancing finger at a small hole in the futon.
I squint to see it, thinking for a moment it’s the hole I made with my necklace. But it’s not. Wrong end.
“I must’ve fallen asleep I guess.” She rubs her fingers over the hole. The quite massive hole, actually.
“Jackie!” I examine the damage and give her a scolding look. “Jack, that’s horrible.”
“I’ll buy you a new sofa.” She sinks deeper into the futon.
“I don’t care about this stupid, old futon,” I say, dismayed. “That’s dangerous! Falling asleep with lit cigarettes!”
“The cigar.” She motions to it off to the side.
“Cigarettes, cigar, whatever!” I look back at the hole. It’s the size of a golf ball, all brown and singed around the edges, including some of the white batting. “You could burn the place down, Jackie! Kill yourself. And falling asleep after drin
king so much.” I shake my head in exasperation. “Don’t do stupid stuff like that.”
She rubs at one of her wet lines of running mascara. “Don’t hate me, Em.” A fresh roll of tears begins to come down.
“I don’t hate you, Jackie.” I scoot next to her and pull her into my arms. “I don’t understand your choices sometimes, but I don’t hate you. I love you.”
She smiles anemically. “Andrew hates me,” she says after blowing her nose.
“No he doesn’t hate you.” I jostle her a little.
“Yes!” Another loud blow. “He does!” Now she’s wailing.
“Okay, let’s get you some water.” I make my way back into the kitchen. “And I take it dinner, too?”
She doesn’t respond.
“Jack,” I say sternly. “I take it you didn’t eat dinner yet, am I right?”
Still no response.
I sigh and begin to search the cupboards and fridge for a suitable dinner. I swing open the freezer and spot the last of the quick-bake pizzas. I’ve really got to get to the grocery store and try to live like a normal person. My kitchen’s never properly stocked.
“We’re getting you food and water, and you’re sobering up,” I say with insistence. I toss the flat, cardboard pizza box onto the counter.
I peek my head around the corner. Jackie’s slowly rocking herself on the futon, her knees pulled to her chin.
“Got it, babe?” I say, giving her the discerning eye.
She sheepishly looks at me and nods. “Haven’t had anything since breakfast.”
“Dear God,” I say, returning to the pizza. “Jackie,” I flip on the oven, “I don’t know what I’m going to do with you, honey.”
Chapter Twenty-One
“One latte, one cappuccino, and one medium roast, with room,” I say, placing the drinks on the table of some late morning café customers. “Here’s the cream and sugar.” I set the rest of the mix-matched, vintage saucers and cups and bowls about. “Anything else I can get you, just let me know.”
I pad back round behind the counter and begin to wipe down the espresso machine. I rarely pull coffee-making duty, because Sophie and Gatz have this thing down pat.
There was a bit of a disaster with one of the ovens this morning, however, which is why the other two have been indisposed back there, tinkering with the smoking thing, and I’m up here, putting on my best barista face.
The past two nights have been wretched. Jackie packed her stuff up and headed back home this morning, deciding she could handle one night alone before Andrew gets back from his trip abroad tomorrow. The poor thing’s been so fragile, totally breaking down and almost disconsolate. I took her out to catch a fun rom-com yesterday afternoon, and that seemed to quell the pain a bit. Then night fell and she was back in a fit of tears.
This behavior, unfortunately, isn’t exactly out of the norm for Jackie. She’s my drama-loving friend, in case you haven’t noticed, and while I usually abscond from such theatrics, I see the kind heart and vulnerable soul inside my crazy, little companion. I see the sweetheart who wants just one thing: to be loved. And, I’ll be honest, she’s outgoing and fun-loving and so easy to hang out with. I don’t know how anyone couldn’t like someone like Jackie.
Yes, so we’re quite the opposites in many ways, but I suppose there’s reason behind the saying “opposites attract.” Anyway, I hate it when Jackie gets all remonstrative and foolish, and I try to be as supportive and helpful and understanding as I can. But with Jackie it’s hot and cold, hot and cold. It’s tough to keep up with her, maybe even act preemptively for her own good, and her rather bipolar marriage definitely doesn’t make things easier.
Jackie married a well-to-do man an entire generation older, and while I believe her when she says it’s a marriage of love, I also believe her when she says it’s a marriage of convenience. Jackie had a horrible home life as a kid, having to witness her parents cheat on each other left and right, and having a brother who brought drugs in and out of the home, cops visiting one day, her brother back in jail the next. Money was always tight, Jackie’s small and slipping grip on retaining some sense of sanity and self-worth even tighter. You kind of can’t blame her when a successful, attractive, and wealthy man who loves her asks her to marry him. Andrew doesn’t only provide Jackie with financial stability, but he loves her, which is more than her own family and the boatloads of loser boyfriends she’s had can say. Their love is passionate, and with Jackie’s hot temper and Andrew’s seemingly short fuse, I guess it’s just a recipe for heated rows, empty bottles, and singed futons.
“Excuse me.” A portly man in a suit is standing at the counter, interrupting my thoughts.
“Yes?” I set down the wet rag I’ve been using to dazedly wipe down the espresso machine.
“Do you have any of those delicious carrot and zucchini cupcakes?” He looks at me with eager eyes.
“The Pamela?” I say. “Why yes we do. All the time. They’re simply delish, aren’t they?” I begin to remove one cupcake from the refrigerated display below.
“I’ll take a box of four, if I may,” he says with a twitch of his furry mustache.
“Absolutely!” I set the cupcake back down on the chilled rack. “I’ll be right back round. Need to grab a box.”
I dust my hands on my apron and dash into the kitchen, where I’m greeted with Sophie’s angry and heightened voice.
“I don’t know what happened!” she’s saying into her cell phone.
I pull a taut face, then tiptoe exaggeratedly to the stack of pink boxes. Gatz’s eyes meet mine and he, too, makes a stressed expression.
“Just going to grab a box,” I whisper, pointing at the stack behind him.
“Oh, yeah.” He lurches forward, out of my way.
“Well what the hell am I supposed to do now?” Sophie shrieks.
“Oven disaster still?” I whisper, fixing a serious gaze at Gatz.
“Can’t figure out what’s wrong with it.” He rubs at his head. “It stopped smoking…” More rubbing. “Got the damn thing to finally turn off.”
I grab a box. “That’s good news.” I steal a quick look at Sophie. She’s pacing the floor, her phone pressed to her ear, one hand flailing up and down. “I called the repairman,” she grouses into the phone. “Of course I did. But he can’t get here until tomorrow morning.”
“I can’t figure the thing out,” Gatz says to me with disappointment. “Don’t know how we’ll manage on one less oven, but guess we’ll have to.”
“Well do you think you can fix it or not?” Sophie says gruffly. “Or should I just wait until tomorrow? Oh, God!” Her hand flies higher into the air. “I can’t go an entire day without this oven, Chad.” She puts her dancing hand on her hip. “Chad, are you positive you can fix it?”
“Think I’ll just get back to work up there,” I whisper to Gatz, hitching a thumb behind me. “Good luck.” I pat him on the shoulder, and he gives a one-armed shrug.
“So could trade places with you,” he says with a childish smirk.
I look up at Sophie as she moans loudly, roughly setting down her phone.
“Em!” she shouts. “I need to step out and get a breather. I can’t take this much stress so early in the morning.” She fans her flushed face. “Gatz, would you be a doll and take over up front for her? A short while?”
“Ab-so-lutely!” he says with obvious enthusiasm.
“Oh.” I look at the box in my hands in a dumfounded way, then hand it to him. “Here, the man at the counter wants four Pamelas.”
“Right-o,” he says, snatching up the box and giving me a wink. “Later, ladies.”
“My God,” Sophie says with a sigh the instant she takes a seat on the step right outside the kitchen’s back door. She wraps a chunky black scarf around her neck and slips her hands in her coat pockets.
“Chad coming to help?” I ask.
“Lunch break, yeah.” She rubs her temples. “That oven’s been given me trouble from the beginning. S
houldn’t be a surprise it’s acting up now.”
“I’m sure if Chad can’t figure it out then the repairman tomorrow will,” I say in my most helpful and upbeat voice.
“So, to totally change this annoying topic…” She gives me an anticipatory look. “How’s Jackie? Was it as bad as Lara said? She called me last night and gave me the scoop.”
I snort and flick a pebble from the step. “She’s a handful, Sophie.”
“That bad?”
I twist a small cornrow braid around my finger. “I came home from the book club.” I rest a hand on her knee. “That’s a dramatic story in itself, by the way. So have to tell you about it.”
Sophie nods; she looks like she’s on tenterhooks.
“Anyway, I come home after the meeting to Jackie smoking, drinking—”
“Pot again?” Sophie’s face scrunches in disappointment.
“No, but plenty of liquor, that’s for sure.” I twist at a braid again. “She said she got really depressed thinking about looking up divorce law and all. Was overwhelmed with guilt.”
Sophie cringes. “Oh, heard that. What is she thinking?”
“She’s not. Said the more she thought about what she’d done—printing it all up and even considering it—the more angry she got with herself. So she finished off my wine, broke out some liquor, and burned a hole in my futon, by the way. But that’s neither here nor there.”
“Thing’s on its last leg anyway,” she cuts in.
“Exactly.” I stop twisting my braid. “She fucking fell asleep with a lit cigar in her hand, Sophie.”
“What?” Sophie sounds and looks totally taken aback. “Is she out of her mind?”
“We always worry about her,” I say in low tones. “We’re all always thinking Jackie can go too far…do stupid shit…hurt herself and rag on herself way too much.”
“Poor thing,” Sophie says solemnly. “She’s so…damaged.”
“She can totally bring herself up,” I say with certainty. “She just needs to get that confidence and stop falling by the wayside like this.”
When Girlfriends Take Chances Page 19
