“I ordered for you already,” Corinne informs me. “You always get the same thing. Even if you look at the menu for fifteen minutes, you get the same thing. So I decided to spare us the time and order.”
“Maybe I like to look at the menu,” I say, teasing her.
She looks at me blankly. Corinne doesn’t get teasing. She understands what it is, she just doesn’t understand why one does it.
“You look like you’ve been exercising,” she tells me, narrowing her eyes.
“I haven’t,” I say. “Unless …”
The server shows up and puts a pot of coffee on our table, and two mugs. She pulls the metal tray with sweeteners and creamers forward so that we notice it and don’t call her over to ask for it, thus throwing off her service rhythm. The coffee shop is ancient, practically an institution in this town, and very cheap because it caters mostly to students and faculty and staff from the university.
Corinne and I will eat very well for probably less than twenty-five bucks.
“Unless what?” Corinne asks when the server is gone. She pours herself some coffee and then pours mine.
“I was with someone,” I say. “All weekend. Since Thursday, actually.”
“A new boyfriend?” Corinne seems neither excited nor unexcited.
“No,” I say scoffing. “Hardly. It’s … complicated.”
“Oh. So, it was just for the sex,” Corinne says.
“No, it wasn’t just for the …” I roll my eyes. “No.”
“Good, because I find that’s always less satisfying than you think it will be, don’t you? Spending time with someone for just sex?”
“Yeah,” I agree. “That is always less satisfying than you think it will be. How’s Bodhi by the way?”
Bodhi is Corinne’s boyfriend, an international student from Indonesia. He’s a certifiable genius who talks, thinks and cares mostly about mathematical concepts. He is the quintessential pure mathematician. He and Corinne are perfect for each other. He doesn’t find her odd, and she doesn’t find him boring. Watching them together is like watching the gears in a machine turn, operating in perfect synchronicity, looking like they could just go on like that till the end of time.
They are both so guarded with their emotions that once when I walked in on them kissing, Bodhi’s hands in Corinne’s mussed-up hair, her arms up around his neck, I almost died of shock. And for a week, I wondered what sex between them was like. Ridiculous as it sounds, until I saw that kiss, it never occurred to me that they would … do it like the rest of us did. I can’t even fathom sex between two people with such reserve.
“He’s fine. He’s planning to make a trip to New York to see an aunt who will be there visiting. He wants me to come with him.”
“Wow. Cool. So that means something, right?”
“What does it mean?” Corinne asks. And she’s dead serious.
“I mean his entire family is in Indonesia, right? And none have ever come here? And this is the only person you ever got a chance to meet. That has to mean something.”
“I suppose,” Corinne shrugs. “But what? That’s what I’m asking.”
“Corinne,” I sigh. “I think it means he’s serious about you.”
That makes her smile. “Good, because I’m serious about him.”
“Just don’t move to Indonesia after graduation or anything,” I say. “I’d miss you too much.”
She smiles again, and adds two more packets of creamer to her coffee.
“Tell me about the person you were with all weekend,” she says. “What makes it so complicated?”
“Do you know Ian Everett?” I ask.
“The name is familiar …”
“He’s a track guy. One of their stars, I guess? He’s on the program’s webpage. Anyway …”
But Corinne is pulling out her iPad, which she carries everywhere like it’s an infant. She taps and scrolls and finally pulls up the page turning it toward me. There are pictures of a bunch of athletes, but Ian’s picture is the biggest one. I point at it.
Corinne studies him. She even leans in close, and when she looks up, she’s squinting.
“I’ve seen him,” she says.
I nod and wait for her to remember as I know she will.
“He’s not just a track guy. He’s …” Her eyes open wide and she leans in close, lowering her voice. “Your roommate’s …”
I exhale and nod.
“You had sex with your roommate’s …”
I nod again.
“All weekend?”
“Yes. And like I told you, it wasn’t just that. It was much more than that.”
Corinne leans back and shakes her head. “God, Terri,” she says baldly. “That’s just awful.”
My eyes start to sting a little and I mask it by reaching for my coffee.
“He must be a really terrible person.”
“He’s not,” I say. It surprises even me how vehement I sound. “He’s not a terrible person. And if he’s a terrible person then so am I.”
Corinne shrugs as if to say, ‘well, maybe you are.’
“It just …” I stop myself before I say the rest.
It didn’t just happen. Ian and I practically negotiated our way into what happened. We talked about it; we knew how despicable it was. We decided to do it anyway.
“It’s complicated?” Corinne says. If she were capable of sarcasm, I would believe that that’s what I heard in her voice.
“Yes. Can I tell you about it? I mean, you want to hear how it …”
The server brings our food and we spend a couple minutes arranging everything. Corinne has gotten me Belgian waffles with mixed berries, syrup on the side, and two eggs over-easy. Like she said, it’s what I get every time. She has a Western omelet and home-fries onto which she dumps about a quarter cup of hot sauce.
“I’m Latina!” she always says when she sees me look at her strangely for how much of the stuff she douses on.
“Tell me about it,” Corinne finally says once we’re settled. “Tell me everything.”
I’ve been wanting to do that so badly, with just about anyone, that I sigh audibly with relief.
When we’re done eating and I’m done talking, Corinne sits back, looking at me with interest. She asks the server to refresh our coffee which she never normally does.
“You’re right,” she says. “He doesn’t sound like a terrible person.”
“He doesn’t sound like a terrible person?” I squeak. “What about me?”
“He at least wants to tell her,” Corinne says, “and deal with the consequences.”
“And hurt Kate? That makes him a better person than me?”
“I didn’t say better person than you. Just not a terrible one. And Kate’s already been hurt, she just doesn’t know it yet.”
“What does that mean?”
“You’ve harmed her. You and Ian have harmed her. Just because she doesn’t know she’s been betrayed doesn’t mean there was no betrayal. And now she’s going to be stuck with a guy who’s thinking of being with someone else. That’s being harmed, don’t you think?”
I say nothing.
“So, you aren’t sparing her by being quiet about it, Terri. You’re sparing yourself.”
“And that makes Ian the hero and me the villain?”
“I never said that. He’s just, I don’t know, less attached to his self-image I guess.”
“I’m ‘attached’ to my self-image?”
Corinne gratefully accepts the fresh pot of coffee when it comes and immediately pours herself some.
I get the sense she’s enjoying being part of my little human drama. Not because she likes to see me squirm or anything, Corinne is too soft-hearted and kind for that. But because it’s a different kind of problem, the kind of equation no one ever asks her to solve because of her social ineptitude.
“You’re no less culpable because Kate doesn’t know. And he doesn’t want to be with her. He wants to be with you. He’s said so. What wou
ld be the point of letting her believe she has something, or someone she doesn’t even have? What would be the point of you denying yourself something you want?” Corinne shrugs.
“It’s not that simple.”
“Why isn’t it?”
“Because people’s feelings are involved! And I don’t want to be the girl who …”
I stop speaking abruptly and Corinne gives me a gleefully triumphant look.
I sink back into my chair.
“The girl who …?” Corinne prompts.
“Shut up.” I reach for the coffee pot and pour myself another cup.
Chapter Fourteen
I answer when Ian’s name flashes on my phone’s screen, even though I don’t feel ready to have the conversation he wants to have.
After brunch with Corinne, I went back to my room instead of going back to his like I promised. And under the guise of making sure I put Kate’s insurance paperwork back in her desk, I opened the drawer and took out the photo of her and Liam. I sat with it in my hand and stared at it, thinking of every possible scenario.
Liam and she broke up just before she got together with Ian.
Liam and she never broke up, and she’s cheating on him with Ian.
Ian knows about Liam and Liam knows about Ian and neither of them care.
Kate and Liam have an understanding, and Ian is being cheated on.
What I’m searching for with those possibilities is some reason to believe that Kate has done the same thing I have, and that I don’t need to feel badly about it. Or at least, I don’t need to feel badly about myself if Kate is no angel.
But none of that matters. I do feel badly about it. And none of the scenarios I’ve concocted make me feel any better.
Still, I answer when Ian calls. Even though I’m scenario shopping, desperately searching for one that will hold me blameless, at the back of my mind is the ticking clock. Sunday is slipping away, and on Monday, Kate will be back. Whatever happens, in the near term, Ian will be her boyfriend again, and I’ll have to sit there and watch it.
The idea of that is almost excruciating. It doesn’t feel like I’ve only been with him for four days, and no matter how much I try to talk myself out of the pain, that’s what it is. Whenever I think about him being with her, the way he was with me, my gut twists so tight I almost double over with it.
“Did you tell Claude you’d be over at her shop to get braids done today?” Ian asks without greeting when I answer.
“Claude?”
“Claudette? Remember? You met her at the bonfire. She’s my homie who …”
“Oh, yeah. I remember Claudette. She was serious about that? She’s gonna do my hair?”
“Sounds like it,” Ian says. “Said she put you on her book for this afternoon, but she didn’t have your number. Wanted me to let you know to be there by three, if you’re still interested.”
He waits. He doesn’t ask why I didn’t come back like I said I would. He doesn’t mention our conversation this morning at all. I wonder if he would have bothered to contact me at all if Claudette hadn’t reminded him about my appointment with her. Maybe he’s had some time to think about it, and agrees with me that we should just let this go.
Except now I don’t even know if I agree with me, or if that’s what I meant. It was just so unexpected, and still seems surreal. That I was just this morning lying naked beneath Ian Everett and trying to persuade him to not want to be with me.
“By three?” I ask. I look at the face of my phone. “It’s almost that time now. How long would it take me to get there? Where’s her shop?”
“It’s hard to find,” Ian says. “I should probably take you.”
“You don’t have to …”
“You ready right now?” he asks, cutting me off.
“Yeah. I guess. I didn’t have anything …” I stop myself when I realize I was about to say I had nothing planned. Actually, there was a conversation with him on the roster and I’d just skipped it.
“Be downstairs in twenty,” Ian says. He sounds terse. He’s never sounded that way with me before.
“Okay,” I sigh.
Ian picks me up in the Green Bean, which at this point feels like it belongs to us. He opens the door for me, just like he did last night. He doesn’t kiss me when he gets in, unlike last night.
Instead we drive in silence, clear across to the southernmost part of the municipality where the homes are humbler, the population denser and there are more mixed-use properties. Claudette’s shop is in a strip mall with a Goodwill, a small discount store and two other empty storefronts. I look at Ian as he pulls up directly in front of it, in the almost completely vacant parking lot.
“How did you even find her in the first place?” I ask.
The sign on Claudette’s shop, called ‘Twists & Shout’ is sun-bleached and almost impossible to read, even when you’re right in front of the building. I can’t imagine how she makes a living here.
“Word of mouth,” Ian says, killing the engine.
He gets out and comes around to open my door for me. Even now, when things are tense between us, I still take the time to appreciate his fine manners and to think that if ever I were to meet his mother, I would tell her about it, and that she should be proud.
Inside the shop, Claudette is doing the finishing touches on a little girl’s hair and nearby a woman who I assume is the little girl’s mother, flips through a magazine and occasionally looks up at a television mounted on the wall, soundlessly playing the movie, ‘Friday’.
“Tee!” Claudette greets me like I’m a long-lost friend, her fingers still moving like lightning in the little girl’s hair. “I’ve been dying to get my hands in that head!”
“Hey, Claudette,” I say. I’m not tipsy and twirling around a bonfire this time, so I’m a little more guarded. A little more like myself.
“You want me to tighten you up while you here, man?” Claudette asks Ian.
“Nah. I’m good,” Ian says. “Just came to drop Terri off. What time you need me to pick her up?”
I feel like a kid who’s being left at the sitter’s house. The hair appointment wasn’t my idea and I’m only halfway into to it, but it would be ridiculous to refuse a free service that would normally cost me almost two-hundred dollars.
Claudette looks at the time on a plastic wall clock.
“Gimme till seven-thirty,” she says.
I try not to groan. I’d forgotten how long it takes to get braids put in. And honestly, from experience, I think Claudette is underestimating the time it will take. Hairdressers always do that. Then they get your hair wet to make sure you’re committed and won’t leave before they’re finished and get paid. This time though, it isn’t like I have anyplace to be, and the long hours in the chair will mean that I get to avoid—just for a little while more—talking to Ian about the thing I don’t want to talk about just yet.
“A’ight, I’ll be back around then,” he says.
Then he leaves. He doesn’t even say goodbye to me first.
So much for those fine Southern manners.
Claudette insists on washing my hair again, even when I tell her that I just washed it the night before. She has “special deep conditioning treatment that I make myself” that she wants to use, and oils that she says she mixes in a vat out back. I submit to everything, knowing that if I objected, she would talk me into whatever it is anyway.
Once my hair is washed and the conditioner is doing its thing, she shows me my hair options, trying to match texture and color as closely as possible to my natural dark-brown shade. Then she persuades me to let her thread my eyebrows which she tells me are “out of control.” I feel like I’m her little dress-up doll for the day, because there are no other customers and Claudette is someone who, I’m beginning to see, cannot sit still.
She does a good job with the eyebrows, I choose some hair and then we talk types of braids (box), length (16 inches) and texture (I lose interest at this point). By the time she’s started to
put them in, narrating her progress and her life story at the same time, my head is already killing me. But Claudette is a master at the braiding itself. She doesn’t tug, and my roots don’t feel too tight. She massages my scalp and my head rocks back and forth, lulling me into almost-sleep and reminding me of Friday night, my hands in Ian’s goose downy soft hair, rubbing and scratching his scalp until he almost drifted off.
When I’m done here, it will be evening. Sunday will almost be over.
I lose track of time, and probably do fall asleep because when I’m fully aware once again, it’s because I hear Ian’s voice. I try to turn toward it, but Claudette is holding my head firmly.
“Just one more thing,” she says. “Then she’s all yours.”
While I dozed off, the braiding part was done, and now she is neatening up the braids themselves, cleaning up loose hairs and pieces sticking out. I force myself not to crane my neck toward the door where I heard Ian’s voice. Only a minute or so later, Claudette is spraying a little fragrant oil in her palm, smoothing the braids, putting some on my scalp and then removing my cape. With a large, soft brush, she cleans my shoulders and lap, with her still oily thumbs, she smooths my brows and then she looks at me.
She assesses me for a moment, then she grins, and literally jumps up and down and claps.
“Ah,” she says, “I love it when a plan comes together.”
Then she spins my chair so I can see myself in the mirror.
Maybe I look different to myself because of the eyebrows. Because it isn’t as though I haven’t seen myself with box braids before. But I do look different, my eyes wider and larger, my cheeks suddenly seem to have bones and my neck looks slenderer. I smile at my reflection, stare at it, until Claudette spins me around again to face her, hand held up for a high five.
“Girl,” she said, twisting her lips to one side. “What’d I tell you? I’m a damn genius.”
Ian walks me out of the shop, and it is still light outside, but just barely. It is just after eight o’clock. He lets me into the van, and I settle back into the seat, turning and twisting my neck to loosen it. My head feels little heavier, the effort to move it around greater. The braids are scratchy against the back of my neck, so I lift them into a high ponytail and wrap them around each other into a loose bun.
Not That Kind of Girl Page 11