Regretfully Yours

by Sunniva Dee

  “Yeah.” I roll my eyes. “As long as I’ve known you. Three years.”

  “And you were never like this.”

  “I hadn’t met Ciro yet.”

  I’m taking a break from thinking. I work off instincts and feelings, and I get wet just by visualizing him. It’s freaking uncomfortable, like, if I were a boy I’d be running to the restroom to jack off all day.

  “Okay.” With two hands lifted, palms turned toward me and the Twizzler sticking out of the side of her mouth, she over-dramatizes. “So you’ve decided to keep seeing him. Correct?”

  “Sort of.”

  “Whatever. You’ve also decided that you don’t want to formalize what you guys do, because that would be weird since he has sex with others.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “So that’s your way of fixing the problem with him cheating on you, to name it something else? What’re you going to call it now then—is this ‘dating’ to you, to be with him seven days a week and sleep over at his house all the time?”

  “What’s this obsession with labels all of a sudden?”

  “Ha, like it hasn’t been all about labels since the first time he took you out. I’ve never met a more label-obsessed couple in my life.”

  “We’re not a couple!”

  “See what I mean? Jesus Christ.”

  “Frieda, it’s the only solution I have. I can’t stand being just friends with him, and I definitely can’t stand losing him. So yeah, this is the answer. I’m gonna see if I can stomach it.”

  I nod a fake smile at the door, to the four guests coming in. They look business-serious, like they’re not here for the food.

  “Anywhere you like,” I call out. My early shift is over in a minute. It’s almost five. Frieda came for the second shift. I can’t wait to leave her nosy butt behind and for Ciro to pick me up.

  “I don’t get you. I’d so rather be alone,” she mutters and straightens her apron.

  The bell over the entrance jingles again.

  “Speaking of sexy devils and their pack.” Frieda glares at Ciro in the doorway and blows the leftover piece of Twizzler into the trashcan.

  My heart does a leap, the way it always does when I see him. Behind him stand Ana and Aaron.

  “Hey! What’re you doing?” I have no breath left knowing they all came to pick me up. Ciro is achingly beautiful, freshly showered with golden just-fucked tips standing up in ruffled sections of his hair. Eyes gleaming with contentment, he looks me over like I’m some stunning piece of art.

  “Hey, baby girl! I brought the pack to see where you spend your waking hours.”

  “Ha, the pack,” Frieda repeats, trailing into a mock-laugh. “Ciro,” she adds and nods stiffly in passing. Thank goodness for her business guests.

  Ciro squints before he responds in the same manner, “Frieda.”

  “This place is awesome.” Ana hugs me, ample silicone bosom pillowing against me. She lowers her voice. “Ciro says the food is crazy good too. Want to eat here tonight instead of at the Timber Ranch?”

  I widen both eyes and mouth to object, but she cuts in first. “Ha, like you want to be here when you’re off from work. Good one though, right?”

  “Very good. I commend you,” I say.

  Ciro loops me into his arms. With a quick scan of the locale, he finds it free of Il Signores. He rocks me, letting out a small m-hmm, as if he didn’t drop me off here at the beginning of my shift. “I’ve missed you.”

  “Gah, they’re cu-u-ute,” Ana draws out. “Aren’t they, sweetie?”

  Aaron bobs his head, grinning politely. “Adorbs.”

  At the house, I shower and put on makeup while Lin entertains my guests with magic tricks: how to make ping pong balls disappear from his hand and reappear in Ciro’s pants. Miraculously, we still get to the pier before the sun sets.

  Pelicans dive over us and land with heavy thumps on the poles in a last hurrah before bedtime. The wind is brisk down here, which is in my favor, because Ciro makes it his mission to get rid of my goosebumps in that hard warmth of his.

  Ocean Breeze, a rustic seafood restaurant, is situated at the furthest edge of the pier. Weather-worn steps make a semi-spiral up to the second floor where we enter and get seated.

  Our waitress is a carbon copy of Carmen both in looks and level of absolutely charmed by my non-boyfriend. Is it odd that it makes me take his hand and put it in my lap?

  “Champagne!” Ana orders. “A bottle. No, two, right?” She glances around at us, wiggling a little in her chair. I try not to think about why we’re celebrating, that my... what, exactly? (Frieda might be right in me obsessing over labels) is finished drilling her. I want to ask how she manages not to look sore. I want to ask Aaron how he manages to look genuinely excited for her.

  “Let’s do one at a time,” Aaron decides but looks at Ana to make sure she agrees.

  “Yes.” She claps small hands with French-tipped fingers. “One at a time, because the fizzzzz.” She pulls the zzz out for us, so I join her until we both laugh.

  Ciro is beaming. I don’t think I’ve seen him so happy before.

  “Do you have real champagne?” he asks the waitress.

  She touches her chest as if he just asked her out. “I— Yes... Veuve Clicquot.”

  “That’ll do. Right?” He double-checks with Ana, who claps again. Geez, her clapping is so funny.

  “Yep, yep! Omigod. This film’s the one. It’s going to be awesome. Don’t you think? I’m so glad Lucid paid the money to get you in it. Now everyone’s going to watch it, and— and...”

  “You did great,” Ciro replies like a proud father. “Your girlfriend has become an amazing performer since the last time I worked with her. It wouldn’t surprise me if you snagged an award from it, Ana.”

  “Oh god. Can you imagine?” Her voice breaks with excitement, and then she snuggles into her Aaron, who’s so, so happy for her. Wow, I can’t. Even.

  Here I am, having a hard time connecting the dots between this conversation and the fact that Ciro just. Freaking had sex with her for three days straight.

  And then, here I am, a normal person, just a regular waitress and student, smiling and being on a date with him. And in between what he did with my new super-sweet friend, Ana, I’ve been in his arms—in his bed—with him in me.

  I’m the first to grab my full glass of champagne, lifting it high and then downing the whole damn thing in two gulps. I shudder. Veuve Clicquot or not, if you down it like water, it’s going to hurt.

  I don’t move out of the crook of Ciro’s arm until I’m three glasses in. By then, I’m relaxed enough to not feel absolutely weirded out.

  I laugh a lot.

  They laugh a lot.

  There’s a game starting around the third bottle of champagne and after the second course—because we’re having courses—where, whenever one of us kisses our date, the other couple kisses too.

  It’s childish. It’s ridiculous. It’s silly. The boys outdo each other, sticking their tongues down our throats like we’re all twelve. I almost choke once, which sends Ana to the floor. Or maybe it was her fifth glass of champagne that did it. The girl is tiny.

  And not once does Ana or Ciro make any move toward each other. Perhaps that is what my thwarted brain understands the least.

  23. LAST NIGHT

  “I don’t know how to describe last night.”

  I’m in my own bed, propped up against my pillows with my computer on my lap. I’m cramming for a quiz, but Charlotte came by with her still depths and ability to listen.

  “Try anyway. Was it a good night?”

  “It was amazing.” I huff a laugh. “I did it as a test. I wanted to see how I’d react if I were to be with his friends, even someone he’d slept with for work. I went into the double date doubting myself more than I doubted him. You know? He’
s just so consistent in everything he says and does. It almost seems like he really only wants me for more than the flesh-side of things…

  “I’m not making sense, am I?”

  “No, I get it.” Charlotte’s kind eyes meet mine.

  “But to sit there, knowing that he’d been more with the woman across from me than he had with me over the last three days? It was wild. I was jealous in the beginning. But then they were so natural. Her boyfriend was at ease, excited for her and how she’d made a great ‘performance’ as Ciro called it. And we invented silly drinking games. Or kissing games.”

  “Kissing games?” She frowns like she’s thinking adult games.

  “Yeah. We, just the couples, had to up each other in the kissing department. Ha, it was silly as hell. And funny. ‘You had to be there.’” I make quotation marks.

  “Wow. You’re not as freaked out anymore.”

  “Guess not?”

  She shrugs. “You look happy, and that’s the most important part.”

  “More important than morals?”

  “What good are morals if they don’t make people happy? You guys are unconventional is all. There are lots of unconventional couples out there.”

  “Would you have taken a chance on this kind of relationship?”

  She laughs softly. “I can’t compare myself to you. I don’t feel what you’re feeling for Ciro. All I know is I’ve never seen you in love before, and if I were to rate your response to Ciro, I’d give it a ten on the one-to-ten crush scale.”

  “Ha, there’s a scale?”

  “Now there is!” She raises her chin so she can look down her nose at me. “I just made it up. And you’re topping the shit out of that thing. Congrats.”

  I lift my arms over my head in victory. For good measure, I add the quiet hiss of a jubilant crowd.

  “But to be serious, Savannah. I root for Ciro and you. The way he looks at you is completely different to how he looks at anyone else.”

  “Except in his movies.”

  “I’m gonna be honest with you. I’ve Googled Drake Constantine, and I’ve seen a clip or two since you guys started hanging out.”

  “Duh. Everyone who knows about us will have Googled him by now. And?”

  “I can see why he’s big. The man is scorching onscreen. But the way he looks at those girls is not how he looks at you.”

  “What do you mean?” I got that same molten stare in bed last night.

  “When I see him look at you, he’s a man in love. Someone who’d give the world to his one and only.”

  “God, Charlotte.”

  “Sorry, that came out majorly romancy.”

  Something swells in my throat. Happiness? No, I’m just overwhelmed.

  I fan the air between us to keep her attention from my blurring vision. “You’re pretty amazing.”

  “Savannah?”

  “Yeah?” I clear my throat. Squint at the phone in the darkness to see what time it is. Five a.m. “Who’s this?”

  “I’m sorry to wake you up. It’s Paul Gallagher, your mother’s neighbor in Topanga? Adele is okay, but she doesn’t want to sleep, and I think she needs to. You know how it is when a person doesn’t get enough sleep. They become a bit...

  “A bit what?”

  “Delusional. She’s at my house now. Wasn’t sure if you wanted to come visit.”

  I get out of bed, throw some clothes on, and head to the car with my pounding heart.

  The drive to Topanga is hairpin curves and bumpy heights. I take them faster than I should and park outside Mom’s house in twenty minutes. I see them right away. They’re in Paul’s front yard, between robot-like sculptures and medicinal herbs. She’s on her knees, hands on her thighs, and looking-not-looking at me.

  “Mom?” I run toward them. Sink down in front of her and hold her face. “Mom! What’re you doing? When did you sleep last?” Her eyes are watery with distant spheres and visions I can’t share with her.

  It takes her a moment to focus.

  “I found her in my backyard, digging up arugula with her hands. Poisonous, she said.” He mouths the last sentence.

  “What?” This is a nightmare.

  She tenses and stands on wobbly legs. “Careful, Savannah. Stay away from the robots.” A cold hand squeezes my arm. “And keep it down. They can hear you.”

  Shit. Shit-shit-shit. What am I supposed to do with this?

  Paul and I get her inside her house. The whole way, she side-eyes the robots over her shoulder as if she expects them to follow.

  “What were you doing out there?” I ask.

  “Paul doesn’t believe me.” It’s like I can see her heart thumping against her chest. “All the herbs in his yard? Please, Savannah. You need to tell him. I don’t want him to die!”

  “It’s okay, Adele,” he begins, but she cuts him off.

  “No, it’s not okay. How can it be okay when you’re going to die? You eat their herbs. Everything they grow is meant to kill people. They’re using your yard as their first step, and you’re their guinea pig. I know. Oh I know it.” She nods quickly, imploring us both with her stare. “They told me. They wanted me to eat oregano”—she mocks the spice in prolonged vowels—“but no, those bastards couldn’t fool me, so they got mad and confessed to the whole plan.”

  “Mom, I think we need to go to the hospital.”

  “Hospital? Why?” I’ve added to her confusion.

  “Just to have them check your vitals and stuff, make sure you’re all right.”

  “No, no need. I didn’t eat any of it, I told you. It’s Paul I’m worried about.” She wiggles her arm free of my grip. “God knows how long they’ve been feeding him poison. See how grey-haired he’s become?”

  I don’t have to look at Paul. The man is sixty, and his hair is grey.

  My phone buzzes in my back pocket. I pick it up to Ciro’s groggy voice. “Did you just call me?”

  “Me? No, I must have butt-dialed you.”

  He quiets. Then, “Is everything okay?”

  I wasn’t crying. Not until now. “A minute?” I lift a finger to Paul, who takes my position by Mom. He starts talking about chamomile tea.

  I walk through the house and out on the balcony. The woodsy morning aroma can’t stop the tears from spilling out. “It’s my mom.”

  “Is she okay?”

  “No, not exactly.” And then I can’t stop crying. My voice blubbers and stutters. I try to explain, but all I get out are single words about confused and scared and not sleeping. Paul thinking the lack of sleep makes her confused. How I’m with her now.

  “Stay right there. I’ll be there in ten.”

  “No it’s okay,” I say on autopilot, because aren’t you supposed to manage?

  “Shh, I want to be there with you. Ten, baby girl.”

  By the time Ciro arrives, my mother stands in the living room with a mug of chamomile tea in cupped hands. It’s not from Paul’s garden. She’s staring out the window, hiccoughing as Paul dismantles sculptures and carries them to the short end of his house where Mom can’t see them.

  “Hi, baby.” Ciro kisses my head before he walks over to my mother. “Good morning, Mrs. Nichols. How are you?”

  “Ciro, you’re here too? Why’s everyone here?” She blinks, but a small smile appears on her mouth. Not even lack of sleep can alter her weakness for handsome males.

  “Eh, couldn’t sleep, so I figured I’d join Savannah for a cup of your delicious tea... if you have any more of that?” He juts his chin toward her cup.

  “Oh but it’s just chamomile. Supposed to make you sleepy.” She rolls her eyes in a weak version of herself.

  “Chamomile? I was going to sleep in this morning, but I have this terrible habit of waking up and making plans instead. Then, I can’t fall asleep again because my mind goes a mile per
minute. So chamomile isn’t that effective?”

  I bob out a We’re good to Paul’s questioning stare from the backyard. He lifts in a wave.

  “Ha, no, chamomile is a joke.” The smugness of knowing shit enters her eyes. “Valerian root or St. John’s wort, on the other hand, that’s the real deal.” She makes a hesitant step toward the kitchen, but then she stiffens and shoots a look out the window.

  “He’s locked them up in his basement,” I say about Paul and his robots. Feral-wary, she peaks her head in the kitchen door and eyes the window. I walk in past her. The three robot sculptures in Paul’s front yard are gone too.

  “He needs to get rid of all the herbs and the dirt they’re in and replant everything.” She nods firmly, hands knitting.

  “Mom, please don’t—”

  “Does he have any Valerian or St. John’s out there?” Ciro interrupts innocently. “I’d take some of that, for sure, for another few hours of sweet dreams. I’m off today. What a waste, right, to wake up at five?”

  “No! No, no—you wouldn’t want his herbs. They’ve been poisoned.” Mom sucks in a nervous breath.

  “Mom...” I begin again.

  “Shoot. Yeah, I’m not into poison.” Ciro smiles, leaning against a countertop with his arms crossed. “No rest for the wicked, I guess.”

  “I have some myself, though,” Mom says, the smug glint in her eye traveling to her pitch.

  “You do?” Ciro’s arm goes around my waist, and I lean into his warmth as Mom starts to walk between the cabinets and the tea-maker.

  “Valerian root. St. John’s wort,” she mumbles, reminding her brain of its task. “Valerian root. St. John’s wort.”

  Her head jerks to us a little too fast, but then she’s back to her silver boxes of loose tea. “I’ll make it strong for you. Won’t be tasty, but it’ll work. You’ll definitely get some rest.”

  Ten minutes later, we’re seated around the kitchen table like my mother hadn’t just been on her knees in Paul Gallagher’s front yard. We’re conversing, mostly about robots from space but also about sleep. She worked on a job application for a little too long last night, she admits. And the night before. And when we ask directly, it turns out that she has worked on it nonstop for four days. I wish I’d have visited.