“Jojo? That’s an old ref . . .”
I stop talking when I see it. It. The post Vivia doesn’t want me to see because she is worried it will be the gust of wind that pushes me from the ledge of bummed into the deep, dark chasm of depression.
“Wait!” she cries. “I am going to FaceTime you.”
The line goes dead. A second later, my phone rings again. I push the button and Vivia’s face pops up on the screen.
“Okay, girlfriend,” she says. “I don’t want you to read that d-bag’s post alone. I am riding shotgun. Let’s do this thing.”
I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. Then, I prop my iPhone up against my computer screen and begin reading aloud.
Kale Keller > Grace Murphy 3 hrs
10 Things I Hate About You:
1. I hate the way your hair always smells like chlorine.
2. I hate your flannel frog prince pajamas.
3. I hate your laugh.
4. I hate that you would rather spend Friday night watching stupid movies, like 10 Things I Hate about You, instead of going out.
5. I hate that you share every feeling/thought/ event on Facebook.
6. I hate your desperate need to be loved by everyone.
7. I hate that you never stand up to Roberta. It’s pathetic. Grow a spine.
8. I hate your weird friends, especially Vivia Perpetua Grant.
9. I hate your fucking creepy obsession with Colin Monaghan.
10. I hate that you emasculated me in front of everyone at work by writing a shitty story about whoring with some has-been actor.
I read somewhere that first-responders often find airplane crash survivors in a state of frozen animation. The shock of their overwhelming, tragic situation renders them catatonic.
“Talk to me, goose,” Vivia says. “Give me a reading. What are you feeling?”
I shift my focus from the computer screen to Vivia’s miniaturized face on my iPhone. What am I feeling? What am I feeling? What am I feeling? I keep repeating the question in my head until I have an answer.
“Pain,” I say. “I am feeling pain.”
“Of course you are,” Vivia says. “The guy you were seeing just broke up with you in a savage, savage way. Do you want to cry?”
I shake my head.
“Damn Skippy my girl doesn’t want to cry,” Vivia says. “A testicularly challenged guy like Kale Keller isn’t worth even one of your tears. Kale Keller. What kind of name is Kale anyway?”
I consider defending my now ex-boyfriend, but my gaze falls on annoying habit number six and I bite back the words.
“My stories aren’t shitty, are they?” I sniffle. “Be honest.”
“They’re not shitty.”
“What’s wrong with my flannel pajamas?”
“Nothing.”
“And my laugh?”
“Infectious.”
I look at number six again.
“I don’t have a desperate need to be loved by everyone, do I?”
Vivia doesn’t say anything. She just stares at the screen.
“Do I?”
“Well . . .”
“Well, what? Tell me the truth.”
“You want the truth?”
“Yes.”
“Well, then,” she says, drawling out her words like a cowboy. “I’ll be your huckleberry.”
I frown at her.
“Huckleberry?” she says again.
I shake my head.
“In the movie Tombstone, Johnny Ringo shows up expecting to have a gunfight with Wyatt Earp, but finds Doc Holliday instead. Doc says, ‘I’ll be your huckleberry.’ Meaning, he is the man for the job, because he shoots straight, and he shoots fast.”
“Oookay,” I say. “Shoot.”
“You have a desperate need to be loved by everyone.”
“I don’t!”
“You do,” Vivia says, smiling softly. “Remember when we were roommates and I would leave my empty Chinese take-out cartons on your desk?”
“So?”
“So, you never once complained.”
“Is that what I should have done?”
“That’s what most people would have done. Most people would have chucked a carton at my head.”
I splash a little more rum in my glass and mix it with a stainless steel stirrer. “What else you got?”
“Remember that time you were paired with Voldemort for an assignment in your Consumer Strategies course?”
Voldemort’s real name is Vanessa Mortenson. Vivia called her Voldemort, or She Who Must Not Be Named, after the villain in Harry Potter. Vanessa dressed in black and had a legion of followers.
“What about it?”
“What about it?” She moves closer to the camera so her face takes up the entire screen. “She was a heinous bitch, ditching you in the library, making fun of your clothes, but you still did all of the work for the project and submitted it with both of your names.”
“She was busy.”
“Busy? Doing what? Summoning the death eaters to suck the joy from every living creature in a fifty-mile radius?” Vivia snorts. “Forget Voldemort. I’ve got another example.”
I sigh. “Okay.”
“Sophomore year. Thanksgiving break. Most students were home with their families gorging on turkey or getting shit-faced off campus on Sam Adams Fat Jack Double Pumpkin at the Rat Skeller. Where were you?”
I shrug even though I know the answer to her question.
“You were holed up in our room making Christmas stockings for every person on our floor.”
“I wanted to spread joy.”
“Why?”
“Do I need a reason for trying to make people happy?”
“Come on, girlfriend. Dig deeper.”
What does Vivia want me to say? As the emotionally orphaned only child of a single parent, I didn’t have a family waiting for me to come home and help bake apple pies. She knows my history, which is why she has invited me to celebrate Christmas with her family every year since.
“Forget Christmas.”
“I would like to,” I say, staring at the burnt-out bulb on the string of lights hanging on my anorexic Christmas tree. “But there’s a Stouffer’s roast turkey dinner in the freezer and Miracle on 34th Street saved on my DVR.”
Some families burn a yule log, sing carols, or go sledding on Christmas Day. I eat dinner alone in front of the television while watching Miracle on 34th Street.
“That’s so sad.”
“Don’t hate. It’s my tradition.”
I don’t tell my friend that I always fall asleep wishing a jolly whiskered nursing home escapee would leave a normal mom and dad beneath my Christmas tree.
“You know you’re always welcome to celebrate Christmas with us. My ’rents love you.”
“Thanks, but I’m afraid I wouldn’t be very good company this year.”
“You said that last year.”
“Well, it was true. Last year, Drew ran off with my cousin a week before Christmas. I was nursing a seriously broken heart. I thought he was the one.”
“Are you seeing the trend here?”
“Wait a minute!” I slam my cup down on the desk and the brownish concoction splatters on my keyboard. “What are you saying? It’s not my fault my last two boyfriends have been losers.”
“Eleven.”
“Excuse me?”
“Your last ten boyfriends. Kale makes eleven.”
“Eleven what?”
“Lunatics.”
“Shut up!” I laugh.
“I am serious!” Vivia says. “If a screenwriter wrote a movie about your love life, he could totally call it Eleven Lunatics. Your last eleven boyfriends have been as crazy as the dog napper in your fave movie.”
She’s right about Colin Monaghan’s Eleven Lunatics being my favorite movie, but not about my boyfriends. Vivia is prone to exaggeration.
“They haven’t all been crazy.”
“Let’s see,” she says, holding
up one finger. “First, there was Sean, the ’roided out mixed martial arts fighter who made Donald Duck noises when he orgasmed. Then, there was Zane, the guitarist who ran off with your life savings. David, the photographer who took you on a weekend getaway . . . to a nudist colony. The aforementioned Drew, who ran off with your cousin. And Gunner, the marine fighter pilot who ran off with your lingerie . . .”
I zone out as she brutally describes a few more of my failed relationships.
“Okay, okay!” I sigh. “So a few of them have been crazy, but not Eleven Lunatics crazy.”
“Should I keep going?” She props her feet up on her desk and holds up another finger. “Lunatic number nine was J.P., the motorcycle cop who made you call him Sarge, refused to take off his underwear during sex, and called you thirty-eight times in one day because he thought you were cheating on him. He was a special brand of psycho. Lunatic number ten was ‘Blade’”—she makes air quotes with her fingers—“the pathological liar who said he had a ‘high level security job with the United States government’ but couldn’t talk about it because he was being monitored. Which brings us to . . .”
“Kale.”
“Psychopath number eleven!”
“Kale is not a lunatic.”
“Uh, yes he is. He eats coleslaw for breakfast every morning.”
“That doesn’t make him a psychopath.”
“He pronounces it ‘cold slaw.’”
“So! Mispronouncing a word doesn’t make you crazy.”
“He liked to lick your armpits.”
“That was gross, but not totally crazy.” I shrug. “What can I say? I smell good.”
“He looked like Bea Arthur.”
I see Kale’s face in my head, strong black eyebrows, salt and pepper hair, thin lips....
“Oh my God!”
“Right?” Vivia says, grinning. “I can’t believe you never noticed it before.”
The conversation lulls and I know Vivia is thinking about my coleslaw-eating, armpit-licking freak of an ex and wondering why I keep picking freaks.
“You know I love you, Grace, but I’ve gotta ask: why do you keep picking bad boys?”
“I don’t think they’re bad boys when I pick them.”
“Okay, but at some point you figure out they’re bad boys . . . bad for you, at least . . . yet you stay. Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“Yes, you do. Think about it.”
I think about it for a nanosecond before answering her question with a question. “Are you saying I have Daddy issues?”
“I dunno.” Vivia lets her feet fall from her desk and leans forward, her face inches from the screen. “Do you?”
I think about my last several boyfriends and realize they were all bad apples. Some of them were obviously dented and bruised, but others hid their flaws beneath a seemingly perfect, shiny exterior. They were rotten to the core. Just like my dad.
“It doesn’t make sense,” I say, dropping my forehead to the desk. “My father leaving was the most damaging thing to ever happen to me, so why would I purposely seek out men who would poke at that wound, over and over again? That would be . . . masochistic.”
“You’re not masochistic, Grace. You’re a creature of comfort. You grew up with abuse, abandonment, and neglect, so you unwittingly replicate that pattern in your relationships with men.” Vivia’s voice, usually animated and exuberant, is calm and gentle. “It’s time to break that pattern.”
“How?” I look up. “How do I break a pattern that was set twenty years ago?”
“First, you acknowledge that the pattern exists.”
“Okay,” I say, sighing. “I, Grace Elizabeth Murphy, am attracted to bad boys and seek them out knowing they will probably treat me like crap.”
“Good,” Vivia says. “Now you have to break the pattern by asking yourself difficult questions, like: Do I let men treat me like crap because I don’t think I deserve better? Why don’t I think I deserve better? Do I want to end up like my mom? Look inside to fix the outside.”
“Damn, Vivia,” I say, exhaling. “Have you been taking psychology classes?”
“Nah,” she says, shaking her head. “I’ve always had crazy good bullshit-spotting goggles. They’ve just never worked when I look at myself. I’ve got more if you want to hear it.”
“Okay.”
“Have you ever thought that maybe you are so obsessed with Colin Monaghan because—”
“I am not obsessed.”
“I love you, Gem, but you are a little obsessed.”
“When you say ‘obsessed’ I think about those creepy stalkers who send hundreds of letters and bizarre gifts. I am not a creepy stalker.”
“Of course you’re not,” she says. “Have you ever thought you are fixated with the ultimate bad boy because he’s unobtainable? There’s no risk of you ever getting dumped or abandoned. And writing fan fiction about him allows you to craft the ending you probably wouldn’t ever get with him in real life.”
“Colin has changed!” I argue. “He’s not a bad boy anymore. Having a child born with a physical handicap has matured and grounded him.”
“There you go!”
“There I go what?”
“You are obsess—”
“Fixated.”
“Right. Sorry,” she says. “You are fixated on Colin Monaghan because he represents an extremely rare creature: the reformed bad boy. He gives you hope that you will find your own bad boy, reform him, and somehow heal the wound your father inflicted on you.”
“You’re putting an awful lot on Colin, aren’t you?” I say, chuckling.
“We aren’t talking about Colin Monaghan.”
“I would rather talk about him.”
“Be serious. What do you think it would take to get you over Colin Monaghan?”
“I don’t know. Maybe I have built him up in my mind. Maybe he has become this mythical creature by which I measure all other men. Maybe if I met him, I would change my mind.”
“Okay.”
“Okay, what?”
“Okay, go meet him.”
“What?”
“With your holiday time off and suspension, you don’t have to be back at work until after the new year. That’s a month from now. You could come to California and celebrate Christmas at my house or you could fly to Ireland, a place you have always wanted to go, and track down the man of your dreams. He’s there filming a movie, you know.”
“You’re crazy.”
“Am I? Really?” She lowers her voice. “What’s crazy? Spending your whole life being in love with a man you’ve never met or taking a chance and going to meet the man you love? Think about it.”
“Okay, let’s say the planets align and Irish fairies sprinkle me with pixie dust and I meet him. What then?”
“You fall in love. Duh.”
I snort.
“Why couldn’t Colin fall in love with you? You’re not totally hideous.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“I’m kidding,” she says, sticking out her tongue. “You know you’re gorgeous, Grace. Long legs, long hair, freckles all over your perfectly angled face, and eyes as green as the marshmallow clovers in me bowl of Lucky Charms.”
She said the last bit in a ridiculously bad Irish accent.
“That’s it? You think I am just going to hock my MacBook, buy a ticket to Dublin, track down one of the hottest actors on the planet, and a leprechaun will sprinkle us both with green clovers and we’ll fall in love?”
“I don’t think a leprechaun is going to sprinkle you with green clovers.”
“Good.”
“Because everyone knows leprechauns are agents of mischief. I think you mean Daoine Sidhe, fairy people, fallen angels who bridge the gap between divinity and humanity.”
“Would you be serious, Vivia?”
“I am serious.”
“Colin Monaghan is not going to fall in love with me, even if a band of leprechauns and fairies douse the shit out
of me with pixie dust and clovers.”
“Why not?”
“Because that would be the ultimate happy ending and happy endings just don’t happen in real life. Not in my life.”
“That’s the problem, girlfriend. You don’t believe you are worthy of a happy ending—and I’m not talking about the sexual kind, either.”
“Ew.”
“Grace, you deserve to be loved and you deserve happiness more than anyone I have ever known, but you have to stop wasting your love on people who aren’t worthy of you. And the only way you are going to find someone worthy of you is to fix that broken picker you got, the one that inevitably points you to psychopaths. Go to Ireland. Track Colin Monaghan down . . . or don’t. Whatever you do, take the time to get to know the Grace I already know: the one who is funny, smart, kind, and completely worthy of all that is good.”
Tears fill my eyes.
“You’re making me weepy.”
“It’s the Schweddy Balls. Schweddy Balls always make you weepy.”
“Even if I admitted there was some logic in what you just said, how could I possibly go to Ireland? I have student loans and . . .”
“Bah!” Vivia raises her hands over her head. “If you were to die tomorrow, do you think your last words would be, ‘Gee, I wish I would have paid more on my student loan’? I don’t think so! You would say, ‘I wish I would have listened to my wise old friend Vivia when she told me to go to Ireland and find Colin Monaghan.’”
I laugh, but Vivia’s seed of an idea has planted itself in my brain and a million what-ifs are popping up.
“A last minute ticket to Ireland would be crazy expensive.”
“Use your credit cards, dip into your savings. You have to risk big to win big, my friend.”
I take a deep breath.
“Okay.”
“Okay, you’re doing it?”
“Yes. “
“Do it now.”
“What do you mean, do it now?”
“I mean, turn your phone around so I can see your computer screen and then get your fingers moving over to kayak.com. Buy the ticket right now, with me watching. Tell you what, I will skip sending you a Christmas gift and chip in half the airfare.”
“You don’t need to do that.”
“I want to do it. Now get clicking.”
Winter Wishes Page 25
