Jade

by Sarah Jayne Carr

  Enter significant pause, a doozy, which wasn’t good. It meant the topic steered toward stormier waters I didn’t want to navigate.

  “Time to fess up.” Roxy let out a slow breath through her nose while eyeing my empty plate. “Is tonight’s sugar-spree over your client who pitched a tent under the sheet or about the upcoming nuptials?”

  “I couldn’t care less about that wedding.” My broken bits of speech that followed flowed at breakneck speed, and I tried to slow the syllables to sound natural. Epic fail. The fork clinked loudly on my plate when I set it down. “If I had my way, Annelies and Eli wouldn’t be in my life.”

  “Great! Come to Maui with me instead of participating in that lame sauce production. Besides, everyone knows they’re gonna divorce in under a year. He’ll cheat. She’ll take him for everything he’s got. It’ll be better than a tabloid. Dramatic, messy, and in the media for months.”

  “I can’t go on a trip.” I rattled off the reasons why until I ran out of fingers to count on.

  “Ugh. Not your dumb lists again. You know how much I hate those. They’re a shield of excuses.” She cocked her head to the side and made a motion as if she’d died. “So sad. My lady boner for you just went limp.”

  “It’s not that simple.”

  “It’s not simple because you make it difficult. Be impulsive.” She stuck out her lower lip. “I miss spontaneous Jade.”

  “No way. You know why I don’t do spur-of-the-moment anymore, so don’t expect that to change. Ever.”

  “I dare you.” Roxy slowly nudged my cell phone across the tabletop a few inches with the tip of her index finger. “Call the bride-to-be and say something came up. There are plenty of believable excuses. Tell her Charlotte’s depressed. Tell her your house plants are being neutered. Tell her you want to bond with your waffle iron.”

  I huffed. “The ties binding me to Annelies Taft run deeper than my cat’s emotions, my aloe plant’s sex life, or Flickflix-and-chilling with kitchen appliances.”

  “Warm sand and tropical drinks or having to craft a speech of cheaply-woven lies about how happy you are for the newlyweds. Seems like a simple decision to me.”

  I crossed my arms. “You classify it as easy because you had a huge falling out with her years back. Consider yourself blessed.”

  “Damn straight. And I told you to pick a fight with her months ago to get out of this maid of honor thing. Did you listen to the voice of reason— also known as me? Noooo.”

  I pursed my lips.

  She ignored my death glare. “How is good ‘ol Anal Eyes, anyway?”

  “Irritating, as always. And Ann-uh-leez,” I overenunciated Annelies’s name properly, “would be less than impressed if she overheard our nickname for her.”

  “Really? I think it’s fitting.”

  “You veered off course.”

  “Okay. If Nate’s out of the equation with possible surgery, it’s a get out of jail free card for you. With those dizzy spells after his car wreck, he can’t fly. Doctor’s orders. Who’ll replace him as the best man at the last second?” She reapplied her lipstick. “Gimme a break.”

  “Break. Brake. Car accident?” I kept a straight face. “You’re hilarious.”

  “I’m a riot. Seriously, though. He texted me last night, and he seems pretty bummed about missing the whole thing.” She reached for her phone. “I’ll show you the picture he sent of the damage—”

  I held up my hand in protest and frowned, refusing to fuel the conversation in essay-style format with my opinion. “Nope. Don’t wanna know. Don’t care.”

  Nate. Another subject I didn’t want to discuss.

  Roxy ensured no one listened nearby. “The latest rumor around town? Annelies had people fill out applications to be part of the wedding party. Her little sister, Lissy, almost got cut. Talk about harsh. Do the math. The teeter-totter is imbalanced with the current ratio of vaginas,” she let her upturned left hand hit the tabletop with a thud while the right moved upward dramatically to fulfill the image of a scale, “way outnumbering the penises. Bridezilla’s probably flipping her silicone-loving shit right now.”

  “Guarantee I didn’t fill out any paperwork or volunteer. We both know I’ve wanted no part in this shitastrophy since day one, but I’m guilty by association. My being maid of honor is a formality in order for Annelies to kiss up to Cranston Nash.” I took a drink. “And at least I don’t have to plan anything because Bridezilla’s such a control freak.”

  “Wow. Cranston Nash. Using your father’s full name these days?” A flash of humor crossed Roxy’s face.

  “Calling him ‘sperm donor’ seems too informal.” I grumped, “Besides, I can’t help he’s engaged to Annelies’s gold-digging mother.”

  “In all seriousness, because I’m rewinding for a minute,” she drew a deep breath and forced the rest of the sentence out quickly before I could cut her off, “I just want to see you end up with a nice guy for once.”

  My jaw fell a little. “I’m perfectly happy being single.”

  “Another correction. You mean perfectly scared shitless. Face it, Nash. You’ve given up.”

  She nailed me with the steel-toed kick to my dick mitten I expected. That sonofabitch hurt every time. I refused to admit it aloud, but Roxy spoke the truth. My middle name read “chicken shit”, and I wore it well.

  Bravery. A skill where I’d once excelled, but that trait long since broke, cast aside. I used to be reckless. Impetuous. Filled with certainty. Unafraid. All of it vanished in a moment, forcing me to examine each significant and routine life decision under intense scrutiny. It became tiring.

  A single action and sentence affected every facet of my life, no matter which way I turned. The ultimate domino effect. My flame of passion for so much dwindled to a dull flicker, threatening to smother with a tiny puff. Call it a surefire tactic to keep every part of my days uninteresting.

  I tried to lob a sassy retort, but Roxy raised her hand to stop me. “I get it. You’re skittish. After everything that happened with both Nate and Z—”

  I halted the conversation that time. “Whoa, cowgirl. You know what happens when you cite either of those four-letter names in relation to my love life. You owe me a dollar. Every time. Right there?” I gestured in her direction. “I’ll let you off with ‘Nate’ as a warning, but the single consonant you mentioned after him? That’ll cost you a quarter. In fact, I quit dating men with four-lettered names.”

  “Every Jack, Pete, and Dick in the world are mourning. Since when are you so discriminatory?” Roxy asked.

  “Nice genital-themed name choices. And since now,” I replied, extending my open hand. “Twenty-five cents, please.”

  She reached into her purse and slapped a silver coin onto the table. “Fine. But we’re not done with this discussion. Nate would’ve been perfect for you if he’d kept his fuckpole in his pants. I had visions of you two running off into the sunset to get married and make beautiful babies, all named Roxy Junior.”

  “First, you’ve watched too many happily ever after movies. Second, Nate and I didn’t work out once, and we’ll never work out again. We both want different things out of life. For instance, I’m a fan of monogamy. He’s a fan of plunging his dick in every female’s panty hamster on the West Coast.”

  Roxy didn’t move.

  “What! You know it’s true! He’s like a stray dog peeing near every tree in the park, thinking he’s doing each one a favor by offering a little squirt of his golden shower. All it does is leave dead patches of grass behind.”

  “Catch me up. You’re comparing yourself to piss-covered grass?” Roxy asked. “Don’t discount you, babe. You’re a high-end orchid.”

  “Either way, I’m not interested in any apology from Nate Breckenridge, big or small. Not now. Not ever.”

  Nate. One of the dumbe
st mistakes in my life. The whole situation ranked on my top three “bad idea” list, right along with dating Z... Great. I owed myself a quarter. Imagine my regret and embarrassment when the other girl he banged told me about how amazing her boyfriend, Nate Breckenridge, was in bed. She gave up secret after secret during her massage appointment with me. Yet, she didn’t know Nate filled me out like an application the night before. The next time he called me up and wanted to fire off his meat missile, I ensured a failure to launch. Never to cross my path again. Wrong. Someone in Destinyville had a sick sense of humor because I got paired up with him to walk down the aisle in Annelies’s wedding.

  “Maybe we should sign you up for one of those dating websites. There has to be a filter for men with three or five-lettered names.”

  “Nope.” I shook my head left and right violently, blonde waves whipping me in the face. “The day I swipe, sext someone, or send pictures of my lady bits to win over a guy is the same day Hell freezes.”

  “Come on! You’re cute. Funny. You’ve got an amazing ass. And you’re the best massage therapist I know. A ton of guys would die for that. You just have to put yourself out there and find it.”

  “I’m not motivating someone to date me with the promise of a rub down every night… above or below the belt. It’s like the mechanic who doesn’t want to work on their car after hours. I don’t understand how gynecologists go home and downtown on their women.”

  Being naked, horizontal, and greased up in lavender-scented oil opens people up like a twenty-four-hour convenience store. They spill every detail of their life, boring or significant. Clients took the “therapist” in my job title too seriously. I was a constant sponge who absorbed everyone’s secrets and problems but wrung none of it out. My days were full of dear diary moments with a warm body on the receiving end instead of lifeless, two-dimensional pages. Attracting their energy sent me home screaming into a pillow if I wasn’t careful.

  That’s why I didn’t pursue relationships in or near Cannon Cove. Call it early retirement from the dating scene. I already knew too much about most of them. It spared me the trouble of finding out their slew of shortcomings. Plus, it saved me money and calories on chocolate truffle ice cream by omitting the breakup entirely. A total win-win.

  Truth be told, I’d contemplated quitting my job more than once because I’d had enough of the town gossip, but the money was great. Besides, I couldn’t let Roxy down, and I wouldn’t endure any rounds of “I told you so” from my persnickety and eccentric mother, who believed massage was “Satan’s work.” Sticking it out was my only option.

  Sure, I had my regulars. Their material was stale, repeated, and embellished with each visit. That sponge I mentioned continued to expand and bloat.

  Fast Eddie drove over from Steele Falls. Edward Miller was an old mechanic with a stimming fetish. Electric butt plug or a shocking catheter? No, thanks. Plus, Eddie had a son who went off the grid. The grapevine said he went to Bermuda or The Bahamas. If you asked Eddie Sr., Eddie Jr. left to “find himself.” The truth? He left on account of tax evasion.

  Leif Masterson frequented the office, too. I secretly called him “Lizard Leif.” Leif came in once a week for a massage. And he moaned. One hour of awkward yummy noises that sounded like someone enjoying a five-star meal likely concerned the rest of the clients in the waiting room. Call it the low point of my Tuesdays, and it left me feeling like I did the walk of shame every time I exited my office post-appointment. Even with my head hanging, jaws gaped from my peripheral vision. I knew what they thought. Not to mention Leif always came straight from the gym— where he refused to wear deodorant and he also tanned. A lot. That meant he peeled. A lot. And guess who got to slough off those crispy skin layers via rub down? That’s right. Me. I guess irony left me being the spa exfoliator on Tuesdays instead of Barry.

  There were plenty of others.

  Beatrice Johnson only ate foods starting with the letter B.

  Kenneth Anderson had a panic attack if he went anywhere without three back scratchers in his fanny pack.

  Dominick Reese acted out Shakespearian plays, in song, with store-brand animal cookies.

  Joyce Kingsly had three gold medals in extreme fitted-sheet folding and a bronze in slug breeding.

  The list continued, each client bringing a unique, bizarre, and frown-worthy trait or hobby to the table. Still, people wondered why I didn’t date anymore or make friends with my clients. No, thank you. Isolation Island: Population— Jade Nash. The list of people I devoted personal time to was exceptionally brief.

  Between Steele Falls and Cannon Cove, Cannon Cove Chiropractic was the solo spinal manipulation office, a location I’d nicknamed the Triple C, The Crack Shack, or The Rub Hub, and I was the only licensed massage therapist in the two area codes. But that sword had a double-edge. On one hand, there was no cutthroat fight for clientele. It all spilled into my lap whether or not I liked it. On the other hand, I had no one to overflow the undesirables, like Eddie, onto.

  “Hello?” Roxy flicked water at me from the condensation on her glass.

  I anchored my attention back on her. “Huh?”

  “Did you hear a word I said? About the newspaper?”

  “Sorry. Guess I zoned out.”

  Her impatience didn’t go unnoticed. “I asked if you read The Chronicle today.”

  “Been too busy digging knots out of Old Man Knickerbocker’s twiggy legs. I call him Thigh Lord, always whining about his upper quads, hoping I’ll go an inch higher to graze his goods.”

  “Okay. That’s enough gross work stuff for after hours. Check this out. It’ll totally improve your day. Promise.” She waved a newspaper section in front of my face.

  Reluctantly, I humored her and took the paper, scanning the page of wedding announcements for the upcoming week. A headshot of Eli flashing a toothy grin with a sweater loosely tied around his neck displayed Annelies on his right, not a hair out of place. Even through the black-and-white newsprint image, you could tell someone meticulously airbrushed her makeup. The oversized photo took center stage compared to the others while I scanned the wording.

  Taft—Whitaker

  Bianca Taft of Cannon Cove, Washington, announces the wedding of her daughter, Annelies Marigold Taft to Eli James Whitaker, son of Jonathan and Crystal Whitaker, of Mercer Island, Washington. They request the honour of your presence at the blessed union, which will take place July seventh on the fields of Windmill Chateau and Winery during the eclipse. Reception to immediately follow. Black-tie or formal attire required.

  “I hardly see how this,” I gestured at the newspaper, “makes my day better. Plus, Annelies invited the entire town?” My shoulders wilted at the thought of my father footing the bill along with Eli’s parents. An open-ended budget. Visions of an elaborate parade, a queen’s arrival, and an expensive, yet annoying, boy band playing at the venue flitted through my head.

  “You’re not picking up what I’m throwing down.” Roxy pointed at the three other wedding announcements surrounding Annelies and Eli. “Read them to me. Who’s getting married? Names.”

  I looked at the newspaper, my eyes flicking up toward Roxy before I relented and spoke the title aloud on the left side of the page. “Shaver-Bush.”

  Roxy erupted into a fit of giggles.

  I pinned my tongue between my teeth firmly for a moment, refusing to give her the satisfaction of my approval before I read the heading on the right. “Sawyer-Johnson.”

  Roxy shook her head while her chest heaved in laughter. “One more.” She jabbed at the bottom of the page with her index finger repeatedly and almost fell out of her chair. “My favorite.”

  “Schmitty-Day,” I said.

  “Isn’t it the best?” Roxy clapped quietly. “Forevermore, or until they divorce soon, Sawyer-Johnson, Schmitty-Day, and Shaver-Bush surround your upcoming monster of a stepsis
ter in the wedding announcements of The Chronicle. Think they’ll frame the entire page and hang it on the wall or scrapbook it next to a copy of that hideous black, white, and gold-colored invitation they sent out to mimic the eclipse?”

  “So, you’re responsible for this… brilliance?” I set the paper down on the table.

  “Consider it a way early birthday gift. Having a friend of a friend— who also hates Annelies— working at The Chronicle helps. I just wish I could find out their identity. You know, so I could give them a giant hug, and we could become BFFs. They come up with the best headlines.”

  There was no upcoming wedding for Shaver and Bush, Sawyer and Johnson, or Schmitty and Day happening in Cannon Cove. In fact, I was certain someone enhanced the images with Photoshop, and no couples in the county were unfortunate enough to bear the pairings of names.

  “Thank you?” I half-asked.

  “You’re welcome. Now, back to Maui. I checked on flights and found a few available seats. They’re stupid expensive but come on.”

  “Not your best argument.”

  “It’s Hawaii. And I’m fun. Plus, if I don’t go now, I lose out on my time share for the rest of the year. Stupid thing was the worst idea I’ve ever had. Never buy one.”

  I remained cautious with my words. If I didn’t choose wisely, Roxy would press the topic until it was flat like a pancake. “As much as I’d love to, I can’t bail on the wedding. There’s an impossible number of landmines to escape. It’s too late for me. Save yourself.”

  “No problem since it sounds like I’m the only one in town who didn’t get a personalized paper invite. Big shock.” She sat back and crossed her legs again. “And don’t go thinking I’m done trying to persuade you yet.”

  “Not that I’m entertaining going, because I’m not, but even if I were, I’m sure Will wouldn’t be happy about me tagging along. I told you, this is the trip where he’ll finally propose. Being a third wheel doesn’t suit me.”