by Marr, Maggie
Becca
How the hell did I forget my phone? I rummage through my purse for the hundredth time. Fuck. Fuck. Fuckity-fuck. I know how I forgot my phone because Jake Warren and his biceps and Levi’s and blue eyes and pillow-cushion lips make me do stupid things—like get a manicure, buy new lipstick, shower, wear my fancy super-sexy underpants (that are horrifically uncomfortable—like tooth floss in my ass), and forget my phone. That, and go out with Jake again, as though this time could be any different than the last time and the time before that, because it definitely won’t be different at all—this is obvious by the empty seat across the table from me.
I’ve been stood up. Again.
The booth across from me at the table is empty. Definitely empty.
I want to crawl under the table and die because El Segundo isn’t such a giant town that people don’t know me or my family or the fact that I was very publicly dumped by my fiancé probably because it made TMZ just a little over six months ago.
“Excuse me.” I flag down a server and she stops beside my table. This woman is familiar. My parents used to bring us here as kids and I think this woman was old when I was a baby.
“Yeah?” She glances at me. Her makeup is impeccable and she gives me a look like she suffers no fools.
“Do you know what time it is?” I ask her.
She pulls out her phone, annoyed that I’ve interrupted her speed-racer pace through the restaurant with anything less than the desire to order. She looks across the table. Her face drops. She purses her lips together and looks back at me. She eyes my makeup, my V-neck shirt that shows way too much cleavage for anything but a date, and her lips turn down into a frown.
“Oh honey,” she says suddenly, oozing so much sympathy it makes me want to stick my steak knife in my eye. “Were you stood up?”
“No! Of course not!” I say. “I…uh…I forgot my phone. I didn’t get stood up.” I shake my head and dig deeper in my purse. Like there’s something in there to save me and my overly-dented ego.
“You asked for the time,” she says, “it’s ten after nine. That long enough to be stood up?”
I stop rummaging like a raccoon in a campsite garbage can. I look at the empty booth. I press my hand to my cheek and put my elbow on the table. This is Jake-what-the-fuck-am-I-thinking-Warren. I sigh. “Yeah,” I say, “I got stood up.”
Tiny pinpricks of heat are in my eyes. I will not cry. My feelings are somewhere between ragey-want-to-tip-over-the-table-and-scream and put-my-head-onto-the-empty-table-and-cry.
She puts her hand on my shoulder, “Well, it ain’t because you’re not lookin’ good, because baby you are. All done up and lookin’ more than fine.”
“Thanks,” I say. Somehow the fact that I look this good and took so much time to do so doesn’t make me feel any better. While her words are well-intentioned, they land on me like a bag of cement mix hitting pavement.
“Let me get you Galvenetti’s ‘Stood Up Special’ to go.”
“You have a special?” I ask. “This happens a lot?”
“Enough,” she says and turns toward the kitchen. “Yo! Joey,” she yells, “we need a Stood Up Special to go!”
Oh for fuck sake. Please let a sinkhole open in the center of Galvenetti’s and take me now. I press my hand to my face and peer through my fingers at the Friday night crowd. Oh my God! Everyone in the place rubbernecks my way. Did I mention that I loathe Jake? I don’t even have a phone to hide behind. Can’t duck my head. Can’t pretend that I don’t see everyone, and I mean everyone, in the entire place checking me out—the loser that got stood up on a Friday night.
Ack! I want to run to the restroom and hide, but then they’ll feel even worse for me than they do now and the very last thing I want is for anyone to feel sorry for me. I straighten my spine and take a deep, long breath. I pick up my wine glass, in an attempt to ignore the all-out sympathy looks being shot my way. I can do this. I’m a smart woman. I have accomplishments. I have a job and…and all my teeth. It’s not like I can’t get a date, it’s simply that I haven’t tried. Sure, I’ve been back home for nearly a year buuuut, I mean I’m busy. I have a job, and a father who I’m trying to prove to I can run a construction business. But, damn it’s not so easy convincing my father that his daughter can do the job that none of his five sons want to do.
“Amazing! Is that Becca-Frickin’-Ryan sittin’ at Galvenetti’s without a date?!”
While the tone screams douchenugget with a mullet, the voice is vaguely familiar. Oh frickety-frack, just exactly what every woman wants: the guy from high school who never left his hometown and still (I’m guessing) tries to date high school girls. A name, to go along with this thirty pound overweight, looks older than middle age, nearly-balding guy, rattles around my brain, but I can’t pull it into my mind…Kevin…Kent…?
“Keith Kennison, from Central North High.” He slides into the booth across from me. “We were in World History together, you remember?”
“Uh…vaguely?” I say.
“So who stood you up?” He tilts his beer bottle up and takes a long swig. I’m guessing this is not his first beer of the night.
“Um…”
“What an asshole. Who stands up a woman for dinner? Right?” He ogles my breasts. “Especially with girls that look like those.”
“Excuse me?”
“You, a girl, that looks like you,” he says and smiles at me as though there’s no way he could’ve just said what I know I just heard. “You must be feeling pretty crappy. Let me buy you a beer.” He waves his arm trying to flag down a server.
“Uh, thank you, but no. I think I’m just going to head out.”
“Becca, Becca, Becca Ryan,” he says letting out a breath. “Still too good to have a beer with lowly old Keith Kennison.” He smiles and shakes his head. “No problem.” He squints his eyes and looks me up and down. “I remember the last time you got stood up too.”
“Oh yeah?” I say, no longer feeling bad for leaving Keith Kennison alone in a booth at Galvenetti’s on a Friday night because after having him ogle my tits and tell me what a snob I am, I’m getting all wound up to project this rage I feel at Jake Warner onto him. “Do you?” I drop a twenty on the table and grab my jacket from the booth. “When was that?”
Keith takes another long pull on his beer. He’s got the start of an alcoholic’s red nose and the paunch of a man who could be double our age. “Prom,” he says. “Jake Warren, my senior year.”
My heart drops to my high heels. Those tears that were pricking my eyes are back. Fuck. How come I can’t ever learn?
I slam my arm into my jacket. “Thanks for the walk down memory lane, Kevin,” I say and turn toward the front door.
“It’s Keith, and no problem, babe!” he yells across the restaurant.
My server waits by the hostess stand at the front door. “I left you a twenty on the table,” I say. “Just want to be sure you’re the one who gets it.”
She smiles and hands me a bag. “This is for you, honey. Go home, take off that bra and your special panties, put on a chick flick, and eat the lasagna.”
“How much do I owe you?” I ask, pulling my wallet from my purse. At least I didn’t forget that.
“It’s a Stood Up Special, so this one’s on me.”
“Thanks,” I say and take the bag from her hand.
“I put a piece of tiramisu in there too,” she says, winking at me. “You deserve every bite.”
I open the door.
Fucking Jake Warren. Tonight I got a free meal, but tomorrow, I know exactly how I’m going to make him pay.
Chapter 5
Jake
“Explain to me again—what the hell happened?” I turn the key in the ignition of my pickup. Dave looks tired and completely tapped out. He presses his head against the headrest and blows out air before he begins. We’ve known each other since we were kids and the past six months have aged him more than I’ve ever seen.
“It was my wife,” Dave s
ays.
His ex-wife, I don’t correct him, because man the shit with Carmen has been rough on Dave. I pull out of the cop shop and onto Main street.
“I mean…ex-wife,” Dave says. “It’s complicated.”
I nod my head. “It always is.”
“She was out at Paddy’s, that pub on the east side, with some friends after work and this asshole wouldn’t leave her alone. He followed her home and it got her scared and so—”
“When she got scared she called you?” I finish his sentence as I pull to a stop at a red light in front of City Hall.
“Exactly,” he says. “And then I show up. This asshole, who followed my wif—ex-wife all the way home was drunk and belligerent.”
“And I’m guessing you’re none too friendly either?”
Dave shakes his head. “Nope. Not friendly at all. When I tell this guy to go the fuck home he whips out his badge and—”
“He was a fucking cop?”
“Yep,” Dave says. “Didn’t help matters at all when his buddies pulled up in front of the house.”
“Damn,” I say. “You’re lucky you got by with just an arrest. They could’ve kicked your ass from here to next Thursday.”
“Don’t I know it.” Dave stares out the window of my truck. “It’s happened before.” He sighs. “Man, look, thanks…I…didn’t have anyone else to call.”
Not even the ex-wife? I think, but I don’t fucking say it. Carmen and Dave, man they’ve been round and round and I thought for certain this last time was the knockout punch, but it would seem that she still calls good-ol’ Dave when she needs some help. Not my rodeo, not my deal. Why kick a guy when he’s down? He’s obviously still got feelings for her, otherwise he wouldn’t have shown up at her house when she called to save her ass. I know how that shit goes. I’ve had feelings for Becca ever since I was ten years old.
“I just couldn’t call Carmen,” Dave says and sighs. “She’s been through enough with me. I mean…” He closes his eyes. “Well you know what the fuck I mean. You know all the details. Every last one,” Dave says. “Thanks.”
“Yeah, I get it. No problem, man.” I turn left on Grove Street. “This one?” I ask. I slow down in front of a crappy-ass, run-down apartment building. Carmen got the house. It’s like Dave is completely starting over.
“Yeah, this it.” He glances at me. “Hope I didn’t screw up your Friday night too bad,” he says. “You got some fancy-ass threads on for a guy just chillin’ at home.”
“You didn’t screw it up too bad,” I lie. I’ve been checking my phone for a text or a call every five minutes for the last two hours while they processed paperwork on Dave. Not a peep from Becca which can’t be good.
“Thanks again, man,” Dave says and gets out of the truck. He turns back toward me and I roll down the window.
“Hey, man,” he starts and his eyebrows pull together. “Listen, since you work with Dad and you’re working with Becca now do you mind…I mean…I just…could you not say anything about tonight? I’m embarrassed enough and—”
“Not a problem,” I say. “Got it.”
A sad smile of gratitude crosses Dave’s face. “Thanks.” He pats the windowsill and turns back to his truck. I pull a U-turn in the street. It’s late, but it’s not too late and I’ve got somewhere I need to go and someone I’ve got to check on because I’ve got a feeling there is one pissed off woman across town that I may have run out of chances with.
I press the phone button on my steering wheel. “Galvenetti’s,” I say.
Two rings and then a voice I know well.
“Galvenetti’s, this is Marge. What d’ya want?”
“Marge! It’s Jake,” I say and smile.
“Hey ya Romeo, how you doin’ this fine Friday night? Surprised you’re not in here wine’n and dine’n some girl.”
“Ha! Something came up tonight. I was supposed to be in there with the greatest lookin’ girl you’ve ever seen, but—”
“Tall. Brunette. Brown eyes. Built like she could be a Kardashian? And not the skinny one neither, one of the real curvy ones?”
Shit! An oily feeling slides through my gut. “Yeah,” I say, “that’s the one. Don’t tell me—”
“She got the Stood Up Special to go, courtesy of Joey and me.”
“Fuc-dge,” I correct myself. Marge and my mom go waaaaay back.
“Looks like you’re in the doghouse, lover boy.”
“But I called and left a message.”
“That she never got. And that,” Marge says, “is the same as not callin’ at all.”
“Was she pissed?”
“Completely. That douchnugget Kennison got to her table, before Matty cut him off for the night.”
“Damn.” I scrub my hand through my hair. “None of this is good.”
“Not me you gotta’ tell. I’m goin’ home with my man soon as he’s finished scrubbin’ the kitchen. But you?”
I can practically see Marge shaking her head.
“You, well you got a choice either face that music or cut it loose. Depends on which one is gonna cause you more pain.”
“Thanks, Marge,” I say. “I’ll run by some money for the Stood Up Special.”
“Forget about it,” Marge says. “I have the feelin’ the price of the Stood Up Special is the least of your worries. That meal is gonna cost you a whole lot less than you’re about to pay if you ever see that girl again.” Marge laughs and the line goes dead.
Ouch. I pat the steering wheel and wonder if I should just go home.
Chapter 6
Becca
Here’s the thing: I love flannel pajama bottoms. Love them. I have the absolute best most comfortable pair—and not just any flannel pajama bottoms. I yank off my skirt (that is tighter than I like to admit) and slide into my comfy blue and green plaid pajama bottoms. The thing about my favorite pajama bottoms is that they aren’t just any pajama bottoms…no. I sigh. They are the pajama bottoms that used to belong to Jake Warner.
No Haters.
I came by these fab sleepy time bottoms honestly. I didn’t stalk him or break into his house or steal them from his bag. These pajama bottoms came into my possession when Jake came to visit Boston once while I was still in college. Once. When I was an undergrad. He left them behind, forgot about them—and me—so now these pajama bottoms are mine.
I try not to overanalyze why; of all the things I keep to wear to bed, I wear an old, very worn—there is a hole in the left leg beneath the drawstring—pair of Jake Warner’s pajamas.
Fuck it. I know why. I just don’t want to admit it. And I definitely don’t want to admit it on the night that Jake stood me up.
A second time.
I cinch the pajamas tight to my waist (they still fall down to my hips), pull on my fuzzy socks, pull my too-wild-to-be-sexy hair into a bun, throw on a grey fleece, and head to the kitchen.
Ah, yes, the best cure for a bruised ego. Lasagna and Netflix, minus the chill. I plop my ass onto the couch and flip on the remote. What will it be? Nothing that confirms a belief in love. Nope, not tonight and most likely not ever again. I’ll take something that is sad and depressing, something that might make me cry, or the outrageous. I scroll through all the possibilities.
My phone beeps from across the room and I hop up. The damn thing was dead when I got home. So not only did I leave without my phone, but I couldn’t even check it once I got home.
Part of me is grateful, like I want to hear some lame-ass excuse from Jake as to why he forgot about me at Galvenetti’s—if he even remembered that he asked me to dinner there—and that’s the other part: what if I’m so completely inconsequential that he didn’t even remember he asked me to meet him?
Being forgotten may be worse than getting intentionally stood up. Truly it’s a toss-up at this point. The most pathetic part is that I still care.
It’s pathetic, that I even thought tonight was a date. I roll my eyes toward the ceiling. More like tonight was a “let’s go grab a
beer thing because I feel sorry for my best friend’s little sister.” And of course I had to go and turn it into some kind of date.
Just like me. Making things too serious, too fast.
I scroll. Voicemail. Fine. I’ll listen. I’ll play along, Jake Warner.
Knock, knock, knock.
“Becca, it’s me!”
How funny—almost like he’s here. Of course he’s here.
“Becca, please open the door? I…I need to talk to you.”
I walk to my door. “Go away,” I yell. I press my phone to my ear to listen to Jake’s voicemail. I can’t hear a word Jake says in the message.
“I left you a voicemail. Did you get it?
“I got something.” I press play again and try to listen to whatever it is that Jake told me in the message on my phone.
“Please, Becca. I’m so sorry,” he calls through the door. “Would you let me try and explain?”
I close my eyes. Opening my front door to Jake goes completely against my better judgement. I can open the door and let Jake give me his sad puppy-dog eyes and woe-is-me story as to why he left “poor little Becca all alone at Galvenetti’s” or I can tell him to go away and never come back.
Shit. I wish I wasn’t here. Why didn’t I go meet Carmen and her friends at Paddy’s instead of going to Galvenetti’s? I shouldn’t have come straight home. I should’ve gone out and gotten completely shit-faced. I should’ve let Jake wonder where I was and what I was doing and…like he even cares.
“Please, Becca?” Jake says and taps the door again. “Please open the door.”
Maybe he does care? I press my forehead to the door between us.
“Give me one good reason why I should open this door.” This moment is like flipping a coin when you actually know what you want fate to serve up but you can’t admit what you want even to yourself. I’m actually rooting for Jake to say something that makes me feel like less of a boob about getting stood up and a pushover for opening the door.
“Because you deserve an apology for sitting alone at Galvenetti’s for an hour,” Jake says.