by Sara H Ney
Slowly cutting in to the filet mignon on her plate with a sharp steak knife, eyes on her plate, Cecelia is the first one to break the suddenly awkward silence first. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
I hesitate. “Um...”
“It’s okay Matthew. You can say it.”
“Fine. I’m pretty sure they’re gone.”
Cecelia blows her bangs out of her eyes and taps the table with her steak knife, then nods matter-of-factly. “Obviously I’m gonna need a ride...”
“Yup.”
“Hitching a ride with you obviously makes more sense than my having to call Molly or Abby for a lift, I suppose...”
My chest puffs out a little, indignantly. “Hey, you don’t have to sound so put out about it. I’ll have you know, chicks line up to date me.”
Cecelia’s face contorts up and now she’s staring like I’ve just admitted to having an STD. “Yuck. Your arrogance is only a small part of your problem...” Her voice trails off, and instead of nagging she crosses her arms and huffs, exasperated. Soon, she lets out another sigh and begins cutting another piece of filet. “What a waste of a perfectly good Diane Von Furstenberg top...”
“Excuse me? Von What?”
“Nevermind.” Shaking her head, she sighs again. “So. Any idea why they would do this? I mean, obviously you came here to ruin my date, but it makes no sense as to why Neve would leave me here with you.”
“Believe me, this was not the plan.”
“I mean, I totally get why Stacy would want to run off with him. He’s so hot...”
“Uh huh.”
“...and he is so funny.”
“Yup. Got it. He’s good looking and funny.”
“And he’s soooo nice.”
“Okay, feel free to stop gushing any time here. I hate to be a cold bucket of reality here, but he did just ditch you.”
“Would you shut up? I would be on a damn date right now if you hadn’t shown up. This is. All. Your. Fault.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa - you’re not the only victim here! My date left too.”
“Oh puh-leez! Admit it. She wasn’t even a real date. No guy would purposefully subject himself to her for an entire night - not even you, not even for a quick lay. This, my friend, was a carefully orchestrated move to sabotage my date. I mean, what the hell did you think was going to happen? Or didn’t you give it any thought? You are such a colossal douche bag.”
“I resent that implication.”
“But you don’t deny it.”
“Excuse me, but Stacy’s amazing rack is one of her redeeming qualities.”
“Oh shut up for once, Matthew.” Cecelia juts her bottom lip and her eyes narrow, deep in thought. She sit up straight in her chair and begins tapping the edge of the dinner table with her forefinger. “Actually... something just occurred to me...”
“What?”
“Pfft,” she scoffs, grinning at me. “Like I’m telling you. But trust me, you’ll find out soon enough...”
Definitely not liking the sound of that.
**Cecelia**
It occurs to me I could use this whole night as blackmail. Okay, so maybe I wouldn’t call it blackmail... not exactly...
I would consider it more - a future plan for “creatively suggesting Matthew do things for me while holding tonight’s evening over his head.” Yeah. That has a nice ring to it - much better than blackmail. Or extortion. Or coercion. Or whatever you want to call it.
It would be like an exchange of sorts: In exchange for favors, I won’t rat him out to his mother. Or sister. Thus, sparing his life from becoming one continuous, nagging, familial bitch-fest.
Oh, who am I trying to kid - I would never actual do it. Sadly, I’m all talk and no action, although the idea does have merit.
I glance over at Matthew’s profile in the dimly lit cabin of his meticulously maintained Tahoe, taking in his chiseled, slightly scruffy jaw... the nose that looks like it’s been broken more than a few times, the scars lining his brow, and the backwards baseball cap he threw on as soon as he climbed behind the steering wheel.
The whole truck reeks of male, including the lingering smell of his musty cologne.
Full disclosure: It also smells from a dirty duffle of gym clothes haphazardly tossed in the back seat. I noticed them when I first scrambled in, mostly because it just freaking reeks - but I’ll give him a pass on that since he’s an athlete.
Either way, there is no denying it: Matthew Wakefield is all. Guy.
I give his space - and him - one last covert sniff before turning my head to look out the window. I am one hundred percent determined to ignore him.
Except, apparently, he’s determined not to let me. “Hey.” Matthew’s deep baritone rises out of the silence. “I’m beginning to feel like a chauffeur. Aren’t you gonna talk? Chew my ass out or something?”
I don’t respond.
“Can I at least say you l-looked - look - great tonight. I hardly recognized you at first.” He’s stuttering a little.
So cute.
But hold up - here’s the thing: when someone says ‘I hardly recognized you’ - is that supposed to be a compliment or something? It’s almost like they’re saying, ‘Hey, you looked really ratchet before, but now that you’ve throw some makeup on and did your hair, you look so much better! Not nearly as hideous!’
Still, I cut him some slack because I know that’s not what he meant, and I’m sick of him thinking I’m complete bitch. So instead of jumping down his throat, I grin and turn towards him. “Thanks. You look pretty too.”
And he does.
His turquoise blue polo shirt brings out the auburn in his mussed up hair, makes his tan skin look darker and his biceps look bigger.
Ugh. Seriously Cece - again with the biceps...
Sorry, not sorry. Can I help it if his muscles are so big that the shirt strains around his arms and my eyes refuse to look away? It’s not like I have any control over it. My body is saying ‘take your eyes off his body and I’ll cut off all your air flow’ - not me.
Matthew Wakefield is quickly becoming my favorite bit ‘o’ eye candy. And right now he’s looking at me as if I’ve just become his.
I gulp, feeling like we might be, um... having a moment.
I shiver.
“Are you cold? Why don’t you put on your jacket?” His eyes dart to the beige leather jacket I have laying across my lap, which I’ve been instructed by Molly is for emergency use only. Before I walked out of our apartment, she grabbed me by the shoulders and said (and none too kindly either), “Now you listen and you listen good Cecelia Carter (Molly pointed at me like she’s a trial lawyer and I’m on the witness stand). I busted my ass getting you ready for this date - do not ruin this outfit by wearing a jacket. This jacket is for Emergency. Use. Only. (Molly then gripped the jacket, shaking it at me in her clutched hand with every annunciated word). How do you expect Matthew to lust after you if you cover up your girl bits? Now. I’m going to slowly hand it over, but not willingly...”
The ironic part is... I seem to recall her telling me about a similar conversation she’d had with Jenna before her first date with Weston.
In any case, I’m pretty sure Molly was on the verge of slapping me across the face just to make her point.
Long story short: I haven’t put the jacket on for fear that if I do, she will somehow find out about it. I even sent her a SnapChat when Neve went to the bathroom, making sure to display my bare shoulders so I’d have solid proof that I followed through with her command.
Molly. Is. Such. A. Weirdo.
“I’m good, thanks. Just caught a chill.”
“I can turn the heat on if you want me to.” Matthew reaches forward to hit the heater, but I stop him.
“No, no. If I get cold I’ll put my jacket on.”
He eases back into his seat. “Okay. If you’re sure.”
“I am.” I look down and a shiny tube of lipstick in the cup holder catches my eye. Picking it up, I inspec
t the M.A.C tube and pull off the cap and roll my eyes.
Bright red.
Of course.
“I think your friend left this behind.” I screw the bottom of the tube and the lipstick rises. “Red. How fitting.”
“Throw that thing out the window.”
“No way, José. Are you nuts? This lipstick probably cost eighteen bucks and I’m keeping it, assuming she doesn’t have herpes.”
Matthew laughs, and as he’s saying, “Well, I won’t be seeing her again - like, ever - so do whatever you want with it,” my phone chimes.
It’s Neve.
Him: There’s a perfectly good explanation for my leaving.
“Well, this is interesting. Neve, that dick head, just texted me.”
“Seriously? What did he say?” Matthew is leaning towards me trying to get a look at my cell phone screen, but I tilt my body towards the window so he can’t, and compose a reply to his friend.
Me: By all means, give me your best excuse. Hanging on your every word.
Neve: I would never NEVER have left under normal circumstances
Neve: But I think Matt might be totally into you and was there to pee on his territory
Neve: I don’t poach on someone’s terrain.
I look over at Matthew, who has his eyes on the road and is pretending not to be interested. I study him anew, assessing him again in a new light. Could it be true...? There’s no freaking way.
I mean, he couldn’t possibly...
He glances over at me again, then down at the phone resting in my hand. “What does the douche bag want?”
I fiddle with the zipper on my jacket and bite my lip. How much do I tell him? “You know. Just making his excuses.” I fumble to put the phone back in my purse, and before I realize it, we’re pulling into the parking lot of my apartment complex.
Holy shit, that ride went quick.
Matthew pulls into a handicap parking spot right at the front entrance, cuts the engine, and jogs around the front of the Tahoe to my door - all before I get my seat belt unbuckled.
I gather my things and gingerly place my foot on the running board, stepping down into the cool September evening. Matthew shuts the truck door behind me, and the ‘blip blip’ of the lock indicator echoes in the air.
Awkwardly, we walk towards the front entrance. In the near distance, since its late night on a weekend, I see several groups of students walking - and stumbling - down the sidewalk, talking loudly and laughing. Off to my right, I watch a few girls fall over themselves in the grass, laughing.
I sigh kind of wistfully as we take the short steps on to the front porch. It’s a chilly forty degrees tonight, and I can actually see steam from my breath in the air. Not to mention, I’ve suddenly got goose bumps.
So much for fair fall weather in the Midwest...
Figures.
Clasping my hands together and hugging my jacket, I shuffle to the large blue door to punch in the keypad code. “Thanks for the ride Matthew. I think I’ve got it from here...”
The keypad blinks green, and I push through to the entryway. The long narrow hall stretches bleakly in front of us, the ugly brown carpet that should have been replaced years ago casts a dreary pallor on the walls. There is a yellow glow from the overhead lights that makes the whole corridor look like the hotel from The Shining.
So disturbing.
“I’ll walk you in. Seriously, I insist.”
A slight movement catches my eye. I swear there’s a crack in Creepy Writer Guys’ door and that he’s watching us. I nod, conceding to Matthew, and let him lead me to my door because quite frankly, I’m a tad skeeved out and have no desire to get dragged into CWG’s lair.
Silently and side-by-side we walk down the hall - this couldn’t be more awkward if it was the ending of an actual date. Fumbling for my keys, we stand in front of my apartment.
24C
My apartment keys jingle in my hands and fiddle idly with the Coach, patent leather starfish keychain my sister gave me for my birthday last year, as we stand there in the dim hall. I don’t know if we should be making idle chit chat, or if I should just go in and shut the door on this whole evening.
I look up into Matthews face, and he’s staring at me from about a foot away. He’s close. So close I can smell the mint from the evergreen gum in his mouth.
Too, too, close.
I back up, my back hitting the apartment door. Shoulders sagging a little as I cock my eyebrow at him, I say the first thing that comes to mind. “So, this just got awkward.”
He shrugs, his large shoulders move up... then down... lazily. “Ironically, this isn’t the most fucked-up date I’ve ever been on.”
I hold my palms up in a ‘stop’ motion. “Whoa buddy, let’s not get a head of ourselves here. This was not a date.” Is he out of his freaking mind?
“In a weird way, don’t you think it kind of was?” He smiles, his bright white teeth light up his entire face, the dimple in his cheek... ugh. Yum. So handsome...
Instead, I wrinkle my nose. “Um, no.”
He laughs and moves a little closer. “I’m so tempted to kiss you right now.”
I gasp and breathe in a whisper, “You wouldn’t dare.”
He makes a face. “Why do you have to go and say it like that?”
I’m not whispering any more. “Because, asshole, you’re the one who ruined my date. Yeah. My real date. You don’t get a reward for someone else’s evening. You are on crack if you think I’m kissing that mouth.”
“Fine.” Matthew stubbornly crosses his arms and pouts, leaning up against the opposite wall.
“Good.”
“Great.”
We stare at each other, sizing each other up like gunslingers in a showdown. Maybe you think I’m crazy for not letting him lay one on me, but I have a little more self-respect than that, thank you very much. Although, with the looks he’s giving me, I’m actually rethinking my resistance...
Just as I’m about to let my guard down and step towards him, the door to my apartment swings open at full force, hitting the wall behind it. Molly stands framed in the doorway, already in her pajamas. She looks at me, then she looks at her brother with an expression of disbelief. “What the hell is he doing here?” She directs her question at me, her alert green eyes curious.
Matthew pushes himself away from the wall with his boot, and stands straight. He nods towards me. “Her date ditched her and she needed a ride.”
Molly’s eyes bug out. “Shut the frick up. Are you shitting me?”
I roll my eyes and shove my way in past them both, completely irritated, tossing my keys and purse onto the small kitchen table. Both Wakefield’s trail in after me and I start ranting.
“Gee Molls, that’s a really good question. Hmm, did my date ditch me? Did my date ditch me? Well yes and no. This one here,” I pivot on my heel, pointing my finger accusingly at Matthew, “crashed my date - just as you predicted - with a drag queen, which I’m sure Neve just loovvved... so much so that when he went to the bathroom, he never came back.”
Molly turns to her brother and shouts, “Ew! You showed up with a drag queen? What the hell Matthew?!” She shoves him with both hands until he stumbles back, falling onto one of our wobbly kitchen barstools.
“Stacy is not a goddamn drag queen!” He shouts back, throwing up his arms in defeat. “And what the hell do you mean I crashed the date as you predicted?’ Cecelia, what’s that all about?”
Chapter Fifteen
Matthew
“Everything happens for a reason. But sometimes the reason is because you’re freaking stupid.” - Molly Wakefield to her brother
Excuse my language, but this whole evening is turning into one giant clusterfuck.
Word to the wise: never ever crash a girl’s date and haul along another girl, especially if the girl who’s date your crashing happens to be your sister’s roommate... because when your sister finds out (and believe me, she will) she will chew your ass out.
My ears are still ringing from her high pitched shrieking.
I’ve never been bitched at so hard in my life. Not even the time I was seventeen and my parents took Molly out of town, leaving me alone (huge mistake), and trusting me with their house (huge mistake). Instead of cutting the grass and cleaning the pool like they’d asked me to, I threw a huge keggar (huge mistake). Holy shit did I get my ass chewed out; the fact that my parents continued finding cigarette butts and crushed beer cans for weeks afterwards certainly did not help.
Molly, bless her misguided heart, came to Cecelia’s defense like a dog fighting over a bone with meat on it, and (being a guy) I didn’t see it coming and therefore, didn’t adequately prepare myself for the assault. My little sister verbally beat me to a pulp - a skill I didn’t realize she possessed - then when she was done, she verbally beat me up again.
Trust me when I say: I’ve has my ass reamed out plenty because I’ve screwed a lot of people over... Like. A lot of people.
But I’ve never has my ass chewed out like this.
Who knew Molly knew so many vulgar synonyms to call someone an asshole?
Not me, that’s who.
Walking into my dark apartment, the first thing I do after chucking my car keys on the granite countertop in the kitchen is stroll to the fridge. The light comes on inside my Sub Zero and I bend at the waist to peer inside, hungry but not really craving anything, and equally unimpressed with my dining options.
Left over pizza.
Left over Chinese takeout (General Chao’s Chicken).
Half a Rubbermaid container of diced cantaloupe.
Left over steak, wrapped in tin foil from my parents’ house, from er, two weekends ago...
Are you sensing a trend here?
Sighing, I grab a fork out of the utensil drawer, then the carton of General Chao’s Chicken and take it to the living room. Yeah. That’s right - I’m eating it cold.
Newsflash: guys are simple, disgusting, creatures...
After stabbing a decent amount of chicken and shoving the giant forkful into my mouth, I reach for the remote control while I chew, and point it at the giant flat screen above the fireplace in my living room, changing the channel from ESPN to Sports Center.
