“You’ve never needed to pick up extra shifts like this before.” They’d lived together for going on three years now. Ronnie had been very careful with money during that time and even chided Marci on occasion for wasting it. It seemed strange that Ronnie would be scrambling financially all of a sudden.
“What, you watching my every move now? Taking notes on my life? Am I the star of some documentary I’m not aware of?” Ronnie’s defensive tone made Marci all the more sure that she was right about Ronnie hiding something.
“Are you hooking up with Jeremy or something?”
“What?” Ronnie stretched the word out to three times its normal length and put all of her Jersey on it.
“You don’t want us to know that you two are?...”
Ronnie narrowed her brown eyes at Marci before doubling over with laughter. She almost spilled her wine, rescued it at the last second, and took a sip. Then she burst out laughing again. “No way. Jeremy is a sweet kid, but that would never happen between me and him. Him and me. The two. Of us. He’s just not my type.” She looked into her wine glass for a moment and then with a slight quirk of her ruby red lips, she looked up at Marci. “And I’m probably not his.”
“I still don’t think it’s as simple as extra shifts at work. What’s got you so stressed out all the time?” Marci asked. “If you tell me, maybe I can help.”
Ronnie sniffed the air. “You smell that?”
“You’re not changing the subject—” Marci started, but then the acrid smell hit her nose, too. And she heard Tyler and Sadie screaming. Marci ran into the kitchen trailed by Ronnie. Tyler was filling up a pitcher with water while Sadie stood hesitantly near the stove with a towel raised. “Tyler, don’t do—” Marci started, but it was too late.
Tyler splashed the water onto the flames, and they leaped up. He screamed, dropped the pitcher, and ran across the room.
Marci went into the kitchen despite her friends’ protests that it wasn’t safe. She rifled through Sadie’s cabinets until she found what she was looking for in the one beneath the sink: a fire extinguisher. She knew the apartment had to have one. Hollering for Sadie to get back—Tyler was already gone—Marci pulled the stopper out of the fire extinguisher, aimed the hose at the stove, and squeezed the trigger. She sprayed the white foam all over the offending stove eye until nothing was left but smoke, black smudges on the surface of the white stove, and ashes.
“What happened?” Marci looked across the kitchen at Sadie and Tyler.
“I think, what had happened was…” Sadie scratched her chin. “Something got down in the eye.”
Marci laughed. “How do these things always happen to you?” This wasn’t the first time Sadie had nearly caught her kitchen on fire while trying to cook. At least this time, they hadn’t had to call the fire department.
Sadie grinned. “It takes a special person.” She grabbed her half-finished glass of wine from the table.
“Doesn’t that have soot in it or something?” Marci asked.
Sadie peered into the glass and shrugged. “Probably not. It was way over here, across the room from the stove.”
Marci laughed. “If you say so.”
“Who’s ready for wine and tapas?” Sadie asked.
“I say we try Schaffer’s,” Ronnie said. “Jessee has the night off, so there’s no danger.” Jessee was the manager Ronnie didn’t like. And the one who complained that Ronnie’s friends were always “loafing around” the restaurant.
“No.” Sadie wrinkled her nose. “There’s nothing there that’s not deep-fried besides wilted iceberg lettuce. Tapas, people.”
“After what just happened, I’m gonna need another glass of wine before we go anywhere.” Tyler put his hand across his forehead and struck a pose of exaggerated relief.
They laughed and headed to the living room where Sadie informed them the “unscathed” bottle of wine was for those of her friends who weren’t as adventurous as her. While Ronnie and Tyler helped themselves to fresh glasses of wine, Marci helped Sadie open windows and turn on fans all around the living room, dining room, and kitchen areas.
Later, as they were leaving the condo for a tapas place on the West End of Richmond, Tyler grabbed Marci’s hand and held her behind the rest of the group.
“Thanks for dragging me out tonight.” He smiled. “I needed this.”
“Happy to.” Marci gave his hand a squeeze.
Chapter Twelve
Friday afternoon, Owen was sitting on the couch with his laptop and half watching some reality show on television when Dante walked in wearing a black suit.
Owen looked up at him. “There’s some weird sex stuff on Craigslist, man. Have you ever checked it out?”
Dante laughed. “Don’t tell me you’re looking for a date on Craigslist. Don’t have the police up in here, asking me when the last time I saw you was. And you know a brother gonna be the prime suspect.”
“Nah.” And he hadn’t been. Not really. “What are you all dressed up for?”
Dante propped his black-framed glasses on top of his head. “Business meeting.”
“That’s all? You’re not going to share your latest scheme?”
“Nothing really to share yet.” Dante tossed his briefcase in the direction of the dining room and parked himself on The Throne, which was his finest E-Bay purchase to-date—in Dante’s opinion. It was also his lucky chair and so the only chair from which he’d play video games. “What about what you’re up to? I still don’t know why you’re looking up Craigslist sex stuff.”
“I’m not. I was taking a break from checking out the dating site.”
Dante rolled his eyes. “I still don’t know why you’re doing that. First of all, I don’t know what’s wrong with Camille. Second, you could walk out here any second and get any girl to drop her panties by smiling at her. Why you wasting your time on that site? Those things are for ugly people.”
“No, they’re not for ugly people. And even if the panty dropping thing were true—”
“You know it is.”
“Let me finish. Regardless, I want more than panty dropping.”
Dante shook his head. “Here we go again.”
“I want a real relationship. A connection. And it’s easier to find it on here than out there. For one thing, I know these girls are single and looking.”
“That’s what they tell you anyway.”
“Yeah, well, I’ll take my chances.”
“You do that. And one day, you’re gonna meet some bored married woman who put up a profile. You’ll take her out to dinner and you’ll think you found your ‘connection’ or whatever crazy mess you’re looking for. Then one day, you’ll be getting it on at her house, and her big-ass, crazy ass husband will bust in and take your head off with a sawed-off shotgun.”
“So all these dating scenarios you’re coming up with end with me being dead.”
“All the online ones do.” Dante loosened his tie and threw his jacket over the back of The Throne. The old Lay-Z-Boy recliner looked as if it had literally had the stuffing beat out of it. The fraying, furry fabric was some weird orange-green color, and both Owen’s and Dante’s moms hated it. “Can’t trust that stuff.”
“Okay.” Owen moved his laptop to the spot next to him on the couch and stretched his legs out in front of him.
“Got Halloween plans yet?”
“Nope not yet.”
“My friend is having this party, and you might meet a nice, normal girl in real life there.”
“Okay. I’ll go.” He might as well. He didn’t hold out high hopes, though, as far as the meeting a girl part went. Dante kept talking, but Owen got distracted by an alert that popped up on the dating website telling him he had a new message. The redhead with a profile pic featuring a sports bra and rock solid abs had emailed him back.
#
Owen considered himself to be in pretty good shape, but he was no match for Ruby, his third date. Ruby was militantly vegan, rabidly libertarian, and acerbically
pro-gun. The vegan thing definitely was not a pro-animal rights thing as she enjoyed hunting for sport. Her veganism was more about health. And heaven help anyone who disagreed with any of her views.
Ruby was also a yogilates instructor who loved to rock climb and who’d rowed crew on her high school and college teams. She looked good on paper but in person—well. Instead of a fun afternoon of rock climbing, he felt like he was scaling this rock face behind a very judgmental drill sergeant. Oh yeah. She also taught one of those boot camp classes at the gym where she worked.
“You’re not getting tired, are you?” She called down to him from several feet above. The way she asked it implied he’d better not be.
“Maybe we could just take a short break or something.” They’d been at this for two hours. If Owen didn’t get off this rock soon, he was going to start hallucinating food and water. Ice cold water. Not like the tepid half full bottle of it in the crunched up water bottle he had with him. In an effort not to let her show him up, he gritted his teeth and found new holes for his hands. When he finally pulled himself parallel with her, she smirked. “What?” he asked.
“Maybe it’s all that meat, weighing you down. It’s bad for your system, you know,” she said. “Guys.” She shook her head. Apparently, she was a bisexual but had never slept with a woman or so much as dated one. She’d told him this while they were suiting up to climb.
“Okay,” Owen grunted. “Here we go.” He propelled himself forward. When he reached her, she smirked at him.
“Don’t tell me that’s all you got.”
“Not even close.”
“Let’s race.” She checked the carabiners clipped into her harness and nodded to herself.
“Let’s go.” Owen was all grim concentration, hand over fist.
“You’re not doing so badly for a weak city boy.”
He’d grown up with the outdoors, but he didn’t waste energy telling her that. Instead, he stayed focused on the climbing. It was turning out to be the least worthless part of the date.
“C’mon! Get up!” She let out a whoop. Continuing to deride his efforts even as he pushed past the progress she’d made, she laughed and kept plugging away. Ruby was big on trash talk.
He lost track of their spotters. He lost track of everything. He just knew he had to beat her. And everything was going okay—better than before she’d egged him on into getting his second wind—for a while.
Then he slipped.
Chapter Thirteen
The doctor gave him a pat on his good shoulder. “You’re lucky you’re so young and fit, Owen. You should be good to go in a few weeks.” Dr. Fletcher-Smith had a heavy Southern accent. He was pretty young for a doctor—he was probably around Owen’s age, which would put him in his mid-to-late twenties. Dr. Fletcher-Smith was a surgical resident at MCV Hospital where Owen had been taken after his little slide down the mountain that morning. The doctor had just gone over Owen’s x-rays with him, assuring him nothing was broken.
Owen had fallen down the rock quite a ways before his ropes and anchor point had stopped him, and he’d banged into it a few good times as well. As a result of his scrambling around, he’d earned himself a sprained wrist and a twisted ankle. He’d banged up his knee pretty good as well, and he had scratches everywhere. It could have been worse, both Dr. Fletcher-Smith and the ever helpful Ruby had informed him.
“Thanks,” Owen said. He stretched out the sore muscles in his arms and shoulders gingerly by rounding his back and cautiously moving his arms out in front of him.
“We can discharge you in a little bit,” Dr. Fletcher-Smith said. “Do you have someone to take you home?”
Owen nodded. Ruby had offered to stick around, but Owen had told her it was probably best if she left. She’d been busy critiquing his rock climbing technique while he suffered through pain of bumping and jostling all the way down the mountain and had kept it up on the way to the hospital. He’d called Dante to come get him.
“Good. The nurse will be in to see you in a few,” Dr. Fletcher-Smith said.
Owen nodded, lay back on his bed in the E.R., and closed his eyes as he waited for the nurse. Dating was turning out to be hazardous to his health. He hadn’t ever really dated around—he’d been in one monogamous relationship right after the other since freshman year in high school. He didn’t like this. There were definite advantages to being a serial monogamist, and he wanted back in that club.
A materialistic snob, a cat lady, and a vegan who was obsessed with guns. The last had been the most interesting of the three by far. The most dangerous of the three as well. Owen continued to puzzle over Ruby and his strange morning while handling the last of his discharge paperwork.
The first thing Dante did when he showed up to the E.R. was laugh and shake his head.
“You’re going to have fun with this one, aren’t you?” Owen asked wearily, adjusting the ace bandage around his wrist where he had a less serious sprain. His ankle—and the corresponding pain—was much worse. “I’m glad my dating life is so entertaining for you.”
“Me, too.”
They exited the E.R., and Dante led the way to his Mazda, which he’d pulled up close to the E.R. entrance so Owen wouldn’t have to hobble far to get to it.
“I told you online dating was going to be the death of you,” Dante said as he unlocked the car doors with the click of a button.
“This doesn’t count. It’s not like she was a psycho or something.”
“You sure about that?”
Owen considered this for a moment. Then he said, “Look. At least I’m trying. Weren’t you complaining not too long ago that I was moping?”
“Just please tell me you’re still coming out for Halloween. Tell me there’s still hope.”
“Yeah. I might even be done with the crutch by then.” Dr. Fletcher-Smith had given him just the one crutch and told him to try to keep weight off the bad ankle as much as possible. Owen tossed the crutch into the back and then maneuvered himself into the passenger seat.
Dante snorted. “I doubt it.”
“Hey. What is that supposed to mean?” Somehow, Owen didn’t think Dante was talking about the piece of metal he’d thrown into the backseat of Dante’s car.
“Nothing, man. Nothing.”
“What are you trying to say?” Owen turned in the bucket seat, careful of all the painful spots in his banged up body, and stared Dante’s profile down.
“It’s cool, man. We all have our addictions. You’re addicted to relationships. There are worse weaknesses to have.” Dante, who’d never been with the same girl for longer than a few weeks at a time, shrugged. “I guess there are anyway.”
Owen laughed. “You’re the worst, man. I hope you know that.”
“Hey, watch it. Unless you have someone else to rescue you from your idiotic date choices.”
He had a point there.
#
Marci was trying to get into a book for her final project for Professor Ming’s class, but she couldn’t manage it. Every time she started in on the paragraph she was supposed to be reading about economics in nineteenth century American South, her mind drifted. This was a topic she was normally very interested in—that was why she’d picked it for her final project—but tonight it held no interest at all for her. And she didn’t want to admit to herself that she had a very good idea of why that was so.
When Ronnie walked by the open door to her room and poked her head in and said hello, Marci was grateful for the distraction. Ronnie was still sporting a black polo shirt with the white Schaffer’s logo emblazoned where a left breast pocket might have otherwise been. She wore dark pants with it, and she brought the smell of fried food grease mixed with perfume into the room with her.
“What are you up to in here?” Ronnie leaned against Marci’s desk. “You spend all day at the library just to come home and crack open another book?”
Marci closed her book and scooted her chair back from her desk a few feet. Crossing her legs and arms, she lo
oked up at Ronnie. “Got a lot of work to do.”
Ronnie nodded knowingly. “Mm hm.”
“And just what is that mm hm about?” Marci asked.
“You haven’t been your normal self for the past few weeks. In fact, every since that night at The Hops. When you went home with that guy. The one who knocked you over with his bike.”
“What? That doesn’t make any sense. His name is Owen, by the way.”
Ronnie gave another infuriating, knowing nod. “When we go out, you barely even flirt anymore. Not like you. And you haven’t gone home with anybody in weeks.” Ronnie stood there, leaning her head to the side, and Marci knew she was putting two and two together, so Marci took the time to build up her defense. “You haven’t had sex since that night you went home with Owen, have you?” Ronnie smiled slyly. “Well, technically, since before that. Have you?”
Marci busied herself with needlessly rearranging the already neat stack of books on the corner of her desk opposite the side where Ronnie stood. “I’ve been busy. Midterms were right after fall break, and I’ve had to help Professor Ming grade the tests for her undergrad philosophy class. I have my own papers to write, and I have to work on this huge final project for Ming as well. It has to be perfect. And of course, I…have the writing center.” Thinking of the writing center reminded her that Owen hadn’t been in for a couple weeks. He’d called and told one of the other volunteers that he wouldn’t be in for a while due to an injury. An injury. Yeah okay. Was he in traction or something? Could he not get around even if he had to use crutches? Not that she cared.
“What’s that look on your face?” Ronnie narrowed her brown eyes in a look that contained more scrutiny than Marci would have liked.
Marci made a concerted effort to relax her facial muscles into a neutral expression. “What look?”
“That same sour look you’ve been wearing more often than not when you think no one’s looking these days. The one Tyler calls the Steer Clear Look.”
“Nothing. I was just thinking about Mom. How she wants me to come home for Thanksgiving and watch her and the new husband be sickening together.” Glenda King didn’t mean to be oblivious and neglectful. In fact, she prided herself on being a nurturer. She was oblivious to the fact that she only made an effort to reach out to her daughter when she wanted to show off or when she was in a particularly good mood or when she wanted to yell at her daughter for screwing up. That didn’t make Marci any happier to spend time at home.
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