“Chris, huh?” Rob handed a mug of Ben & Jerry’s to Sam. “You guys ever going to have sex and get it over with?”
I sprayed water all over the kitchen floor. “What?” I choked out, as Sam dived for a dish cloth.
“God, I may be far-sighted, but I’m not blind.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I accepted the dish towel from Sam and dabbed at the water spots on my dress, praying they’d dry in the next fifteen minutes, because I didn’t have anything else to wear.
“I’m talking about you and Chris. The sexual tension rolls off you two in waves.”
I froze, stunned. “You know, sexual tension isn’t like the radiation coming from your computer screen, so I’m not sure you’d recognize it if it bit you in the ass.”
Rob shook his head at Sam. “Dressed up so pretty and ruining it with foul language.”
Sam giggled and I stared at the two of them. “There isn’t anything between Chris and me. We’re just friends.”
Rob ignored me and addressed Sam instead. “You know, Margo stole my best friend from me when I was eleven.”
“I did not!” I shot back, ready to defend my actions, until I noticed the twinkle in his eye. He stared at Sam like she was the best thing he’d seen since Linux.
“Yes, she did. I tried to seduce him away from her with video games, but, nope, he only had eyes for her, even before she developed a figure.” My brother turned to eye me from head to toe.
“Knock it off,” I snapped. “Don’t listen to him, Sam. He’s obviously delusional.”
“By the time she had boobs, Chris would barely speak to me.” He shrugged his shoulders and sighed with mock sadness. “Go figure.”
“Geez.” I rolled my eyes and turned to leave the room, as it was nearing eight o’clock.
“You are so psychotic, Rob.”
At that moment the doorbell rang, and my stomach jumped despite the fact it was only Chris.
As I reached for the doorknob, Rob finished his speech. “If they’d just sleep together, they’d either get it out of their systems or see that they belong together.”
Shit. We’d already slept together. And I, personally, was no closer to the answer to either of those questions than I had been before.
***
The lighting was soft in the restaurant, Chez-something or other. I was too nervous to pay attention. Candles flickered at every table. Masses of peach rosebuds swelled from tiny potbellied vases. Potted trees isolated every table into their own private island, where waiters hovered close by, but at enough distance to be discreet.
“Everything okay with you and your mom?” Chris finally asked, before bringing his wine glass to his lips.
“Yeah.” I nodded. “I think so. You were right about being honest with her. We ironed out a lot of things.”
“What changed?”
I shrugged. “I probably won’t hang up the phone on her any more. And I most likely won’t give her a bad time about being married so many times. Quinn’s a good guy. Maybe she did it right this time. But living cross country, I won’t have much chance to develop a relationship with her.” I pushed my chicken around on my plate and thought about leaving tomorrow.
“Do you regret going home?”
I glanced sharply at Chris, feeling like he was reading my mind. “I don’t know. It’s nice here. I’d have liked to try surfing. Maybe do some running on Manhattan Beach.” I shrugged.
“But the city is home. My friends are all there. I’ll just come back and visit.”
“You could do that.” Chris seemed distracted. He, too, pushed his food around his plate, not really eating much.
“Oh! Hey!” I grabbed one of Chris’s hands in my excitement. “I forgot to tell you, we’ve been so busy the last two days. Your ‘honesty is the best policy’ thing really worked. I’ve got an interview!”
“Really?”
I nodded excitedly. “Yeah. With an oldies station. Nancy Noble was okay with my unemployment and called WOLD in Manhattan, and the GM there called and asked me to come talk to him as soon as we get back.”
“Wow. That’s…great. Congratulations.” Chris’s lack of enthusiasm made me pause.
“You okay?”
“Yeah.” He reached for his glass again, found it empty and gestured to the waiter to bring him another. If I hadn’t known better, I’d have believed the unflappable Christopher Treem was…well, flapped.
“Oh, and also, the Ballards had their baby,” I continued, deciding Chris must be tired from all the wedding and business activities of the past week. “They moved out of my apartment.” I explained about them moving in with Mary’s parents, leaving my apartment free again. “I’ll be out of your hair.” I gave a little sigh of relief. “God. I finally feel like my life is getting back on track. Everything’s coming together. A new job, my apartment back.”
“Sure,” Chris snapped, his jaw clenched so tightly it was obvious, even to me on the other side of the table. “Now all you need is a new boyfriend.”
I raised my eyebrows at him. “A new…boyfriend?”
“Sure,” he repeated. “Isn’t that the only thing missing from your formerly perfect life?”
“Maybe. But maybe that part wasn’t so important after all.” Squirming under Chris’s sudden intense scrutiny, I gestured at his plate. “Is the chicken good?”
Snapping out of his funk, Chris nodded, reaching for a bite and offering it to me on his fork. I tentatively reached out and took the chicken in my mouth, catching my breath. Not at the taste of the food—which could have been cardboard for all I noticed—but because of how intimate the gesture felt. Intimate like the way Rob had eaten ice cream from Sam’s spoon back at the house.
I realized in a flash, I wanted it to happen again. I wanted to stand at Chris’s stove and taste spaghetti sauce from the same spoon. I wanted to sip wine from the same glass. I wanted to take a bite of his pepperoni pizza when I’d ordered garlic chicken. I wanted Chris to feed me chunks of pineapple and let me suck the juice from his fingers. I wanted to share with Chris more than I’d ever shared with anyone before.
I wanted to share my life.
My mom thought my independence was a virtue. Was it also a curse? Not letting anyone close had made me feel safe from hurt. But right now, the idea of going back to the way things were between Chris and I hurt more anything I’d ever imagined. Maybe I should follow my mother’s advice and take a chance, with my life, and with my heart.
I sucked in a deep breath and opened my mouth to finally be honest with him—
“Margo, I need to talk to you,” Chris blurted out, suddenly laying down his utensils and turning his full attention on me.
I nearly choked on the unsaid words lodged in my throat. Okay, I thought. He just bought me a little time. I’d let him talk and then tell him how I felt. Everything I felt. “Okay,” I said, forking a green bean into my mouth. “Shoot.”
Chris closed his eyes and took a deep breath before opening them again. Whatever he had to say was serious.
I set my fork aside and swallowed. “What is it?”
“You know I’ve had a lot of business meetings the past week.”
I nodded, relaxing a bit. It obviously wasn’t something horrible. I sipped my wine and waited for him to continue.
“Well, Chip and I have a lot of plans for the store. We’ve expanded as much as we can in Manhattan and have been looking for other avenues.”
“Growth is good.”
“Right.” Chris nodded, with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Growth is good. And sometimes growth can’t be accomplished without big changes.”
“Makes sense. So what were your meetings about?”
Chris took another deep breath and blew it out. “We’re opening a new store. Near Manhattan Beach.”
I frowned. “Manhattan Beach…California?”
Chris nodded. “We finalized the deal the day of the wedding. We’ll be opening in a few months.�
��
“Wow,” I said. “That is a big change. Having stores clear across the country from each other.” Suddenly something dawned on me. “Who’s going to run the West Coast store?”
Silence stretched taut between us, the only sound being the soft clinking of silverware and glasses around the restaurant.
I blinked, a sense of foreboding clutching at me. “Who, Chris?”
“Me.”
With one word, my life shattered.
Chapter Sixteen
“One Broken Heart for Sale”
“You?” I whispered.
Chris nodded. “Chip’s got a family—”
In slow motion, I halted him with an upheld hand, while pushing away from the table with the other. “I have to go.”
“Margo!”
I ignored him and did the only thing I could do.
I ran.
I ran all the way through the restaurant, oblivious to the startled looks of other diners, ignoring the maitre d’ when he asked if I was alright.
I didn’t stop until I reached the sidewalk. “Taxi!”
I nearly dove into the back of the cab. At least I think it was a cab. It was hard to tell through the blur of tears.
***
Nine hours later, I stumbled out of another cab, in front of Chris’s apartment. I was shaky with exhaustion, but knew I couldn’t stop for anything. During the long red-eye flight I had time to think, and the conclusions I’d come to weren’t pretty.
One more person in my life was leaving me.
Only this time, it was someone I’d never have suspected.
The only thing I hadn’t figured out in those hours in which I retrieved my suitcase from Quinn’s house, left a note for my brother and Sam, and took a cab to LAX for the nonstop flight home, was whether Chris planned to leave me all along…or if he only decided to stay in California after we slept together.
I locked the apartment door behind me and tossed my keys on the hall table. The apartment was just as we left it, except closed up and stuffy. The only sound came from the soft hum of the refrigerator keeping the condiments cold. I crossed the living room, dragged open the blinds and pushed up the window to let in fresh air. Not that it made any difference to me.
I was numb.
No, numb was the wrong word because numbness implies a lack of pain. And I definitely felt pain.
The texture of the hallway walls was rough against my fingers. Opening the bedroom window, I squeezed through and out onto the fire escape. The dusty metal had rusted away in spots, pushing flakes of paint from the surface. Maybe back at my own apartment, I’d plant some flowers and put them on my fire escape. After all, I’d probably spend a lot of time there as years passed…rocking in the rocker I’d pick up at the flea market on Twenty-Sixth.
From inside the apartment, the phone rang. I started to climb back in the window, but then remembered it wasn’t my home and I wasn’t responsible for answering it. Chris’s voice, instructing the caller to leave a message, forced me away from the window, not wanting to hear him.
I figured I had a week at minimum. He’d have business to wrap up, a hotel to check out of, a Jeep to drive home. Back, I mean. New York wouldn’t be home for him anymore. Maybe, while I packed up my stuff, I should pack his. That way, when he was ready to go to California, he wouldn’t have as much to do.
I don’t know why it hurt so much. This was the age of cell phones, email and instant messaging. It wasn’t like we’d be out of touch.
But it wouldn’t be the same. There would be no more Friday nights at the bar. I’d lose my favorite person to laugh with. My favorite person to share my secrets with. The one who really knew me and loved me still.
Liked me still.
It had been so easy before. When Chris was like a brother to me, there were no problems, no worries, no pain. We’d never needed each other before. I supposed it was really a moot point, because Chris didn’t need me at all. And, after a while, I wouldn’t need him either. He’d fade like my dad, my mom, every stepfather that had waltzed into—and out of—my life. And every boyfriend. Thank God I hadn’t spilled my guts before his little announcement.
I finally crawled back in the window. Chris’s bedroom was neat. Masculine. I hadn’t ventured into it often. Now, there was no one to notice I was in Chris’s space. No one to notice when I sat down on the bed. No one to notice when I curled up on the comforter and laid my head on Chris’s pillow that still, after all this time away, smelled like him.
For just a few moments, I felt a little less alone.
***
The ringing phone woke me. I blindly reached for it, ramming my fingers into something solid before realizing I wasn’t in my own apartment. Whoever it was hung up before the answering machine kicked on. Thankfully.
Manuel & Brothers Hauling was set for three days from now. I didn’t need a big truck. Just one large enough for boxes, of which there would be fewer by moving day since I intended to purge the boxes of junk. No sense keeping the deadwood in my life.
My cell was off and I’d unplugged Chris’s phone. His girlfriends were going to have to learn to live without him, so they might as well get used to it now. I had to.
By Wednesday afternoon, I’d gone through almost all the boxes, made a pick-up appointment with the Salvation Army and subsisted on nothing but coffee and Captain Crunch. I’d had very little sleep and, other than the first day, I steered clear of Chris’s bedroom. It was safer that way.
I shoved another box of clothing for the Salvation Army toward the front door. They were due this afternoon to clear out everything Manuel & Brothers weren’t moving tomorrow morning. Turning, I spotted my Paint by Number Elvis leaning against the wall, looking a tad faded by a coat of dust.
“I’ll clean you up when we get home,” I promised. “Since I left your bobblehead brother in L.A., you’ll have to stand in as my lucky charm. Hopefully, you’ll do a better job than your predecessor.”
Turning away from the King, I opened the next carton. I’d not been in this one yet. It had Margo-Personal written across it in black, in Katya’s flowery scrawl. I felt a pang about being in town three days without having contacted her or Adair, but I wasn’t up for questions. The only person I’d talked to was James Friend at WOLD. I’d report to the studio Monday morning to begin my new career. My new life. I wished I felt more enthusiasm.
Inside the box was my life in memories. A couple of diaries, a scrapbook with so many track meet and marathon ribbons in it that they were falling out all over the place, and a photo album my mom gave me when I left for college. I thumbed through the pages, smiling at the photos she’d chosen. It was a pictorial tour of my life, from birth until the day I left for school. I was surprised to notice in how many photos I was smiling, at my brother, at my mom, at Chris, even at the stepfather of the hour. Strangely, I didn’t recall having so much to smile at.
There was a picture of Chris and me on the way to the junior prom—the one when he’d rescued me from sure humiliation. His mullet hairstyle hung past the collar of his sky-blue tux with white lapel ruffles. My hair hung halfway down my back. We looked geeky. And happy.
I set aside the scrapbook, closing the page on that particular picture. I retrieved the diary, which was yellowing, the lock firmly holding and no key in sight. I twisted and pulled on the flimsy strap that held it shut, to no avail. My curiosity piqued, I pushed off the floor, retrieved a sharp knife from the kitchen and slit the diary open. The open window added some light, and I flipped the diary to a random page.
April 20, 1990.
I’d been a sophomore in high school.
“Today was the worst day of my life,” I read aloud, chuckling at my teenage dramatics. “I can’t believe I was so stupid.” Gee, just the beginning of a long line of stupidity.
Chris is such a jerk, I’d written. I saw him kiss Jennifer Springer today. The ass! The heated words were written in angry scribble. I remembered that—seeing Chris kissing Jennifer had totally
pissed me off, not because I was jealous but because it meant I didn’t get a ride to school. I went back to reading.
Yesterday Chris cornered me in the hall between fifth and sixth periods to tell me he couldn’t give me a ride home from school. He didn’t tell me why, just that I needed to take the bus. No big deal. Sometimes he stays after school and I ride the bus. But, last night, he was supposed to come over. When he didn’t show up, I called his house. Mrs. Treem said he was out and didn’t know when he’d be back. Then she passed along the message that he wouldn’t be able to give me a ride to school the next morning, either. No biggie. He probably had to go early or something. But today, at school, I figured out why he couldn’t take me to school…he was taking Jennifer Springer to school. She is such a slut!
I chuckled. Jennifer Springer had actually been one of my friends prior to kissing Chris. But afterward…
It was funny how ticked off I’d been about it. Thinking back, I think I felt…replaced. Chris’s fling with Jennifer only lasted a couple of weeks, and then I was back in the passenger seat of the Mustang as usual. Over the next two years of high school, I was an on-again/off-again bus rider, depending on whether Chris had a girlfriend or not. I didn’t make a big deal about it. If I didn’t get attached to the ride—to Chris—it didn’t matter when I was replaced.
Shaking myself, I pushed off the floor and headed back for the boxes. I’d read the rest of the diary later. Maybe after I moved into my own apartment and Chris was in California. After all, my Friday nights would be free from then on.
At the bottom of the box, I dug out the last items. There was a silver-framed picture of Chris and I that I hadn’t seen for years. Best Friends, it said. I dropped it quickly back in the box, knowing looking at it would bring the tears I was trying to avoid.
There was also a sheet of paper, riddled with faded, pen-written words in Chris’s handwriting. It was dated July 25, 1991, written from his grandmother’s home in Montana, where he’d spent summer vacation.
Dear Margo,
Remind me never to move to Montana. I’ve never seen any place so flat and brown in my life. My grandmother says it’s not like that in the winter, but I have hard time believing the flatness changes with the seasons. Mailboxes here are at least three miles apart, I swear. Must take the mailman all day to deliver mail to twenty families. And forget about borrowing sugar from your next door neighbor. It’d take less time to grow your own sugar cane. Trips to the grocery store are an all-day production, done once a month. If you run out of Jolly Ranchers midmonth, forget about having any more for at least two more weeks. Nothing is spontaneous around here. My grandma insisted I meet some “young people.” God. Kids here are as exciting as cardboard. They gather at the local “grange,” a wooden building with one room, a kitchen and an outhouse. They have spaghetti feeds every so often so they don’t forget there are other people on the planet. There are no pizza parlors, skating rinks or arcades. Grandma gets exactly three stations on TV—news, weather and religion. “Everything a body could want in life,” she says. I beg to differ.
The Kiss Test Page 26