Dunkin and Donuts

by Lyons, Daralyse

  “Shayla, this is the kind of thing that changes a person’s life. You don’t have to put on a brave face for me. I’m a social worker, remember? You didn’t shower did you? They’ll be able to get the evidence, I hope. Did Ms. Peg see anything?”

  “She witnessed the whole thing,” I tell him. “Now, please let me answer the officer’s questions so we can all just put this behind us.”

  Brice hugs me. “I love you. You’re so brave. I’m here for you and you’ll get through this. I’ll wait at your place, okay?”

  I nod. He’s coming unglued. Maybe, it’s his dating diet. As he turns toward my place, Brice notices my rear bumper.

  “Hey, what happened to your car?” he asks me.

  “Duh,” I roll my eyes. “I got rear ended. That’s why the cops are here.”

  He starts vibrating with laughter. “That’s why the cops are here,” he repeats, shaking his head.

  “Yeah,” I say. “Some idiot hit me with his car then drove away.”

  Brice is doubled over, heaving with hilarity.

  “What is so funny?” I demand.

  “I thought you were raped,” he says. “This whole time, I thought you were talking about being hit in your rear, not the rear of your car.”

  I look at Officer Logue whose lower lip is starting to quiver. Then I start chuckling too. Suddenly, my minor vehicular mishap seems incredibly amusing. What a colossal, and comical, misunderstanding! By the time I head inside with Brice, getting bumped in the rear has become a laugh and a half.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  “He’s getting married! That asshole is getting married and he didn’t even tell me. And we slept together that night. He was engaged even then—the jerk.”

  “What?” I take a French fry off of Brice’s plate and sit down across from him in the booth.

  When he’d texted me to meet him at McDonalds for lunch, I’d known it was bad, but this is unprecedented.

  “Robin is engaged?” I am stupefied. “Since when?”

  “I don’t know, but a friend of a friend saw him and his boyfriend out at dinner and, as it turns out, my ex has himself a fiancé.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m gonna get myself a Big Mac and some fries. Want anything?”

  From the pile of wrappers in front of him, I can see that Brice has already polished off at least one filet o’ fish sandwich and a ten piece chicken nuggets, but I say nothing when he tells me he wants what I’m having—a Big Mac, fries, and a chocolate shake. Some things call for comfort food and finding out that your ex-boyfriend is getting married to somebody else is one of those things.

  I return to the table refortified to find Brice, ketchup in the corner of his mouth, an odd mixture of sorrowful and angry.

  “That son of a bitch. I miss him. Can you believe that bastard? Do you think I was a fool to let him go? That could’ve been me if I’d said yes to his proposal. That cheating son of a bitch! I frigging hate him.” Brice alternates between lambasting Robin and longing for him.

  He inserts the milkshake straw between his lips and sucks ice cream furiously into his mouth. I sit and nibble, offering my own indignation and support, letting him know I’m here for him as he’s been for me through all of my own heartbreaks.

  “You know the worst part of all of this?” Brice asks me, his eyes wet with tears.

  “What?” I respond.

  “The idea that he’s over me, that he’s moved on because, as much as I hate him, I’m still in love with him.”

  I don’t have anything to say that’ll take away my best friend’s pain so, instead of replying, I hand him one of my fries.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Desiree couldn’t make it because she’s supposedly working. I am skeptical about her because, in the wake of Brice’s recent heartbreak, I have grown skeptical of all of my friend’s lovers, wanting them to prove themselves worthy of trust. Since I’ve never met Marlene’s girlfriend, I wonder why she isn’t joining us today and am convinced that no good can come of Marlene’s mysterious new girlfriend. I suddenly feel infinitely protective, much like her brother—my boyfriend. But, Marlene is happy and what do I know so I refrain from interjecting my thoughts.

  Brice, on the other hand, has no such qualms. Only, his disdain seems to be directed at members of his own sex leaving the still as-yet unmet Desiree immune to his vitriol.

  “Men are utter assholes,” Brice declares.

  “I agree,” Marlene says. “Present company excluded. Why do you think I prefer women?”

  “You prefer women because you’re a gold star lesbian.”

  She laughs. “I dated a handful of guys back before I knew who and what I was.”

  “And what did you conclude from all that?” Brice smiles at her.

  “That they think with their wrong heads.”

  It takes me a moment to get what she means. “But women can be just as promiscuous and untrustworthy,” I point out.

  Never let it be said that Shayla Ross isn’t an equalitarian at heart. I can be skeptical of women and men alike. Susan B. Anthony would be proud.

  “Well, that’s true. I’m lucky though. I found a good one,” Marlene smiles. “Dunkin too. He found a good woman in you.”

  “What about me?” Brice whines.

  We are on South Street in Center City doing some window shopping and people gazing, hanging out and trying to get Brice’s mind off of Robin.

  “Well, you met that guy at the art show. Did you ever call him?”

  “I chickened out.”

  “Shame on you,” Marlene says. “Give me your phone.”

  Brice obliges, handing it to her.

  “Did you put his number in your phone?”

  “Yeah. It’s under Malcolm Art Guy.”

  “Okay, well, I’m going to text this Malcolm Art Guy.”

  “Don’t you dare,” Brice lunges at her and tries to take the phone from her grasp.

  “Okay, okay. I’ll give you back your phone if, and only if, you promise to text the guy.”

  “Okay,” Brice laughingly relents. “I’ll text him.”

  “Um… Brice?” What made you want to come down here today? To South Street?” I ask.

  “I dunno. I heard from a friend that they were having a special street fair today. I wasn’t really interested in that, but I got to thinking about how I haven’t been down here since I can’t even remember when.”

  “Who was the friend who mentioned the street fair?”

  “Oh, you wouldn’t know Ephraim. He’s more of an acquaintance.”

  “Was it by any chance the same guy who knows Robin?”

  “Yeah. So what? Why?”

  I point. Across the street from us, standing arm-and-arm with a slightly bookish looking, clearly gay gentleman is Robin. I assume the guy with him is the aforementioned fiancé.

  “Oh no he didn’t!” Marlene exclaims. “Is that Robin?”

  She’s never met Brice’s ex but hates him on site for his mistreatment of our beloved Brice.

  Before either Brice or I can make a move, Marlene sprints across the street, shouting “Hey asshole! I’m gonna kick your ass!”

  Understandably, Robin and his man-friend react with surprise and begin running down South Street away from her. They don’t know who this crazy lesbian purple-haired chick is who’s chasing them and, wisely, aren’t going to stay and find out.

  I’m not sure why, but I take off after them as well. I’m not much of a runner, but I am propelled by the same inner force that allows little old ladies to lift cars off of babies. My protective adrenaline propels me forward after Robin, the bookish stranger, and Marlene.

  “Stop! Robin, stop!” I shout as I hurl my body through the air and tackle him right here on th
is South Street sidewalk. Only, now that we’re both on the ground, I have no clue what I’m supposed to do.

  “Shayla!” Robin is surprised to find me on top of him. I am too actually.

  “Oh, hi Robin,” I say dusting myself off as I stand up.

  “Do you two know each other?” Robin’s fiancé is incredulous. I don’t blame him.

  “Yeah. Hi. My name’s Shayla. Robin and I know each other from…”

  I am saved from having to explain because, in the time it took me to chase and tackle his ex, Brice has caught up with us.

  “She knows him from back when he and I were dating, when he was proposing to me.”

  Now, it’s officially a scene. All 300 pounds of Brice is towering over the helpless Robin. But, instead of kicking him like he deserves, Brice reaches down and offers him a hand.

  Robin looks incredibly uncomfortable, and not just from the fall. This has become the quintessential awkward situation. Still, he reaches up, takes hold of Brice’s hand, and accepts the proffered help.

  Once on his feet, Robin says “Thanks.”

  “Oh no. Thank you.” Brice is calm, his voice eerily devoid of feeling. He turns to Robin’s fiancé and sticks out his hand. “I’m sorry about my friends. How rude. You must think we’re insane. I’m Brice. I’m Robin’s ex. And you must be…”

  “I’m Clyde,” the khaki-clad man sticks out his hand and smiles at Brice.

  “I hear the two of you are engaged. How long have you been together?”

  “Oh I guess it must’ve been… ten or eleven months since we’ve been dating seriously and we’ve been engaged what, love?” Clyde turns to Robin who looks like a deer-in-headlights “A couple weeks, I guess.”

  Robin nods dumbly.

  “Oh,” Brice scratches his head. “Well, since Robin and I were living together up until seven or eight months ago and he asked me to marry him and since he and I had sex less than a month ago, that comes as a real shock to me. Anyway, congratulations. I am extremely happy for you. But, Clyde, you’ll want to make sure to be careful and wear rubbers. Robin couldn’t keep it in his pants when he and I were together any more than he can with you. You seem like a nice guy and I’d hate for you to have to walk in on him in flagrante, like I did.”

  With that, we walk away and don’t look back. I send Brice a telepathic high five.

  He turns to me and says in his best approximation of Rachel’s voice in her Friends message to Ross: “And that my friend is what they call closure.”

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  I’m sitting in the waiting room at Dunkin’s office, ready for him to be done with work so we can meet my friends to go to Dave & Buster’s for a night of adults behaving like children. It’s my friend Bridget’s birthday and we’ve all decided to celebrate her turning thirty by playing arcade games, binging on ice cream, and staying up past our bedtimes.

  As I sit in the waiting room, leafing through the latest issue of People Magazine, I notice Julia, Dunkin’s receptionist, watching me intensely.

  “Is everything okay?” I ask her.

  “I just don’t know how you do it…” she says, fingering at the cross around her neck. “Or why.”

  “How I do what?” I ask her.

  “How can you lay with a man who lays with other men?”

  “Excuse me?” I’m confused.

  “Well, the cat’s out of the bag about what you and Dr. Wilks are into,” she says. “And I know it’s none of my business, but I just believe in monogamy. Actually, it’s all a sin in my opinion. Only married people ought to be intimate with each other but that’s just my opinion. And God’s.” She adds the last as an afterthought, as if God were just an old acquaintance of hers who happens to share her point of view.

  It takes me a minute to realize that Julia is probably referring to Dunkin and my antics with Frank Peony. Should I explain? Do I clarify? If I do tell her the truth will it get back to Frank and, if so, will that end up costing the practice money? I hate that she has the wrong idea about Dunkin and me, but I don’t think it’s my place to tell her the truth. Not that I could if I wanted to.

  I’m tongue-tied.

  Trying, unsuccessfully, to shrug off the women’s judgment, I turn my attention back to the magazine and to more important things—like Jennifer Aniston’s killer body. Do you know that she not only follows the Zone Diet, but works out six days a week and has an intense yoga regimen? I peruse the movie star’s diet and exercise routine with interest despite the fact that I have no intention of modifying my own eating or exercise habits.

  As I read, I can feel the receptionist’s eyes on me, boring into me as if she were capable of performing an exorcism simply by staring. People can be so judgmental. Of course, I can too. I mean, who am I to be sitting here casting dispersions on Lindsay Lohan’s lack of recovery or on Miley Cyrus’ proclivity for twerking. Apparently, all of Dunkin’s office thinks I’m part of a gender-ambiguous love triangle. I wonder if the rumor mill is strong enough to reach Pamela Drew who probably wouldn’t give a thought to outing me as a sexual deviant at work. I shake off the thought.

  I’m being paranoid. Besides, I haven’t done anything wrong. Even if I was part of a non-traditional relationship, it’s nobody’s business. I’m not. But, still. As I sit here waiting for my boyfriend, my anger level begins to rise. Who is Julia to judge me? She claims to be Christian and loving, yet, clearly, she’s condemning me based only on idle rumor and speculation. Besides, even if I were into some unusual sexual practices, it shouldn’t be her place to condemn me. What a sanctimonious bitch! I’m so incredulous on behalf of my right to my nonexistent, swinging sexual preferences that I’m about to tell Julia off.

  Thankfully, Dunkin saves me from making a fool out of myself by walking in just as I am standing up to begin launching into my diatribe.

  “Hey, babe,” he greets me. “You remember Julia, right?”

  “I do,” I say. “Okay. Bye, Julia. We’re heading out. Have a good night,” Dunkin says cheerily.

  “You too, doctor,” she says. Do I detect the faintest hint of contempt in her tone?

  When we get out of the car, I tell Dunkin what happened.

  “Do you know that there are rumors circulating about me and you and Brice?” I ask. “I can’t believe we were so stupid as to pretend to be swingers and bisexual swingers at that. And now everyone at work thinks you’re a pervert.”

  “I am a pervert,” he winks at me.

  “This doesn’t bother you?”

  “Not in the least. Anyone I like and respect either won’t care what I do in my own bedroom or will ask me about it. I can’t waste my time worrying about what someone else thinks of me, especially someone who I don’t respect and whose opinion I don’t care about.”

  I am in awe of him. How can he not care? How can he not obsess about not being liked? I should learn from him. I should learn to let go of needing other people’s approval. But, with Vanity Ross as my mother, I come by my low self-esteem honestly.

  I was brought up being judged. If I had a therapist, I’m sure we’d delve into this deeper. I don’t have a therapist. I have my boyfriend, my friends, the video arcade, and the promise of ice cream. And, at least for now, that seems to be enough.

  Dunkin and I arrive at Dave and Buster’s a few minutes late. Mandy, Bridget, Louis, and Leslie are already there. Brice and Carlo are running late and arrive five minutes after Dunkin and I. There is much hugging and happy-birthday-ing.

  Since we’re going with the “inner-child” birthday theme, when the bartender asks us for our drink orders, each one of us asks for either a root beer float or a Shirley Temple depending on our preference and we take our drinks with us to the arcade area.

  “Dance, Dance, Revolution!” Mandy exclaims. “I’m the ultimate at that game.”
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br />   We follow her. True to her word, Mandy is a master at digital dancing. She hops, bops, and steps to the beat, jumps around, and wiggles her hips at all the right times. A crowd soon gathers to watch her shake what her momma gave her.

  “That’s my girl,” I say proudly as I slurp up some of the ice cream from the bottom of my glass.

  It seems like forever before a fatal misstep disqualifies Mandy from continuing on with her dancing. She steps red when she should’ve stepped blue and the words “Game Over” flash across the screen, taunting her for her mistake.

  “Damn it,” she says. “Oh, well. I had a good run.”

  Next, we all go over to skeeball, the game where you have to roll balls into numbered slots and are given tickets depending on your rolling aptitude. I’m good at skeeball. I know how to get the ball in the hole.

  When I say this to Brice, he laughs at me then says suggestively to Dunkin “You better let her know that the ball isn’t the thing that goes in the hole—if you know what I mean.”

  I swat at him playfully and tell him to get his mind out of the gutter. We’re having a good time. This is the best thirtieth birthday party I’ve been to in a long time. Because Bridget chose to celebrate turning the big 3-0 here, there has been no morose reflection about getting older, no sanctimonious toasting of another passing year, no mental inventorying of failed expectations or unrealized aspirations. We’re a bunch of thirty-somethings reliving our lost youths and it feels great.

  “Let’s play Wack-A-Mole” Dunkin suggests. He’s impressive with a mallet, whacking and bopping as I contribute to the cause by walloping moles with my bare hands (the game only supplies one bludgeoning implement).

  By the time we are all starving and ready for dinner, and dessert, we have amassed a large quantity of tickets which we can redeem for prizes. Unilaterally, the eight of us decide to bequeath our tickets to Bridget to pick out whatever she wants. It is, after all, her birthday.