Boyfrenemy

by Catherine Rull

  I step out of the stall, ready for inspection. Penny is already out and pulling on the neckline of her dress. Mia looks bored, but otherwise indifferent. Fiona hauls herself out of the chair to stand next to us.

  I notice a gleam in Isabella’s eye but whether it’s from excitement or disappointment, I can’t quite tell. “Wow. It looks better when you’re all next to each other like that,” she gushes with a wavering smile.

  Better than what?

  “They’re gorgeous,” the sales assistant says inanely—like she’d say otherwise.

  “They’re two hundred and fifty bucks each—on sale,” I point out after inspecting the tag, hoping to put Isabella off buying them.

  “Yeeeah,” she says with a thoughtful frown.

  Good. She doesn’t seem completely sold on these gowns either.

  “Maybe you can try those blue ones?” Isabella points to the much more blingy gown that Fiona indicated earlier. The whole chest part of that dress is embroidered with crystals, the bodice short and the skirt flaring out. And the best part—it has elegant wide straps, perfect for hiding supportive bra straps.

  Everyone looks at Fiona, including the sales clerk. She nods weakly.

  “Last one, Fiona,” Isabella promises. She’s in the country for a week and a half, this is the only day all four of her bridesmaids can be in the same place at the same time. “The dresses just look different when you’re all wearing them as a group.”

  Fiona nods again and turns her head in our direction. And that’s when it happens. Green projectile vomit like in The Exorcist but instead of avocado, we get showered with chunky celery. The spray doesn’t discriminate—all our red gowns get splashed like at a Nickelodeon award show. The last of Fiona’s puke drips down on her own dress.

  “Oh, crap. I’m so sorry!” Fiona bawls, finally losing it.

  “Holy fuck, Fiona,” I snap, totally over this bridesmaids’ duties bullshit. I just got spewed on. Everyone else is still looking at her slack-jawed, stunned.

  “I’m sorry. It’s the—I’m, I’m pregnaaant!” She follows this confession with a sob that sounds like she’s got other things she’s regretting than just spoiling our expensive outfits. “I just found out a couple of weeks ago. I’m due in January. But I can still walk down the aisle for your big day, Bels.” She pegs the bride with hopeful eyes, begging not to be kicked out of the bridal party.

  “That’s…um, great, Fiona! Baby number four,” Isabella says, the only one not puked on. Her eyes wander over to the carnage on our outfits, and the sales assistant who is shaking her head like she’s in denial.

  Fiona sniffs loudly and we all hold our breath wondering if our ex-classmate’s going to add another bodily fluid to the gown.

  “Yeah,” Mia, Penny and I say less enthusiastically. The smell is pushing me close to adding to the mess, and Princess Penny is not bothering to hide the disgust on her face.

  “Um, excuse me,” we hear, making us all turn to the sales assistant who is looking directly at Isabella. “You’re going to have to pay for those dresses.”

  Chapter 17

  The arrangement for this bridal party bonding weekend is: Penny and I are sharing a room, Keats and Blake are roommates, and the lovebirds get their own double. Mia and Fiona couldn’t come because of kid duties. And Byron’s other groomsmen are doctors who are busy saving lives this weekend.

  Penny and I got here as soon as we could after ducking out of work early. Even then, our four companions were already in the lobby ready to race down the dunes on wooden boards when we entered the hotel, so we went there straight before checking in.

  “Ugh. I don’t do nature.” Penny closes the curtain to our magnificent view. “What time do you have on you?”

  Penny refuses to wear a watch on principle—something to do with avoiding stress and the rat race. Which is fine, except, she keeps asking for the time.

  “Almost seven.”

  “Good. I’m starving. We’re all supposed to meet at the restaurant downstairs, right? You ready?”

  “I’ll change first.”

  “You look fine.” She heads for the door.

  “I’ll meet you there.” Until this afternoon, I hadn’t seen Keats since the engagement party last Saturday. I’d had no contact with him at all—not unless you count social media and the couple of photos he was tagged in during the week. I’d been too scared to call him in case Isabella was around him at the time, and he for some reason obviously hadn’t felt the need to see me or talk to me either. Bastard.

  Why do I want to bother primping myself again? Oh yes, the best revenge—living well.

  Penny stops and turns around to face me. “Who are you dressing up for?”

  “What?” I ask with practised, feigned indifference.

  “Keats or his friend?”

  “Neither. Can’t someone freshen up without it meaning something?”

  “Whatever, chick.” She sounds unconvinced but uninterested. “But if you’re dressing up, I am, too. I can’t be the only troll at the table—no way. And Keats’ friend’s pretty cute, hey—too bad he’s a giant. Can you imagine sex with someone who’s almost half a metre taller than you?” She goes quiet, her eyes glazing over as she seems to imagine just that. “Nah, it’s not going to work…” Penny sounds disappointed. “Yeah, you can have him, chick. He’s not too tall for you.”

  “Blake’s engaged,” I point out on my way to the bathroom.

  “Hm. Not my type anyway.” Penny digs out her Chanel make-up bag from her tiny Louis Vuitton luggage. They both look real—probably a present from her rich parents. She pulls out a very practical-looking white bra. Its lack of lace or design makes it look severe and reminiscent of underwear I imagine grandmas wear. “But as long as I perve at him from a distance, he doesn’t seem freakishly tall.”

  When we reach the beachfront restaurant, our companions are already seated at a round, el fresco table with a glass of something cold in front of each person. Isabella is in a pair of khaki short shorts and a long sleeve knit top. Her legs look long despite being just 5’2”. Her low cut Cons add to her relaxed look. The guys are in long sleeve sports jerseys, jeans and sneakers. Shit. I’m overdressed in a pink sarong with giant yellow hibiscus flowers on it like a halter-neck dress, finished off with a pink cardigan.

  Byron has his left arm over Isabella’s shoulders, and she has the fingers of her opposite hand entwined with his. There are two free seats beside her. To Byron’s right, are Blake and Keats respectively. It takes a lot of will power not to satisfy my curiosity and stare at Keats.

  Isabella smiles when she sees Penny and me approach. Penny plops down closest to her, leaving me with the only free chair. The one next to Keats. I acknowledge my co-conspirator with a nod. Outside of wedding planning, we’re not supposed to have any other reason to hang out. He flashes me a bland smile that doesn’t hide the fact his face looks drawn.

  “Thank you so much for coming, everyone,” Isabella says. “We’ve achieved so much in a short time. I can’t believe we finally have the church and venue booked, and the bridal party’s outfit, and my dress.”

  My dress.

  “This one won’t tell me what it looks like,” Byron says, looking at Penny and me.

  Isabella slaps him on the arm. “Don’t try to get hints off them. It’s a surprise.”

  “It’s gorgeous—you’re going to want it off.” Penny follows this comment with a chortle.

  “Penny!” Isabella scolds, blushing profusely.

  She’s such a prude. I look at Keats to see his reaction to all this. He has his eyes cast on his drink but every now and again he glances up at his ex-girlfriend. His wide mouth is down at the corners.

  “I’m so excited about the groomsmen’s outfits,” Isabella says, changing the topic. “You guys are going to look so great.”

  “The bloody kilt looks like a mini-skirt on me,” Blake complains. “We don’t hafta shave our legs, do we?”

  “Only if you want to, ma
te,” Byron says with a chuckle. He kisses his fiancée’s shoulder, the action so natural I don’t think he even realises he’s showing so much affection in public.

  It’s my childhood all over again. Isabella is from a happy family, and it looks like she’ll be playing happy families with Byron very soon. It’s not that I don’t want that for her, but I wish I had a bit more going for me, too.

  “Hey, don’t complain. Anything’s better than spew,” Penny says, looking at Blake across the table from her. Judging by the way she’s looking at him, he’s sitting far enough to look just the right size for her.

  “Spew?” Blake asks, raising a brow.

  “It was so gross, hey?” Penny says before she fills him in on what happened at Stones’ Corner. All three men lean in to hear how Fiona helped us decide what to wear for the wedding.

  “I can’t believe you’re getting married in four months!” Penny says to Isabella, off again on one of her tangents as soon as the regurgitated celery story is finished. “And before me!”

  “Tell me about it,” Keats drawls, mouth curved in a drunken simper. It seems all this drinking’s finally mellowing him out. “My baby bro’s getting married already. I remember when he used to crawl around the backyard and put snails he found in his mouth.”

  “Ew!” Isabella cringes, and I watch Keats’ satisfied, humourless grin behind another glass of sangria.

  It seems almost getting killed while racing each other tobogganing on the sand hills this afternoon hasn’t satiated his need to outdo his brother.

  Byron leans in for a kiss, and Isabella squeals and pulls away, laughing the whole time. He lifts her hand and presses his lips to the back of it. She sits up normally and draws him by the nape for a kiss on the lips. I guess Keats’ little ploy has backfired. He drains his glass of sangria and refills immediately.

  “You’ve gotta say that in your best man speech,” Penny tells Keats, still chuckling.

  “I’ve got more where that came from.” He drains his new glass of sangria and pours himself another.

  Byron looks at his brother but doesn’t bite.

  “And Blake can back me up here.” Keats turns to his right for confirmation.

  “You were both little shits,” Blake says.

  “How old are you?” Penny asks. I don’t blame her. Blake doesn’t look more than a year older than us.

  “Ancient,” Keats teases.

  “He’s an old codger,” Byron says at the same time.

  Blake scratches the bridge of his nose with his middle finger aimed at the McAllister brothers. “Thirty-three.”

  “Wow. So you’re not even just a little bit over thirty,” Penny says to herself, but out loud.

  We all laugh.

  “So, Isabella, are you going to be back for good in November?” Blake asks.

  She and Byron stop laughing immediately. She shifts ever so slightly closer to her fiancé while he tightens his arm around her waist.

  “’Fraid not. I still don’t have work here and Byron’s still studying, so it’s better if I stay in London and save up for our first home.”

  An awkward silence follows this admission, thankfully interrupted when a band starts to play.

  “Let’s eat,” Isabella says with a shaky smile. She leads the way to the buffet table, taking Byron’s hand as she stands up.

  There are about five kinds of salads drenched in mayo, lots of dishes with rich sauces, bread rolls, and deep fried stuff. When my weight loss adviser finds out what I eat this weekend, she would have a coronary. Though I probably would before she does. I’ve already lost fourteen kilos since the beginning of the year. It’s been like a freaking cha cha. One kilo off (after a long period of self-control), two kilos on (after one big meal). I cringe to think about what the scale would show me when I get back home.

  I get some wilted green salad and a crumbed fish. Penny’s heaped food on her plate, and Isabella has a little bit of everything on hers. The guys’ plates don’t look like they’ve given any thought to their weights. Typical.

  “I’m getting some beers. Anyone else want some?” Blake offers as we all set our plates on our table.

  Isabella, Byron and Keats raise their hands.

  “I’ll get a jug,” Blake says before he goes to the bar.

  Two jugs later, Isabella and Byron retire for the night, holding hands and nuzzling each other as they walk away. Another jug later, Blake and Penny leave the table.

  “What about you?” I ask Keats when it’s just the two of us left at the table.

  “I’m just gonna stay here. My room’s right next to theirs.” He has his chin resting on the palms of his hands, looking forlorn.

  “So?”

  He inclines his head, waiting for me to get it.

  “Oh.”

  “This sucks.” He drains the last of his beer. “Wanna get out of here, darlin’?”

  “You have a boat?”

  “I’m fixin’ to go swimmin’.” He stands up, holding his hand out to me.

  “It’s freezing.”

  He doesn’t move his hand away.

  “I don’t swim in public,” I try again.

  “You’re shittin’ me?” He sits back down in the chair next to mine. For a beat, he considers the remaining beer in the jug on the table before downing the contents straight from the container in two big gulps. He grins at me when the alcohol’s all gone, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He must be drunk—I’ve never seen prissy Keats behave like a Neanderthal before, nor sound more like a cowboy. “Didn’t you represent our elementary school at state level?”

  “No. Just regionals.” My dad didn’t want to pay to send me to Cairns for the state championships that year.

  “See. You’ve swum in public before.” He stands up again, hand extended to me with an expectant expression.

  “I was twelve.”

  “You were good. Come on.”

  “It’s night time and you’re drunk. Isn’t this the opening sequence to Jaws?”

  “Close.” He reaches for my hand and pulls me up. “But you’re so on the wagon, Hay-gen, you’re driving it. So, you’ll be fine. Let’s go.”

  He leads me out of the restaurant, still holding my hand. It’s sweet torture. His warm skin sends a little snake of electricity up my arm, making something in my chest constrict. This is either love or a heart attack. Neither of which I’m ready for.

  “Come on. Let’s put our feet in the water.”

  “Sharks can take you even if you’re only in knee-deep.”

  “We’ll keep it to our ankles. I never took you for a chicken, Hay-gen.”

  “Shut up.”

  We go down a flight of wooden steps to the beach. The deck of the restaurant is on sturdy wooden supports. Judging by the barnacles on the posts, water reaches halfway up them during high tide. It’s dark on the beach, except for the faint light from the hotel and the restaurant in front. Above us, grey clouds block the moon.

  Great. The lighting here should be nice and flattering at least. I don’t even entertain the idea of how our seclusion makes this an ideal location to make out. Well, not for more than a few seconds, anyway.

  The water laps the shore ten metres to our right. The ocean is dark and ominous, the sound of the waves like an incessant monster getting closer and closer. Have I mentioned I’m a little scared of the dark and sharks?

  Keats is still holding my hand as he leads us both to the water, like an irresistible male equivalent of a siren leading me to my death.

  “I need to take my sandals off.” I hang onto his firm bicep for balance while I slip off my shoes. Once they’re off, I make a dash for the hotel. My toes dig into the sand, reminding me of summers when Isabella and her family took me to the beach with them.

  “Hey!” Keats says, giving chase.

  I see him behind me and palm him off in the chest, sending him tumbling to the sand. I look over my shoulder and laugh while he shakes his head, smiling as he scrambles to his feet. Th
e stairs to the restaurant’s deck are five metres away. I reach for the banister. Then wham!

  I find myself on the sand with Keats’ arms around me, his hard body half on me and his head about level with my breasts.

  “You’re hard to get, Hay-gen,” he laughs. “Shit. I’m gonna throw up.”

  I push him off quickly, and he chuckles as he rolls away and sits on the ground beside me.

  “I was kidding,” he says.

  I sit up and slap him on the chest, making him laugh some more. “I can’t believe you tackled me.”

  “I was going to go easy on you, but you smacked me down.”

  “Hardly.” I pat my arms to dislodge the millions of grains that are stuck to the moisturiser on my skin. “I barely touched you. Not my fault you went down like an old lady with osteoporosis.” I turn my face towards him to see his reaction to my dig.

  He is looking at my lips. “You have a smart mouth.”

  When the tip of his tongue wets the corner of his mouth, I lean in ninety per cent—I heard that advice from the movie, Hitch. For a soul soaring couple of seconds, I actually believe he’d bridge the gap and kiss me. But he doesn’t. How embarrassing. I shift in my seat, casting my eyes away from him and onto my chubby legs sticking out of my bright sarong dress. How soon can I excuse myself?

  “Hay-gen?”

  “It’s getting late, and the bride has activities planned for us in the morning.”

  “Jess.”

  I look up. “What?”

  He answers me with a kiss on the lips, his hand cupping my jaw. My senses get flooded. Keats is kissing me.

  Keats. Is. Kissing. Me!

  I’m overloaded by sensations and emotions and thoughts, my mind unable to attend to any of them sufficiently. I kiss him back with abandon, grasping my chance to taste him and savour the softness of his lips while I navigate the rough stubble just below the centre of his lower lip. I breathe in, the salty night air mixing with Keats’ soapy scent, and beer. His warm hand on my cheek trails down my neck.

  “Isabella,” he sighs quietly.

  It takes me a couple of heartbeats before I realise what he’s said. Actually, I probably wouldn’t have noticed, except he falters in his kiss like he realised he’d just put a gigantic foot in his mouth.