Ditched: A Love Story

by Robin Mellom

  I was going to have to do this myself. And this was it—

  my way to Ian. Brian and Boner had a car and they needed a sober driver.

  I didn’t know what this tradition was they were going to 228

  do, but I could stil feel some werewolf left in me—my inner Ledbetter girl. I would get that car to go in the direction I needed: left out of the Hampton Inn.

  To find Ian Clark.

  I walked up behind Brian and whispered in his ear. “Let’s go. I’l drive.”

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  15

  Tap Water

  “THAT’S MY GIRL,” Gilda says, pumping her fist in the air.

  “There’s something else—” I try to say, but I’m interrupted when Gilda glances out the window and her face drops.

  Another visitor. I’m guessing from the lack of color in her face, it’s not a pleasant one.

  “Morning, Gilda.”

  A fast-walking boxy woman—comfortable shoes, no makeup—charges up to the register, punches in some numbers, and opens the drawer of cash.

  What in the world is going on? Gilda must have read my mind, because she stands behind the woman and mouths to me, “The owner.”

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  We al remain silent as the owner counts the cash and only glances up at us to flash a quick smile.

  By the time she gets to the twenties, the awkwardness of the moment catches up to her. “Can I help you?” She glares at Donna, who is casual y sipping a Red Bul (her third of the morning), then looks over at me, comfortably perched on Gilda’s stool.

  “Nope,” Donna says, sounding like a rebel ious kid.

  Oh, brother. We don’t need trouble. “I’ve had a rough night,” I explain, “and Gilda and my friend Donna were helping me figure out—”

  But before I can finish, the owner rol s her eyes and spins 180 degrees to face Gilda. “How many times do we have to go over this?”

  Gilda’s face flushes and she nervously tugs at her braid as she motions for the owner to fol ow her. The two stand in the chip aisle and have a conversation, but I can only hear the owner’s booming voice.

  “I don’t care if she had a bad time at prom. This isn’t a therapist’s office. You’re too nice to these people, Gilda.

  They’re customers, not friends. They have to leave.” Gilda leans in and whispers in the owner’s ear. The lady steps back, squints her eyes, and looks over at me. She crosses her arms, then final y says, “Okay. But help the poor girl find a way home. And soon.”

  I fil a cup with tap water from the bathroom, hoping the owner sees me so she doesn’t think I’m stil eating 231

  complimentary junk food. But she just quietly walks back to the register, eyes down, takes out a stack of receipts, and closes the register. Before she leaves, she turns to me. “I hope you figure it out.” She pats Gilda on the back and leaves.

  We’re al frozen.

  What. Just. Happened?

  Donna breaks the quiet by crushing her Red Bull can and tossing it into the recycling. Then she shoots Gilda a wicked smile. “So what’d you say to old crotchety pants?” Gilda stands up straight and brushes a strand of hair back from her face. “I lied. She was going to make you leave, so I told her you needed advice.” Gilda crinkles her nose, then final y says, “I told her you’re gay.” I tilt my head. First left, then right. Like Sol, my Labrador. “Why’d you say that?”

  “I listen to a lot of stories at this job. And I’m not supposed to socialize with the customers. She knows I don’t give out advice anymore, unless it’s really important. And she knows this is one issue I have a lot of experience with.” I chew at my lip. Is Gilda saying she’s gay? Whatever—it doesn’t matter, but—

  “My daughter’s gay,” she says, as if she can read my mind.

  I’m starting to think she can. “And she went to the Ledbetter prom last night. With her girlfriend.”

  Of course I remember. “Red dresses? Total y gorgeous?” She smiles and nods, her eyes sparkling. Gilda is probably the type of mother who knows it isn’t her job to pick out her 232

  daughter’s dress. Or pick out anything for her daughter.

  “I can tel you this,” I say. “She was very happy.”

  “I know,” she says as she checks her braid again. “Final y.” I shake my head. “Gosh, I feel stupid with my heterosexual story. I don’t even know why I’m bothering you with this.” Gilda walks over and gently grabs my hand. “It doesn’t matter if it’s a boy or a girl. With love, it’s always complicated.” I close my eyes briefly and think of Ian’s face. And his voice—so soothing. “Very.”

  “That’s right,” Donna interjects. “You just told us you agreed to be the designated driver for Brian and Boner?” It’s one of those questions she doesn’t actual y want me to answer. But this next question, she does.

  “Where’d they take you, dol ?”

  My stomach clenches at the thought of answering this.

  My eyes drift away from her and out the window—past the gas pumps and across the intersection and up to the jagged mountains in the distance. I secretly imagine myself living in those hil s, alone. Forever. And never answering this question.

  Gilda is stil holding my hand. She tightens her grip as if to say, no matter what, it’l be okay. The warmth from her hand calms me. My stomach unclenches. I can tel them.

  Donna steps closer to us and squints as she stares at my dress. “Looks like we’re out of stains. What happened next?” I lift up my hand—the one Gilda’s not holding. And I show them the mark.

  “I was bitten.”

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  16

  A Three-Legged Chihuahua

  BRIAN’S PRIUS WAS much easier to drive than Mike’s Cadil ac.

  The blinker worked, I didn’t have to crawl through anything to get to my seat, nothing caught on fire, and the seats didn’t have deep leather cracks that tried to go to third base on me.

  The only problem was the seating arrangement. Brian and Boner both crawled into the backseat, leaving me alone to act as chauffeur. But that was okay . . . I was now in charge of where we were headed.

  I glanced in my rearview mirror, noticing how pleasantly uncracked it was. Extreme visibility. How nice.

  I eased the car to the hotel exit and turned on the left blinker. “I need to find someone first.” 235

  “Take a right.” Boner was looking on a map.

  “But I need to go left first. If you guys don’t mind . . . I need to find—”

  Brian leaned over the seat. “Enough rights and you’l be going left.” He patted my shoulder al reassuring-like.

  Which it was.

  “There!” Boner jammed his finger at a spot. “Huntington Drive. Let’s hit ’em up!”

  The guys were pumped. I wasn’t sure what we were going to do, but whatever it was, these two were giddy little monsters—cackling and growling.

  Kind of cute.

  Huntington Drive was a couple of blocks from my house, so I knew the area wel .

  I turned the Prius right, out of the parking lot, and we cruised oh-so-quietly down the street. “Okay, we’l do your errand first, but then I have to get back to the other Hampton Inn. Cool?”

  Neither one of them answered. They were too busy putting on dark hats and gloves.

  Crap! Were we going to do something il egal? “Whoa, whoa! Please tel me we’re not robbing anyone!”

  “Nope.” Brian pul ed his gloves down tight.

  “We’re not vandalizing anything? Or spray painting anything?” I gripped the petite steering wheel tightly.

  No answer. Now they were adjusting each other’s knit hats.

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  I babbled on as I continued to drive, stealing glances at them in the rearview mirror. “I appreciate tradition and al , but that doesn’t always make it a smart idea. I mean, on Easter we boil eggs and paint them and leave them in the yard . . . for like a long time. That’s not sanitary. That’s not smart. Tradition should be questioned sometimes. Just saying. Don�
��t you think? Guys?”

  Final y Brian leaned up to talk to me. “We’re helping people.” His voice was calm. “We like them to see what life is like for other people.”

  “That’s cool. I think. Wait, how do you—”

  “We . . . rearrange. That’s al .”

  “There!” Boner’s voice squeaked. “Pul up to that gray house.”

  They both peered out the window, scoping out the place.

  The house was dead—no lights. And there were no other cars around. Which wasn’t shocking since it was four o’clock in the morning.

  Oh my god. Four o’clock! Mom was going to kil me.

  Please be a deep sleeper tonight, Mom.

  “Looks like it’s a six-footer,” Brian said. “Hook latch.

  Opens from the outside. Yeah. Perfect.” Boner cracked his knuckles. “They’re definitely caging something big behind that sucker.”

  I turned back to them. “What do you mean, caging?” They ignored my question. “Stay here,” Brian said in an eerily calm voice. “Leave the engine running. This wil only 237

  take a sec.” Then he shoved Boner out the door. “Go!” They scrambled out of the car, fal ing twice on the lawn when Brian tripped over Boner’s big feet. They’d clearly hit up the keg one too many times at that party. Once they both stopped laughing and shushing each other, they managed to unlatch the fence.

  They disappeared, and within seconds I heard a yelp.

  And then another yelp. After the third yelp, they re-emerged, Brian with a package tucked inside his tuxedo coat.

  As they jumped into the backseat, Brian scooped the package from his jacket and placed it on the front seat next to me.

  A Chihuahua.

  He was shivering. Or maybe it was a she?

  He/she was adorable. Almost pathetic. It only had three legs. The spot where the front left leg should be was just a mess of fur and a rumpled scar. “You stole this dog? This little, sweet, three-legged dog?”

  “It’s not sweet.” Brian’s voice was no longer overly calm.

  “Drive!”

  “Where?” I punched on the gas.

  “Up on the right,” he said, calming down but stil barking out orders. “That white house on the left. Chain-link fence.” I stepped on the brake, slowing the car down. “Wait. You guys are dog swapping?”

  Brian sighed, like he was relieved. “Awesome, right?

  You’ve done this before?”

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  “No! I have not swapped dogs before! This is ridiculous!

  This poor, sweet, little dog.” I reached over and lifted the tag on his collar. His name was Chompers McGee. “Aww.

  He’s so—”

  Suddenly I learned how he got his name.

  Chomp!

  “Oooowwww! That little shit! He bit me! !”

  “That sucker’s fierce, man.” Boner said with a pained look on his face. “No wonder they stash him behind a six-footer.”

  “It may be somewhat il egal”—Brian leaned up next to my ear and gently wrapped the silk handkerchief from his tuxedo pocket around my finger—“but I’l guarantee you when they find their dog, they’re gonna spoil it with treats and let him sleep wherever he wants. They won’t take him for granted anymore.” I saw him smile big in the rearview mirror. “We’re like modern-day Robin Hoods. Or Robin Hounds.” He laughed.

  I rubbed at my freshly wrapped wound and final y managed to stop the bleeding by pressing on it with the soft cloth. The pain quickly dissipated, as though Brian’s cloth had healing powers. Or maybe I was ignoring the pain and concentrating on the adorable explanation Brian had just given on the profound importance of dog-swapping.

  Robin Hounds? Okay, that was cute.

  Boner relaxed his face as he leaned back in his seat. “Plus, it’s funny, dude. We’re swapping dogs, bro!” 239

  The guys high-fived.

  Brian leaned over the seat again. “Yeah, and earlier tonight”—his arms dangled next to mine, and I could smell his cologne, which I normal y hate on a guy, but this cologne seemed to be drawing me toward him—“we hit up a bunch of houses on the way to prom.”

  It was a spicy cologne, but with a sweet overtone. Like raspberries and cayenne. “Uh-huh,” I said in a sort of daze.

  “We swapped Great Danes, Labradors, Jack Russell terriers . . .”

  I took a deep breath, a little deeper than normal, Brian’s smel making me feel relaxed. “Uh-huh.”

  “But Al yson made us stop. She didn’t get the whole Robin Hound thing. You’re so cool for doing this.” Brian touched my shoulder.

  I liked it. But it also jerked me back to reality. I was in a car with Brian Sontag, not Ian. We were having a conversation, and I was not doing a good job keeping up.

  I was trying to smel him. Boy smel s made me dumb. I cleared my throat and sat up straighter. “Why’d Al yson make you stop?”

  Brian sat back and shook his head. “That girl doesn’t get tradition.”

  Even though it was the most ridiculous tradition I’d ever seen two drunk guys conjure up, I had to admit, the level of cuteness about the whole thing could not be ignored.

  We drove Chompers to his new temporary home, three 240

  houses away—a house that belonged to a golden retriever named Bubbles. Seriously? We couldn’t have picked Bubbles up first?

  We swapped two more dogs, then drove one street over. Brian cracked open a beer he’d swiped from the party.

  Boner counted how many seconds it took him to down it.

  Eleven.

  Apparently, this was the other part of the tradition—

  slamming beers after each swap.

  They clearly needed a hobby. And some maturity. And a designated driver.

  We swapped a German shepherd for a shih tsu. A pit bull for a poodle. An Irish setter for a springer spaniel—which wasn’t much of a swap, if you ask me, because both breeds are hyper and wiggly, which was why I’d convinced Mom to go with a Labrador retriever. They are even tempered. They don’t complain. They don’t like confrontation. And they bring stuff back to you.

  I decided it was time to talk them out of the next swap and go back to the Hampton Inn, where hopeful y Ian was waiting for me, because Brian’s once-adorable explanation had denigrated to a drunken, “We’re teaching people to appreciate life, and shit.”

  “I have to get back to the hotel.”

  “No! More swaps!” Brian and Boner yelped and laughed and burped and pumped their fists in the air.

  They were tanked. And I needed to go get my Ian. “Sorry 241

  guys. The field trip’s over.” I pul ed the car into a driveway to turn around, and I saw headlights coming down the street.

  The lights slowed a few houses away from us and pul ed into a driveway. As it made the turn, I could see it was a limo.

  Brianna’s limo.

  “Oh, shit.”

  “What is it?” Brian and Boner scrambled to sit up straight enough to see out. The three of us watched in silence as the limo driver—my so-cal ed parking-lot therapist who had me convinced Ian wasn’t interested—opened the back door and out fel a clearly drunk Brianna with Al yson steadying her by the arm.

  “Oh, shit,” Brian said softly.

  The two of them made it almost halfway up the driveway before Al yson glanced in our direction.

  Her ghostly pissed-off face revealed that she recognized the Prius.

  “What the hel , Brian?!” she yel ed, throwing her arms in the air, which caused Brianna to stumble around without her support.

  Brian popped open the back door, but paused to look at me with a helpless face, like a runaway stray dog. “Come with me, Justina. I’l explain everything to her.” Al yson and Brianna stormed over, Brianna holding her hand out to an invisible rail to keep herself steady. We met them halfway, on a neighbor’s lawn, dampened with early morning dew.

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  “Lookie. It’s Justina,” Brianna slurred. “And she’s with two guys. Whatta shocker
!”

  Before I could answer, Al yson jumped Brian with the mother of al lectures. “How dare you leave me at that party.

  I had no ride home and someone could have slipped me a roofie and I’d be dead and naked and embarrassed somewhere if it weren’t for this limo driver, asshole! And tel me you did not go out and swap more dogs. That shit’s il egal, you know!”

  “Sorry, babe.” Brian leaned over and gave her a quick peck on the forehead. “Cal me later.”

  “Fine.”

  “Fine.”

  And that was it. That was it? That was his entire explanation?! He sauntered back to the car and fel into the backseat without a care in the world.

  And there I was alone on a damp lawn at five o’clock in the morning, face-to-face with Evil #1 and Evil #2.

  I wanted to melt like a stick of butter, but I couldn’t. I was going to have to deal with this. “It’s not what you think,” I said.

  “It is what we think.” Al yson crossed her arms and put on her best I-would-never-do-something-so-slutty face.

  “You left a party with two guys, Justina. And one of them was my date!”

  Which, truthful y, did sound pretty bad. Why hadn’t I told someone where I was going? “I swear, Al yson. I was just—”

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  “Your reputation isn’t going anywhere, is it?” Brianna stepped closer to my face, her vodka breath making me nauseous. “You’re a slut, Justina.”

  I turned my face away, and my body flushed with anger.

  And shame. But they didn’t know the truth—I was trying to find Ian. Where are you, Ian? Please swoop in. Please.

  “Go wait by the limo.” Al yson nudged Brianna away.

  “I’l deal with this.”

  Brianna threw her fireworks finale of hurtful words at me as she staggered away. “Love al the stains on your dress! You shoulda worn black so you could cover ’em up with a Sharpie!

  Hahaha!” She approached the limo and reached out to the trunk to hold herself up, but puked by the back tire.

  Tears dripped down my face. I could barely get the words out to tel Al yson. “I wasn’t trying to take Brian from you.

  I . . . I thought you were trying to take Ian.” She pressed her lips together, not like she was mad, but like she was holding back. She sighed. “It’s not what you think, Justina. He doesn’t have feelings for me like he does for you. Do you even know how lucky you are?” She tugged at her ponytail nervously. “That guy deserves . . .” She paused, her eyes reddening. I could almost see the wheels in her head turning—she was thinking about him. I understood the painful expression that sprawled across her face—I’d had that look before, too. She glanced down at my hand—more precisely at my bare, ringless finger. She bit her lip, looking unsure as to whether she should finish her 244