by Lauren Rowe
I abruptly lower my hand from Maddy’s hair and jerk my body away from hers, clearing my throat. “And, hey, if not, then, great job, Helen Keller: you just made yourself a burger-date with a guy who wants to bone the livin’ fuck outta ya.”
Maddy socks me in the shoulder. “Stop it.”
“Ow.” I rub my shoulder. “You’re mean.”
“Well, you’re annoying.” She socks me again. “And you’re a dickweed.”
I rub my shoulder again. “Hey, I strongly prefer to be called ‘flaming asshole,’ please.”
“Oh, I’m saving that one for the next time you say something that forces me to punch you.” She lets out a grunt. “Please stop needling me about Brian, okay? It was nice talking to him, that’s all—he helped calm my jangly nerves about school. I’m excited about starting a brand new school, for sure, but I’m nervous as hell about it, too.”
“Aw, don’t be nervous, sweet thing. You’re gonna do great. You’re the Steve Jobs of documentary filmmaking, remember?”
Maddy twists her mouth adorably. “Look, the bottom line about Brian is that, even if he were into me, which he’s not, he won’t be ‘bonin’ the fuck outta me’ because I’m not into him.” She makes another weird hand gesture, like she’s banishing me to the hinterlands of hell. “And that’s the last thing I’m gonna say on the topic of Brian or ‘bonin’.’” She abruptly walks away from me to the end of the aisle, and I follow her. “Do you see popcorn?” she asks, looking at a shelf filled with bags of potato chips and pretzels. “Oh, here it is. You like it plain or flavored, baby doll? What’s your pleasure?”
I grab a bag of white-cheddar popcorn off the shelf. “In honor of my beloved wife. Zander and I have made some beautiful memories together while eating this stuff.”
“Great,” Maddy says, grabbing another bag of popcorn off the shelf. “I’m all in favor of honoring your beloved wife any chance we get.” She looks at the items in her hands. “So are we good with popcorn and Milk Duds, or will we be breaking the law if we don’t have Junior Mints, too?”
“Are we in Oregon yet?” I ask.
“We crossed the border an hour ago.”
“Okay, then we’re good,” I say, loping back down the aisle toward the candy. “There’s a little-known exception to the law requiring the consumption of popcorn, Milk Duds, and Junior Mints while watching a movie, applicable only in the state of Oregon, that says chocolate peanut butter cups can be substituted for Junior Mints in a verified emergency.” I hold up a bright orange package of chocolate peanut butter cups. “But only when the chocolate peanut butter cups are consumed by a sensitive, pretty girl with a boner for gender equality and an intense sexual attraction to Jesus, and only while she watches a kick-ass documentary about basketball, unrequited love, and gender inequality with a dude with blue hair, ebullient charm, and killer dimples.” I flash her my dimples.
“Wowza,” Maddy says, laughing. “That’s a really specific law.”
“Yeah,” I say. “We got lucky this time. If we were still in Washington, they’d probably lock us up and throw away the key.”
“Well, then, we shouldn’t tempt fate,” Maddy says. “First chance we get, let’s stop at a grocery store and stock up on all necessary supplies. God only knows what the law will be once we cross into California tomorrow.”
“Good idea,” I say.
Maddy’s mouth twists, just for a beat, like she’s trying her damnedest not to smile. “You’re annoying, you know that?” she says.
“I’ve heard that a time or two. So you ready to buy this grub-a-dub-dub and hit the road, sweet thing?” I ask. “Or are we gonna spend our whole vacation standing in this godforsaken minimart?”
A beaming smile spreads across the full width of Maddy’s pretty face. “Hell no, we’re not gonna spend our whole vacation standing in this godforsaken minimart, sugar lips,” she says. “Let’s roll.”
Chapter 17
Keane
“So why aren’t you into Brian?” I ask, propping the minimart door open for Maddy with one arm while holding our bags of popcorn and candy in the other.
“Aw, come on!” Maddy throws up her hands and quickens her pace toward her car. “Obsess much?”
“I’m just curious,” I say, following closely behind her. “Brian was a handsome enough dude; you said yourself he was ‘nice and helpful’; and he was clearly sportin’ major wood for you. So why wouldn’t you at least give him a shot? Not everyone can be as perfect as your boyfriend Jesus, you know.”
“Yeah, Keane, I require guys to emulate the son of God to get a burger date with me,” she says, rolling her eyes. We’ve reached her car and she digs into her purse for her keys. “I’m pretty sure I’ve mentioned that my recent foray into abstinence hasn’t been intentional.”
“So why not give this Brian dude a shot?”
“Because I either feel physical chemistry with a guy or I don’t. And I didn’t feel it with him.”
Maddy unlocks her car and we pile inside.
“Yeah, but maybe physical chemistry can develop over time,” I say, stowing the bag of junk food on the floor next to my feet.
“I don’t think so.”
“No?”
“Not in my experience. Hang on.” She holds up her hand. “Silence while I back out, please.”
I bite my lip and remain quiet as Maddy slowly backs her car out of its parking spot, furrowing her brow as she does.
“Thank you,” she says when she’s got her car free and clear of the gas station and we’re headed down the road toward the freeway on-ramp.
“You’re an excellent driver, Rainman,” I say.
“Why, thank you. Okay, on further reflection, I’d like to amend my last statement. I do think physical chemistry can increase or decrease the more you get to know someone, but what I’m looking for is something different than gambling on there being a gradual increase of attraction. I want that smacks-you-in-the-face, undeniable, heart-racing, all-consuming heat with someone, you know? And I don’t think that kind of attraction develops over time. Do you?”
I consider my answer for a moment. “No. Or, at least, it’s never happened to me. That kind of thing is pretty much instantaneous—you either got it with someone or you don’t.”
“Exactly.”
“So what’s missing with Brian, you think?” I open one of the three bags of popcorn we bought at the minimart.
“You’re hungry?” Maddy asks, incredulous.
“Snacky.”
“But you just ate enough food to feed a small army.”
“That’s because I’m a small army, sweetheart.” I flex my arm. “Ka-bam, son! It takes a lot to keep this body looking like manna from heaven.”
“So you keep telling me.”
I hold the bag of popcorn out to her. “You want some, honey biscuits? It’s delish.”
“No, thanks, sugar booty. I’m still stuffed from lunch like any normal person would be.”
“Suit yourself. So, what’s wrong with Brian, you think? Why no fireworks?”
“Nothing’s wrong with him. Wait, yeah, I changed my mind. Send that bag over here, hot stuff.” She motions to the popcorn bag and I hand it to her. “It’s not something that can be explained logically,” she says, chomping a handful of popcorn. “He’s cute. Nice. Funny. On paper, he seems like the perfect guy for me to pursue. I just don’t go for jock types, I guess. I dunno. Who the frickity-frack knows why anyone feels attraction to one person and not another?” She dives into the bag again.
“Good stuff, huh?”
“Dangerously addicting.”
“It’s Z’s favorite.” I take another huge handful. “Yeah, Brian’s definitely a jock type. I’m guessing O-line.”
“O-line? Is that a some sort of sexual reference?”
“Oh, for the love of God, woman. Have you never watched a football game in your life? Offensive line, babe. You know, the guys who protect the quarterback?”
“Ooooooh.”
Maddy snorts. “That’s funny. I thought it was some slang I’m too dorky to know about. Okay. Well, whatever. The point is Brian was sweet and nice but, for whatever reason, he didn’t make my pulse race. And I’ve recently decided I’m not interested in any guy who can’t make my pulse race right off the bat.”
“A guy has to make your pulse race right from the get-go or he’s shit out of luck with you? Dude, that’s a pretty tall order, don’t you think? Can’t a guy be kinda nice and moderately good-looking and then, if things seem to be going well, you jump into the sack with him to see where things might lead?”
Maddy scoffs. “Do you sleep with girls who are ‘kinda nice’ and ‘moderately good-looking’, just to ‘see where things might lead’?”
I consider that briefly. “No. Never.”
“Of course, not. Because you want to feel intense physical chemistry, right away. Why bother otherwise?”
“Well, yeah, but I’ve got my pick of all the pickles in the world. Why should I settle for a pickle who doesn’t give me a raging woody from minute one?”
“So you’re implying I don’t have my pick of pickles the way you do?”
I laugh. “Pick of pickles.”
“Pick of pickles,” she repeats, and we both laugh. “Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled pickles because he had his pick of pickled pickles to prick with his pickled pecker,” she adds.
I laugh my ass off. “Say that again.”
She does.
“Oh my God, Maddy. I gotta get that on video. I’d never be able to describe that to Z.” I pull out my phone.
“No, Keane.” She puts her hand up. “I don’t like being on camera.”
“Come on, baby doll. For me and Z. I won’t post it or anything like that, I promise. That was just too cute not to document.”
She puts down her hand. “Fine. For you and Z only. I hate being on camera.”
“Thank you. It’s just how I am, baby. I. Must. Document.” I press the button to record. “Okay, action.”
Maddy repeats her pickled tongue twister and I laugh just as hard again.
“Got it. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
“You know what that reminds me of? When Z sent you that dick-pick, I said, ‘Hey, Z, you can’t send a dick-pick to a chick,’ and then we both lost our minds because we thought ‘dick-pick to a chick’ was so fucking funny. Z called it the social-media edition of ‘Old MacDonald Had a Farm’: ‘Dick-pick to a chick-chick, everywhere a dick-pic—”
“E-i-e-i-o,” Maddy sings, and we both burst out laughing.
“Oh man, it’s still funny as hell to me and I’m not even stoned.”
“I think it’s hilarious.”
“My brother Ryan didn’t think it was funny at all.”
“Sounds like Ryan wouldn’t know funny if it bit him in the ass, son.” She throws up her hand to me without taking her eyes off the road and I side-high-five her.
“See? That’s why I love you the most, Maddy Milliken—because you’re funny as hell.”
Maddy blushes.
“Now don’t get all obsessed with me ’cause I said that, okay, baby doll? It’s just a figure of speech. It’s what I say to all the cool kids.” I wink.
“I will refrain from getting obsessed with you,” she says. “I promise.”
We both chomp some more popcorn.
“So do you?” I ask after a long moment.
“Do I what?”
“Have your pick of pickles?”
“Oh.” Maddy snorts. “I forgot all about that.” She pops a piece of popcorn into her mouth. “Absolutely, positively not.” She laughs. “But so what? Does that mean I should settle for pickles who don’t get my motor running at all? Is that your implication? Because I really don’t think so. I used to settle—in fact, I’ve made a romantic career out of it—but I’ve recently decided that, since I’m going to a brand new school and starting a new life in a new city, I’m a man-eater now, baby. Ka-bam, son!” She flexes her arm.
I laugh. God, she’s so cute, I can’t stand it.
“From here on out,” Maddy continues, apparently oblivious to the wide smile I’m flashing her, “I’m not settling, even if that means I’m gonna be alone ’til the day I die. I’m no longer going steady with Jesus—I’m going steady with me.”
“Holy fuck, brah. You’re Kelly on 90210.”
“Oh my God, I love that show!” She furrows her brow with mock solemnity. “‘I. Choose. Me.’”
“Yes!” I say, chuckling. “I was so pissed about that.”
“Me, too! I was like, ‘Aw, come on, Kelly! Just frickin’ choose!’”
We both laugh.
“Oh, and we can’t forget the best episode ever,” Maddy says.
“‘Donna Martin graduates!’” we both shout at the same time and then burst into laughter.
Another side-high-five ensues.
“Dang it,” Maddy says after our laughter has died down. “I can’t think of another 90210 quote to save my life. You got another one for me, sugar lips?”
“Hmm. Well, there’s a pretty good one where Brandon says if Steve Sanders were any stupider, he’d have to feed him fertilizer.’”
Maddy bursts out laughing. “That’s 90210? I don’t remember that one.”
“Yeah, it was in one of the later seasons after they’d gone away to college. I don’t remember what Steve Sanders did, but it was something really boneheaded. Z uses that one on me a lot. Sometimes, he just calls me Steve Sanders if I’ve been particularly stupid.”
Maddy chuckles. “I gotta meet Z.”
“You’d love him. And he’d love you. Actually, he already does. He liked you at ‘jerksauce’ and fell deeply in love with you at ‘dickweed.’”
Maddy makes an adorable face.
“Okay, then, enough 90210. Back to you and your sex life, dude,” I say.
“Oh, yes, please.” She rolls her eyes.
“Maddy Milliken, Professional Eye-Roller.”
She does it again.
“I’m surprised you still have full range of motion of dem eyeballs, sweet cheeks. Okay, tell me this: how many guys have made your pulse race like you’re talking about?”
Maddy daintily places a single kernel of popcorn into her mouth. “One. My first boyfriend, Justin. Every other boyfriend since him has been a nice guy, but the physical sparks just weren’t there.”
“One? Jesus, Maddy.”
“Such is life for us mere mortals, Keane.”
“How many guys you been with all together?”
She presses her lips together.
“Aw, come on,” I say. “I won’t tell anybody. I gotta know what I’m working with here.”
“Three.”
I’m flabbergasted. “Your number’s three?”
She nods, blushing.
“Oh, for the love of all things holy, woman.”
“I’m a boyfriend-type of girl.” She shrugs. “So now you see why I’ve decided to do things differently from here on out. From now on, a guy being ‘nice’ isn’t good enough. I want it all—emotional and physical sparks.” She makes a face reflecting extreme distaste. “Honestly, without a strong physical connection, sex can actually be kind of... icky. Oh, shoot,” she says suddenly, her gaze trained on the road ahead of us. “We got traffic, son.”
As Maddy applies the brakes, I peer out the windshield, and sure enough, we’re coming up on a shit-ton of brake lights.
I look at my watch. “Rush hour, you think?”
“It’s still a bit early for that, isn’t it? Maybe there’s been an accident?”
“You want me to drive for a bit?” I ask.
“No, it’s okay.”
“Okay. Just lemme know if you change your mind, Mario Andretti. But just so you know, I got my one and only speeding ticket at age seventeen; if you let me drive, I’ll put my phone in the glove box while driving, the same way you do, and I’ll keep both hands at ten and two at all times, never taking my eyes
off the road except to occasionally flash you my killer dimples when you say something especially cute. I’m not sure if I’ve mentioned this to you yet, but I’m an excellent driver.”
“Yeah, I think I heard that somewhere. Thanks. I’ll keep your offer in mind. So do you agree with me or not?”
“About what—that I’ve got killer dimples?” I flash my dimples. “Yes, I do.”
Maddy’s unfazed, which is becoming par for the course with us. “No, you narcissist, do you agree with me I should hold out for both emotional and physical attraction from here on out or do you stand by your advice that I should start jumping into bed with guys who do absolutely nothing for me physically and see where it leads?”
“Oh, that. Well, no, now that you put it that way, I’m not standing by that advice. Actually, I’m gonna pull a one-eighty here because I think you’re looking at this whole thing completely backwards.”
“How so?”
“Your assumption is you’ll find emotional attraction first and then have to figure out whether there’s enough of a physical spark, too. But why the hell wouldn’t you turn things around? I mean, yeah, if you’re looking for an actual relationship, then, sure, you gotta find the whole package. But why the fuck are you looking for a boyfriend at all? Fuck it. You’re young and single, about to start a new school. If I were you, I’d start this new-school-new-city thing off with a bang—pun intended—and have yourself some good old-fashioned chitty-chitty-bang-bang. Forget about the emotional-and-physical-connection thing for a while and get yourself laid by some guy who really gets your motor running full-throttle.”
Maddy chuckles. “Oh my God, Keane.”
“Seriously, Maddy. Why not go for it once in a while and have some fun? Ain’t no shame in that. In fact, the whole thing would be an act of protest against gender inequality.”
“How on earth would jumping into the sack with every hottie I meet, no matter how big a jerk he is or how stupid, be an act of protest against gender inequality?”
“Why should men be the only ones in our society who get to sleep around with impunity?”
“Big word, son.”
“Zander.”
“Ah.”
“Why is sleeping around perfectly fine for men but women are slut-shamed? Hey, that’s an interesting juxtaposition, wouldn’t you say? That could be your next documentary right there—juxtaposing the male and female sexual experience—and sleeping around could be your research.” Oh man. The look on Maddy’s face is too much fun not to keep hurtling ahead. “Yep, that’s exactly what you should do,” I continue. “Find yourself a dude who makes your pulse race and let him bone the livin’ fuck outta ya ’til you’re screaming your own name ’cause you don’t even know his.”
