by A. C. Bextor
Mason’s eyes narrow. He doesn’t appear entirely angry, but he does look surprised. Either way, I need to get what I came for and get back home. Back to my friends, telling them who I saw. Back to my journal, to enter this quickly in order to cement it all to memory.
“You shouldn’t be—”
“Mason?” I break in on more of his unsolicited advice. “Can I go now?”
Before turning around, Mason eyes me up and down, zeroing in and smirking at my flip-flops. They’re yellow with a pink flower stuck between the toes. I love them. They’re my favorite pair.
Obviously, now done conversing with a girl my age, he gives permission with, “You can go.”
“Well, thank you,” I utter.
At this, his smile deepens and he orders, “Keep happy, kiddo.”
With stomach-fluttering fascination, I watch Mason extend one arm in the air. His index finger points to the sky and swirls, signaling for his friend, wherever that jerk face went, to follow.
He does as he’s promised. Through the store window, I survey as he and his friend take their positions on their motorcycles.
My need for supplies to fix Mother Nature’s invasion flushes my face. My cheeks are hot to the touch.
“Keep Cole’s money and just take whatever you need to get,” Gabe calls out, looking down at the counter near the register.
He must have seen us talking; the money Mason gave me still hot in my hand.
Noting I need to get moving and do it fast, I grab three boxes of tampons and a couple of packages of pads from the shelf without caring about the quality of contents. I carelessly shove them into my backpack.
As I make my way outside, I don’t chance another look at Gabe. But I sense his eyes on me, watching from his barstool behind the counter. When I step into the humid and warm, early September, Washington air, there are no signs of either man I saw inside.
A pang of loss hits my chest. I would’ve liked to have seen at least one of them again. If only to thank him for the money.
“CHRIST, WHY’D I ASK YOU to come out tonight?” Connie hisses, tossing her black sequined clutch on the small round table and settling her long, slender body back onto her barstool. “I swear, every time I use you as my wing woman, you turn out to be the center of attention.”
For the last hour, Connie has brought me up to speed on everything new in her life.
As well as I know my best friend, we’ll be dissecting mine next. Unfortunately for her, this will go as it always does—which is to say—boring. Technically, I don’t have a life. At least not one of my own.
Looking around the crowded sports bar, which she chose herself, I scold, “Well, this wouldn’t have been my first choice for us to talk.”
“You’ve been gone with the girls,” she complains. “And before that, I hadn’t seen you in weeks!” she punishes next.
Connie Woods has been my best friend since the third grade. We met on the first day of school. She had just moved to our small town, coming from a big city. Suffice it to say, she didn’t exactly fit in at first.
Her father, now a retired circuit court judge, lived each day to coddle and spoil his only daughter. But never, not once, did she act the part of hometown princess.
As a kid, Connie was a free-spirited, fiery tempered girl whose parents encouraged her ridiculous behavior. She was a pain in the ass on a good day, but her loyalty and protective nature made dealing with her drama worth the headache.
Connie is tall, five ten without shoes. She has blazing red hair that hangs in a long, straight curtain down her back. Her bright green eyes, full pink lips, and small, perky, freckle-covered nose aren’t even her best features.
Nope.
My best friend has never birthed a child. All her parts are still God-given and in the right place. Her seductive figure is envy worthy. If not I’m lying, in the face of all my imperfections, I secretly hate that she has none.
Needless to say, judging by her reaction to the totally drunk, and incredibly old man who asked for my number as we entered, she’s not lost her flare for drama. Connie is as theatrical now as she was back then. And as she’s gotten older, she’s become more desperate to find ‘Mr. Right.’ Which has also made her irritable.
When I got her text this morning, pleading for me to come out for a drink this evening, I had a few other scenarios in mind.
Maybe a nice dinner with quiet conversation between old friends. Perhaps a good quality gossip exchange would’ve been nice. Even talks of what we plan to do for her up and coming thirty-third birthday next week sounded better than this.
Anything other than walking into a crowded bar on a Saturday night, where the country music is loud, the patrons are too tipsy, and the capacity level is without a doubt in violation.
Luckily, when we entered through heavy, wooden double doors, Connie spied a table toward the center of the room. Not exactly my pick either, but after that old man insisted on touching my hair, then leaning in with chapped lips to kiss my cheek, I was in no headspace to argue.
“Say whatever you want,” she snaps. “But, friend, you are oblivious. All your long, thick blonde hair and those sultry honey-colored eyes….” she continues, shaking her head as if to shame. “Not to mention your hot little body, you can’t tell me you don’t notice men drooling.”
Now shaking my head, I raise my hand in front of my face and order, “Stop it.”
Feigning innocence to ignore my objection, she keeps going. “And the stink of it is, you get these men riled without trying. You walk along on your merry way, thinking all your oblivious thoughts.”
“Connie,” I assert, shifting on my barstool, readying myself to verbally battle. “I am none of those things.”
Connie may have never been married, but she’s dated. A lot. And not because she’s easy to entertain, but because my best friend is picky.
When we were kids, she insisted her ideal man was going to be rich. He was also going to be good-looking. As well as powerful and assertive. Which, I get. Any guy she ends up with has to be in order to keep up with her.
Over the years, there were a few boyfriends who I thought would stick around and wait for Connie to commit. But, unfortunately, all soon realized she never would.
Taken aback by my tone, Connie changes subject. “How were the girls this weekend?”
“Averie was her usual nutty self. Amelia was mostly quiet.”
This past weekend, my growing daughters and I took our annual mother-daughter road trip. Two days each spring break, I force the two to leave all friends and technology behind. We drive to a small bed-and-breakfast on the coast, about an hour from our house, and rent a cabin near the lake. There, we spend quality time together. The time includes talking, snuggling, watching movies, and playing whatever board games Averie packed.
As the girls have grown, and now have interests of their own, the trip has become more of a dreaded chore, rather than an experience I want them to always remember. Because my mom left my dad before I got a chance to know her, the details of her life are lost to me.
As I became a woman, then a mother, I promised myself I’d give my children as much of my attention as I could—without smothering them, of course. I’ve managed to hold true to at least half of that promise. They have my full attention, but this comes with my worries for their making good decisions.
I don’t want them making the same mistakes I did. And, believe me, my mistakes were bold and plenty.
“So Amelia is still stuck up her own ass then?” Connie probes on a sigh.
Amelia, my oldest at fifteen, is reserved more than most her age. She doesn’t have a large circle of friends. Most are good girls who, as far as I know, make good decisions. I’m thankful for this, not only because she’s much older in maturity than her years, but also because, so far, her insistence in keeping her best friends close has kept her out of trouble.
Amelia is a worrier by nature. Everything has a place and everything must stay in its place. School, h
ome, sports, whatever—she aims only to excel.
In this way, she takes after her father.
However, this year, both Thomas and I have noticed a marked change in her behavior. A ‘phase’ as he coins it. A ‘concern’ as I call it.
Lately, Amelia’s appearance has become less important. Her friends aren’t around as much as they’ve been in the past. Her tolerance for our family is next to none. She and our youngest daughter, Averie, have never been close, but this weekend was an eye-opener. The two argued about everything and it was Amelia who started most of it.
So, either my once sweet little girl is growing up, or she’s turning into a teenage demon from hell.
“If I had to guess, I’m thinking Amelia has a boy in the mix somewhere,” I inform, looking down and clearing the way for another drink.
Connie pays the waitress for our second round of vodka cranberries, without casting the young, barely dressed woman a glance. Connie’s concerned expression is trained on me.
Her eyebrows raise and she croaks, “Oh shit. Really?”
Nodding, I advise, “Amelia’s never been like Averie. She doesn’t care about texting friends or being active on social media.”
“You’re right,” Connie agrees. “Averie’s phone is attached to her hand.”
Our daughters are both Thomas’ and mine, but the two couldn’t be any different.
Averie, our soon to be thirteen-year-old, has never been a good student. She cares mainly about clothes, shoes, her hair, and her friends. Occasionally, the rest of us are able to assert our presence into her life. But not often and not for long.
In this way, she’s like I once was.
“My guess,” I go on, playing with the napkin to avoid the group of men along the back wall, who are paying too much attention to our table. “This boy she likes doesn’t return her feelings.”
“Shit,” Connie utters, shaking her head. “And being that you are her mom, you can’t relate because you don’t know what rejection feels like.”
Oh, I do know what rejection feels like. I know more than most, being as I married a man who didn’t truly love me soon after I lost the man who always had.
Ignoring Connie’s ironically insulting compliment, I reply, “Until she wants to talk about what’s been on her mind, Thomas and I have agreed to steer clear and let her be.”
“That’s probably what she needs. Being a teenager was shit when we were her age. But now? Hell no.”
I was young once. I remember having those same confusing feelings. The fear of talking to a boy I crushed on, all while worrying of his rejection. Back then we didn’t have texting, social media, and the like. We stalked our crushes the old-fashioned way. We walked by their house, loitered around the neighborhood hangouts, hoping to catch a glimpse. At least, that’s what I did.
Teenage girls rely on teenage boys to validate them, to place them in the social circles that we as parents don’t want to acknowledge. Being a teenage girl is hard enough, but being one whose first crush refuses to see you for who you are, makes the beginning of those years all that much worse.
“So, how are you and Thomas?” Connie broaches using her ‘I-wish-you-would-leave-that-piece-of-shit’ tone.
Alas, though, my answer is always the same. “We’re fine.”
“Fine,” she mocks woodenly, placing the straw of her drink to her lips and scanning the area around us to avoid my gaze.
“Why do you always ask?” I clip. “When you already know my answer.”
“I won’t ask then,” she promises, shaking her head with irritation. “But—”
“No. Don’t say anything else,” I deny, cutting her off before she indeed asks.
As cliché as our situation appears to others, my husband and I are both tied to a loveless marriage for the sake of our family. Our girls adore us both, and so far, they’re none the wiser. They’ve been able to live out happy, healthy lives.
Thomas was raised as an only child, as was I. We want only good things for our kids, but don’t always want to give them this with each other.
“Even if Thomas weren’t an adulterous pig, I’d still call him a pretentious ass,” Connie venomously spites.
“Connie,” I voice sternly.
“And Grace is a home-wrecking whore,” she finishes, before sucking back another large gulp of her drink.
I guess I’m driving home.
At one time, Grace Aldean was Connie’s and my best friend. Growing up, we were a wily trio to be reckoned with. As children, if there was an animal in need of rescuing, we’d do all we could to help. As teenagers, if there were bullies in our school setting their eyes on a new target and we found out, we’d plot and plan a way to exact revenge for the weaker party. We were a small gang, hoping to be messed with to prove our worth.
After Thomas and I got married and settled in, our friendship changed.
“When is Thomas back from this trip?” Connie questions, twirling her straw in her drink.
My husband travels with his job as a corporate accountant. With his years in service to our family’s company, he travels often to field offices when needed. His job takes him away at least one full week a month. Sometimes more.
The girls groan about his absence, but not only because they miss him.
Recently, I’ve come to recognize the way they look at me, as if I’m lonely and in need of something or someone to occupy my time. This isn’t the case. Or maybe it is, and I’ve become accustomed to hiding my hollowness from them.
Over the last fifteen years, many times I’ve been left feeling as a witness to my own life. Worse, a witness to a life I never really wanted. Of course, I’m happy with my girls. They’re what keep me going. I’ve just recently started wishing for something that was for me alone.
“He gets home tonight,” I reply. “I’m a little worried. He sounded so tired when he called this afternoon.”
“Does he know you’re not home cooking him dinner or cleaning his toilet? Does he know you’re out with me?”
“Yes,” I reply tersely. “He told me to have fun.”
“Bet so,” Connie snaps back with an eye-roll. “Shagging his mistress then coming home to his wife must really take it out of him. The guilt he must feel for not being better company, because he’s too tired, must pick away at his black soul. Poor pig.”
What Connie says isn’t untrue, but the hapless way she phrases Thomas’ latest possible affair is. She and I have had this conversation before. Many times.
After Thomas brought another woman into our marriage the first time, Connie all but begged me to pack the girls and leave him. But taking them from Thomas, and him from our girls, would only cause more heartbreak.
So I stayed with false hope.
The second affair with the same woman hurt less.
Rather than make the decision to end our marriage, Thomas and I agreed to live together but apart. He swore he’d stay faithful. I promised the same.
For years, I believed Thomas was holding up his end of the agreement. Until recently, a voice in the back of my mind, deep down where I try not to dwell, tells me Thomas is back to his old ways.
Truthfully, it’s not that I haven’t thought about my own path. That I haven’t dreamed of walking in my front door and being greeted by a man who misses me. Entering my bedroom to find red roses on the bed and candles lit throughout. Because I have. However, Thomas and I married when I was nineteen and he was twenty-four. From the very start, our priority was delivering Amelia safely into this world.
After she was born, I still questioned if I was where I should’ve been. But by then, life as Thomas and I knew it fell into a domestic routine. There were late nights to endure, diapers to change, sicknesses to wade through.
Before either of us knew it, I was pregnant with Averie. By then, we’d already been living day-to-day for our family. Our goal was to raise them in a home where they felt safe and loved.
For now, we stay together.
“I’m an ass.
I shouldn’t have mentioned Thomas,” Connie takes back quietly, grabbing my hand across the table. “I get why you stay.”
“Do you?” I press.
“Of course. I just wish you had more from your husband. Passion, excitement, and understanding to say the least.”
My friend talks as if she’s been married. As though she understands that with the highs in love, there are also lows. While Thomas and I do not share romance or passion, we’re still friends. We listen to one another. We help where we can. We genuinely care. As most friends would.
“And to clarify, I do love him,” I correct her prior assumptions. “He’s a great father and he loves those girls.”
“Does he love you?”
Nodding, I reassure, “You know he does.”
Thankfully, Connie gives up and the discussion ends.
I give Connie space to peruse the room. The music is still loud but is being drowned out by patrons crowded together around tables. Waitresses fight their way through the crush of bodies, carrying trays of full drinks. The pool table and dartboards on the other side are hard to see. The bar is packed.
“Oh, fucking shit,” Connie calls, looking over my shoulder just as I start to get comfortable.
Concerned by her expression, I query, “What?”
“Oh, my God,” she gets out, this time louder.
“Connie, honey. What?”
“Isn’t that…” She narrows her eyes and tilts her head to the side. “Oh hell, yes it is!”
“What are you—”
“Sabrina Marks,” she says. I don’t recognize the name as she explains, “You know, that reporter.”
“What reporter?”
“You know the one. The woman people are always talking about on TV. The one who’s always in the men’s locker room at sporting events doing ‘interviews.’”
Yes, I remember now. The same woman most females in the metro area worship. On camera, she’s known to be aggressive. She’s infamous for wheedling her way through interviews, only to be cut off by asking too much personal information about her subject.