by M. Mabie
“I think you like being free. It suits you,” I told him.
“What suits you? What do you want?” Something in the timbre of his voice sounded like a truth. He really wanted to know where my head was. The trouble with that was I didn't have a clue.
“I don't know. I like talking to you and being with you, but—” Then he kissed me. His mouth cloaked mine with an unspoken urgency.
“Mmmm...No buts,” he said against my lips. “Just leave it like that. You like talking to me and being with me. That's all I need right now. Let's leave it right there. Okay? No pressure.”
Why was it when people said, “No pressure,” it added an ocean's worth to the situation?
“Okay,” I said.
“Okay,” he said back. “It's settled. We're still friends.” He placed his lips on my forehead and made a low humming sound, I closed my eyes and savored it.
Then he let me go.
The next weeks were busy. I worked alongside Bridgett and followed her wherever she went. Since she ran the Seattle office, I was naturally paired up with her most of the time. I made friends with another new hire, Melanie, who worked out of the San Francisco branch. She and I were basically hired to do the same job.
Grant had contracted workers to do most of the major renovations, but he was adamant on doing what he could on his own at the house.
We set a date for the wedding, May 23rd of the next year. My mother proceeded to buy anything and everything that said the words “groom,” “bride,” or “wedding.” I was thankful, though, since I was busy working, she told me she would handle everything. Wedding plans barely registered on my radar. Of course, it wasn't like it was swept under the rug. It was in every conversation I had with my family or Grant.
The wedding. The house.
The house. The wedding.
I almost felt like two different people.
The wedding and the house Blake, the work and the Casey Blake. It was only sometimes when the two met that my brain dissolved onto itself. Like talking to Reggie or Micah.
“I can't believe you're getting married,” she said when I told her.
“I know, sometimes I don't even believe it myself.” That was true. Work and Casey Blake didn't really act very affected by the upcoming nuptials either. I don't think that half of my brain really accepted it was happening.
“Cory and I are pregnant,” she said, in the middle of our wedding conversation. She blurted it out like she'd being trying to hold it in for some time.
“Oh my God! When are you due?” I was shocked. I knew they were serious and that they’d moved in with each other, but I wasn't expecting a cart before a horse with them.
“I'm due at the end of April. With your wedding in May, I might still be fat, but you know I'll be up there with you. If that's what you want.” The last sentence sounded weird off her tongue.
We never spoke about Casey and me. I hadn't told her a thing. I assumed that Casey and his brother spoke, though. She always seemed to hint or mention him. Even though I think her question was made to sound like, if she wasn't too fat she'd be there for my wedding. But it sounded a lot more like she didn't expect there to actually be one.
It didn’t feel right hiding what was going on with Casey from Micah, but I wasn’t really sure what to say. We were friends…who sometimes fucked?
We talked about how she was feeling and how it all came to be. She was in love with Cory and her, although nervous, excitement still sounded happy. When I spoke about my wedding and Grant, I tried to impersonate her enthusiasm, but I couldn't even convince myself.
Casey and I were in constant contact over those weeks and what led into months. I was starting to do shows on my own and he was traveling most of the time.
I'd missed him in at the beginning of August. He was in Seattle, but I’d been in San Francisco. It always seemed to work out like that. He came with Audrey and his dad to help her get situated at school. She'd chosen to go to Cornish, a great art focused college, against her father's best advice, but Casey said she was really happy to get away from California and that it would be good for her.
He told me one night he was glad she was in my city, because if she needed anything I could be there in a hurry for her. That made me feel pretty good.
We talked incessantly. I could tell you the local time in almost any stateside city by late September.
I knew that when I got married it would all have to stop, so I guess I was cramming as much Casey in as I could.
It didn’t sound or seem fair to either Grant or Casey, but I didn’t know how to stop. I couldn’t imagine a world without Casey in it, but felt I needed to stay in the world with Grant as my center.
When we got too intense during phone conversations, or when things got over-heated, I'd ask to switch back to texting. He always sounded annoyed with it, but did it anyway.
We were, for all intents and purposes, friends.
We debated everything and he pissed me off. He told me that I was a poser because I was a gourmet-trained chef who liked Cheetos and canned cheese. He let it go after I called him a poor man's Sam Adams. In fact, he hung up on me that night.
I welcomed those nights. The ones where I laid in my bed and he told me how sea horses mate, or about all the theories he'd read on the never ending controversy of which came first: the chicken or the egg? I'd fall asleep on those nights, wherever I was, and I felt like I was home.
The other nights were more difficult for me. My nights with Grant.
From the outside, everything looked like a best-case scenario for a young couple and their happy future. Things were typical, calm, and I painted on the face of a woman starting a future with a perfect man.
I faked every orgasm Grant thought he gave me. Though our sex life was still active, it was just that. Active. Activated. Choreographed. I knew what he liked. I did it. He knew what I liked. He did it. It wasn't torture, and for him it was genuine. Grant was always sincere.
It was me.
After every fake climax, I'd pull myself into the bathroom and run water over my pale face and look at myself. I'd breathe and try to put all my thoughts back into their separate corners. Until, one especially overwhelming, or underwhelming, depending on how you looked at it, night I decided to bring my phone into the bathroom with me.
I texted Casey.
Me: Tell me what you had for lunch.
Casey: I'm glad you asked, actually. I was going to tell you about it. I had haggis. It was totally disgusting and I'll never eat it again.
I was happy that he replied quickly. All of the jumbled feelings and emotions I had rolling around in my head and stomach quieted and calmed. Things went back to the way they were. He still waited for me to contact him in the evenings, unless he knew I was out of town, even though I didn't ask him to anymore. Every time I send him something he was always right there. Just a send button away.
Me: Haggis is disgusting. Why did you eat it?
Casey: Marc bet me I wouldn't. I won twenty bucks.
Me: Congratulations.
Casey: Thank you. What's up with you?
Me: I was just going to bed. I thought I'd say hi.
Casey: Hi LOL
And I heard it. My generous memory let me actually hear his laugh. That was all I’d needed.
Me: Goodnight.
Casey: I wish.
Me too.
Smart phones were dangerous weapons. Casey's company, Bay Brewing, had a twitter account. I followed it. I set up an account of my own after I found theirs. I used the user name @BettyTRubble. I had a feeling that Casey was the person behind the account. It was to my benefit that there were pictures of him available to me whenever I wanted. Even though I let him take pictures of me when we were in Chicago, I didn't have any of him and I wasn't brave enough to ask him for any. So the twitter account, that I checked almost hourly, had to tide me over.
And it did. There were pictures of him smiling and laughing. Mostly doing work things and marketing, but it
was all the same to me. Seeing his crazy wardrobe and hair whenever I wanted made me feel like I was a secret agent.
That probably made me a little bit of a stalker, but I didn't care.
Friday, October 10th, 2008
I DIDN’T REALLY GIVE a fuck if it made me a stalker. It was public knowledge and good for my business. Blake's company, Couture Dining Incorporated, knew what the hell they're doing.
I didn't want my first trade-show to be the first show we met up at. So, since CDI had an information-rich website—including pictures of Blake at trade shows, new restaurant openings and with new clients—I made a decision to follow their staunch social and marketing excellence.
Since, taking over thirty percent of Bay Brewing last month with the help of my mom, stalking Blake, and ultimately her boss’s moves with their company, these trade shows proved to be good business and hopefully the traveling would lead to pleasure as well.
If I had anything to say about it, there would be a lot of pleasure.
We didn't talk on the phone often, okay we did, just not as much as I'd like. But we text every day about nothing and everything and I both loved and hated it. I was becoming stingy and sharing her was difficult.
I couldn't wait to see her face when she walked in. It was Friday and according to The Atlanta Food and Beverage Show's itinerary, she should be arriving to set up her booth anytime minute.
That was pretty much what the first day of the show entailed. Setting up display areas and signage, and then walking around and getting to meet the other vendors. It was great networking for Bay. Afterward, there would be a cocktail thing and a dinner.
It may have been a little overboard to call the organizer and have our tables placed across the aisle from each other. I could admit to that. But ask me if I cared. It'd been too long since I’d seen her face. I wouldn't be able to focus on work all weekend if I was wondering where she was and making up excuses to leave the booth to seek her out.
And Marcia, the event planner, was very receptive. Turns out her husband loves beer. Who would have thought? I may have walked an inappropriate tightrope to get my way, but I'd gotten it, so to hell with it.
I'd do what I had to do, and if that meant bribing a middle-aged woman with beer for a front-row seat to a weekend of, at very least, seeing her front and center, only fifteen feet away for a whole day, then I was guilty. I don't give a shit.
Since Bay only had a handful of employees—and we were currently swamped—I'd suckered Troy into joining me that weekend. He actually knew quite a bit about the company and the process, but really, all the people wanted at these shows was a nice-looking face and free beer. Not to sound like a chick, but he was a pretty good-looking guy and I had enough beer to last a week.
Troy had many jobs. He worked with my brother at Tinnitus Music, played in a few bands, and worked some nights in a recording studio. Sometimes he even bartended at The Front Row, a music venue back home.
I arrived early, knowing I'd want to be done setting up by the time she arrived. I even knew when her plane landed. If she took that morning's direct flight from Seattle to Atlanta and then came straight there, she should be walking in at any moment.
“I'll grab the ice in the morning. I'll just take this cart up stairs with me tonight,” Troy said about filling up the sample and display tubs.
“Good idea. One trip.”
“You say that like you're surprised that I'm good at this. I'm a musician, remember. I know how to gig.”
“Gig?” I huffed a laugh, “When was your last gig?”
“Fuck you. It wasn't that long ago,” I heard him say, and then I thought he called me a dick under his breath as he set up the signs behind the booth.
That's when I saw her walking through the double doors that lead into the massive convention room in the bottom floor of the hotel hosting the event. She was wheeling in two huge hard cases, probably full of their company's propaganda. She was prettier then I remembered.
She was luminescent. Her hair was pulled into a loose ponytail and pieces of it had fallen out, and she'd cut the front part again, which fell just above her eyes. She was wearing dark brown dress pants and an ivory, silk sleeveless, button-up shirt. So hot.
As I watched her sign in and talk to the folks at the front of the room who managed the registration, I pulled my phone out.
Me: What are you doing right now? I want to tell you about what I'm looking at.
I watched her startle and heard the sound of her phone from across the room. She was fantastically disheveled, and I couldn’t help but laugh. She sprang into action looking for her cell. When she found it in the pocket of her jacket, which was threaded through the handles of her cases, she swiped her hand across the face to open the message.
She smiled and blushed.
The couple on the other side of the table gathered her registration forms and documents and set about putting them into the event folder that each vendor was given.
Honeybee: I'm busy. I'll text you later.
She smiled again, but didn't put the phone away. She was still holding it when I sent a message back.
Me: Too busy for me now? Come on. I really want to tell you about this.
“Dude, you're not doing shit. You better be naming a beer after me for this,” Troy complained from behind me where he almost had the whole booth ready to go.
“Sure, I'll call it Man Bitch Ale,” I replied, but I didn't take my eyes off the front of the room where she was standing.
“Who are you staring at?” Troy asked as he stood by be and followed my line of sight. Blake and Troy were both a Micah's graduation party, but Troy was too wasted that night to remember anything, let alone a girl who wasn't there for a whole hour before she left to get drunk by herself. “That girl? You're looking at the one at the registration table.”
I didn't answer, I only watched as she finished with a message she was typing back to me.
Honeybee: You're so needy. What are you looking at?
Me: I don't want to tell you now.
Honeybee: Good. I'm busy. Text later.
Me: I'm not texting you later.
I liked playing that game. Even though the look on her face was one of annoyance and confusion, I reveled in the way telling her I wouldn't text her later visibly bothered her. She sucked her bottom lip in her mouth, pulling at the right side of it, and scowled at her phone. She still didn't notice me. One of the event workers escorted her to her booth.
Her focus was solely on her phone, and she didn't look up as she walked. She couldn't be browsing anything. It was damn near impossible to do that with one hand. And with her only one free hand, she hauled her cases behind her. She barely noticed that one was tipped on its side and she was full-on dragging it. Blake's shoulders were hunched forward, looking a little deflated. She kept her eyes locked to the same spot on the phone.
When she got to a spot where she had to make a turn to stay in the mostly unfilled aisles, I texted her once to prove a strange theory. I told myself, playing the devil's advocate, “She's not rereading your message, don't fucking flatter yourself.”
Me: Cheer up, Betty.
Instantly, she released her lip.
I'd really missed her. How was it that I'd only spent a handful of hours with this girl and I missed her that much? It couldn't only be because she was sexy as hell in bed. It probably wasn't that she was ambitious and weird. I didn't know what, but it was something. And seeing her in front of me brought home how much I'd truly missed her.
I didn't think she'd try to text with one hand. I totally thought she'd wait, and then she'd see me before she would have time to type back. But she surprised me.
She stopped in the middle of the aisle about thirty feet away. She should have let go of the rolling suitcases, but she held onto them. And with one hand she sent a message.
Honeybee: Dnt do tht.
It flashed across my screen.
I held my phone out in front of me, higher than I normally w
ould so that I wouldn't have to look away from her. I was enthralled. It had been so long since I’d seen her and my greedy eyes wanted to indulge as much as they could.
Me: Do wht?
She let go of both cases and they fell to the outside of the walkway around her legs. With both hands she typed.
Honeybee: Don't play with me like that. We're friends. Remember? Don't be a jerk.
Me: Just friends?
Still holding my phone up close to my face, keeping both in view, I saw the breath she pulled in. I prayed to myself that that was what lying to yourself looked like, before I read her reply.
Honeybee: Yes.
Me: We'll see about that.
I closed out of the message. I didn't know what she'd reply. I opened the camera app instead and waited for it to ready itself, taking the time to zoom in a little, and allowing the lens focus on her.
I said, a little louder than my speaking voice, “There comes trouble.” I was so glad I'd had the forethought to take the picture, as her face was priceless. It was pure Blake.
Her eyes lifted to mine hearing my voice, like her ears were tuned to me from all those feet away. She didn't even need to scan for me. Her sharp gaze landed on me instantly. Then she did this thing where she sucked both of her lips in her mouth to keep from either screaming or smiling. I'd be happy with either; and knowing that it was one or the other made me want to do the same.
But I held my shit together and tried my best at being cool.
Then reality hit her and she realized that the person escorting her to the booth was picking up her cases and dragging them to the area right across from mine.
I was a fucking genius!
But she didn't know I was a genius. She thought it was something else. I could see the awe on her face at the realization we were right across from each other, in the same state, town, building and room as each other. It was awesome to watch.
When she finally started walking toward me, her hands out in front of her cream silk-covered breasts, phone still in hand, ponytail and bangs swishing from side to side, she asked, “Can you believe this?” Then she shook her head wildly and looked from one side of the aisle to the other. “What. The. Hell?” she said slowly and to herself.
