by Meghan Quinn
“Tell me about it, but I can’t say anything because it’s Paul’s last ‘hurrah’ as he calls it, so I’m trying to be cool about the unexpected guest.” I lean my butt against the sink and sigh. “Marisa, you have no idea how hard it’s been. You know when you see people from your past who’ve destroyed you in some way and all you wish for them is to be fat or to have a receding hairline, maybe a face full of pock marks?”
“All the time.”
“But then you see them and they are the complete opposite. They’ve actually turned into super human hotness. The kind of hot that makes man, woman, child, and dog all stop what they’re doing to check out the sex on a stick walking by them? The kind of hot that makes you do stupid things, like dry hump a basketball pole…”
“That was a one-time thing! And it was a joke,” Marisa defends herself as I laugh.
“Anyway, you know what I’m talking about, right?”
“Yes, I’m familiar with the level of hotness you speak of.”
“That’s Porter. The jerk left me, went out into the world, and was able to obtain the highest ranking in the sex category. He’s reached the sex-i-pice.”
“The pinnacle of all sex,” Marisa whispers in awe. “Wait, so he has a beard?”
“Yes.”
“Abs? Pecs? Tattoo? Low hanging jeans? Forearms that flex when he laughs for some odd reason? Eyes that capture your heart?”
“Yes to all the above.” The tattoo he got when I was in high school. It’s the year he was born in Roman numerals along his waistline near his “V.” It’s sexy as hell.
“Wait, does he have the directional signage that points to his penis?” In other words, Marisa is asking about the “V.”
“Yes, and it should be illegal.”
“Send me a picture.”
“I’m not going to send you a picture. Christ, Marisa, I can practically feel your heavy breathing through the phone. Remember, you’re seeing Johnny?”
“Yes and I’m grateful for him, but…Porter sounds unbelievably hot.”
“Umm, can we please remember what he did to me?” Frustrated, I look at the beer and remember my task at hand. I turn toward the sink and pop the handle in the back so it plugs the sink from draining. The cans are still in their six pack form as I crack them open.
“Oh, yeah, I almost forgot. Is he being an ass to you?”
“I wish he was,” I huff, dumping the beer into the sink. “He’s trying to act like nothing happened. He wants us to be civil on this trip. I just can’t, Marisa. If I forgive him, if I ignore the fact that he hurt me, I’m afraid I will give into the feelings I once had for him.”
Secretly, I know the feelings are still there, but I will keep that information from Marisa for now. Knowing her and her mission to get me laid, she would convince me to give in, and I don’t want to. I desperately want to keep my distance, because if I don’t, I know I will just get hurt again.
“I can understand that. What are you doing over there? Having a party?” I finish cracking open the last of the beer and laugh.
“No, just conducting a little payback. You’ll read about it on my blog later, but I have to go if I’m going to do this before the boys get back.”
“Okay. Be careful with Porter, don’t let the sexiness capture you.”
“I’ll try.”
With my knuckle, I press the end button, since my fingers have beer on them. I brush my hair out with my brush, flip my head over and dip my hair straight into the beer bath I made for myself in the bathroom sink. The smell of the two beers mixed together is atrocious, but I tell myself it’s for a good cause.
Beauty secret from Catherine Zeta-Jones, dip your head in a vat of beer to help remove the buildup in your hair. The alcohol cleanses the follicles, more so than your shampoo. I’ve read that you can rotate your shampoos to help minimize buildup, but if you’re not into having multiple bottles of product in your shower, go for the beer dip, it’s a sure winner.
I massage the beer through my long locks, making sure I really get it into my roots to clear out the buildup, all the while laughing to myself from the tortured looks that will be on Porter and Paul’s faces when they see what I’ve done to their precious, precious brew.
Once I feel like I’ve soaked my hair long enough, I drain it just a little, wringing it carefully, then I take the Saran Wrap I bought, twist my hair in a bun, and wrap the plastic around my head, covering my scalp completely to hold the liquid in. I glance in the mirror and laugh just as there is a knock on the door to my wigwam.
I put on a brave face and get ready to face the wrath of the Bobbsey Twins.
“Open up, Marley. Did you take our beer?”
Yup, he is fuming already. He is in for quite a surprise.
Casually, I open the door to find Porter and Paul towering over me, itching to get inside. “Hey bro, what’s up?”
“Where is our beer?” he sniffs his nose in the room and then glares at me. “Did you open our beer? And what the hell is on your head?”
“Just doing some cleansing. Your beer is in the bathroom, thought I would keep it cold for you two.”
Paul stares at me for a second before blowing by me, making a beeline to the bathroom. Porter stands in the doorway, his hands on his hips, and a knowing look in his eyes.
“Nice headdress.”
“Don’t talk to me,” I snap, turning away from him. The chuckling he does behind my back does nothing for my mood.
“What the fuck, Marley!” Paul shouts, turning to face me. “Why is our beer poured in the sink?”
“What?” Porter asks, stepping into the room now to take a look for himself.
“I needed some cleanser to get rid of the buildup in my hair. Beer works perfectly, thanks to the alcohol content. I saved some for you guys, though. Want me to get you cups from the RV? You can use the sink like a punch bowl, just dip your cups in for a refill.” A satisfied smile spreads across my face from the fury coming from both Paul and Porter as I act out how they can dip their cups in the beer sink.
“This is not happening,” Paul sinks to the floor, head in his hands. “That wasn’t just any beer for you to stick your crusty head in. That was a special Indian Pale Ale from a local nanobrewery that has a low IBU rating, making the flavor sit delightfully on your tongue, as if it’s a piece of melting Dove chocolate.” He pulls on his hair in frustration. “How could you do this?”
Do you see the pathetic person, sitting on the floor about to weep like a little baby? Yes, that is an actual man. You might think, “Wow, he’s being a little dramatic,” and you know what? You’re right, he is being dramatic, but I’m used to it by now. Paul is that brother who you were tempted to take a look in his pants on occasion, just in case he was sporting a vagina rather than a penis. He’s cried many a time, had his drama queen freak out moments, and wears an apron when he cooks, and not one of those kiss the cook ones, no, he wears a frilly blue flower one.
He can be such a lady. There are moments when I know I have more penis than him, and right now is one of those moments.
“I was looking forward to that beer since we got it…”
Mind you, they got it about half an hour ago, but drama queen acts like he got it weeks ago.
“I haven’t had that beer in so long, and now it’s got your dandruff in it.”
“Hey,” I point my finger at him. “We both know I don’t have dandruff, and do you know why? Because I soak my hair in beer!”
Ignoring me, he continues, “You ruined my night. There’s no use doing anything anymore. I will never have a chance to drink that beer again.”
I roll my eyes. “Hey, dickhead, there is a gas station like two roads down, grow a pair and grab some more. Your life isn’t over.”
Paul gets up off the floor and stares me down. “Just tell me why you did it? Why would you be so cruel to your only brother?”
I look at my nails and say, “Just a little redemption for urine face.”
Steam flows ou
t of Paul’s nose as he points his finger at me. “This is war, you know that, right? You just started a shit storm you won’t be able to handle. Don’t mess with my beer.”
“I would take you more seriously if there wasn’t snot dripping out of your nose. Oh, and by the way, according to Catherine Zeta-Jones, beer is really good for cleansing the scalp from all the unnatural product build up you accumulate from shampoo residue and hair spray.” I throw Paul’s annoying little fact telling back in his face. “You should try it on your cheese curd head.”
Like the little diva he is, Paul storms out of the room, huffing his displeasure, leaving me alone with Porter, who has a comical look on his face, as if he doesn’t know if he wants to be pissed or laugh.
“So, are you going to want a glass? Or are you also not going to take part in sink beer?”
Not answering, Porter takes off and leaves me alone in my room. I can hear Paul whining to our dad about his precious beer, which is pointless, because it’s not like my dad can ground me. I peek outside and see Porter leaning against the RV, his head looking up to the sky and his hands behind his back. He looks reserved, not mad, not angry like Paul, just reserved.
Instead of letting my thoughts get to me, I close my door and grab my camera. I take a selfie next to beer sink with a thumbs up, capturing my every moment on this trip so far. I will be sure to stick this picture in Paul’s wedding card as a present because I’m that nice of a sister. Memories are a precious commodity.
****
“Paul is really upset; you might want to apologize,” my dad says, getting ready to exit my wigwam. I’ve showered already and braided my hair. Paul had to shower while I wasn’t in the room, so I hung out with my dad and played cards while he took care of business.
“Paul is being a princess. I had his urine on me; he wasn’t able to drink his favorite beer. I don’t see how those even compare.”
“It is his trip…”
“Eff that. Come on, Dad. You can’t tell me you didn’t laugh a little when Paul started complaining about a stomach ache from being so distraught.”
One of my favorite things to do is to coax my dad into being on my side, almost every single time he agrees with me. He chuckles and nods his head, indicating that once again, he is Team Marley.
“He could nut up a bit.”
“Just a little,” I yawn and stretch my arms over my head. “I think I’m going to go to bed. I’m tired.”
“Alright, I’ll send Porter in and tell him to be really quiet.”
Porter! I completely forgot he still had to take a shower. I could fake sleep…that would be easy enough.
“Alright, night Dad.” Quickly, I flip my body over so my back is toward the door and I pull the sheets up and over my shoulders. Fake sleeping is really easy.
My stomach flutters as I wait for Porter to open my door and let himself in. I anticipate what he might say to me, if he even wants to talk to me. I prefer for him to get his business done and leave so I don’t have to talk to him at all, but that doesn’t seem like something he would do. Then again, I think about our dinner and how he would barely look at me. Was he really that mad about his beer? If so, he needs to nut up more than Paul, at least Paul whined to me.
It feels like an hour before Porter actually walks in, my eyes are sleepy, so I don’t make much movement to check him out. He walks right past the bed and into the bathroom, not saying a word. The soft click of the door vibrates through the small room and light filters from under the frame. The shower turns on and I listen carefully to his every movement.
I can’t help but think what he must look like naked. Probably like some Greek god, but more scruffy with an impressive collection of flannel shirts.
Ten minutes pass, the shower is off, the sink is no longer running from what I can only assume is him brushing his teeth, and the light turns off. Before I can turn back over, he opens the bathroom door and looks over at me.
“Hey.” He still has that pensive look on his face and I truly wonder if he is that upset about his beer.
“Hey, um, have a nice shower?”
“Yeah, thanks.”
The room shrinks exponentially with Porter’s broad frame filling it. The ceilings aren’t very high and the walls are not very wide, so Porter almost looks like a giant in the little wigwam. The smell of his soap pours off of him and droplets of water gradually fall out of his dark brown hair. His deep chocolate eyes pierce my soul and I know if he made a move on me right now, I wouldn’t be able to hold him off. I would most likely give in.
“Well, I guess I’ll be going. Have a good night, Marley.”
“Wait,” I say.
Why the hell did that word just pop out of my mouth? If I could, I would ram a pen into my trachea for uttering that one little word. I’m supposed to ignore him, let him do his own thing but my conscious wants more. That damn bitch is ruining my plans!
He searches my eyes as I try to figure out what I want to say to him. I hate seeing him so sad, so upset. It’s the only explanation I can come up with for stopping him from leaving my little wigwam.
“Listen,” I take a deep breath. “I’m sorry I took your beer. I didn’t think you were going to be that upset about it. I’ll buy you and Paul some more tomorrow.”
Porter’s head tilts to the side as he studies me. The little gesture makes my heart beat faster, especially when he lightly licks his lips, wetting them to glisten under the wigwam light.
“You really think I’m mad about the beer?”
Propping my pillow against the headboard, I sit up to have a conversation with him. “I don’t know, maybe? I mean, what else would you be mad about?”
Sighing, he tosses his things on the ground and sits on the bed next to me.
Oh, my God, Porter is in my bed! It’s like every childhood dream come true, well, high school dream come true. I’m not a pervert.
“I could care less about the beers, Marley.”
“Then what has you moping around?”
“I miss you,” he admits, looking me dead in the eyes. “You’ve been a part of my life for so long that being on this trip has reminded me how much I’ve been missing out on the past four years. It reminds me of the stunts we used to play on Paul, driving him crazy until he cried to your dad. It makes me hate what happened between us.”
“Wait,” I hold up my hand. “You realize our fall out was because of you, right? Don’t act like I had anything to do with that.”
“We were both at fault…”
“You left me naked and alone in my bedroom on my prom night. You gave me the most magical night of my life, you made every fantasy I had of you come true, and when you were about to finally make the last one a reality, you left me. You freaking left!”
“I know.” Porter rubs his palm against his eye.
“Why, Porter? For weeks leading up to my prom, you made it seem like you wanted me, like you wanted us to happen. You wrote to me every day my senior year, telling me how much you appreciated me and wanted to be a part of my life. You led me on, all for what? To get me into bed and then just leave before you even got a chance to take my virginity?”
“This was a bad idea,” Porter says, getting up and gathering his things.
“Oh, no you don’t.” I pop out of bed and make him face me. “Tell me why? Out of everything we’ve been through together, you owe me this much. Tell me, Porter. I deserve an explanation.”
“Would you believe me if I said I was gay?”
“No,” I laugh, knowing full well he’s not gay, but I appreciate his attempt at humor.
Resigning, he tosses his crap on the ground again and guides me back to the bed, where we both sit down. His nervous tics show as he tries to figure out what to say to me. He grabs the nape of his neck and rubs it back and forth.
“Tell me this, if I stayed that night, would you have wanted to be my girlfriend? Were you serious about me or were you just fulfilling a fantasy you had?”
Stunned by his
question, I sit back. “Are you serious? Porter, you can’t tell me you didn’t know I was head over heels in love with you.”
“In love or infatuated?”
“In love,” I say sternly. “God, Porter. You don’t even know how in love I was with you. You were one of my best friends, one of the only people who truly knew me for me. You knew my secrets. How can you even think that I didn’t love you?”
Porter doesn’t look at me. He looks down at his hands as they rub against his thighs and he speaks softly. “You had so much going for you, Marley. You had your internship, you were off to college. If you stayed with me, your life would be completely different. You would still be living in Jamestown, watching tourists go in and out of the Lucille Ball Museum, not really ever amounting to your full potential.” He takes a deep breath. “That night, prom night, was the best night of my life. I held you for the first time in my arms. I actually got to act the way I’ve wanted to act around you for so long. Holding your hand was such a small, innocent act, but it was what I craved.
“That night, you told me about your internship, your plans for your future, and all I could think about was how I was going to hold you back. How I wasn’t good enough to move forward with you. I’m four years older than you, Marley, and when you had a promising future, I was still milking goats on your dad’s farm. I didn’t want you to give up everything for me, so I left.”
My heart pounds out of my chest, my breathing is almost unmanageable as I finally hear the reason why Porter broke my heart. He was trying to save me from being a townie, but little did he know, I would have made it all work; I was determined to make it all work.
I shake my head. “You should have talked to me, Porter. You should have said something.”
“You were also my best friend’s little sister, Marley. I was already stepping out of line by sending you those letters, by taking you to prom.”
During my senior year in high school, my relationship with Porter changed from best friend to protector. Paul was off in the army, so Porter stepped up, helping me out when guys were being dicks and encouraging me with my dreams of making something of my life more than showing off pigs at the state fair. We didn’t talk much because he was always working for my dad, so instead, he would leave notes for me on my bed when I was in school and I would write him back, leaving him notes by his locker in the barn. It wasn’t until I told him how I wasn’t going to prom because I didn’t have a date that he turned my fantasy into a reality and asked me to prom.