Way Off Plan

by Alexa Land

  The waves slapped my knees as I waded into the water, and I laid my board down and paddled out. The first few minutes were always bitterly cold before the layer of water beneath my wetsuit warmed up. The cold cleared my head, made me focus. I welcomed it.

  I stayed in the water for hours, even though the waves were average at best. Then finally, right before I was ready to pack it in, a solid set rolled in and made it all worthwhile. That meant I stayed out a lot longer than I’d intended, and I was completely exhausted by the time I dragged myself out of the ocean.

  I drove straight to Dmitri’s house and parked Lucy on the right side of the driveway behind the Land Rover, then grabbed my overnight bag and used the keys he’d given me to let myself in. The keypad to his alarm system was right inside the front door, and I quickly typed in my birthday. Lo and behold, the system powered down. I grinned at that, then peeled my wetsuit off right there in his marble entryway, trying not to drip all over the floors, and carried it gingerly to the garage, where I hung it from a utility hook.

  Then I padded upstairs buck naked, overnight bag in hand, and went through his bedroom to the large master bathroom. I showered and dressed in a new white t-shirt from my recent shopping spree and an old pair of flannel pajama bottoms with a repeating pattern of Spongebob Squarepants on them (obviously, I really needed to do laundry – these had been a gag gift from my sister Maureen that I wore only when desperate). I plugged my dead cell phone in beside the sink, then went downstairs and raided Dmitri’s fridge.

  I was absolutely ravenous (and in no mood to question the ethics of eating food potentially paid for with mob money). I found a pasta dish and warmed it in the microwave, then grabbed a beer and utensils and a carton of Ben and Jerry’s (the freezer was still jam-packed from Dmitri’s attempt to cheer me up following that disastrous visit to my parents’ house) and juggled everything upstairs to Dmitri’s bedroom.

  Yes, I was going to eat in bed, because this was how he and I had eaten every meal we’d ever shared in this house. I settled back against the pillows and, after a few failed attempts with the incredibly complex remote, got the TV to rise magically from its console and actually turn on. I found a college football game, which I could have cared less about, and muted the sound, then dove into the pasta. It was probably good that Dmitri wasn’t home, because shoveling food into my mouth while dressed like this wasn’t the most flattering thing ever.

  When every last morsel of pasta was gone, I took a long drink of beer, belched like a drunken sailor, and dove into the Ben and Jerry’s with a big serving spoon. I was about halfway through the carton when I heard the front door slam downstairs. My first thought was that Dmitri was home early, and I smiled happily.

  But then a woman’s voice called, “Honey, I’m home!”

  I froze, my heart leaping with alarm, the big spoon and the ice cream carton poised in mid-scoop. This person was coming up the stairs, high heels clicking on hardwood. And as she advanced, she called out loudly, “I’m coming upstairs! So if there’s any hot man-on-man action going on, then for God’s sake, knock it off and put some pants on! Quickly now! I don’t want to be traumatized when I get up there!”

  She was right outside the bedroom door now, and yelled, “I’m coming in! Last warning! Make sure everyone’s dicks are put away!” And then she pushed the door open.

  A tall, strikingly beautiful woman with long blonde hair and blue eyes breezed into the room, a big leather bag draped over one upturned wrist. She caught sight of me and stopped in her tracks, then assessed me critically, taking in every detail from my damp hair to the Spongebob PJs to the Ben and Jerry’s.

  And then she said with a cheerful smile, “Hi, I’m Catherine. And you must be the home wrecker that’s trying to steal my fiancé.”

  Chapter Twelve

  “Oh my God,” I murmured, feeling the color rise in my cheeks. I leapt out of bed and jammed the spoon into the ice cream, then looked around frantically, trying to figure out the fastest way to grab my stuff and run out of here. And I stammered, “I’m sorry. I wasn’t expecting you. Obviously. Shit, what did I do with my keys? I’m going, I promise. As soon as I remember where my keys are. God, I am so sorry.”

  She laughed delightedly and I turned to stare at her, wondering if maybe she was deranged. She dropped her bag and crossed the room to me, and grabbed my hand. “Jamie, right? I’m sorry, that was really mean of me. But God, you should have seen the look on your face.” She giggled happily.

  Ok, she was definitely deranged. I stepped back from her, slipping my hand from hers, still looking desperately for my keys as I said, “Um, maybe my keys are downstairs. I’ll just–”

  She took a step toward me again. “Jamie, don’t go! Dmitri will be totally pissed at me if you do. Where is he, anyway?”

  “At his nightclub. He gave me a key. I didn’t know you’d be here.”

  “Neither did Dmitri.” She grinned at me cheerfully. “I’m glad you’re here. I really wanted to meet you.”

  I stopped what I was doing and took a good look at her. She seemed perfectly calm and collected, which didn’t make a lick of sense in these circumstances. “You gonna finish that?” she asked, reaching for the spoon that was sticking out of the carton in my hand.

  “Uh, no.”

  “Mind if I do? I’m starving. The food on the plane was horrifying. I mean, even more so than usual.” She dug some ice cream out of the container and stuck it in her mouth.

  “Um…out of curiosity, why aren’t you trying to punch me in the face right now?” I asked, watching her closely.

  “Oh boy. I really freaked you out with that jealous fiancé thing, didn’t I? Dmitri’s always telling me that not everyone appreciates my sense of humor. I really am sorry. I thought he was here, and I thought he’d be totally mortified by all of that. And basically, I live to embarrass him.” She smiled pleasantly as I blinked, trying to catch up with her mile-a-minute rambling.

  “Are you really Dmitri’s fiancé?” I asked, wondering now if this was a friend playing a joke.

  “I really am,” she said, with an odd little frown.

  “So… not to be repetitive or anything, but why aren’t you attacking me right now, given the fact that you just found me in your fiancé’s bed?”

  Her smile gave way to concern now, and she asked, “Jamie, how much has Dmitri told you about our engagement?”

  “Nothing, really. Just that you’re getting married next June.” I wrapped my arms around myself, suddenly feeling like the floor was about to drop out from under me.

  “That’s it? That’s all he told you?”

  I nodded, and she set the ice cream down and came over to me, touching my arm lightly. “Shit, Jamie. I’m so sorry. You have absolutely no idea what’s going on. No wonder you’re so freaked. Maybe we should call Dmitri at the club, ask him to come home early so he can explain all of this to you.”

  “Can’t. He’s got some…business tonight. I don’t want to make his night any more complicated than it already is.”

  “What kind of business? Do you mean the work he does for my father?”

  “Your father?” I echoed, more confused than ever.

  “Yeah. Gregor Sokolov, his uncle. My father.”

  “Oh, holy shit,” I gasped. That was one big, fat, incestuous step too far down the weirdness trail. I couldn’t take any more of this surreal conversation. I dodged around her and headed for the stairs.

  “Shit,” Catherine exclaimed, chasing after me. “Ok, I probably shouldn’t have led off with the cousin thing. That must sound – well, Christ, completely horrifying. Jamie, stop for a second.”

  I ignored her and ran to the kitchen, looking around desperately for my keys. They were nowhere to be seen. Fuck it, I’d walk. I headed for the front door, Catherine right on my heels, saying, “Jamie, please stop. Let me explain. God, Dmitri is going to kill me for driving you away like this. Just wait for a minute, ok?”

  I burst out the front door with her
right behind me, and jogged down the stairs. And she yelled from the top step, “Jamie, stop!” When that did nothing to detain me, she yelled, “It’s a fake marriage!”

  That got the attention of everyone on the sidewalk, myself included. I turned back to her and said, “What?”

  “It’s not a real marriage. It’s fake. And why the hell didn’t Dmitri tell you that?”

  The tiniest glimmer of hope sparked inside me as I said, “Explain what that means.”

  “Happily, as soon as you come back inside.”

  “I…I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” I said, still totally thrown off by the past few minutes.

  “Jamie, you’re traumatized, barefoot, and wearing Spongebob jammies. You’re in no condition to go running around the streets of San Francisco. Would you please, please, please come back inside and let me explain all this shit to you?” And then she whirled toward an older man with a poodle that had paused on the sidewalk to gawk at us, and growled, hands on her hips, “Move along, pooper scooper, or else I’m going to shove that poodle so far up your ass that you’ll be shitting puffballs for a month.”

  A slightly hysterical burst of laughter escaped me, and the man flushed and scampered away quickly. “You like that?” she asked me with a grin.

  And I admitted, “That was one of the most colorful insults I’ve ever heard. And since I was raised in a big Irish Catholic family, that’s really saying something.”

  “I was raised by the Russian mafia. By the time I was ten, I knew how to sweep a room for bugs, identify counterfeit hundred dollar bills, and threaten bodily harm in a truly offensive and spectacular fashion.”

  “Well, kudos. You must have been at the top of your class at Mafia Threatening School.” I studied her carefully. She might still prove to be totally nuts, but I was damn well going to stick around and hear what Catherine had to say on the whole ‘fake marriage’ subject.

  “Nah, I was a distant second behind Dmitri. I’m sure you’ve seen how he gets going when he lays into somebody. He’s got the three C’s down pat: crude, colorful, and completely inappropriate. He makes me look like a rank amateur.” She smiled proudly.

  I came back up the stairs slowly as I said, “I’ve never seen that, actually. I can’t really even imagine it. He always seems so refined.”

  That drew an unladylike snort of laughter from Catherine. “Oh yeah. He’s refined, all right.” Then she said, “Oh wait, you’re serious!” I blinked at her like I was missing something, and she grabbed my arm and dragged me into the house, saying, “Babe, I have so much to tell you about your cute little boyfriend.”

  “Ok. But can we start with the fake marriage?”

  “Absolutely.” She led me into the kitchen, saying, “This is gonna be a lengthy discussion. We need to fortify ourselves with some booze. And more ice cream. I’m fucking starving.” She threw open a couple cabinets and sighed in frustration, then looked in the freezer and said, “Does Dmitri have any alcohol besides vodka?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Fucking Russian stereotype,” she muttered, grabbing the vodka, followed by five or six cartons of Ben and Jerry’s. She located a big tray and loaded it up with the booze and ice cream, along with spoons, glasses, bowls, napkins, and Diet Cokes. She stepped back and assessed the tray, then opened and closed a few more cabinets. “He moved his secret junk food stash,” she said. “Do you know where it is now?” She started opening more obscure cabinets, like the one under the sink.

  “I’ve never seen him eat junk food. The worst thing I’ve ever seen him eat is ice cream. And cheesecake.”

  She shot me a lopsided grin. “He’s probably been on his best behavior. You’ve only known him a week, right?”

  “Slightly less than that,” I admitted.

  “Oh babe, just wait. He’s still trying to impress you. But one day you’re going to come home and find him covered in potato chip crumbs, wearing his dorky glasses, dressed in some tacky sci fi t-shirt, and playing video games on his laptop. If you still love my nerdy cousin after that, then you’re a total keeper. Oh – and if you’re really, really lucky, he’ll even be wearing his retainer.” She chuckled and shook her head, as if picturing all of that.

  “Ok, so you’re talking about Dmitri Teplov, right? I mean, he doesn’t even wear glasses….”

  She’d been opening and closing cupboards as we spoke, and now she let out a triumphant, “Ah ha!” Catherine pulled a box out of the cleaning supply cupboard and thrust it at me, saying, “Carry this.” I did as I was told, and she hoisted the big tray up and started to climb the back staircase.

  “He couldn’t really have a retainer,” I said as I followed her. “I mean, he’s twenty six. Maybe when he was sixteen, right? But surely not now. You’re just fucking with me.”

  “You think that perfect smile doesn’t come at a price?” Catherine asked over her shoulder. “He still wears the retainer, because he’s incredibly vain and worries about his teeth shifting back into their original slightly horrifying position.”

  “You know, I never have a clue when you’re joking and when you’re being serious,” I told her.

  “See? That’s what I was saying before. Dmitri tries to tell me that no one gets my sense of humor. The jealous fiancé thing when I first came home? That was a joke. Everything I’ve told you since then is the Gods-honest truth.”

  We’d returned to Dmitri’s bedroom, and I asked in surprise, “We’re going to do this here?”

  “Well, yeah. You’re obviously most comfortable in this room, given the way you were nesting when I arrived. And no way do I want to get potato chips in my bed.” She plopped the tray down on the mattress and said, “I’ll be right back. I need to slip into something more conducive to eating like a ravenous wolverine.” And she left the room. I sank down on the edge of the bed, and then fell onto my back. Catherine was exhausting.

  A couple minutes later, she came back into the room and I jumped up off the bed. Her blonde hair was piled on her head in a messy bun, and she was dressed in a black tank top and matching pink and black polka dotted shorts – both very tight and very skimpy. She was all long legs and big boobs, and I didn’t know where to put my eyes. “Maybe, uh, do you want to put on a t-shirt or something? You’re kind of, you know…exposed.”

  She hopped onto the bed and sat cross-legged, and pried open a carton of ice cream as she said, “Dude, you’re gay. You’re like my sister. What do you care how I’m dressed?”

  “Gee, nice to know you basically think of me as a eunuch,” I told her.

  “1765 called – they want their word back. And I don’t mean to insult you. It’s just a simple statement of fact. And you are gay, right? As opposed to bi?”

  “Yes, I’m gay.”

  “Ok then.”

  “So you’re really going to stay like that?”

  “You’re funny,” she said cheerfully. “And I’m not changing this outfit. I just spent six hours flying cross-country in skin-tight jeans, stilettos, and a push-up underwire bra. I need to be comfortable now. Especially because I’m about to gain ten pounds from all this food, and will need the elastic waistband.” She spooned a big dollop of ice cream into each of two bowls, and then reached for another container, repeating the process. When the bowls were filled she reached for the vodka, and poured it over the top of one of the bowls with a flourish.

  “Oh, ew, what are you doing?” I asked.

  “Being creative. Want me to douse yours, too, or do you prefer it in a glass like a boring person?”

  “In a glass like a boring person.”

  “Suit yourself,” she said with a shrug, and poured me a generous shot. Then she spooned up a bunch of ice cream and booze from her bowl and stuck it in her mouth. “Mmm. Better than you might expect,” she told me around the ice cream.

  “Ok, are you finally ready to tell me what you meant when you said it’s a fake marriage? Because my whole life is kind of hanging in the balance here.”

&nb
sp; “I meant exactly what I said. It’s a fake marriage. My cousin and I aren’t actually in love, we’re not planning to have inbred mutant babies, and the whole thing is basically one big sham. You know, this needs something,” she said, and reached into the box I’d brought up from downstairs. She pulled out a bag of potato chips and crumbled some over the top of her vodka sundae, then took a bite. “Oh shit, that’s amazing! You have to try this!” she announced, and thrust a heaping spoon at me.

  “Later. I need more details. I don’t understand any of this.”

  “Take a bite first,” she insisted. I sighed and did what I was told with a dramatic eye roll.

  And then I exclaimed, “Holy crap, that’s completely delicious.”

  “Want me to do yours?” she asked, indicating my plain bowl of ice cream.