by KC Decker
I grew up in a politician’s home, and the thing I learned above all else is that I can get through any situation if I have the right mask in place. That knowledge should serve me well today. I know just the one I need, the agreeable smile that covers my seething hatred.
Once we have stood in line quietly for a bit, with me eyeballing the crowd and trying to figure out what kind of event this is, Gavin hands me a ticket and the mystery is solved.
Pit passes to the Monster Truck Rally.
Chapter 6
Once inside, the energy is frenetic and the smell of exhaust tickling my nostrils is enough to make me cough a few times before I can get my face under control. It’s cold too because evidently, the sponsors don’t want the crowd to die of carbon monoxide poisoning, so they have all the barn doors to the arena open.
“Want to get a closer look? We have pit passes,” Gavin says. His hard shell has maybe cracked a tiny bit because I can see the shiny excitement of a little boy in his eyes. He is definitely not smiling, and still looks at me like I’d make a better speedbump for the trucks, but at least he is talking to me.
“Yeah, I do, but I need to go to the bathroom first. I can meet you in the pit if you don’t want to wait for me,” I offer. The crowd is swollen with the intensity and bubbling chaos of a mass salmon spawn. I figure it will be easier to find him in the pit rather than among the general masses that are currently overrunning the concession stands out here. Plus, if I leave him waiting by the ladies’ room, his mood will continue to sour as he is bumped and jostled by the swell of people.
“Right, you need to wash your hands before you touch a hotdog. Got it. I’ll see you inside then.” He turns and melts into the crowd. What a dick. I’m about to watch big trucks drive over dirt piles with a complete douchebag. If anyone should be pissy, it’s me.
When I find him in the pit, he is talking to one of the drivers who is being swarmed for his autograph. I approach him gently, like he’s a snorting bull ready to charge, and hand him a 24-ounce beer. He looks at me with complete befuddlement, which is kind of a good look on him because it strips him of his usual armor.
“What’s a monster truck rally without a Budweiser?” I say by way of explanation before taking a sip of my own.
“Jace, this is Alabama. Alabama, Jace,” Gavin says as he steps aside so we can shake hands easier. “Jace drives the Bay City Scythe, which is that beast right over there,” he points to a massive black and red truck that is painted with rips and tears like it drove through a field of barbed wire.
“Your boy right here is no slouch either. I had to wait six months just to sit in his chair, and that was with tickets to offer,” Jace says, as he tries to sign everything that is thrust in front of him from hats and t-shirts, to photos, to boobs.
It is no exaggeration when I say that Jace is being overrun by squealing fans that want nothing more than to breathe the same gasoline infused air as him, so Gavin and I say our goodbyes and nice to meet yous then make our way over to a purple monster truck with a snarling mouth painted on it.
I’m only slightly taller than the wheels on these things. They are huge, and the way each of them is painted is incredibly intricate—To be completely honest, I’m a little surprised at how impressed I am right now.
***
Once it’s time for the show to get started, we make our way to the front-and-center seats Gavin has secured for us. I’ve already peed twice, and by now, we are each on our second beer.
The first handful of events are the ATV and speedster races, followed by the obstacle courses. They are so fun and engaging to watch, that when I get splattered by a little mud on my neck and cheek, I feel like I’ve been anointed by a redneck priest. After that, I get even more caught up in the testosterone-filled demonstration.
When I glance over at Gavin, he’s smiling at the look of shock and awe on my face. He may even be a little surprised that I don’t whip out some antibacterial wipes or hand sanitizer. His unguarded smile reminds me that he wasn’t always an asshole. No, that was me.
I’m still not attracted to his grittiness, and he is a total bad-boy so that won’t change, but at least we can have fun together—I mean, independently have fun, while sitting next to each other.
Right before the monster truck main event, I attempt to start a conversation again. It seems like a good time because Gavin has been just as engaged as the rest of the crowd, and he appears slightly more receptive to me now.
“I think it’s amazing that Jace wanted you to do his tattoo so bad that he waited six months. You must be a phenomenal artist.” I purposely avoid scratching off the dried mud that has begun to itch where it has tightened and clung to my skin. For the first time, I notice he got hit with a couple drops of cast-off mud as well, one on the outside corner of his upper lip, and the other on his temple. I love that he accepts its presence just like I did, it’s like a joint baptism.
“I don’t know about phenomenal, but I’m fairly well known for my portraiture work. Here comes Jace.” Now, he sits back, finished with our conversation, and cheers right along with everyone else.
For the record, I don’t blame him for hating me. If someone had done to me what I did to him, I would have contemplated slapping a bumper sticker for erectile dysfunction on the back of their car. The beauty in doing such a thing is that he wouldn’t know whether it’d been on for five minutes or two months before he noticed it.
In hindsight, even if I still came clean about my friend’s involvement in the date, I should never have stressed how much he wasn’t my type. There is no recovering from bruising someone’s self-esteem like that.
The truth is, I think this date was meant to punish me, and because I’m having a great time—all things considered, this will no doubt be our last. Unless that is, he does take me to his shop and sit me in the corner for nine hours.
One other thing I feel like I should point out is, even though he thinks I’m a snob, he is the one wearing Rag & Bone jeans, and I can promise you that I have never spent $250 on a pair of jeans.
***
When he drops me off, he pulls up in front of my building but makes no move to get out or even turn off his engine. This must be how butt-hurt guys drop off their dates at the end of the evening. Never mind the fact that we are in the heart of downtown, and there is a homeless person passed out on the ground not one block away from where Gavin’s car currently idles.
Cognizant of the fact that I deserve his scorn, I attempt to leave him with a better impression of me because it will surely be his last.
“I had a fun time with you tonight, so thank you for humoring me and taking me out on a date,” I say, and then realize that even though I was a complete bitch at first, I still have some self-respect to defend.
“Aaand for lowering your standards enough to take a redhead out on a pseudo-date.” There, I got in my reminder that he too took a swing when he told me I’m not his type. I feel a bit vindicated by reminding him that I’m not the only nasty person in this car.
“We both lowered our standards tonight, didn’t we? Have fun with the boring accountant your friends pick for you next. I’m sure vanilla sex and dinners at Applebee’s will be more to your liking.”
My mouth falls open, but true to form, I have no epic comeback. Not until I try to fall asleep later tonight anyway, then I will come up with dozens. Stunned by his audacity, I open the door in slow motion with my mind still reeling.
Before I shut the door behind me, and with my last grasp at retaining some dignity, I say, “Maybe your next portrait will be of a horse’s ass, that should come really easily for you,” then I shut the door before he can dismantle that comeback with a much better one of his own.
Truth be told, I like his fire. It makes me think he is not used to defending his worthiness. And while I’m being honest, the sexiest thing in the world to me is not a physical characteristic at all. It’s confidence. Of which Gavin has a stadium’s worth of.
The rickety old
elevator in my building hasn’t worked the entire two years I have lived here, so while I trudge up three flights of stairs, I weigh my options. Do I admit to my friends that I had a great time but that Gavin isn’t interested in seeing me anymore? Or do I regale them with disappointing stories about what a jerk he is and hope they don’t still deem him worthy of another date?
I don’t have to wait too long to decide because when I step into my loft, I see Ivy still on my couch. My face must be pretty unreadable because her first question is, “Why are you home already? It’s not even nine-thirty.”
“I don’t know, Ives. I had fun, but I’m getting the very distinct impression that he is just not into me.” Turns out, those words bother me more than I thought they would.
“Stop it. You are trying to sabotage this because he isn’t a corporate mucky-muck, and you can’t picture your wedding in the Hamptons with him.”
“One. I would never get married in the Hamptons. And two. I had a great time; he is the one who cut the date short and all but high-fived me before getting the fuck out of here… He hardly slowed the car down before pushing me out of it.”
“Alabama, that man is sexy as fuck. If you can’t see that, I seriously question your sanity. And not only that, his profile says he is looking for a serious relationship—Not a hook-up! Don’t you see how perfect he is?”
“Ivy! I told you, it’s him that’s not interested in me.”
“You are a liar, liar, pants-on-fire, lying liar. You are hung up on his tattoos and piercings, and you know it.”
“You know about his piercings?”
“I mean…yeah.” She suddenly looks shy, which gets me to wondering where his other one is.
“None of that even matters, Ivy. He is not going to contact me again.”
“Since you are being so resistant to reason, I am going to show you something,” she says as she flings the chenille throw off of her balled up legs and stands up. I decide not to argue any further because she isn’t listening anyway. She clearly thinks I’m pushing Gavin away instead of the other way around.
She pulls her laptop from her work bag and sits back down on the couch. While we are waiting for the screen to wake up, something occurs to me.
“Why are you still here, anyway? What if I would have brought him up for some rough and dirty sex? What then?” I ask pointedly.
“Alabama, you are forgetting something very important. I’ve communicated with him a couple weeks longer than you have, and in that time, I’ve gotten to know him pretty well. He would never have fucked you after just one date.” Her level of certainty about that is unsettling to me. In the weeks he was communicating with my friends, he was charming and open…and respectful. And perhaps more importantly, interested.
Ok, now I’m really starting to feel like I might have shit the bed. Maybe he is more my type than I thought. Well, that realization can do nothing for me now, so a fat lot of good it does.
“I’m going to break the rules because I really think you need to give this guy a chance, but if you tell Miles and Arden that I showed you his profile, you’re dead to me—got it?”
***
The feeling in my stomach is what a pound of Pop Rocks and a two-liter of Coke must feel like, hot and hateful. I’ve spent well over an hour sifting through Gavin’s dating profile and trying to convince Ivy that I didn’t push him away—well, not like she thinks anyway. Conclusion, he is witty, hilarious, thoughtful, and he cleans up really well.
There are a few pictures from his profile that sprinkle salt in the wounds leftover from me treating him like shit. They are, in no particular order, him drawing tattoos on the arm of a cancer patient at the Children’s Hospital. Him dressed all in pink at the Race for a Cure while kissing the cheek of his mother, presumably. A super-hot one of him going off a jump on a snowboard while grabbing the edge of it. There is also a picture of him in a suit with his hair combed back, and you can’t even see the tattoo on the side of his neck. And lastly, one of him holding a toddler with both of them laughing in each other’s face.
Apparently, the one with the kid had sparked the most online conversation between him and my friends because there is a lot of cute banter back and forth about his niece, and “me” being impressed he was holding her with such confidence instead of like she was a package about to detonate.
I still hate his tattoos. I do. I could never bring him home to meet my parents. I’m busy clawing my way up the corporate ladder while he is selflessly volunteering his time at the Children’s Hospital. There are a ton of reasons we don’t fit.
We could never work.
But damn him, he is kind of an awesome guy.
Chapter 7
It’s been radio silence from Gavin for a week and a half, no surprise there, but you know who has not maintained radio silence? Miles. I keep trying to circumvent his arctic stare and his probing interrogation, but I can’t avoid him forever. I’ve played the work is kicking my ass right now card on four different occasions, and now Miles is calling my bullshit.
Working in his favor is also the simple fact that he knows the deadline for my looming, Archimedes project was this morning. So, I’m currently having a hard time evading his latest text.
Miles: Happy Hour at Lumiere, or your place. You make the call.
Me: Arden hates Lumiere.
Miles: Arden and Brady are celebrating three years of romantic bliss tonight. So, they will probably politely debate where to go eat and then go home for a rousing game of Scrabble.
Me, still evading: I thought Ivy was going out with that guy, Christopher tonight?
Miles: You mean, Christian? The guy you helped pick out for her?
Me: Yes, him.
Miles: Are you done?
Me: Huh?
Miles: Are you done avoiding me with your ridiculously amateur stall tactics?
Me: Not really.
Miles: See you at Lumiere at six. You’re buying because this conversation took fifteen minutes that I’ll never get back.
***
Let me start by saying that Miles is my longest and most treasured friend. Let me also reiterate his freakish ability to strip a situation down to exactly what it is. In short, I love him—but I’m also kind of afraid of him right now.
My nervousness that he knows what I did is not at all irrational. It’s also not at all soothed by the reckless intake of blood orange vodka martinis, which sound more like an ominous foreshadowing than a signature drink. I’m on my second when he finally joins me at the bar.
When he hugs me, I see the softer side of him that perhaps really does miss seeing me. When he fixes his eyes on mine, I know I’ve terribly miscalculated.
“What are you drinking?” I ask, I already know what he is going to order, but I’m trying to steer the conversation away from his accusations. Miles never beats around the bush, if he has something to say, you better brace yourself for it.
“Cut the shit,” he snorts out a laugh because he knows, I know that he knows.
“Alright, but first tell me how you figured it out,” I say as I push the bar menu to the side and prepare to be amazed.
“Are you serious right now? I interacted with the guy on your behalf for weeks before you entered the picture like a box of lit firecrackers. His entire demeanor has changed.” The bartender puts a pint of beer in front of him that he didn’t even have to order, and then gives a somewhat stealthy wink. At this stage of the game, Miles almost expects this type of treatment, and not for the first time, I find myself wondering if his sense of entitlement has rubbed off on me a little bit.
“Your turn,” he says, “Tell me why you told him. And then tell me how you still managed to pull off a date with him, because this sounds like a story I need to hear to believe.”
“As to why, there are a bunch of reasons. You know my family. Coming from a political family, there are certain expectations of me, and you know as well as anyone how much of a microscope I’m under.”
“I’m sti
ll not convinced.”
“Ok then, how about my career? I negotiate the exclusivity contracts now; I’m expected to wine and dine the big-wigs of these massive accounts—which sometimes includes dinners with my significant other. Can you imagine how much my credibility would be questioned if sitting right across from them is my boyfriend with a tattoo up his neck and his tongue pierced?”
“That’s not all he has pierced,” Miles says smugly before he re-directs the conversation back to my shortcomings. “So, let me get this straight, you are saying you’d rather date someone with a Country Club membership, and his fucking collar popped because he would represent you better to your family and your corporate accounts?”
“Uhhh, well, it sounds really shitty when you put it like that.”
“It is shitty. Ask yourself this. Where would I be today if I let society define me instead of being self-actualized enough to not give a shit how other people see me.”
“I don—”
“Tell me!” he demands. I’d say he’s angry, but I know him better than that, he is hurt.
“Number one, you’d date women,” I try for humor but it slides right off him because he thinks I’ve missed the point.
“You know what my mom told me a long time ago? It was the most profound thing to come out of her mouth since she told me not to swallow that Band-aid when I was two. She, as you know, knew I was gay before I truly understood it myself, and she wanted to instill something in me for when I did start to question my sexuality.” I smile wistfully because Miles hit the jackpot when it comes to moms.
“She said, lions don’t concern themselves with the opinions of sheep,” he pauses to let that sink in, then he goes in for the kill. “If you make your life choices based on what you think is expected of you, then you deserve the life you end up with, Alabama. No one else is living your life for you, why in the hell would you factor them into your decisions?”