by Kaela Coble
I drive Murphy to get his hair cut at Le Beax Cheveux (whose name implies a higher level of sophistication than Chatwick is capable of ). Since I got my car, I’ve taken any excuse to leave my house, even if it’s chauffeuring my friends to appointments like a soccer mom. It’s a chance to sit in my car and smoke and read, and not worry about a tense conversation coming around the corner at home. But lately it’s more about getting to spend any amount of alone-time with Murphy that doesn’t appear sinister. This time, I don’t sit in my car; I go in with him and sit in the waiting area. I pretend to flip through a magazine, but every few seconds we exchange flirty eyes in the mirror. The stylist makes a comment about what a cute couple we are, and we immediately stiffen. I go back to my magazine, and Murphy tells the stylist, “We’re just friends.” I’m not looking at him, but I can tell he’s smirking when he says it.
Afterward, we walk down the gravel driveway and I risk contact by running my hand through his still impossibly thick hair. I tell him it looks great, and he looks at me with this gleam in his eye I’ve been noticing lately. Has it always been there, and I just didn’t see it? He bends down quickly and scoops me up in his arms, like he did on prom night. I let him carry me a few feet, but squiggle out of his arms as we approach my car, which is parked on Main Street. Not ten seconds later do we hear a honk. A maroon SUV drives by, Taylor waving from the passenger seat of her mother’s car. Murphy and I wave back enthusiastically, then avoid looking at each other on the ride home.
That’s the other bad part. He still hasn’t broken up with Taylor. I don’t want to ask him to, not while I’m still unsure about taking her place. It occurs to me he hasn’t made up his mind, either.
A few days later I drive over to his house to give him a ride to baseball practice. I haven’t done it this year because he got his truck right before baseball season started, and since Dad came back, Nancy makes a big show of having dinner on the table every night. But Murphy’s truck is at Borbeau’s getting an oil change. It’s another cover we don’t discuss. Murphy knows how to change his own oil, and even if he didn’t, an oil change doesn’t require an overnight stay in the garage. I pretend it’s out of habit that I’m here early, ready for my cooking lesson with Cecile, but when I find out she’s showing an apartment, I’m not exactly crushed.
I pull up a stool and look over his shoulder at his homework. Murphy is not stupid, but school doesn’t come as easily to him as it does to me, and besides the one class we have together, we aren’t in any of the same classes. The work he’s doing now is Pre-Calc, which I took last year. I point out a couple of errors in his work, and give him a few tips on remembering the formulas. I can tell he’s a little embarrassed, and I scold myself internally for being such a know-it-all. After a few minutes, though, we’re laughing about it and he’s asking me more questions. My hand brushes his as I point something out in a textbook, and he looks at me. I feel myself blush, so I get up with the excuse that I’m thirsty.
There is so much tension in the room it feels like I’m trying to run through water as I cross over to the fridge. I can feel Murphy wanting to ask me if I’ve given “us” any more thought, and I’m sure he knows I want to ask him what’s going on with him and Taylor. It’s been so many days between his big confession that I’m starting to wonder if it was even real. And neither of us wants to bring up anything that might break the spell. Just being in each other’s presence lately has been intoxicating. Our feelings for each other are forbidden, and wrong, and therefore incredibly hot.
After rooting around in the refrigerator for an impolite amount of time, I grab a Diet Coke and pop the tab. When I turn around, Murphy is there, and he grabs my face and kisses me with all his might, pushing me up against the fridge. His kiss is so full of passion I lose complete control, dropping my soda on the ground and wrapping my arms around his neck. The already infinitesimal gap between us closes, every cell in our bodies charged with heat. In one movement he pushes up my skirt and slides me farther up the fridge so I can wrap my legs around him, and I feel like I’m going to explode if I can’t have him, right here and now.
But just as suddenly as it begins, we hear the rattle of keys from the side porch signaling Cecile’s return, and Murphy drops me like a sack of potatoes. I hastily grab the towel from the fridge’s door handle and act like I’ve been on the floor all along, diligently mopping up the spilled soda. Murphy darts over to the sink to retrieve the paper towels.
“What happened here?” Cecile demands.
“He did it,” I say, pointing at Murphy, while he simultaneously says, “She did it,” and points to me. We laugh. We continue sopping up the mess until Cecile taps her watch and tells us we’re going to be late, that she’ll finish cleaning up. Murphy and I make our way up to standing, hurriedly dispose of our towels, get a gruff kiss on the cheek each from Cecile, and rush out the door to my car.
We resume laughing once safely in Blue, and when I rest my hand on the gearshift, Murphy reaches over and covers it with his. In this moment, my questions about whether or not he really has feelings for me or is just a horny teenage boy disappear. This isn’t only about sex. Not for him. Not for me, either. It’s love. First love.
When Murphy’s done practice and a warm bowl of his mother’s tomato soup fills his belly, he calls me. I’m still so shocked by the realization that I’m in love with my best friend, I can hardly speak.
“What’s with you?” he demands, after a silence longer and more awkward than we’ve ever sustained.
“I . . .” It’s all that can come out at first.
“Yeah?”
“I wish things were different.”
“Meaning?”
“You and Taylor.”
“That’s all I needed to know,” he says, and hangs up the phone.
CHAPTER TWELVE
RUBY
Now
56 Main is packed, proving that Sunday brunch is not just hellish in the elitist bistros of New York, but in all parts of the world. I fight through the crowd, trying to spot my friends while simultaneously trying not to make eye contact with the people around me. The last thing I want is to run into my third-grade teacher or one of the families I used to babysit for before I realized my general dislike of children under ten. I very much want to avoid a conversation with a kid who doesn’t remember me changing their diapers, and is now all awkward and pimply and gives off the sticky scent of puberty. “My, how you’ve grown!” and “I remember when you were this big” are platitudes I would very much like to keep out of my vernacular.
I spot the crew at a long table at the back of the restaurant. I take a deep breath, telling myself this is the last thing I have to do before my mother drives me to Drummond, where I will board a plane and put everything that’s happened here back into the little Chatwick box I keep buried deep, deep inside my emotional closet. Yesterday was the only day I was able to successfully hide in my room, feeling guilty that I wasn’t visiting Charlene or trying to get together with Ally, or even talking to my own mother. So when Steph called to invite me to this last-minute gathering, sweet as can be, I couldn’t say no.
Now that I’m here, I wish I had said my flight left much earlier than it does. The table my friends occupy is huge, and peppered with outsiders I wasn’t expecting. Steph is seated at the middle of the table, next to Emmett. They are turned away from each other, speaking to people on either side of them—Emmett to his parents, Steph to a girl I don’t recognize, who is sitting next to Murphy. Two older people sit across from Steph and Emmett, whom I assume are Steph’s parents, and another couple our age sit next to them. At the far end of the table are Aaron and Ally. They are both frowning, but Ally brightens when she sees me, waving me over.
“I saved you a seat,” she says. I smile and sit in the empty chair. Something about Ally has always made me seek her approval; that’s probably why even when we were kids, I struggled to share things with her. Looking back, it was less because she was a gossip than the fact th
at I always wanted her to like me, and telling her all the awful things I thought or felt or did risked her thinking poorly of me. But times like now, when she saves me a seat and goes out of her way to make me feel included, in a situation where I am clearly an outsider, makes me feel the same way I did when I was in fourth grade and Ally wanted me to sit next to her at lunch. Cool. Special. In.
I survey the room. 56 Main is a new restaurant, at least since I’ve been gone. When I lived here, it was called McAlister’s, and the room we now sit in was an ice-cream parlor where I worked illegally the summer I was fourteen, earning $3.50 an hour under the table plus half the tip jar (anywhere from twenty-five cents to two dollars). I made sundaes and ice-cream cakes and covered everything edible in hot fudge, sneaking it into my mouth between customers. The brass bars I used to polish every night and the garish rubber-rimmed maroon area rugs have been removed, but copper fans still hang from the multicolored beveled ceilings.
Ally reads my mind. “Remember when I used to come in, and you would charge me for a small but give me an extra-large?” she asks. I smile in the conspiratorial way we always smile. I do remember.
I say hello to Emmett’s parents; his mother says how good it is to see me. It is nice to see her, too, although I’m not entirely sure why they’re here. It seems kind of formal to have your parents present at a brunch with all your friends, but maybe this is how things are done when you all live in the same town, once you’re adults? Should I have asked Nancy to come along?
Steph notices me and gets out of her chair to greet me. She introduces me to her parents, and to the couple sitting next to them, who are Steph’s friend Elizabeth and her husband, AJ. Elizabeth smiles and waves, too far across the table to shake hands. AJ nods his head at me and goes back to laughing with Murphy about something. My inner twelve-year-old wonders if they are laughing at me, like the day Emmett pointed out to the cafeteria that I was wearing a bra. Jesus, I really need to get out of here.
Steph introduces me to the girl sitting next to Murphy, Krystal, and tells me that she, Elizabeth, and Krystal grew up together in our rival town of Branton (pronounced around here as Bray-in, the “n” and “t” in the middle skipped over like a waste of time). Krystal smiles and says it’s nice to meet me, but the warmth does not reach her eyes. She has acrylic nails, an orangey hue to her skin that can only be attributed to self-tanner, and her hair is highlighted to within an inch of its life. Despite her somewhat cool attitude, I try to project friendliness and full acceptance of the fact that she is sitting in what would historically be my seat, the empty one next to Murphy.
We all hold our menus without reading them, distracted by our individual pockets of conversation. My end of the table is oddly quiet, especially considering I’m next to Ally, so I follow the conversation of Emmett’s and Steph’s parents, laughing politely in the pauses of well-polished childhood stories, most of which I was present for. Every so often I risk a glance down the table at Krystal and Murphy. I notice that whenever she speaks, she puts one hand on Murphy’s arm. Whether she’s claiming him as her own or just trying to make sure he realizes she’s there, I’m not sure. I also notice, as she does it, that Murphy tenses or shoots her a warning look.
“That girl, Krystal?” I ask behind my menu to Ally. “What’s the deal with her?” I am as casual as I can possibly be, considering I’m starting to get a sinking feeling about the relationship status of the man I slept with just days earlier.
When it comes to things that really matter, you guys barely even know each other.
“They’re ‘special friends,’” she says with air quotes, rolling her eyes.
I knit my eyebrows, plastering an artificial smile on my face to keep up the pretense for any onlookers. “What does that mean?”
“Well, everyone knows they’re sleeping together, but Murphy insists they aren’t a couple. I can’t blame him—she’s really obnoxious.”
“Hmm.” I can feel the patches of furious red hives start to spread on my chest, and I adjust my cotton scarf to cover them up more completely. Girlfriend or not, Murphy’s been sleeping with this girl, and he didn’t even see fit to mention her to me? Preferably before we had sex?
Krystal looks down the table then and catches Ally’s eye. I worry that she overheard us, but she calls down, “Hey, Al! Are we on for Zumba class tonight?”
“Of course,” Ally says, as if they are best friends. When Krystal looks away, I raise my eyebrows at Ally. She whispers, “Well, she asked me to go with her, what was I supposed to say?” I can’t help but laugh. Ally will never change. She could hate your guts, but she couldn’t be mean to your face if you kicked her in the shin.
After we put in our orders, Emmett clinks the side of his mimosa glass to get our attention. I wonder briefly if he should be mixing alcohol with the blood-thinners he told me he has to be on. It used to be I would never question his stringent following of doctor’s orders, but in light of his self-prescribed anti-anxiety treatment, I can’t be sure.
“I have an announcement to make,” he says and he looks at Steph, who blushes and shrugs her shoulders up, ducking her head slightly.
I suddenly know what he’s about to say, the reason we are all here, the reason both of their parents are here. I feel dumb for not figuring it out the second I walked in.
“Steph and I are getting married,” he says. “We’ve decided New Year’s Eve will be the big day.” Krystal, Elizabeth, and all the parents immediately squeal in delight, leaping from their chairs and surrounding Emmett and Steph. The rest of us are on a five-second delay. In those five seconds, my mouth goes dry and I forget how furious I am with Murphy as my eyes automatically search for his. I know we are thinking the same thing. Emmett used to say he planned to hold out on marriage as long as possible. Has he just grown up and fallen in love? I mean, I can’t imagine anyone more worthy of the change than Steph. But is this his “as long as possible”? Why so soon? New Year’s Eve is less than four months away. Is he not telling us something?
I feel Ally’s hand squeeze mine under the table. It’s both a reassurance that she’s as scared as me and a reminder we’re supposed to be enthusiastic, too. I feel us mentally put our hands in the center and break with a “Go team,” as we jump up in unison to congratulate the happy couple. I’m either noticeably stiff as I hug Emmett or he was just as much a part of our psychic huddle as the rest of us, because he whispers in my ear, “It’s not what you’re thinking. I said I’m going to be fine, and I am. I promise.” I relax, sending out vibes to Ally and Murphy to do the same. After the week we’ve had, our reaction isn’t out of doubt that Steph is the one; it’s out of fear that another of our friends will disappear.
The food arrives and we all take our seats. Krystal, Elizabeth, and Steph’s mother start chattering about the logistics of planning a wedding for this winter, with a family as large as Steph’s. I hear Krystal faux-whisper, “How are you going to pay for a wedding? I thought you had all that debt from the operation?”
“Krys,” Elizabeth says sharply, shaking her head. Emmett shoots daggers at Krystal and then at his fiancée. He may have been successful at keeping his situation from the crew, but I’m not sure how much of it was ever a secret from Steph’s friends. And good for her. Why should she have to bear that burden on her own?
Krystal straightens her posture as if she hadn’t asked the last question. She asks in a sing-songy voice I’m instantly annoyed by, “So, Stephie, who’s going to be your maid of honor?” She shoots Elizabeth a competitive look, which I would probably chalk up to being for show if I hadn’t disliked her from the moment we met.
“Actually,” Steph says, “I would love it if you would be my maid of honor, and if Elizabeth would be my matron of honor.”
Well played, Mrs. Soon-to-Be McDowell. Krystal’s mouth drops for a half second into a little pout, before realizing she’s being watched closely by the rest of the table. “Of course!” she says, hugging Steph to her and managing to conjure up so
me happy tears.
“That’s right, I forgot you can have both of us, since Krys isn’t married,” Elizabeth says, seemingly without harmful intent, although I’m starting to see that the nature of their friendship is a little more overtly rivalrous than that of most girls, who are the exact same way, only they are better at hiding it. Krystal purses her lips and shoots a meaningful glance at Murphy. He doesn’t seem to notice.
“And Murphy will be my best man,” Emmett says, grinning.
“What? No courting process? You’re not even going to ask me if I want the job?” Murphy cries in mock offense. The rest of the table laughs.
“No,” Emmett says, to more laughter.
“What about your brothers?” Ally asks.
“They’ll be groomsmen, but they live too far away,” he shrugs. I know that’s not the real reason, it’s just a convenient excuse. Murphy would be Emmett’s best man even if his brothers lived next door to him. He asks Aaron and AJ to be groomsmen as well.
“We’re going to ask Charlene to do a reading,” Steph says. “One of Danny’s poems.” A quick glance at Ally reveals I’m not the only one touched by this. “We had to find some way to honor him. He was so helpful to us before he died.”
Emmett puts his hand over Steph’s, and her eyes widen as she realizes she’s said something she isn’t supposed to say. I don’t look at Ally, but I know her radar must be up along with mine. Danny? Helpful? To Emmett? How? By selling him weed?
“Of course we’re not sure we’ll find one that’s appropriate,” Emmett laughs, glossing over it.
“You will,” I assure him. Danny had notebooks and notebooks full of poems, and while most of them were dark and haunting, he let me read a few that radiated love from every drop of ink. He would never tell me who they were about. I can’t imagine Jenny Albrecht inspiring that kind of prose.