by Emma Hart
My throat feels scratchy-dry. This is ridiculous. It could be a good thing, right? If I don’t see him, then we can’t be friends, and then I might just be able to get over him.
Right?
Right.
Right, right, right.
“Brooke?”
I’m saved from having to answer him when Georgio brings out a huge, steaming tray of his mom’s lasagna. The rich smell of fresh Italian food momentarily jerks me out of my fog, but I can’t even bring myself to give him my usual wide, bright smile.
“Thanks, G,” Cain says, pulling the pan closer to the middle and grabbing the cutlery, since we always eat it straight from the pan.
Always eat it straight from the pan.
If he moves in with Nina, we’ll never eat lasagna straight from the pan again. It’ll be just me and Carly, and that’ll be a waste, because Cain can eat half of this alone.
Georgio looks at me questioningly, but I grab my fork and pull some of the hot, melted cheese off the top. He nods once, understanding, and disappears with a light squeeze to my shoulder.
At the sound of the door closing, Cain says quietly, “Can you talk to me?”
“Are you going to move in with her?” I barely peek at him through my hair as I ask the question.
Cain’s fork clangs against the pan as he sets it down. “I don’t think so,” he answers.
Now, I do look at him. I raise my eyebrows in question as I fork a meatball into my mouth.
“Good thing I can speak Brooke,” he teases me, lips quirking. “I don’t think I want to live with her. Maybe someday, but not right now. I’m still adapting to her level of...maintenance.”
“Maintenance?” I ask. Then I swallow my food and ignore his raised eyebrow as he picks his fork back up. “Maintenance? What is she? A shower prone to limescale?”
This time, he laughs. Around a mouthful of food.
“Shut your mouth, you animal,” I scold him.
“Rich from the one who just spoke with a mouthful of food,” he shoots right back, grabbing his drink. “No, I just thought that when I moved in with someone it’d be with someone who... I don’t know. She spends a lot more time on the way she looks than I thought she did.”
“Well, yeah,” I say flatly. “You didn’t think she woke up looking like that, did you?”
He shrugs.
“Boy, I have got to introduce you to the world of make-up tutorials on YouTube.” I shake my head. “But I don’t get it. Why does that not make you want to live with her?”
“Because I’m not that person?” he replies, it sounding more of a question than a statement. “The last time she and I went out for dinner, they gave our table away because we were late. She took so long getting ready, I ended up having to drive to four other restaurants because she said she’d taken that long to get ready and it wasn’t going to waste.” He pauses. “I don’t know if I could take that on a daily basis.”
“Yeah, but you wouldn’t have to put up with mine and Carly’s shit, and that’s always a bonus.” I try to say it upbeat, but I think it comes out a little too chirpy.
Cain eyes me. “Your fake shit isn’t fooling me.”
I sigh and slump. “What do you want me to say? Sure, move in with Barbie one-oh-one? Sure, I don’t care if our friendship breaks down and I’m sure Carly won’t mind either?”
“It wouldn’t—”
“It would and you know it!” I drop my fork harshly and it clangs off the lasagna tray onto the table. I meet Cain’s eyes and do my best to hold in the true strength of my emotion. I’m a big baby, I know. “She hates us, Cain, and not even in the way we hate her. I can tolerate her if I have to, but the fact you had to ask me yesterday when I’d be at your mom’s party says a helluva lot about the way she feels about your friendship with me and Car.”
It also says a lot about the kind of person she is. I mean, sure, I’m a bitch, but I’m a straight up bitch.
“I shouldn’t have asked you that,” he finally admits, unable to look at me. “I have no idea why I did. I think I panicked and tried to make it easy for myself without thinking about how it would make you feel.”
“Shit,” I tell him plainly. “It made me feel like complete shit.”
“I got that by the way you responded. Not gonna lie, it kinda stung.”
“Good.” I’m not apologizing for what I said. “It was supposed to.”
“You’re the most honest bitch I know.” He lifts his gaze to mine again, but there’s no malice in it. “I deserved it. And, honestly? That probably helped me decide that moving in with her isn’t a great idea. If you think I’ve changed, then...” He trails off and rubs his hand down his face again.
“Then what?” I ask after a moment of mutual silence.
“I care about her a lot,” he answers, holding my gaze with his. “But I care about you more, Brooke. You’re my best fucking friend, for god’s sake. Even Carly knows I’m closest to you. I’m fucking it all up because I don’t know how to handle this situation where these two sides of my life that matter to me can’t collide. I don’t even know if I want them to collide.”
“You have to do what makes you happy. Even if it hurts other people.” My words are hollow, even to me. It sounds like I’ve pulled them off someone’s fucking happy little Pinterest board just because they sound good.
Cain shakes his head and gently sets his fork down. We’ve both eaten more than I thought we had, so now I’m taking that as my excuse to drink this wine. I’m thirsty from the food, not repeatedly getting my emotions fucked.
If I tell myself that enough times and all that...
“I guess I’m torn because she’s not the person I ever imagined myself with.” Cain toys with his wine glass, spinning it around on the spot while watching the wine swill inside it. “Even running to the store to get milk requires a full face of make-up. I thought contouring was molding a shoe stand to make it fit into someone’s walk-in closet, not using so many shades of make-up on your face you look like a cast-off of the Rocky Horror Picture Show before its all wiped together. She has more make-up than I do clothes, and shit, I don’t know. I never imagined myself with someone higher-maintenance than Mariah Carey. I always imagined myself with someone like Carly...or you.”
A shiver runs down my spine, but I suppress the urge to let it overtake my body.
“I tell you I’ll be at your house in ten minutes and hell, I figure I’m lucky you’re not wearing leggings. You probably didn’t even brush your hair before you grabbed your key and left the house, let alone worried about putting make-up on.”
“That’s because I’m lazy,” I answer. “Carly would at least grab her mascara and lip gloss to put on in the car.”
“Then she’d yell at me if I turned a corner too quickly and she smudged it.” He lets go of a little laugh. “It’s just so fucking easy to be with you. You literally don’t give a shit about what other people think of you.”
“Great. I’m the cheat day on your relationship diet.”
He kicks me under the table. “You keep me sane.”
“Ironic, considering I drive myself crazy.”
“Oh, you drive me crazy too.” His grin is lopsided. “But it’s crazy I can cope with. I’m used to your crazy and kinda tune it out most of the time.”
I roll my eyes. “You say that like it’s constant.”
“It is constant. But I like it that way.”
My gaze connects with his for a second before my cheeks flush a little. “So, what are you going to do about the party?”
He sighs, his shoulders slumping as he deflates. “Hope for the best when she shows up.”
“Don’t worry. I’m sure it’ll be fine.”
“Why?”
“Because Grandpa will be there.” I grin.
Cain’s eyes widen and he scratches his stubbled jaw. “Oh, hell.”
SEVEN
LIFE TIP #7: Respect your elders. You never know when they’ll insult the person you hate.
/>
“Dad, you cannot make male anatomy out of balloons.” Mom sighs in exasperation, reaching for the balloons.
Grandpa cackles and holds the long balloon paired with two, smaller, round ones, out of her way. “Ay karumba! You can pop cherries, why not penises?”
I choke on my Diet Coke. Carly only just grabs the glass in time to stop me spilling it.
Mom’s eyes bulge out of her head. “Dad!” she hisses. “That’s highly inappropriate for a man of your age!”
“Is it?” Grandpa stills, the balloon penis still firmly grasped in his hand. “Dang it,” he says, looking dejected.
“Balloons,” Mom demands.
Grandpa pokes them in her direction. “Ehee! Good thing I’ve never been appropriate!” He turns to Carly. “Here, Carly. Pull my dingaling,” he says, shoving the balloons in her direction.
“I’m going to regret this,” she says under her breath, reaching for the balloons. She grasps the nippley bit at the end of the long balloon, pinching it, and gives a gentle tug.
“Ohoo!” Grandpa bounces out his seat with a little wiggle, his glasses almost falling off his face, which only makes him laugh harder.
“What the hell?” Cain asks, pausing in the doorway to the gazebo set up in his parents’ spacious backyard.
Grandpa turns around in his chair and waves the penis balloon. “Look, son! I’ve got a poppable schlong!”
Cain’s gaze flits between the balloons and Grandpa. Slowly, his lips curve into a smile, but his mouth and cheeks twitch as he tries to fight his amusement.
I grab my Diet Coke from the table where Carly put it and drink from it so I don’t laugh too.
“I have no idea what to say to that, James,” Cain wisely answers, apparently able to control his amusement.
Fifty bucks says he’d be laughing like a teenage boy if my mom weren’t here, glaring at him.
Grandpa responds to him by waggling his eyebrows. Then, he cocks his finger, drawing Cain closer to him. “I tell you what, son, Donny told me a great joke at bridge last night.”
Oh no.
Cain meets my gaze for a second. I widen my eyes and plead with him not to ask, but goddamn him, he does.
“All right,” Cain says. “Fire away, James.”
Grandpa rests his arm on the back of his chair. “What do a Boeing and a woman have in common?”
“No idea.”
“They both contain a cockpit!”
I cover my mouth with my hand and look down. Oh god, oh god. Don’t laugh, Brooke. Don’t do it, girl!
Grandpa is cackling so hard I’m afraid he might hurt himself, Carly is biting her lip and looking anywhere that isn’t at me or my mom, and Cain is clamping his lips together and desperately trying not to laugh.
Laughing at my grandpa does one thing: Encourage him.
“D-Dad!” Mom sputters.
Grandpa immediately sobers and looks at her. “Don’t blame me, Lou. Donny told me it, and what kind of a friend to Cain would I be if I didn’t share it?”
“A polite one?” Carly offers.
Grandpa spins around and points the balloon dick at her. “I saw you laughing down there, Carly Porter. Don’t you tell me you didn’t find that funny.”
Carly freezes.
“That’s what I thought.” The balloon penis bobs as he waves it at her.
“Grandpa, can you put the penis down now?” I ask gently. “The waving it around is getting alarming.”
I ignore Mom’s gasp at my use of the p-word.
Note to self: Next time, say cock.
Grandpa rolls his eyes. Before he puts it down, he grabs some of the string from the ’balloon table’ and ties the balloons together. We all watch in a mix of silent amusement—from me, Carly, and Cain—and horror, from Mom, as he cuts the string and brandishes his now secure, poppable penis.
“Someone call that porn star fellow with the same name as me—I’ve found his new thwacker!” Grandpa heaves himself up out of the chair and, grabbing the roll of clear tape, hobbles over toward the door.
Where he proceeds to attach the balloons to a pole right across the top of the door.
“No!” Mom cries, scrambling up from her chair and almost slipping in the process. “Dad, do not put that…that…thing right there where it’s the first thing anyone will see when they come in!”
“Why not?” Grandpa asks innocently, tilting his head to the side. “I thought penises were made to sit at openings. Look, Lou. I even arranged it so the balls are outside!”
“Oh, dear god,” I breathe, covering my eyes with my hand.
That’s it for Carly and Cain. They both burst out laughing, each of them doubling over and unable to control themselves. I can barely look at either of them while my mom sputters out many attempts at sentences that all ultimately fail.
Now I remember why we don’t bring Grandpa to parties with other people.
“Good god,” Eddie, Cain’s dad, says from outside the gazebo. “James, what are you doing?”
I look up in time to see Grandpa turn around.
“Making penises for your old lady,” he answers with a perfectly straight face.
Carly collapses forward onto the table and buries her face in her arms. “Can’t...breathe...can’t...” she wheezes, her entire body shaking with each laugh.
Cain drops onto the floor next to me as his dad tries to reason with my grandfather and, at the same time, calm down my mother. “He’s going to give your mom a coronary by bedtime, isn’t he?”
I grimace. “How did you guess?”
“Because I’ve seen it happen before.” He grins, leaning into me and nudging me with his elbow. “How did he come up with the penis balloon?”
“I want to say Donny, but then I feel like I’m probably not giving Grandpa enough credit.” Donny is Grandpa’s best friend, and the man happens to have a mind just as dirty as my grandfather’s. They tend to bounce off each other’s energy like a room full of toddlers. “I know he was learning how to use the computer, so maybe he Googled it.”
“I can’t imagine him using Google.”
Given that Grandpa is currently fighting his corner for his inappropriate balloons, I can’t help but agree. “This is insane.”
“Agreed,” Cain says, glancing at Carly. “Has her laugh always been this obnoxious?”
She sits up and kicks him, still giggling. “I heard that, you asshole.”
“Yes,” I answer him, quickly shifting to the side so she can’t reach me with her foot. “Remember that big cat fight outside here a month ago? That was actually Carly laughing.”
“I hate you so much,” she snaps, glaring at me. There’s no heat in her gaze though. She’s all bark and no bite. Unlike her damn dog.
That thing is bark, bite, and bitch.
“Do you think your grandpa is gonna give up the balloon penis?” Cain asks.
I look up to the doorway. His dad looks as though he’s run out of ideas, and my mom is physically attempting to wrestle the balloon from my grandpa.
“No,” I say firmly. “Absolutely not.”
I was right.
Grandpa finally got his way when Mandy came into the garden to see what his yelling was all about. She took one look at his placement of them, laughed so hard she cried, and gave him the thumbs up.
So far tonight, every single person inside the gazebo was greeted by a balloon penis over their head. They were actually directed here by them too, a fact that made Grandpa happier than I’ve seen him since my grandma died three years ago.
Mom didn’t stand a chance. At all. And Mandy is the one person on earth she won’t argue with.
Lucky Mandy.
“Your mom is gonna flip her shit when she sees how short that dress is.” Carly blots out her bright red lipstick with a piece of tissue paper and meets my gaze in the mirror.
I look at myself in the full-length one attached to the wall of Mandy’s spare bedroom. The black and white, polka dot dress skims the tops of my thighs,
barely covering my butt by an inch. “There’s nothing wrong with the length of this dress.”
Not to mention hers isn’t exactly a nun’s habit.
“Brooke,” she says slowly, dropping the tissue into the wire trash can. “You bent over five minutes ago to pull up your stocking, and I saw your underwear.”
“It’s not small underwear!” I protest. “Nobody’s gonna see anything!”
“Except their grandma’s pantaloons!”
“Maybe I like granny panties. They keep my tushy warm.”
“They keep your tushy something, and what that is, is lonely.”
I stick my middle finger up at her across the room and adjust my hold-up stockings. Never mind the length of my dress—my mom is gonna flip when she sees me in these.
“Knock, knock.” The sound of my sister’s voice breaks through the air, but before either of us can tell her to come in, she pushes open the door and bounds into the room in all of her angelic gloriousness.
I sound like a petty bitch—which we’ve already established I am, thank you very much—but I’m not actually intimidated by Billie Barker-Daughtry, nor am I jealous of my big sister. Maybe I should be. My sister is, after all, two dress sizes smaller than me, married to a stupidly successful doctor, the head of a gorgeous family of tiny terrors, and the head of the PTA committee at...
Ignore that. Definitely not jealous. I don’t want to be the head of anything except the Books and Booze club.
And if that doesn’t exist, it should. I’m going to make it a thing. Unlike poor Gretchen Weiner—whose father invented toaster strudel, if you please—who never quite made ’fetch’ a thing.
My sister, the blonde to my brunette, stops just inside the door and stares at me. Self-consciousness tingles across my skin as she peruses me with bright, baby-blue eyes.
Yeah. She got that combo too. Bitch.
“What?” I tug at the bottom of my dress.
“Are you trying to kill Mom or make Cain come to his senses?” she asks quietly.
Quiet voice or not, she’s teasing the hell out of me right now.
“Both,” Carly quips.
I spin and throw the hairbrush I was just using in her direction. “Neither,” I correct her, turning my gaze back to Billie. “And watch your mouth!”
