Mixtape: A Love Song Anthology

by Nikki Sloane, Elle Kennedy, KL Kreig, Leslie McAdam, Lynda Aicher, Mara White, Marni Mann, Rebecca Shea, Saffron Kent, Sierra Simone, Veronica Larsen, Xio Axelrod

  After we travel a block or two, he says in a low, matter-of-fact voice, “Look, Randy. I had to. You know that.”

  I don’t say anything.

  We pass another block of 1950s Iowa houses with light blue and white siding. We turn down Elm and onto Central, headed to my house. Finally, when we get to Third Street, he speaks again. “I couldn’t let her go so far away without some guarantee she’d come back. I had to nail her down before she leaves.”

  Like he spends any time nailing her.

  He lets out a deep breath. “So, that’s the way it is? You’re gonna be childish? Give me the silent treatment?”

  Again, I don’t say anything, because if I do, I’m going to cry. Besides, it’s not childish to be hurt, and I’m so damn hurt. He didn’t just tear out my heart. He stomped on it, cut it with an X-Acto knife, and burned it with acid.

  When we pull up to my house, he stops the car. Sitting in the driver’s seat, he scrubs his face with his palms. “What else could I do?”

  That’s a loaded question if I’ve ever heard one, with the full panoply of multiple choice answers, including “None of the above.”

  A thick, ugly sob threatens to come out of my chest, but I shove it down. I don’t like thinking my best friend is a coward. Maybe asking a really special woman to marry him on the eve before she studies overseas is the bravest thing he could do.

  But I think it’s wrong. Very, very wrong.

  I pause before opening the door. It’s blazing hot, with sultry, sticky August weather, but that’s not why I’m hesitating.

  He gazes at me. “Are you going to say anything at all? Maybe congratulations?”

  I’ve had it. “Congratulations?” I explode. “No. I’m not saying congratulations. And maybe I’m an asshole, but you’re a fucking liar. What the actual fuck? Did you really need to put on a big show?”

  Shane blinks, and his eyes are red and laced with pain. “Randy. Whatever has happened between us? We can’t do that anymore. You’re my best friend, but that’s it. I’m marrying Kim.”

  My lungs constrict. I’m dizzy, and I’m going to throw up. The need to escape hits me hard. I get out of the car, and to my surprise, he gets out, too.

  I grit my teeth. “She knows that you two aren’t real, right? That you’re—”

  The unshed tears in his eyes almost cut me in half. He shakes his head slowly. “We are real.”

  “You and her? Or you and me?”

  As he gets nearer, the urge to back away grows stronger. But also the urge to run to him. His next words shred my belly to ribbons. “Randy. I know I’ve made some mistakes with you, but I had to make a choice before she left.”

  “You’ve made some mistakes? With me?” My volume rises.

  He nods, beads of sweat gathering on his lip, and he doesn’t say anything.

  “You’re scared. You and she are just friends who hang. Not lovers.” My finger shoots to his face, and I realize I’m yelling at him at full volume on my street. Any of my neighbors could hear, and I don’t care. “You don’t want to marry her. You double-downed on a lie when you could have freed yourself with the truth.”

  He gets right in my face, his meaty hand balled into a fist. He’s a huge guy, although I’m not small. “You shut the fuck up, Randy.”

  We’re so close to each other. I whisper, “Your dick’s fucking hard for me. I know it.”

  “I’m. Straight,” he hisses, slashing his head to the side and then returning my intensity. “I’m straight, damn you. This is why I date Kim. This is why I am marrying Kim. I can’t date you.”

  “But you want to fuck me!”

  “I’ve never done that.”

  “But you want to.”

  We glare at each other. I know his dick is hardening, because mine is too. I should just reach over and kiss him to shut him up.

  “We’re not having this discussion,” he mutters, his fists clenched and trembling.

  “We are. We’ve put it off too long.”

  Aware of all the houses with open windows around us, he shoves his hands in his pockets. “We’re especially not having this discussion in public.”

  “It’s not a discussion,” I growl. “It’s about to be a fistfight.”

  “Don’t be stupid, Randy. I’d wipe the floor with you, and I don’t want to do that.”

  “Why?” I ask, reckless now. “Maybe you need a punch in the jaw. You’re ignoring the times we’ve been in the same bed. The times I’ve rubbed you off . . .”

  “We were kids. Experimenting. I’m not,” his voice drops to a whisper, “gay.” His arms cross over his chest.

  “What about last night?”

  A screen door bangs behind us. “Stop it. Someone’s going to call the police.” And what he doesn’t say, is someone will know about us.

  I wave him off. “They’ll think we’re fighting about Kim.”

  “We are, aren’t we?”

  I take a deep breath. His eyes flick down to my lips, up to my eyes, then back down again. The corners of his mouth turn down, and his breathing is shaky. I know his full-staff erection grinds against his zipper, because mine does too.

  This is it. The last time. I need someone who can love me back. Not someone who denies I exist. “Just get out of my sight. Leave. I can’t fucking talk to you.”

  He pauses, his eyes watering, the anger draining out of his face. Then he walks over to the driver’s side, makes a fist, and hits the top of his car. Then he opens the door, and stands before he gets in, arms listless at his sides. “Randy. You’re my best friend. I want to always be your best friend. But we can never be anything more.” Ducking down, he sits in his car, closes the door, and leaves.

  It’s not until I get in the shower that I let the tears stream down my body, mingling with the water circling down the drain.

  * * *

  I figured out I had feelings for him when I was eleven. My Nana June invited Kim, Shane, and me to the musical Mamma Mia, performed by the local theatre players.

  Nana must have known something before I did.

  At that age, I was just excited I was allowed to stay up late. We sat in the darkened theatre, sticky with soda residue, on dusky-red velvet seats with stabby metal springs sticking out of them, the four of us pretending we were in New York City, not West Des Moines. We knew the ABBA songs because Nana played them in the car. Kim, Nana, and I sang during the entire performance.

  Shane refused. Instead, he watched us with amusement in his eyes and a tick in his cheek. To mess with him, I threw a turquoise boa around his neck during Dancing Queen, and he wiggled out of it like it was a real snake. So, I picked it up and put it around mine. Needless to say, I rocked it, shaking my ass in husky boy’s chinos. Back then, I was a big kid, so it was extra funny when I wore feathers. Like a Samoan wrestler’s son wearing a tutu. Thankfully, I’ve stretched out since then.

  During intermission, while we lingered outside drinking hot chocolate and reading the program, Shane decided to show Kim and me how he’d learned to do round-off cartwheels. Only he got too close and his shoe slammed into my face, giving me my first black eye.

  Upon connection, I reeled back, pressing my hand to my face and blinking back tears. Sure, a tough kid like me could take it, I thought, but I wasn’t expecting my best friend to clobber me at a Mamma Mia show.

  His face dropped, and his eyes widened in horror.

  “I didn’t mean it! I’m so sorry!”

  Shane threw his arms around me and held me tight, clinging like an octopus to my shoulders, not letting me breathe. He shook against me, clawing at my hair, close to sobbing. He kept repeating, “I didn’t mean it. I’m so sorry.”

  Over and over and over again.

  One of my palms pressed into my eye, the other hung uselessly at my side. I breathed in and out, experiencing the way his body touched mine. The way he clutched at me, wanting so badly to make me feel better. To not have hurt me.


  Even at that age, his arms were strong. He felt like the comfort of a blue summer’s day lying in green grass with a warm breeze and sunshine. Like the company of Cyril, my old ratty teddy bear. Like watching Indiana Jones while eating an ice cream sundae with sprinkles instead of nuts. Like everyone laughing at my joke about the potato newscaster—he’s a “common tater.” Like all the lists of all the things I adored wrapped into one single human being on earth.

  I knew, I just knew I felt something more than regular friendship. More like, he could bruise me, rip off my limbs, make my skin bleed, and I would follow it up by laying down my life for him and/or making him laugh.

  Yes, I was a little dramatic, even at age eleven.

  I also knew he was good for me, even if he couldn’t help hurting me. He didn’t mean it. And I knew underneath it, he cared.

  Summoning my voice and stepping back, I muttered, “I’ll be okay, dude. You’ll make a great forward on next year’s soccer team. That penalty kick was epic. If you change to gymnastics though, make sure you clear the space for your landings.”

  His eyes searched mine—well one, the other one was shut—making sure I was okay. Then he smiled at me and nodded. “Will do.”

  Kim got ice. My grandma gave me an aspirin. We went back for the second half of the show. And thus began my career stuffing down my emotions so no one could see, and hiding my heart behind a joke.

  Ten years later nothing’s changed, except Kim’s got the ring from him, not me.

  * * *

  In the middle of the night, my phone buzzes about six inches away from my head. Guess I passed out while watching Black Panther.

  A male voice rumbles, “Is this Randy Sanchez?”

  Yawning, my face planted into the pillow, I mumble, “Yeah.”

  “Do you know a Shane Nichols?”

  I startle, fully awake now, flipping the covers down fast. “What happened? Is he okay?” Sitting up with my feet on the floor, adrenaline courses through my veins. I rub my eyes and ruff up my hair, now impatient for the guy on the other end to talk faster.

  “He’s fine. He just needs a ride home. He can’t drive like this. He told me to call you.”

  Never in my twenty-one years have I seen Shane get drunk by himself. Alcohol doesn’t go with his green juice shots anyway. I’m the one who prefers beer over squats.

  I’m already up and pacing. “I’ll come get him. Where is he?”

  “Charlie’s bar.”

  “I’ll be there in ten. Tell him to stay there.” I throw on sweatpants and a thermal shirt and grab my keys, wallet, and phone. Then I get in my Camaro.

  I don’t remember the blur of the drive, except all I think about is him. When I arrive with my tires crunching in the gravel parking lot, I park and race in, but Shane’s not at the bar or any of the tables in the dim lit room.

  “Hey, look at this fresh meat,” a singsong voice calls out.

  I ignore him and call to the bartender, “I’m looking for Shane. Someone called me.”

  “You Randy?” I recognize the voice from the phone and nod. The bartender points. “He’s in the john.”

  Tearing down the black-painted corridor, I beeline to the men’s bathroom.

  Shane kneels before the white porcelain, his head down in the nasty public toilet.

  Eww.

  As always, my heart squeezes when I see him, even after the fight we had. In most ways, he’s perfect, without a hair out of place and his body a classical ideal with an inverse triangle torso and lean hips.

  But when anyone is crouched over a toilet, gray and puking, they don’t look so hot. He jumps when my knuckles rap on the wall. I’m struck by the beauty in his dizzy, glazed eyes. In his divine lips—that likely smell disgusting.

  And even though he’s shattered me, I’m hopelessly in love with him.

  Always have been. Always will be.

  Even when flames of anger lick up my spine. I shove them down. Rather than beat myself up, I act the best friend. Shoving an arm under his armpits, I hoist him up, businesslike. “C’mon buddy. Let’s get you home.”

  It takes him a moment to focus on my face and process. “Randy. S’you,” he slurs. “It’s my best friend, Randy. Do you know I’m getting married?”

  “I do.” I manage to get out of the bathroom and proceed down the hall, stumbling under his weight. It’s not that he weighs a lot, but with useless legs and arms, it’s like carrying a statue.

  “I’mmm kindah—” Shane words stick together. “The room ish spinning.”

  “Can I get some Gatorade?” I call out as we make our way to the front door, the eyes of the crowded room on us.

  The bartender acknowledges my request with a chin lift, pulls a plastic bottle out from a glass-fronted refrigerator, and weaves his way through the tables over to us. Balancing Shane on my side, I pull out my wallet and hand the bartender a bill, not knowing what it is, and not waiting for any change. For all I know, I gave him a hundred. Nana hooked me up long ago, paying for not only my education, but my condo as well, may she rest in peace.

  As I open the door, Shane buries his face against my neck and his lips skim the bare skin of my neck.

  I think it’s a kiss.

  We stagger outside, him from drink and me from supporting him.

  It’s definitely an open-mouthed, wet kiss. Then he’s talking against my neck, his lips smashed against my flesh, his tongue licking me. “I decideta try teh-keee-lah. Note to self, I donn like teh-keee-lah.”

  Oh God, this feels righteous.

  Oh God, this is wrong.

  And I’m pissed at him.

  Facing him, trying to hold him up, I search his face for signs that someone’s home despite the alcohol. Results: Inconclusive. “Noted. No tequila for you, big guy. Let’s get you in my car.”

  He falls forward, and his mouth presses against mine.

  Goddammit.

  His gorgeous, hot, disgusting tongue mines my mouth, seeking my tongue.

  I want to kiss him back.

  I want to do more than that.

  We can’t kiss in the parking lot. Or anywhere. Not here. Not with him incapacitated.

  And especially not after his proposal earlier today.

  I extricate myself from his kiss and hold him in a hug, the habit of being there for him overriding my anger from earlier. “I got ya, Shane. I’ll take you home.”

  A chill makes the end-of-summer night air sting, but I don’t want to go back inside and see if he has a jacket, and I left without mine. If he forgot one in the bar, I’ll buy him another one.

  He releases his entire body weight on me as I hold him up under his armpits. Snuggling into my neck, he sighs. “You smell like buttered toast and cinnamon.”

  I glance around, but no one sees how far Shane is off the rails. All I can think to say is, “Thanks.”

  His words still blend together, making it hard to pull them apart, and he’s still talking against my skin. “I jus wannened you to know. I hadta doooit. I hadta do it, man. I couldn’t doannything else.”

  I’m mad at him. He’s fucked up my life. I need to remember that.

  It’s hard to remember when he’s completely drunk and saying what I want to hear.

  With much effort, I get him in the car, then roll down the window, hoping if he pukes, he’ll aim out instead of in.

  “The wurld spinshh, Randeee. It’s all a mess. I sosorry. I fucking fucked it up.”

  Is he saying . . .?

  What is he saying?

  I should ignore him.

  Unfortunately, my damn heart still beats for him, even when I order it not to.

  By the time I get in the driver’s side, he’s passed out snoring, and I drive in near-silence, the cold wind whistling through the car and the heater on blast. I could take him home, but since he lives with his parents and they shouldn’t see him like this, I return with him to my place.

  Side note, while he
could live with me, he’s made excuses for years about saving money by living at home, not that I would charge him rent.

  Bet he was just too scared of what would happen.

  That makes me shake my damn head.

  I drag his limp carcass out of my car, hoist him up over my shoulder in a fireman’s carry, and bring him inside. Heading to the guest bedroom, I lay him down on the bed, setting his head gently on the pillow.

  He stirs, and his eyes crack open, confused.

  “Take a sip of this.” I offer him the Gatorade.

  Shaking his head, he refuses, then winces with pain. He opens his mouth to say something, but just hazily scrutinizes my face. Then his eyes flutter shut.

  I look at him with a mix of emotions. Like I’m smiling at an adorable, sleeping puppy who wore himself out by ruining my slippers.

  Only what he’s done is worse than using the wrong chew toy.

  Sighing, I wonder what to do with him. He can’t sleep like this. Carefully, I remove his shoes. Then I pause.

  Taking off his clothes is something I’d rather do under different circumstances. But he looks uncomfortable, and I don’t want to leave him like this. Reaching over, I unbuckle his belt and stick my finger inside his waistband to unbutton his jeans.

  Just that act gives me a chub.

  And makes my heart feel like it’s shrinking, because he isn’t mine to touch.

  Steeling my nerves, I pull down his zipper, trying not to let my knuckles graze him, but noticing what a delicious bulge he’s got going on. Then I shimmy his pants down to his ankles and yank them off.

  He needs a change of shirt. I go into my room, grab a clean T-shirt, and on my return, pick up a bucket from the utility closet.

  With much effort, I help him dress. Being so close to him makes every one of my nerves sing. His bare skin is so warm and soft, his muscles so raw and rough. Even when he smells like vomit, he’s astonishingly alluring.

  I want him.