The Kiss Test

by Shannon McKelden

  ***

  I’m not sure if I passed. I was only forced to hold the squirming rug rat through dinner, when he (she?) slept peacefully, while I balanced her (him?) on my legs with one arm and attempted to eat with the other.

  Eating with these people was like dining in a restaurant. A really noisy restaurant. My mother played the consummate Southern hostess and Quinn the gracious host. I watched them with much suspicion, expecting to detect a chink in their blissfully shiny armor.

  I never found it.

  Quinn was attentive to my mother, laughing at her jokes, his eyes constantly twinkling at her as they shared private looks meant only for each other. He fed her chunks of pineapple with his fingers, allowing her to suck the juice from them…which really grossed me out. During dessert, which could have been good if everyone hadn’t ganged up on me wanting to hear all about my secretly nonexistent job, Denise finally took back her baby, thereby ending my initiation. Thank God I was physically unable to perform the feeding rites. When Denise came back to the room fifteen minutes later, she held the sleeping baby and two bottles of what looked like gray milk. I scooted my chair as close to the table as I could and put both elbows on the table, trying to appear like I was really concentrating on my chocolate mousse.

  Beside me, Chris snorted.

  “What?” I whispered.

  “Try not to look so obviously appalled.”

  “Wouldn’t you be, if you’d had to hold him? Her? It?” God, what was the kid?

  Chris leaned in really close, and his aftershave gave me flashbacks. Good flashbacks. To a dark and stormy night. And a blissful morning.

  “Actually, you looked kind of cute holding a baby.”

  I forgot about steamy sex and flashed him a surprised look. “I did?”

  He nodded and treated me to his thousand-watt smile.

  Something in my chest region constricted and I quickly turned away. Think about something else. Think about anything but hot steamy sex with your best friend. Underline friend. I had to pretend it never happened, and the only way to do that was to stop thinking about it.

  Luckily, my mother provided distraction. “So, it’s almost time for shopping,” my mother announced, again clapping her hands together. And this time she added a waggle of the eyebrows, which was really, really scary.

  “Shopping?” I glanced warily around the table. I hate shopping.

  “Yes. Girl shopping, that is.” She hopped up from the table.

  I really hate girl shopping. I opened my mouth to say I didn’t feel like shopping, that I was tired and they could feel free to go on without me—

  Mom didn’t seem to care. “Christopher, may we steal Margo from you?”

  “Gee, Mom.” I stood before Chris could egg on my mother’s archaic notions of ownership by answering in the affirmative. “Last time I checked, I still owned myself, so Chris doesn’t really need to give his permission for me to go anywhere.”

  Mom waved her hand dismissively. “Of course not, dear. I was just being polite. So, let’s shop!”

  As she turned to leave the room, closely followed by Sam and Denise, I stood there with my mouth open. How had I gotten sucked into that? Feeling Chris shaking next to me, I looked down to find him trying to cover his obvious enjoyment of our little exchange with his napkin.

  “This is not funny,” I hissed. I straightened and pasted on a broad, plastic smile for the benefit of everyone left at the table. “May I see you alone for a moment, Christopher? In the other room?”

  Quinn and his sons encouraged Chris to come back to the table as soon as we finished, plying him with promises of beer and ESPN. Grabbing his hand, I nearly dragged him into the adjacent den, where I firmly closed the door behind us. The instant it closed, I wasn’t mad anymore. I was begging.

  “Please, please, don’t make me go with them!” I gripped his forearm like a lifeline. “I hate shopping. I can barely tolerate my mother. And if Denise shoves that baby in my arms one more time—”

  “You’ll what?” Chris wasn’t taking me seriously at all.

  “Please? Do something. I’m here, I’m going to the wedding like you asked, but please, please don’t make me do anything else with them.”

  Chris crossed his arms in front of his chest. “Uh, uh. Last I heard, you still owned yourself, so I can’t really make you do anything, now can I?” With an unmistakable twinkle in his eyes, Chris waltzed out of the den and left me standing there, my mouth hanging open for the second time today. In case I might want to eat my own words.

  ***

  “So, what exactly is girl shopping?” I asked Sam quietly, as we sat in the back seat of Denise’s minivan, with Jamie the genderless child, dressed in equally genderless yellow, between us in a car seat. My mother was in the front seat, directing Denise where to go, since she and her husband lived somewhere farther north and she wasn’t familiar with the area’s intricate network of highways and byways.

  Sam seemed to be the most level-headed of the bunch. She was small and compact, built a lot like me. Maybe she was a runner, too. Had I cared to get close to any of these people, I might have made the effort to ask.

  “You know, lingerie shopping. Victoria’s Secret.”

  I gaped. A few more days with this family and my jaw was going to lock in the open position. “Lingerie for who?”

  “That’s whom, dear,” my mother piped up from the front seat, turning around, probably at the shrill tone of my voice. “And, lingerie for me.” She patted her chest proudly. “For my honeymoon.”

  Oh. My. God.

  Was this a West Coast thing? Was this a Scottish thing? Was this a my-mother-has-completely-gone-off-the-deep-end thing? I couldn’t speak, I was so stunned. A moment later we pulled into the mall parking lot and as we all piled out, I excused myself, dodged behind the van and punched in Chris’s number on my cell phone.

  “Women do not go lingerie shopping together,” I told him the minute he answered.

  “They do in men’s fantasies.”

  “Please don’t be such a man. I think I have appendicitis. I need a ride to the hospital. Please come get me.”

  “Sorry, Mar. You and your mom need to bond. And what better way to bond than over push-up bras and panties.”

  “Chris! That’s my mother you’re talking about.”

  “Hey, your mom is pretty hot.”

  “Ugh!” I hung up the phone just as Denise came around the back of the van to get me.

  “There you are. Here, you push Jamie’s cart. You know, new auntie-to-be and all.”

  No, I did not know, but I took the stroller anyway. If my hands were occupied, I wouldn’t be forced to touch anything in Victoria’s Secret. It worked. For a while anyway.

  “What about this one, June?” Denise held up a skimpy blue bra with barely any fabric holding the straps together. It hooked in the front, which reminded me of my zipper-front sports bra. Which reminded me how swiftly Chris removed it last night. I nearly groaned.

  “Ooh, that’s good,” my mom replied, nodding vigorously and heading in Denise’s direction. I jerked the stroller back and forth and tried not to make eye contact with anyone who might ask me if I needed anything. I was afraid I would blurt out that I needed a ride home. Preferably all the way to New York.

  “That’s good,” Mom repeated, “for Margo.”

  “Margo?” My head snapped to attention. “I have my quota of bras, thanks very much.” Sports bras, too, none of those flimsy things that barely cover anything. What was the point? That thing looked even easier to get out of than the one I’d been wearing last night. Which was the last thing I needed.

  “Sure you do, dear.” My mother headed in my direction, holding the bra in front of her like a battering ram.

  Screw holding on to the stroller. I dropped it like a hot brick and backed up several feet. “No bras. This is your trip, Mom, not mine.”

  “But, you need underwear to match your bridesmaid dress. We settled on navy, by the way, although Sam
and I really liked the pink.”

  Sam nodded in agreement, looking vaguely disappointed in the change from pink to navy.

  My focus was brought back to the problem at hand, as my mother held the bra up against my chest, which was completely hidden beneath my crossed arms.

  “Too bad you’re not a bit bustier, dear. We’ll probably have to have your dress taken in.”

  Humiliation was my middle name.

  “Miss!” My mother raised a hand and gestured to a hovering clerk. “My daughter would like to be fitted with this brassiere.”

  “Actually, I’d rather have a root canal,” I dead-panned.

  “Nonsense, Margo. A good bra fitting is a milestone in every young woman’s life.”

  My milestone took place in the dressing room at Victoria’s Secret with a total stranger ogling my apparently underdeveloped chest and having to return to the store three times to get smaller cup sizes. A half hour later, properly fitted bra in hand and a scowl on my face—that I fully intended to unleash on Chris the minute I got back to Quinn’s house—we went back to shopping for my mother.

  “What about this?” The glow on my mother’s face, as she held up a black silk one-piece thingy, made me nauseous.

  “Perfect, June!” Denise nodded eagerly, fingering the slippery fabric. “Mmm, so silky. My dad’ll love it.”

  Did no one else think this was totally weird? How many daughters picked out underwear for their father’s lovers? There had to be something sickeningly wrong with this scenario.

  “I think so, too.” Mom tucked the teddy under her arm and moved in my direction to look at more unnecessary undergarments. What happened to plain old cotton? It had gotten me through nearly thirty years of life.

  It had gotten me through the most awesome sex of my life—without even being removed.

  Oh, God.

  Unable to stand still any more, I bolted. “I’m going to take little Jamie out for some air.”

  In the mall, I paced back and forth in front of Victoria’s Secret, wearing a hole in the tile flooring until the other three finally came out, purchases in hand, grinning like idiots.

  “Next stop, the bridal shop,” my mother announced. “Your dress fitting is tonight, Margo.”

  “Gee, thanks,” I said, trying to catch up with them. They seemed to be in an all-fired big hurry to get to bridal hell. “You could have warned me. I’d have worn clean underwear.”

  Mom waved a dismissive hand over her shoulder. “That’s why we bought you new.”

  All too soon, I was sheathed in a navy dress, uh, sheath, I was told it was called. Fitting name. As pointed out by my ever-so-supportive mother, it did need to be taken in to fit my flat chest. The tsking from the fitter made me want to square my shoulders and point out Chris hadn’t complained about the size of my breasts last night. And had, in fact, come back for seconds this morning—however unconscious and dream-inspired that second helping had been. But, I decided drawing attention to my sexual misconduct with my best friend wasn’t wise.

  So, I just listened to Denise and Sam and my mom prattle on. I don’t think they ever stopped talking—about the wedding, the honeymoon, men in general. My mother really did light up when she talked about Quinn. I kept expecting to notice artificiality in her feelings for Quinn. He wasn’t her first choice or anything. He was just another man in a long string of men. She must be a really good actress, though, because I never spotted what I was looking for.

  Then there was hormonal Denise, whose husband took the blame for her over-emotional state. She, too, glowed when she talked about Adam. It was weird. Even when I was in a relationship, I didn’t talk like that about my partner. Truthfully, having Kevin break up with me was, well, a non-event. Maybe I’d known all along we wouldn’t go any further in our relationship. Being alone for a while would be a nice break.

  But, after last night with Chris—or even more so after the realization Chris was looking for Mrs. Right—being single didn’t hold the same appeal. Maybe Adair and Oprah had it right. Being alone, rocking on your fire escape, wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.

  “Don’t you think so, Margo?”

  I glanced back at the group, sitting around on the couches, watching the dress fitter tuck and pin about a half a yard of material to be cut off my dress bodice. “Don’t I think what?”

  “That there’s more to men than just sex?” The question came from Denise.

  “I disagree,” Sam argued. “Great sex can hold together a relationship, can’t it? I bet Margo is much more savvy about this stuff than you, Denise. She’s from New York after all. She’s probably had lots of sexual relationships. Right, Margo?”

  “Well, actually—” The fitter stared at my lack of cleavage with a rather incredulous look on her face. Probably didn’t think I could get any man with that chest. I rolled my eyes and ignored her.

  “There’s more to a good relationship than sex, Sam,” Denise said. “Adam’s my best friend. And Dad says June is his best friend, too.”

  My mom actually flushed and ducked her head demurely. I wanted to vomit.

  “Right, Margo? Don’t you think you should be best friends with your lover?”

  “What?” I gasped, my face growing hot. “I didn’t…I mean, we aren’t—”

  “When your best friend is your lover, you not only get great sex, you get a shoulder to cry on.” Mom appeared not to notice my discomfort. “A last-minute movie date. Someone to take care of you when you’re sick or to share take-out with on a stormy night.”

  I choked.

  “Multiple orgasms,” Sam added.

  Mom laughed and Denise gasped. The fitter jumped and stuck me with a pin.

  “Ow!” All eyes turned to me. “A pin,” I whimpered with a glare at the fitter. “It wasn’t that funny.”

  “See.” Sam pointed at me. “Margo agrees with me. Don’t you? Multiple orgasms can cover a multitude of sins.”

  “Um—” I opened my mouth to speak, just as my cell phone rang. “Gotta get that!” I leapt off the little platform and pushed past the fitter. “Hello?” I ditched the psycho ladies.

  “Are you alive?”

  “You have no idea how much torture this is, Chris.” I closed my eyes and leaned against the partition dividing the fitting rooms from the rest of the store. “Are you sure you won’t play along with the appendicitis story? I’ll pay you back in sexual favors.”

  “What?”

  Shit. “Kidding.” I groaned. “Sorry. Really.”

  “Oh.”

  Did he sound a little bit disappointed? No, we’d agreed it would be best to put it behind us. No awkwardness. Strictly friendship.

  So why was it that I really wouldn’t have minded passing out some sexual favors? Even if it wasn’t in payment for getting me out of girl shopping with my mom and the wacky stepsisters.

  ***

  A week with the McFarland family was very disconcerting. It was hard not to like them…in a completely impersonal, I-like-the-family-on-that-TV-sitcom kind of way. They were all very close, no matter how much they teased and tormented each other, but I was this way with my friends, not my family.

  Mom did her best to draw me into the fold. Rob, the hermit, jumped in with both feet, surprising me with his animation and practically split personality. He dressed more carefully than normal (of course, mice and roaches don’t generally care what you wear around the house), combed his hair, even flirted with the girls and eagerly joined family game night. I joined in too, reluctantly.

  I felt like a fraud. Denise and Sam constantly pointed out how happy our parents were together, until I wanted to scream. Paul and Red doted on my mother like she belonged to them, like she was already their stepmother. Was I the only one seeing through this charade? Quinn had been married exactly once before. My mother had a rap sheet of failed marriages a mile long. Could no one else see she was bound to ruin his life, as well as the lives of a family I had to admit would be a pretty nice family to belong to, had I wanted
to make an effort to belong?

  Everyone else was oblivious. As the week went on, they tried to get to know me, and I tried to keep them at a distance. What was the point? In a few short days, Rob, Chris and I would head back to New York, and they’d keep up their little family illusion without us.

  The closer it got to the wedding day, the busier Mom got. Denise and Sam already had their set roles as her helpers, and I tagged along when forced to, feeling a little lost. Chris had business meetings most of the week, stopping by the house just a few evenings, eating dinner with the family, fitting in like he belonged there, and I felt exceedingly out of touch with him. Maybe because we’d spent so much time together over the past few weeks, which came to a pretty abrupt stop when we reached California. Maybe it was because I had these feelings for him I didn’t know what to do with, and, as long as he was with me, his attitude helped me remember we were just best friends. As soon as he wasn’t with me, all I could think of was his arms around me and his lips on mine…and how much I’d give to relive that night just once more. In case I never experienced all those feelings again. With anyone.

  Chris—probably sensing my increasing restlessness—finally promised me a day of sightseeing. Just us. I hated to admit, even to myself, how eager I was to get out of the house and away from the scary family.

  “Going somewhere fun?” Mom stuck her head in the guest room, as I pulled on my shoes and tied them.

  “Just sightseeing.”

  “Christopher seems happy these days.”

  I shrugged, not really wanting to be drawn into a conversation with her about Chris. Unfortunately, what I wanted usually didn’t matter to my mother.

  “How are things going with you two?” Mom reached out and tucked a stray hair behind my ear. I moved my head away.

  “Me and Chris?” I absently rubbed at the tattoo on my left hip, a constant reminder of two very different nights—one of drunken fun that landed me with my best friend’s brand on my hip for life, the other of a quite sane, but completely insane night spent in that best friend’s arms.