“You’re done.” I was serious. I’d officially had enough.
“But there’s more,” Katie whined.
“No, there’s not,” I glared.
“I haven’t even gotten to your college years yet!”
“Drunk or not, I will end your life.”
I picked up my ow glass and downed the rest of the liquid inside. It felt strangely heavy in my hand. Maybe I was tired.
Tired of what exactly?
Tired of being laughed at?
Tired of fighting?
Tired of losing?
“Cheers,” I muttered. “Are we ready to go?”
No one heard. No one was listening.
Crreeeeeaakkkk.
My eyes flutter open against the black until I’m able to make out the shadowed shape of a dark figure stepping through the door. I don’t move, my body rigid with fear, my cheek resting against Jesse’s shirt like an old brick. I take a deep breath, lungs nearly bursting, ready to scream if necessary, but the intruder turns and through the moonlight streaming in from the small window I’m able to see him put a finger to his lips.
“Don’t scream. It’s me.”
My head throbs with the unwanted consequence of too much to drink. “I wasn’t going to,” I groan. The watch on the nightstand shines indigo blue. “Fuck, Jesse. It’s four in the morning.”
“Sorry for waking you.”
I sit up and rub my eyes. “Must’ve been one hell of walk. Where did you go?”
“All over town.” He lingers by the door, not bothering to turn on the light.
“That’s it? That’s all you have to say to me? You were gone for almost six hours! I thought you’d left, and I was on my own again.”
“I would never just abandon you,” he says. One look in his eyes tells me it’s the truth.
“Well then…where were you?”
“If you must know, I walked around for about an hour or so before finally ending up at a bar. The Silver Cowboy or Silver Bullet. I don’t know. Something silver.”
“You spent the night in a bar?”
“I didn’t spend the night there,” he says. “I mean, I definitely could have. It was probably nicer than this hotel room. The kind of place where you order highballs and expect Barry Manilow to be playing a piano in the lounge.” He flops down in the chair across the room, slightly drunk. Or drained. Either way, I don’t like it. I want to cheer him up, hear him laugh, make him smile so I can selfishly have my sun back.
“I found us a ride for tomorrow,” he says after a long moment.
My tongue gets the best of me. “Did Barry offer to take us along?”
“No, smartass.” He slips farther down into the chair. “But they agreed to drive us as far as Cedar City.”
They?
“They seem… nice.” He selects the description with care and for a moment, I wonder why. “Now, can you please toss me a pillow? I’m tired and they’re meeting us at 9:00 in front of Trader Joe’s.”
I give an exasperated sigh and hold his pillow to my chest. “I said you didn’t have to sleep in the chair, Jesse, and I meant it.”
My body practically aches at the premise of sleeping next to a man. I want the warmth that comes from it, the feeling of safety and the deep sleep that follows it.
He inhales a long and slow breath. “I know,” he answers simply. “But I think it’s probably better if I sleep over here tonight, okay?”
“You don’t think I can keep my hands to myself.” It isn’t a question.
“I don’t know if I can,” he murmurs through the black.
I hurl the pillow across the room. It lands at the base of the chair. “Suit yourself,” I say, tasting my wounded pride like bitter wine on my tongue.
“Don’t be mad,” his voice echoes through the emptiness. He picks up the pillow and shoves it behind his head, cocking his neck at what has to be a supremely uncomfortable position “I thought about it a lot tonight. About us, I mean. We’re both just exhausted… and lonely. And I think we were about to settle for a hot and fast fuck because we happen to be two people who are very attracted to one another.”
I make sure to scoff loud enough for him to hear. “I don’t find you attractive.”
Liar.
“Liar,” he says with a fragile laugh that reminds me of spun sugar. “Listen, it doesn’t matter. Because it’s obvious you still don’t trust me.”
“Jesse—”
“I know better,” he cuts through my protest. “I know because I would have felt it. I would have been thinking about the delicious way you whimper against my mouth instead of wondering how you ended up on my lap in the first place. You told me why you were going to California, and I get it. But that list of yours isn’t the whole story, Frances, and we both know it. I can’t torture myself with the thought you writhing beneath my hands, or feeling your legs fold around my waist, or hearing my name on your lips if you’re little more than a stranger. I won’t do it.”
Jesse throws both legs over the side of the chair, his knees bent around the chipped armrest. “Maybe we could just start over,” he says. “You can carry on with your secrets, and I can pretend like it’s enough. Just… don’t ask for all of me when you refuse to share the pieces of yourself. Because I don’t mind if they’re broken.”
I know right then that he’s not going to push again, and maybe that’s for the best. Maybe we can carry on as we were, with both of us pretending we’re nothing more than two strangers on a metaphorical midnight train and he doesn’t already know more than he should.
I set the alarm on Jesse’s watch and lie back down, digging my clouded, exhausted head further into my pillow as I try to silence the ever-present voice running on repeat in my mind.
Why you didn’t get…
Married.
One word. Two syllables. We both know it was ready to jump off those beautiful, full lips of his, and now the silent accusation hangs in the air between us like stale campfire smoke.
I don’t answer. I can’t. I can’t tell him that we can pretend like everything is okay between us when I’m not sure they can be ever again. I don’t know how to ignore the bridal bouquet, the ring, the I don’t instead of the I do, the proverbial elephant in a white dress standing in the middle of the room.
But the alternative is to lose him, and I don’t know how to live with that either.
So, I choose the lesser of the two evils and keep my mouth shut.
“Goodnight, Frances,” he whispers from his chair once he realizes his plea for normality has gone unanswered. He’s quiet until his breathing becomes the steady, rhythmic inhales and exhales of a deep, unencumbered sleep.
I close my eyes against the dark, reaching my own shores of slumber before I can even realize he didn’t call me Frannie.
It’s a perfect summer morning: beautiful and cloudless, the trees green, lush, and blowing with a temperate breeze that trickles over Jesse and I as we wait for our ride outside the Trader Joe’s. And if I wasn’t so preoccupied with the deafening silence hovering over us like an awkward black cloud, I might have taken the time to appreciate the weather. Unfortunately, after the events of the previous evening, neither of us seem to be able to come up with a single thing to say to one another, and the silence, as well as the curb currently digging into my backside, are starting to get to me.
I plop my bag between my knees and begin digging through what few belongings I possess only to come up empty handed. My neck cracks loudly as it twists in his direction.
“Where’s the rest of the gin?” I ask, deciding a morning cocktail might be the best cure-all for my dour mood as well as the humiliation and slight hangover fueling it. “Is it in your bag?
He shakes his head, his dark hair wonderfully disheveled from his night in the chair. “No. I left it at the motel.”
“Why would you do that?”
“For housekeeping. I figure if they have to work there every day, they probably need it more than we do.”
> It’s quiet for another couple of minutes until, out of nowhere, I hear Jesse chuckle softly to himself.
“What’s so funny?” I practically snap, angry my gin-on-the-go idea is dead in the water.
He tucks his face to his shoulder. “This shirt. I think it’s the one you used as a pillowcase.”
“Did I drool on it or something?”
“No. Bu it smells like you,” he breathes out another laugh. “It’s nice. Like fruit or something.”
“I smell like fruit?” I glare.
“A little bit. Sort of like—”
“Coconut,” I fill in the blank, remembering Andrew’s preference for it.
“Yeah,” he agrees, still breathing into his shirt. “Like coconut. But sweeter.”
“Jesse,” I turn to him.
“Hmm?”
“Stop.”
The playful light in his eyes all but disappears. He picks his head up off his shoulder and stares off across the parking lot.
“So, where is this mythical ride you were so sure about?” I ask after another minute or two of tense silence.
He shrugs. “I guess they’re running late,” he answers, glancing at his watch.
“Running late?” I jab. “Is that code for ‘not going to show’?”
“They’ll be here,” he persists. “Any minute now.”
I fall back into a slouch. “I’m giddy with anticipation.”
He chews the inside of his cheek. “It’s not like we’re in a big hurry, is it? We can afford to take our time. Stop and smell the flowers, as it were.”
“Yeah, man,” I say, stretching my words like taffy. “Like… what even is time anyway?”
Jesse ignores me, jumping to his feet and brushing dust from the seat of his pants. “That’s them!” He points to a red Dodge Avenger as it pulls into the parking lot. He waves as the car motors over, pulling up to the curb, almost running over my feet in the process. It screeches to a stop and the doors open.
It all happens in slow motion.
The first one out of the car has shimmering blonde hair that falls past her shoulders to a slim waist and flat, tan stomach that’s revealed by a cropped, hot pink t-shirt. The next climbs out of the driver’s seat, her short, black curls tied with a blue scarf on top of flawless, nearly glowing russet skin and red full lips that seem to perpetually curve into a flawless come-hither smile. The last girl slinks her way out of the back seat, one pale leg, followed by the other until the dangerous combination of thick hips and ample cleaving she carries nearly send her toppling over. She rights herself quickly, pulling her auburn hair out of her face with a vivid yellow scrunchie, exposing a pair of brilliant blue eyes.
“Hi!” Jesse calls with a wide smile — my smile — as he walks over to the blonde on the passenger side. They hug as if old friends, instead of complete strangers who met in a bar less than ten hours ago.
“Jesse!” she shrieks in delight, revealing twin rows of perfect, white teeth.
The girl behind the wheel swishes her way around the front of the car to hug him as well, standing equal to his height in leather boots that reach her knee and leave a large gap of caramel skin between her shoes and the hem of her skirt. She has more than a dozen bracelets jingling from each wrist and giant, silver hoop earrings dangling just past her chin.
She kisses Jesse on both cheeks, and I despise her instantly.
“Hi, Nikki,” Jesse calls, waving to the last girl who is now leaning back against the trunk. He turns to me. “Frances, I’d like you to meet my new friends. This is Sandra.” He points to the driver in the hooker boots. “Jill.” The blonde. “And that’s Nikki.” The brunette bumped against the back of the car.
“Hi.” I wave to each of them before slinging my bag over my shoulder.
“What kind of a name is Frances?” Nikki appears suddenly at my side, fixing me with an inane almost blank stare.
“Family name,” I lie.
“Kind of manly, isn’t it?” Jill says, one meticulously threaded brow lifting in query. “When Jesse said he had a friend named Frances back at the motel, I thought he was talking about another guy.”
“Sorry to disappoint,” I say, wondering if they’d care that Jesse had his lips all over my decidedly feminine breasts last night.
‘Let me get that.” Sandra lifts my strap off my shoulder and glides around to the trunk, tossing my bag in on top of the rest of luggage. “We’ve made room for you in the backseat with Nikki and Jill,” she says, pointing to the back window as if I might not be able to find it without assistance.
It’s clear Sandra’s the leader and commander of the group. The other two girls are already climbing into the back without question. “Jesse, you can sit up front with me, okay?” Her crimson lips split with a smile.
This situation does not bode well for me. Not only does Jesse not want me, a fact he made abundantly clear last night. He’s already replaced me.
13.
“So why L.A.?” I yell over the never-ending generic, girl group that’s been blaring over the speakers for the last two hours. I can’t take another minute of it, choosing stilted conversation over another nasal-induced melisma.
“What?” Sandra shouts over her shoulder, not bothering to turn the volume down. Even in a yell, her voice is as smooth and silken as warm honey.
“Why are you going to L.A.?” I scream even louder.
“What?”
“WHY ARE YOU GOING TO L.A.?”
I would never say it out loud, but I am seriously considering taking my chances with the law. No jury in the world would convict me. Especially not if they couldn’t find any bodies.
Jesse leans over the gear shift and whispers something indecipherable in her ear. She taps the power button with a polished nail.
“What did you say… uh?”
“Frances.”
“Right. What did you say, Frances?” she asks, glancing at me in the rearview mirror.
“I asked why you are headed to Los Angeles. Seems like a hell of drive from Cincinnati. Couldn’t find a beach anywhere closer to home?”
She giggles in a way I can only assume has been practiced and perfected over many years. “Isn’t it obvious?”
I sigh. “Well, my first theory would be so you can hang out on the beach, work on your tan, go out dancing and meet some up and coming Hollywood producer, sleep with him to get a minor, yet scene-stealing role in some low-budget indie film before your career ultimately plummets and you overdose on a toilet.”
Jesse’s burst of laughter changes quickly into a cough.
Sandra raises an eyebrow in distaste. “We’re going, Frances, because it’s summer vacation. Daddy has a house in L.A. for when he’s there on business, and he said we could have it for two weeks of summer vay-cay.”
“Someone died on the toilet?” Nikki interjects, somehow two steps behind.
“No, Nik. She’s lying,” Sandra brushes over her. “Anyway Frances, I can’t think of a better way to spend the summer than on the beach with my two best gal pals.” Jill smiles at the term gal pals. Nikki continues to stare vacantly out the window.
I can hardly blame Nikki for being bored. Most of Sandra’s conversation starters have begun with, well, Sandra: her impressive list of achievements with extensive volunteer work at three different charities across Cincinnati, a new addition to the city’s pediatric hospital that was recently named in her honor after she - and I suspect, her father - made a very generous donation to help expand the grounds. She’s also immensely popular at her church’s annual Helping Hands festival, an annual fundraiser aimed at raising money for battered women’s shelters across Ohio.
The girl is frightening flawless. She’s beautiful, smart, and interesting; everything a guy like Jesse could ever want. And as I sit in the back seat and watch the two of them interact, I begin to think he might just feel that way too.
She is evil and must be destroyed.
The thought has popped into my head more than a few times o
n this road trip from Hell. I know I shouldn’t care. If I had an ounce of common sense or self-preservation in me, I’d ignore the lot of them. Jesse can flirt with whomever he likes. It’s not like he belongs to me.
“Are you off for the summer?” Sandra calls back to me.
I arch my spine away from the seat, stretching in place as best I can. “No,” I say through a yawn. “Technically, I’m not taking any classes right now, so—”
“Well, college isn’t for everyone. Do you know that only fifty four percent of freshman attending a four-year university actually graduate?”
“No, I didn’t know that,” I answer through clenched teeth.
“Yes,” she goes on. Her whole demeanor suggests extreme boredom. It’s as if this particular topic of conversation doesn’t interest her in the slightest. Probably because it’s not about her. “It’s a process of selection, you know. Separates the weak from the strong.”
I’d like to separate her teeth from her mouth.
“Survival of the fittest,” she purrs, reaching her hand across the gearshift to brush Jesse’s arm softly with delicate, ring-laden fingers.
I’m suddenly overcome with the violent urge to break them all off.
What’s wrong with me?
Or more accurately, what’s wrong with Jesse? How can he possibly like her? Sure, she’s pretty. Fashionable. Rich. Charming. Intelligent, in a femme-fatale, Bond villain sort of way.
Every second spent with Sandra is like a physical blow to my self-esteem. Every time I look at her, every time I happen to glance in her flawless direction, I can’t help but compare myself. And the comparison is laughable.
I’ve been told I’m pretty on occasion. I’m clever enough, I suppose. I’m funny when I want to be. Yet Sandra makes me re-evaluate every good thing I might have heard or possibly thought about myself. Whatever redeeming qualities I carry, however small, she trumps them without even trying. Next to her I’m…
I’m… I’m…
Oh, who am I kidding?
I’m toast.
The car chugs into a gas station outside of Alamo, Nevada, desperately in need of a fill up. We all scramble out and, much to the delight of a group of guys in a pickup truck next to us, I stretch my arms over my head, lifting my shirt past my ribcage and pulling a near backbend to the ground. Nikki and Jill waste no time in hurrying over to the shiny, blue Ford, greeting them with classics like “I like your truck!” and “Where are you guys from?” while Sandra and Jesse fill up the tank, a task that surprisingly takes more than one person to accomplish.
One More For The Road Page 13