Tyed

by L.J. Shen

  “How’s the Elizabeth Passion research going? Spoke to Izzy yet?” I ask.

  "I'm sure Professor Penniman isn’t expecting me to talk to someone who actually models for them. I got an interview lined up with one of their PR people next week. I got shit handled."

  "You're kidding me, right?" I sit up straight, searching his face. "You grew up with one of their biggest models, and you refuse to get her help. What happened between you two when you traveled to France and met her there?"

  Am I nuts for thinking these two did something behind my back that made them hate each other's guts? Last night when I tried to talk to Izzy about Shane she switched the subject to the weather. The weather!

  "Nothing. Nothing happened. No drama. Don't act like we ever got along."

  "You never avoided each other either. Well, up until recently."

  "We move in different circles." He shrugs, his jaw tensing.

  I sigh and shake my head. "Talk to her. Even if she acts like she doesn't give a damn, I know Izzy. She hates it when people are mad at her."

  As if on cue, my BFF presses the pause button and grasps my shoulders firmly. I immediately know we are going to have The Talk. You know, the one when you smash your friendship into a million pieces because one of you decides they want to know how it feels to take a roll between the sheets. I need to put the brakes on this thing, fast. We cannot have The Talk. I’m not ready for The Talk. Talking is overrated. Why can’t we all just watch zombies being killed? (Sorry Ty, didn’t mean you.)

  “Listen, Blaire, we gotta talk.”

  Crap.

  “What’s up?” I cock my head with a casual smile, but my discomfort is evident. I wish I were the zombie Rick has just smashed a rock into and not my human, flustered self. I can’t lose Shane, but I can’t date him either.

  He is perfect, just not for me. In fact, if anything, he is way out of my league. I see how girls look at him, laugh at his jokes, whisper when his Mustang drives by. He is friendly, outgoing, funny and most girls would find him drool-worthy. Just...not me.

  I never really got how best friends can turn into lovers. I know too much about him. Hell, he knows too much about me. There is nothing mildly mysterious or sexy about our dynamics, and that's why all of this seems so crazy.

  Guilt washes over me as Shane grabs his beer, tips his head back and drains it in one swig, slamming the empty bottle down on my table.

  “Here goes...Blaire, you’re one hell of a girl, but I suspect you already know what I think about you. You’re the girl who can make a guy laugh, but also make him think. You can be one of the guys, but somehow remain so freakin’ hot at the same time…” Shane looks down toward his feet.

  Maybe I should fake a faint. Or pretend to throw up. Scratch that. I can totally throw up for real right now. It’s just sad that all this delicious food will go to waste…

  “And you,” he continues with a humorless laugh, “you have no idea how beautiful you are, which kind of makes you even hotter.”

  Oh no, he’s still talking. So what’s it going to be, Blaire? Faint or puke?

  I don’t want to hurt him. He is awesome, and deserves someone far better than me. I’m broken, I’m raw, I’m in trouble.

  “…and it occurred to me that seeing as we’re both blindingly intelligent, passionately intellectual, sexy beasts, we could…”

  I want to yell at him to stop. He’s driving in the Friend Zone. He cannot switch lanes to Boyfriend. That’s an illegal turn. Two double yellow lines.

  “We could…”

  Buzzzz. My doorbell rings.

  Phew.

  Talk about timing. I play exasperated, when in reality, Darth Vader could be standing on the other side of the door and I’d be completely okay with it. But…I’m not expecting anyone.

  I dart toward the door like my ass is on fire and glance through the peephole. For some stupid, inexplicable reason, I hope to see Ty on the other side, despite the fact he doesn’t have my address and I basically rejected him earlier today by asking him not to kiss me.

  It’s my mother.

  “Mom?” I open the door. She rushes in, her hands full of paper bags.

  “Hello little peanut!” she chirps, dumping the bags on my kitchen island. I stand in the middle of my apartment, shifting my eyes from a startled Shane to a cheerful Mom. Awkward doesn’t even begin to describe this mess. My mom never shows up unannounced. She must come bearing a pretty insane piece of gossip. Shit, I hope Izzy isn’t pregnant.

  “Oh, Shane, honey, I didn't know you'd be here. I was just in the neighborhood and thought I’d drop by and bring Blaire some…some—”

  Some more reason to let Shane know this conversation is over?

  “—snacks. I didn’t mean to interrupt your fun.” She waves the air frantically, like she is putting out an imaginary fire.

  “Don’t be silly, Mom.” I start helping her unpack the groceries. I don’t rule out holding her hostage if it means I can avoid a confrontation with Shane. Seeing as this is my mom we are talking about, that says it all.

  Shane stands up and puts his shoes on, hopping from one corner of the room to the other in an attempt to lace up his boots. He seems as comfortable as a cat trying to avoid the rain. “It’s cool, I was just heading out, anyway,” he assures. "How are you, Mrs. Stern?"

  "Great. Thank you, Shane. And you? How is college life treating you?"

  "Can't complain. Doing my best." He flashes his confident smile, regaining his composure. He's a slacker, just like me. Only Shane is too smart to fail at anything, anywhere.

  They share an awkward hug, my mother's grin hinting she’s intrigued at finding our ex-neighbor here.

  "I'm so happy you two are still close." She scans the room, hoping to find what exactly? Evidence of a hookup?

  “Yeah, well, I've always been a big fan of your daughter.” Shane quickly adds, “The less famous one."

  After a few more pleasantries, Shane leaves and my mom and I chat about work, Izzy (not pregnant) and everything in between. When she coos about how handsome Shane is, I refuse to cooperate. She then suggests I borrow one of Izzy's cute, designer outfits next time I meet him.

  "So he can see just how pretty you can be," she suggests.

  Gee, thanks, Mom.

  Jane Stern would love for me to have a boyfriend. I wonder what she’d think if I introduced her to Tyler. Actually, I know exactly what she’d think. Hair buzzed close to the scalp? Cauliflower fighter’s ears? An 80/20 ratio of ink to skin?

  Nope, she would not be weeping with joy.

  But she would be weeping, alright.

  When she brings up the subject of school, I inwardly cringe. I don't have helicopter parents per se. They let Izzy get away with whatever she wants to do. Then again, she's financially independent. I, on the other hand, have always been the quieter, less confident one. For that reason alone, I was expected to shine academically, but instead, my grades were so bad that the only degree I’m qualified for is in communications, and up until this year, it didn't look like I'd manage even that.

  "How's school, darling?"

  "It's good." I shove something in my mouth. Donut holes? Sponge cake? I'm not even hungry, just stalling to be honest. Mom's powerful glare is burning holes in my face.

  "If you're struggling again and need any help..."

  "I'm not struggling." I cut her off sharply, hating myself for being so harsh but knowing my mother will never back down. "I'm doing fine. I'm doing great, in fact. Acing my courses and everything."

  "I'm just worried about you."

  "No…" I start clearing the living room table of the plates Shane and I left. "You're worried about the tuition bill you paid."

  "Blaire!" My mother springs from her seat, but quickly goes back to her normal, unruffled self. "Don’t say such things. I'm just doing everything I can to make sure you succeed."

  Yes, including threatening to revoke financial support if I don't graduate this year. But I'm not in the mood for a
nother argument.

  "Mom, I promise, school is good."

  After about an hour, our spontaneous get-together nears an end. Mom gathers her belongings and heads for the door. As I take a sip of my Diet Coke, she drops the mother of all atom bombs.

  “Oh, by the way, your grandmother is getting married.”

  I choke, spraying my Coke all over my coffee table and carpeted floor. There’s not a single hole in my face that isn’t shooting soda right now.

  “Nana Marty?” I ask in astonishment. The name clarification is totally unnecessary, though, because my other grandma, Sally, has been six feet under for a decade now and is probably not planning a wedding in the immediate future. “To who?”

  “A man she met at the retirement complex. His name is Simon.”

  “Simon?”

  “He’s seventy-four.”

  “Seventy-four?”

  “They’re moving in together.”

  “Moving in together?” I choke again. My grandmother’s love life is more eventful than mine, and she’s like eighty-three. Doesn’t that make her a cradle snatcher? Or a wheelchair snatcher? Shit. Nana Marty’s getting married!

  Mom delivers the wedding details through tight lips, meaning she is not happy about it. Well, is she ever happy, really?

  "Right now she's leaning toward a vineyard in Sausalito. Beautiful resort. Marvelous. The place has Victorian-era gingerbread architecture."

  "Sounds fancy. How many guests?"

  "Not many. Most of Nana's friends are...well—dead."

  "When?"

  "The middle of June," she says cautiously, cocking one eyebrow to watch my reaction.

  My mouth falls open. "I'm graduating the middle of June."

  "Well…" Mom clears her throat and plucks at her pastel Ralph Lauren cardigan, removing an invisible lint ball. "There's still time and we'll see how and when and if..."

  And if? My family doesn't believe I'll graduate? What the hell? I feel a knot forming in my stomach, but I know debating the point is a waste of breath. My parents made it clear that I entered their shit list the minute I failed a year of college. So I swallow the insult, as bad as it tastes.

  "Thanks for stopping by," I say flatly, staring past her and motioning at the door. I can't make eye contact with her right now without exploding into pieces of insecurity.

  My mother sighs in exasperation. "Little peanut," she mutters almost silently, before I hear the door shut.

  Chapter Five

  “Two margaritas and four cosmos coming right up,” I yell from behind the bar to Bree, the waitress on the other side. I’m shaking my ass to a heavy metal version of “Tainted Love.”

  Yeah, Ned’s is that kind of neighborhood joint. Lots of 80s and classic-rock music, a little metal and punk, and zero pop and country crap. No jukebox, thank God. I get to pick the music on my shifts, as long as I don't go too loud or too indie, which is a serious plus when you're a music buff like me.

  All the waitresses and bartenders are in their mid-thirties at least. Well, other than me. There’s something very family-orientated about this place. Ned’s belongs to a Texas-transplant named Mikey, who is loud and funny and probably the most good-natured guy you’ll ever come across. Mikey surrounds himself with good people, affordable alcohol and great food, which makes Ned’s a perfect combination and one of the best places to visit in Walnut Creek.

  “Hurry up, I need to pee.” Bree knits her legs together, dancing in place like a drunken marionette. She’s mid-thirties, African American and a real, classic beauty.

  I work fast to prepare the drinks, but I know it’s going to take some time, because the table all went for girlie cocktails with a five-page ingredient list. People rarely order fancy cocktails here—Ned’s is a beer and shots kind of place—so it's not like I'm used to doing this.

  “Go ahead to the bathroom.” I quickly line up tall glasses and take out tequila, lemon and cranberry juice, my hands loaded. “I’ll deliver the drinks once I’m done mixing them. What table?”

  “Nine. Thanks, Blaire. You can’t miss them. Six loud, blonde girls with air balloons for boobs.”

  I nod, blending another cosmo, still singing horribly out of tune. Bree contemplates this for a second before I smack her on the ass with my dishtowel. “Go!”

  She hops toward the bathroom, shooting me a relieved smile.

  Bree is right. Spotting the blonde girls is not a difficult task. They all have this daddy-didn’t-love-me pout, with extra short skirts, bleached hair and...are those fake eyelashes? Interesting...

  When I serve them their drinks, they ignore me and keep talking.

  “…so I texted him and said listen, I don’t care who you are, I’m not waiting around here for two hours until you’re done messing around with these three sluts. And he was, like, well, Nicole, no one handcuffed you to my bed—even though he totally did that at one point, if you remember the time we bumped into each other in Tahoe—and I was like, are you serious! Are we actually having this conversation over text? It’s bad enough he’s sleeping around with every single girl I work with! So I called him twice and he didn’t pick up…”

  Nicole's story piques my interest and hurts my feminist self at the same time. I decide to stick around and listen to the rest of it. I don't usually bump into juicy relationship stories. All my friends are dudes, and none of them are the type that pull this kind of crap. It's like flipping through the channels and stumbling across an old Ricki Lake rerun. You don't want to be caught looking, but damn if it's not super-fascinating on some screwed-up level.

  “So I told him I was done with him. Went to his gym and told him it’s over. Get this—the douchebag didn’t care! I was so, so upset, you guys. I was literally crying, and he just kept training. I actually had my dad pick me up because I couldn’t drive. Fast forward two days later, and the bastard calls me up.”

  Nicole's eyes briefly browse over me with a flicker of curiosity. I no longer have a valid reason to stand around like a bump on a log, eavesdropping on her heartbreaking monologue, so I pretend to dust the fireplace behind her table like a complete idiot.

  Needless to say it’s way out of my job description, right?

  Mikey, who sits at the bar with Jaime, our manager, sends me a WTF look, and Bree, who’s returned from her toilet break, looks puzzled too, wondering how come I haven’t hurried back to my place behind the bar. I pretend not to notice their dumbfounded stares and keep listening to Nicole as the bar gets more and more crowded with people wondering why the hell the bartender is dusting the fireplace instead of pouring drinks.

  “Na-ah, the assclown,” one of Nicole’s clones gasps dramatically.

  “What a dog,” agrees another blondie. Nicole is now approaching her grand-finale, and I pray to God it’ll arrive before I get my ass fired.

  “So he calls me up on Tuesday, right? And get this—he’s talking as if nothing’s happened! He’s all ‘Hey babe, what’s up? Wanna come over to my place,’ and I’m like ‘What?’ and he’s like ‘Is that a yes or a no?’”

  Is Nicole going to get to the bottom line sometime in this decade? Because I’m running out of spots to dust and the bar is getting backed up with unattended drink orders. Luckily, after a few more seconds and complete violation of the use of the word “like,” Nicole finally gets to the point.

  “Long story short? I went over to his place. At the end of the day, he’s the hottest piece of ass in this county, and I’m enjoying the mind-blowing sex. Guess Ty Wilder is my steady dip for now.”

  Wait...what?

  I drag my feet back to the bar, stunned. He’s had sex with her. And possibly with three other girls. I’m not sure why I’m surprised. This is exactly why I didn’t want anything to do with him in the first place. All this Casanova behavior from an ultra-pumped MMA fighter is such a cliché. He slept with Nicole on Tuesday, the night before he almost kissed me.

  Not that I should be mad. He’s a free agent. He can do whatever (and whoever) the hell
he wants.

  But crap, this pisses me off too.

  I trip my way behind the counter and grip it firmly. Judging by the worried looks plastered on Bree’s and Mikey’s faces, I’m guessing they think I’m in the middle of some kind of a seizure.

  I can already see the humiliating headline: Bartender, 23, dies of heart attack caused by boy she doesn’t know.

  My hands move fast as I try to catch up with the number of orders that piled up while I was gone. I make horrendous mistakes. I pour the beer awfully and whenever someone orders a cocktail (which is rarely) I find a way to ruin it somehow. People are finally getting the drinks they ordered ten minutes ago, and all of them probably taste like whale sperm.

  Bree plucks the cranberry juice from my hand before I pour it into someone’s pina colada. “Sweetheart, are you okay?”

  Maybe it’s because I’m pale as a ghost and just about as jolly. Or maybe I’m lucky and she might just be referring to my cleaning the fireplace out of the blue.

  “I just noticed all the…dust,” I blurt.

  Bree arches one brow as she scans me up and down. “And I’m just noticing all the bullshit you’re feeding me. Start talking, girl.”

  Well, I have a long shift to burn and Bree has ears, so it makes sense to let her in on my latest adventures at the XWL gym. I have plenty of chances to share my love-life woes with her, because she has to keep returning the drinks I’ve prepared, people complaining they don’t taste right. I remake all the orders, this time pulling myself together.

  “So, you have a crush on a bad boy, huh?” Bree slides beers on a tray.

  No. No. No.

  Maybe.

  “But you don’t want to date him because you’re afraid he’ll break your heart?” Bree—mother to fourteen- and twelve-year-old daughters—has adopted a don’t-bullshit-me tone. It seems to be working just fine on twenty-three–year-old me.