by Lois Greiman
“That’s not true.”
“Peter,” she said. “Could he or could he not sing the national anthem with body parts other than his lips?”
I gritted my teeth into a smile. “Well, I like to think Pete is not indicative of my family’s—”
“And didn’t Michael have some special skill he liked to—”
“I don’t see what that has to do with—”
“Belching!” she said. “He could project belch. Make it seem like someone else was doing it. Usually the shy little girl that sat next to him in English, or the teacher who had just finished lunch. But I think James was the real champion in this little contest. What was his talent? I can’t quite seem to—”
“Listen, Laney!” I snapped, then calmed my voice and drew a cleansing breath. “The McMullens may not be Illinois’s founding family, but it’s not as if we’re knuckle-dragging Neanderthals.” I thought about that for a moment, remembered my brothers cackling gleefully as they planned yet another hilarious prank, and moved on. “And even if we are, that by no means precludes me from being able to become close to someone who is articulate yet—”
“Shadow puppets!”
Shit!
“He could make shadows with his hands that looked like copulating—”
“So what!” I may have shouted the words. Fucking barbarian brothers. I hated them all. “Maybe that’s why I appreciate sensitivity so much. Maybe that’s why it touches my soul like nothing else.”
“Touches your soul?” Her tone was Sahara dry.
I squeezed my eyes shut. “Did I tell you Marc wrote me a poem?”
“A poem?” She sounded increasingly dubious, bordering on disbelief.
“Yes. It was wonderful. Soulful and eloquent and endlessly…creative.”
I could almost hear the wince in her voice. “You didn’t laugh at him, did you?”
“Of course I didn’t laugh at him.”
“Not even a little?”
“No!”
“No snorting or eye rolling?”
“Laney!”
“What? You hate poetry.”
“I do not hate poetry.”
“You told me you hated poetry.”
“I said I didn’t understand poetry.”
“You slept through the entire free verse class in middle school lit.”
See, there’s the problem with having lifelong friends. They have memories like pachyderms. “Well, those were boring.”
“And Marc’s wasn’t?”
“Absolutely not.”
“What was it about?”
Oh hell! I had no idea what it had been about. It had been thirty-seven stanzas long. Thirty-seven! No one should be expected to stay awake that damn—
“Mac?”
“It was about the sea.”
“The sea.”
I waved a wild hand at nothing in particular, then brought it back to rub my eyes. “It doesn’t matter what it was about. Marc’s wonderful.”
“I know.”
“He’s smart and…well read…and neat.”
“And there’s nothing more fun than a man who organizes his socks.”
I paused for a moment, realized she was being facetious, and launched into defense mode. “I don’t need fun, Laney.” I jerked to my feet. Harley stood, too, looking offended. “I need…”
“What?” she asked. “What do you need?”
“Stability and maturity and…” I motioned vaguely toward the world at large.
“Sex?”
“Sensitivity!”
“Screw sensitivity.”
“Laney!” I had rarely heard her use such foul language. Her father the preacher would turn over in his grave. If he had a grave. Which he did not because he was still alive.
“Or have you already?” she asked.
I gasped, eyes wide. “Are you asking if I’ve slept with Marcus?”
“Yes.”
I pursed my lips, scowled at the cupboards. “We haven’t quite gotten around to that yet.”
“Haven’t gotten around to it.”
“I thought it was a good idea to wait.”
There was a long, pensive silence. “Can I ask why?”
“And this from a preacher’s daughter!” I tried to sound disapproving. But it was like scolding a nun. Laney was, and has always been, my moral compass. “Because it’s the right thing to do.”
“Mac,” she said, and sighed, long and slow, “you propositioned our calculus teacher.”
I felt my face flush. “Well…it wasn’t as if I was a student at the time.”
“The last cords of Pomp and Circumstances had barely died away.”
“That’s simply not true.”
She remained silent. I looked down at my bare feet, shuffled them a little. “Okay, it’s true,” I said. “But he was hot, and I’ve changed!”
“You’re still Christina McMullen, though, right?”
“The new, improved version.”
“And the new, improved version doesn’t like sex?”
Just the word sex did bad things to my corked-up equilibrium. I squirmed a little.
“Is that why you’ve abstained?”
“If you must know, it’s because we don’t want the physicality to get ahead of our emotional growth,” I said.
“Are you serious?”
“Yes, I’m serious.”
“He said that?”
“Y…” I caught myself. “We decided that together.”
She was silent. I was determined to wait it out. After all, I had the moral high ground. “What?” I snapped finally.
“I’m trying to imagine Rivera saying such a thing. But I can’t, not in my wildest dreams.”
Some weird-ass emotion zipped through me like an out-of-control lightning bolt. “What’s Rivera doing in your dreams?” I snarled.
There was a moment of stunned silence, then a very slow, “What?”
I dropped my head into my free hand. It was so clear suddenly. I was obviously losing my mind. Possibly from the lack of sex. The day I worried about Brainy Laney Butterfield, the most gorgeous woman in the world, lusting after a guy I was interested in was the day the earth disintegrated into whipped cream and we’d all have ice cream sundaes. “I said…” I shrugged. “Turns out I’m nuts.”
“Oh, Mac,” she sighed.
“See, it’s a good thing Rivera left. He obviously makes me crazy.”
“Well…it’s nice to have an excuse.”
I exhaled carefully, sat back down. “You know the truth?”
“Probably, but tell me anyway.”
“When he kissed me—”
“He kissed you?”
I nodded to no one. “I thought my shorts were going to fry right off my ass.”
“I’m sorry I ruined that for you. It sounds very entertaining.”
“You probably saved me from second degree burns. He’s—” I stopped myself before things got any weirder. “I’m better off without him. Right? I mean, no one needs all that drama.”
She didn’t answer. I felt my defenses weaken and fortified them with the kind of self-help talk Cosmopolitan dishes up like M&Ms.
“Definitely! I’m definitely better off without him. He doesn’t even know the meaning of monogamy.”
“Are you sure?”
“I quizzed him,” I said. “He didn’t know what sesquipedalian meant either.”
“Chrissy—”
“He cheated on me!” I spat out the words.
“He says he didn’t.”
“He’s lying.”
“His captain confirmed his story.”
“You know how cops are. They stick together. It’s their code.”
I thought she was going to speak, so I rushed on.
“I know a lie when I hear one. I’m a psychologist. Do you know how many pathetic women I see who eat shit day after day after day? I mean, they know they’re being played, but they’re so insecure…so afraid of being alone that they pret
end everything’s fine.”
She was silent. The quiet took a little steam out of my sails.
“I’m not afraid of being alone,” I said, but my voice was very soft.
Still she said nothing.
“Hell, I like being alone,” I said, picking up a little steam again. “No one to tell me what to do.” Harlequin plopped down next to my chair. “No one to feed me a bunch of lies.”
“Are you really sure he was—”
“I’m not going to be one of those women, Laney.”
“Okay, but you two seemed really good at the wedding.”
I stifled a sigh. Laney’s wedding had been a magical time, a couple of days sprinkled in fairy dust and frosted with chocolate dreams. Despite the fact that the most amazing woman in the world had vowed to love, honor and cohabitate with the geekiest geek on the planet, their wedding had been idyllic. The setting had been majestic, the bride radiant. As for Rivera, he had been charming, attentive and sexy.
“He was different then,” I said.
“Was he?”
“Yes. Maybe it was just because he didn’t have any of his old flames there to pant over. But as soon as we returned to L.A., he changed back.”
“Or you did?”
“What?” Something twisted in my stomach. It wasn’t guilt. I mean, I had nothing to feel guilty about. It wasn’t as if I had done anything to sabotage our relationship. He was the one with the roving eye…and roving other stuff, too. “I was the same as always. My usual fabulous self. But listen…it’s late.” I glanced at my wrist. Which was just ridiculous. My watch had broken years ago. “I have an early appointment in the morning.”
“Chrissy—”
“Lori Bernstein.” I felt fidgety again and glanced into the quiet darkness of my living room. “She’s as kooky as a windup clock. Thinks her cat is spying on her.” I stroked between Harlequin’s ears. “Has to talk in code when he’s around.”
“Mac—”
“Then there’s Howard Lepinski.” Howard was a peculiar little man with an eccentric sense of fashion and an odd need to discuss luncheon options. “Do you remember him? He’s just as screwy as…” I paused, remembering the change in him. “Well, actually, he’s doing pretty well.” I scowled at nothing in particular. Harlequin stared at me with adoring eyes. If I ever found a man who looked at me like that, I’d take him home, tie him to my bedpost and feed him sugared dates. “He’s in love.” Something twisted in my stomach. It wasn’t jealousy. That would be stupid. “Did I tell you that? And she loves him back. Canary yellow socks and all. It’s like a scene from a Joss Whedon—”
“It’s all right to be scared.”
“What?” I said the word with some emphasis. I'm a lot of things. Crazy, perhaps, being up toward the top of the list. But I’m not a coward.
“I was scared to fall in love with J.D., too.”
I made a face, sorry she wasn’t there to appreciate it. “That’s because he’s a dweeb.”
“You need to talk to Rivera.”
I swallowed, then snorted. “I have talked to Rivera.”
“Shouting is not the same as talking, Mac.”
“I talked. He lied.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do too know—”
“Mac!” The word was sharp. I can count the number of times on one elbow that I’ve heard Laney raise her voice. It shook me to the core, but I forced myself to defend my position.
“Marc uses a coaster with his beverages.” The words were little more than a whisper.
“You are never going to be happy with a coaster man, Mac. That’s why you’re still with him.”
I shook my head. “That doesn’t even make any sense.”
“He’s safe.”
“What’s wrong with safe? There’s nothing wrong with safe.”
“There is if you’re an adrenaline junkie.”
“I’m not an—”
“It’s what drew you to Rivera in the first place.”
“That might be true.” I remembered the first time I met him. He’d accused me of murder. I considered braining him with my stiletto heel. Typical everyday boy meets girl. Except that the boy had magical hands and a smoldering gaze that sucked me in like the eye of a tornado.
“I know he’s a lot of work,” she said. “Volatile and intense and kind of crazy.”
“Kind of?”
“But there’s more to him than that. You don’t want to believe it, but you know there is.”
“Are you kidding me? He’s as shallow as a foot bath. And a royal pain in the ass.”
“He’s hard-working and sexy and—”
“He’s nominally attractive.”
She didn’t even bother to laugh. “And moralistic in his own way.”
“Then why won’t he explain that b…” I stifled the word I intended to use. Insults would only make Laney believe I had strong feelings on the subject. I still remembered the blonde’s face, her hair, her rocking body. I hate memories.
“He’s stubborn,” she said.
“He is—” I agreed, ready to mount my high horse, but she interrupted.
“Just like you. This is never going to be a smooth ride, Chrissy. Not for you. Not for him.”
“I want a smooth ride.”
“No, you don’t. You think you do, but you don’t. You need a challenge and depth and intensity.”
“Marc can give me those things.”
“Rivera cares about you.”
“Marc cares about me.”
“Really?” She was beginning to sound tired. “What’d he get you for your birthday?”
I felt my stomach flutter, tossed my head, fiddled with Harley’s collar. “What does that matter?”
“Just answer.”
I straightened my back. “He got me something really lovely, actually.”
“Lovely?”
I rolled my eyes, knowing I’d used the wrong adjective. I should have said “cute” or “nice” or even “nifty.” And I definitely shouldn’t have gone for an English accent. I sounded constipated. Even more so when I spoke again. “Listen, I’d like to sit here and let you defame my boyfriend, but it’s late and I—”
“Was it a scarf?”
“No, it wasn’t a scarf.” Now I sounded affronted and constipated.
“Was it roses?”
“No.”
She sat in silence. I fidgeted again. “Okay, it wasn’t just roses…there were carnations, too.”
She inhaled softly, as if choosing her words carefully. “It doesn’t seem like he knows you very—”
“It’s better than cacti!” Once when I’d been hospitalized, Rivera had brought me a cactus. A saguaro to be exact. I’m not sure what that means, but I don’t think it’s good.
“It’s growing nicely.”
I scowled at nothing in particular…or everything in general. “Damn thing won’t die.”
“If someone climbed over the fence Rivera built for you, they’d have to be careful of the cactus. And that’s not even counting the dog he bought you.”
I glanced down at Harlequin. I could disparage the cactus, but not the mutt. He had Eeyore eyes. No way could I disparage a mutt with Eeyore eyes.
“Or the pepper spray he makes you carry around.”
“So he’s paranoid,” I said.
“He worries about you.”
“I don’t think paranoia is a real good reason to stay with someone.”
“Geez, Mac, in a couple months he’ll probably be digging a moat around your house and putting armed guards on the parapets.”
“I don’t have any parapets.”
“He’ll build them.”
“I don’t even know what parapets—”
“I just want you to be happy.”
“I’m happy with Marc,” I said.
She didn’t sigh like a long-suffering mother hen, but I thought I heard it in her tone. “Okay. Well, I have to go. They want to start shooting the dueling scen
e before the fog lifts in the morning. Call me tomorrow, will you?”
“Okay,” I agreed, and hung up, singing Donna Fargo’s old hit about her inexplicable and kind of ridiculous euphoria.
Chapter 5
Families—a funny little version of hell.
—Phillip Murray, who didn’t really find families all that amusing
“I met someone.” Phillip Murray sat in the winged client chair in my office in Eagle Rock. He was not a large man. Five eight in his stocking feet, he was slim and plain and unassuming, until he smiled. Then the heavens opened and the celestial choirs could be heard singing their alleluias. It was a no-holds-barred, devious, beatific, angelic demon grin.
“Someone special?” I asked.
He shrugged, but his eyes were sparkling and his lips were tilted up a little, crinkling the corners of his mouth.
I couldn’t help but smile in return. Maybe that’s why the world was falling in love with him. He’d started out doing commercials for hand cream and car wax but was beginning to get some small parts in some big movies. “Who is he?”
“His name’s Gregory. Greg. Greg Fremont.”
“Is he an actor?”
He rolled his eyes. They weren’t bad either. An interesting mercury with flecks of steel gray, fringed by dark lashes that were thick enough to carpet a hallway. “I’m gay, Ms McMullen,” he said, “not stupid.”
“So…not an actor,” I guessed.
“He’s a mechanic.”
“Really?” I asked, although I’m not sure why. Maybe my head wasn’t totally in the game. I mean, the previous night had been a little more exciting than I needed it to be. After Rivera’s departure I hadn’t slept well. And by that I mean I’d awoken once before my alarm sounded. For me, insomnia is when I’m still conscious when my head hits the pillow.
Phillip cranked up the right corner of his mouth, eyes sparking mischief. “Homos can be mechanics, you know.”
I nodded. “I hear they can even work in construction these days.”
He raised his brows at me. The room went silent. “Are shrinks allowed to say that?”
“I—” I considered defending myself. For a moment I even thought about telling him I’d been fretful and crazy and horny all night, bedeviled by weird dreams that involved parapets and, strangely enough, moats filled with whipping cream. But I’m a professional. “No. They’re not,” I said. “I’m sorry.”
