by Kim Roshell
We both know that while I may be exhibiting some semblance of consciousness, my body requires caffeine in order to be medically declared awake. Anything less than two cups, I’ll be in pajamas until tomorrow. Two torturous days have slogged by since I’ve had a sip, thanks to my bout with Super Cooties. I miss it, strong brewed, generous on the French vanilla creamer.
Sleep didn’t find me until well after three in the morning, hours after Whit had left. I spent most of that time telling myself my behavior last night hadn’t been nearly as embarrassing as it seemed. A delusional effort, at best.
No matter how little I’ve slept, I’m awake no later than 6:30 A.M, and Aunt Katie knows this. My inner clock simply won’t allow it. Problem is, rarely do I come out on top after a confrontation with her, and that’s when I’m well rested. I may be awake, but that doesn’t mean I’m not still freaking exhausted. I don’t stand a chance.
A quick peek at the digital clock on my bedside table confirms today isn’t the day I overslept. I bury my face in the pillow to muffle my groan, give her a look I hope she reads as don’t forget I’ve been really sick. From the nonchalant way she raises the mug back to her lips, I haven’t pulled it off.
No need to suffer through this interrogation and freeze my butt off. I pluck the comforter from the floor, working one end around my icy feet, the other over my shoulders as I flip over onto my back. Crater-size sleep weighs down the corners of my eyes. I rub it away with my thumbs.
“Did you bring me a cup, too?”
“Nah, you think slower without caffeine. I’ll find out more this way.”
Cruel, cruel woman. “I hope you know withholding life sustaining sustenance is also child abuse.”
“I’ll be sure to run down, pour you one if you start turning blue.”
“Har, har. Your bedside manner needs work, Aunt Katie.”
“Yeah, it does, doesn’t it? Oh well,” she shrugs, “I won’t quit my day job. So was there more kissing last night?”
Not pulling any punches today, is she?
“I was hoping you wanted to talk to me about something else.”
“I do, after this. Answer the question.”
On a good day, I can read Aunt Katie’s signals, figure which direction she’ll take our conversation. I mean, yeah, I expect her to expound on the Real Friends Don’t Kiss Each Other’s Boyfriends speech she started yesterday right before her phone rang, but I’m clueless as to whether she’ll offer any solid advice on how to get over the temptation. Because, although Whit and I agreed last night that we were 100% committing to our Friends-Only plan, my conscience flipped it the bird. What little sleep I did manage was filled with dreams of us making out.
That’s not good, is it?
“No.”
“No kissing? Or you think I’ll let you escape without an answer?” she asks with a tone that demands truth.
“No kissing.”
“Did you want to?”
“Nope.” The lie rolls out, as conspicuous as a bright red velvet carpet. No surprise Aunt Katie sees right through it. Her brows rise. She snorts, then takes another gulp of coffee, waiting me out. This is another reason why I generally don’t attempt fibbing. “Fine! Yes,” I admit. “But, I made sure it didn’t happen.”
“By hiding out in your room while he camps outside your door? By the way, I’d rather not walk upstairs and see that again, if you don’t mind. At least, let me know someone else is still in the house.”
“I didn’t think he’d follow me.”
Last night, I learned a locked door separating me and The Cowboy—calling that boy by his name for a whole week is going to be impossible—is the key to preserving my dignity. Having a solid barrier between us made it way easier to think.
“The guy drove halfway across the city and wiped out a drugstore after midnight. Following you up a flight of stairs is nothing, hon.”
Well, when you put it like that.
“Do we need to go over how babies are made again? I know it’s been a few years.”
“I’m good.”
“Sure? Because just so happens, I scheduled an appointment with Dr. Fertitta on Wednesday to talk about getting you on the pill.”
Wow. “This is a nightmare. I’m not awake.”
Aunt Katie sets her mug down on my nightstand, leans over and pinches my arm.
“Ow!”
“You’re awake.”
“I’m not a slut, Aunt Katie. You won’t come home and find me in bed with my best friend’s boyfriend, okay?” Hmmm. What if that’s the real reason Whit kissed me in the first place? Do I give off some sort of vibe that makes him think I’m easy? “I mean, yeah, we kissed a few times, but we’re not . . . he doesn’t think . . .”
“Calm down, honey. If I thought that, I’d work from home and make your life miserable. I made the appointment because college is right around the corner. Being proactive is smart. You’re beautiful. Noticing beautiful girls is a requirement for guys. Furthermore, we can’t ignore the fact that you like this guy, a guy who clearly likes you back. You’re so closed off to new relationships, rightfully so. But, there’s some good here.”
“If you say so.”
“I do. Awful as I may be for saying this, I’m excited we’re having this conversation.” She gives my hair a gentle I’ve wanted to see you glow. Seems this guy makes you do that.”
I roll my eyes, knowing it won’t fool her with this blush blistering my skin.
“On one hand, I am concerned about how this whole thing will affect your friendship with Ashley, and on the other, I’m glad to know there’s someone who makes you feel. That said, eventually I’ll be on a plane, leaving you here unsupervised again. And,” she adds, putting my interruption on hold, “believe it or not, I remember being a teenager at a point in my life.”
“Things won’t go that far. We agreed.”
“Okay, but sometimes, things work out differently than we plan.”
“Like the way you got stuck with me?”
“Don’t say silly stuff,” she admonishes. “There hasn’t been a single day I’ve considered myself stuck with you, and you know it. I’m grateful to have you in my life. We’re family. I love you.”
“Do you think that’s why he interested in me? Sex?”
I lift on my elbows so she can see how serious I am. If anyone will keep it real, Aunt Katie will.
“Among other things,” she answers without hesitation. “What about you? Have you thought about having sex with him?”
“We barely know one another.”
She gives me a careless shrug. “Has that stopped you from liking him?”
“No! Yes!” This conversation is slipping over onto rocky terrain. “Ugh, I am not getting busy with Whit or anyone else for that matter.”
“Then, explain why the question flusters you so much.”
“I answered.”
“No you didn’t.”
“Yes, I—”
“Didn’t,” she interrupts. “The question was, have you thought about having sex with Whit, not how well you know him. Again, was a teenager once upon a time.”
I yank my pillow from beneath my head, using it to cover my face as I let out a frustrated groan. Then, I throw it to the floor. Unfortunately, my tantrum wasn’t very satisfying. “No. I can’t even think about being his friend without feeling guilty.”
Alfred Nobel, well educated, spoke four languages. He was a chemist and engineer. Best known for the Nobel Peace Prize. People knew him in life as the guy who invented dynamite. No doubt he thought a lot. Probably thought people respected his work, maybe even applauded his contributions. It took his brother’s death and a write-up by some reporter who’d mistakenly thought it was ol’ Alfred who had kicked the bucket for him to find out what people really thought of his work. The paper dubbed him The Merchant of Death.
Point: Sometimes what we think of ourselves isn’t how others perceive us.
“Is that what you think of me? That I . . . tha
t I’m like . . .”
Just the thought of being anything like Leann brings tears to my eyes. Outside the differences in our financial portfolios, people may view Leann and me as just alike. How do I know she didn’t pass along an unsavory gene or two? Real talk, crap DNA has doomed a lot of people.
My biological host didn’t have the most pristine reputation around the hood. Be that as it may, Leann proudly proclaimed, she was “nobody’s hooker.” Technically, a truth. From what I remember, Leann was every man’s anything, so long as our electric got bill paid. Might’ve been the only thing, unfortunately.
Amazing, I don’t have scads of biological siblings wandering around. Then again, I might.
Aunt Katie vacates her chair, climbs into bed next to me. She wraps her arms around me, placing a soft kiss on my forehead. “I think you’re smart. Funny. Beautiful. I’ll bet Whit sees all of that, and whoever you decide to share your heart will be the luckiest guy on the planet. It’s my job to prepare you for what’s out there, but I trust you to make good decisions, Simone.”
I absorb her warmth into my bones, instantly relaxing in the familiarity. I miss this. The way she used to comfort me whenever I got upset.
“What if I choose the wrong thing?” I whisper.
Her grip tightens.
“You won’t,” she assures me.
I pull back, wipe away unexpected tears. Crying is so embarrassing.
“You said we have plans later. Anything to do with what else you wanted to talk to me about?”
“They . . . do. Matter of fact, now might be a great time for both of us to have coffee. Meet me downstairs in ten.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Why waste energy kickin’ an open door?
Whit
“She met someone.”
Explains why my phone hasn’t rung or vibrated with a bazillion messages like the day before. Ashley is a quintessential text queen, sharing every detail of what’s going on in her universe whenever we’re not together. Guess some other guy is blocking her view.
I press the phone tighter against my ear, hunch closer over my bowl. Those sugarcoated rainbow colored flakes floating inside were far more appealing a minute ago. “When?”
“Last night.” Ryan probably don’t know, but he just drove another nail in the coffin of my dying relationship. “Some dude, works at this seafood restaurant not far from our hotel,” he expounds. “Met us on the beach after his shift, brought beer with him. Cheap shit. They hung out all night.”
Funny. She never let me get away with that shit.
“Oh.” I shovel a spoonful of cereal into my mouth, eye my little brother.
Dressed in a ripped Saints t-shirt and faded black sweatpants that look fresh out the dirty clothes hamper, Coop flops down at the other side of the table, grants me the barest hint of eye contact as he snags a piece of cold toast from the top of a pile Mama left on a saucer. That scowl is the nicest greeting he’ll offer before noon.
Unlike Cheyenne and me, Coop isn’t much on mornings. Having math first period is the only reason he’s been able to climb in the Jeep on time for most of this year. That, and the girl he serenades late into the night. Where I’m better gifted in sports, Coop’s gifted in the arts, has a phenomenal singing voice. Plays three instruments—two, self-taught. Outside of church, he rarely exhibits his talents, but whoever was on the receiving end of his concert last night should have no problem attesting to his skills.
I slide the cereal box his way, stifling the yawn climbing the back of my throat with my fist. Sensory overload—a side-effect from being near Simone—left me tossing and turning until the wee hours, so I’m not feeling too jovial myself. Worse, it’s my turn to help the seniors off the nursing home bus and into the sanctuary. Be the dutiful son, make the mighty Pastor Whitney “Dev” Devereaux III, connoisseur of fine and rotgut liquor alike, look good.
Coop better not pull the sick card this morning. Dev’s been a crap shoot this weekend. Don’t know if I have it in me to separate those two if he misses service today.
“That’s all you got, ‘Oh.’”
What’s that saying? Can’t bullshit a bullshitter? Ryan knows exactly how this news affects me. I can almost hear his nod, his mind already deducing what I’ll say or do next. Not the first time he knew, as granddaddy says, which way the crooked road turned.
“What else should I say?”
“Oh, I don’t know, were it my girlfriend, I could probably come up with a few words.”
“Ashley ain’t my girlfriend anymore.” A reality I’m feeling much better about this morning. “She’s a free agent. I am, too.”
Which is exactly what Ryan implied with his reply. Not that my relationship status does me any good with the girl I’ve developed an unrelenting interest in.
“Yes, my friend, you are. Question is, will you take advantage of this newfound freedom, maybe convince a naked Simone to lie underneath you while you’re doing all those push-ups?”
In my dreams. Spending time with Simone last night left me more conflicted than ever. Just yesterday, Ashley called, gung-ho on us working things out. News she’s hooking up with randoms? Well, let’s say it clears us a bucketful of confusion. The odds of us getting back together look about as good as Kobe and Shaq deciding to become next door neighbors for the hell of it.
“She’s Ashley’s best friend, Ry,” I argue, glad Coop chooses now to retrieve the milk for his cereal. I’d rather him not overhear. Last thing I need is him asking questions before I have answers. Say anything remotely scandalous, my little brother will pounce all over my ass. “You know I can’t do that.”
“Fuck that, dude. Ashley showed her hand when she started hanging all over some loser right in front of me, your best friend. Way I see it, the friend-card is off the table. Simone is fair game.”
He has a point. Ashley has amped her flirting game—with a few of my friends, no less. Now, she’s broadening her options. Don’t know if the goal was to making me jealous, but, if so, she’ll be unhappy with the results. I don’t do jealous. Jealousy is for schmucks who don’t realize women outnumber men. The margin isn’t all that huge, but it’s enough.
More importantly, Ashley may possess attributes I want in a wife, but I won’t fight for someone who’s told me to get lost. I still care about her, I just don’t see how we can pick up where we left off knowing we already don’t support one another’s dreams. I own my responsibility. I started this mess with the school business. But, Yale offers me a huge lead in the race. Life for a politician can be unpredictable. I’ll need all the advantage I can get. I’ll also need someone who will have my back. Can’t have my future wife flaking on me when the going gets rough.
As for this stuff with Simone? I’ve decided she’s right. We need to keep this thing strictly platonic from here on out. No more kissing, hands to ourselves. No more amnesties. Strictly. Friends. Nothing will happen. Certainly not anything necessitating hesitation or guilt.
Cool thing is we both know the deal. Once break ends, she’ll go her way, I’ll go mine.
“I wouldn’t do that to her. She deserves better.”
“Which she we talking about here?”
Honestly? Simone prompted my answer. “Both, I s’pose.”
“Uh, huh, so you’re telling me you’ll be hands-off all week?”
Apparently, she also prompted his question. “Don’t believe I can?”
“Nope.”
“Sometimes I hate you.”
“Another lie, Choirboy? Keep this up, you’ll be a shoe-in for the next President of the United States.”
“Yeah, yeah.” The milk has turned what’s left of my breakfast into a soggy mess. I drop the spoon back into the bowl, leaving the rest to congeal into psychedelic mush. “Gonna spend some time with her, but not how you’re thinking, okay?”
“Oh, I don’t know about that. I have a pretty active imagination.”
“Then your imagination is the only thing that’ll see action. Nothin
g’s gonna happen between us.” Have to admit it sounded way more resolute when I said it in my head. “We’ll hang out, maybe grab burgers, talk. Be friends.”
“Uh, huh, I get it. I’ve made friends with lots of girls.”
“You suck, Ry. Anyway, shouldn’t you be spending this time convincing Courtney you ain’t a loser?”
“Ancient history, dude. Keep up.”
“When’d that happen?”
“Right after I found out she thinks blowjobs are totally disgusting. Seriously, no girl is that hot.”
Agreed. “Thought you two might stick for a while, all that time you put in.”
“Eh, no biggie. She’s replaceable. Hmm, come to think of it, maybe I’ll give Simone a call.”
“Beating your ass will be a pleasure, Ellsworth.”
I know how that sounds, but it’s not like that. I just know Ryan. He loves the hunt. I like Simone too much to leave her at his mercy.
As a friend. I like her as a friend.
“Uh, huh,” he laughs. “For real though, dude, maybe you should make the most of this opportunity, see what happens.”
“We’re friends. That’s it.”
The phone beeps in my ear, signaling another call. I check the Caller ID. Suck in a breath.
“Call you back.” I don’t wait for his response. “Hey.”
Shit. Answered too soon. Now I sound desperate. She probably thinks I’ve been sitting around waiting for the phone to ring. Sure, I hoped, but answering before the third ring reeks of desperation, the kind that gets a guy’s man-card revoked.
“Did I wake you?” Simone’s breathy, rushed tone restores a smidge of my pride.
“Nah, been awake for a bit,” I fiddle with the salt shaker for no other reason than some misguided part of my brain says I need to actually do something to validate that fake hint of distraction I threw in there. “What’s up, sweetheart?”
“Sorry I called so early. I wasn’t thinking.”
“No worries. You sound upset.”
