Ginny Blue's Boyfriends

by Nancy Kelly

  “Carmen Watkins will be there,” Daphne said.

  “This has something to do with us?” CeeCee asked.

  Jill leaned toward me. “We weren’t friends with her, right?”

  “She was a college acquaintance. Nothing more.”

  “Then why do we care?” CeeCee asked.

  “She just came into Starbucks and we started talking,” Daphne said with a shrug. “She brought up going to see Kane Reynolds.” She turned to me. “Did you know she knows Jack Wright?”

  “Jackson Wright,” I corrected. “Yes, we all know Jackson. How did his name come up?”

  “She said she had drinks with him.”

  “She’s not dating him, is she?” CeeCee asked, slightly horrified.

  “Oh, I don’t think so.” Daphne gave me a sidelong glance.

  “What?” I demanded.

  “You and Jackson are friends.”

  Was it my imagination or was Daphne purposely needling me? Maybe she and Dr. Dick had indulged in a gabfest all about Ginny Blue and her many, many problems. Ginny might be frightfully well adjusted, but she was fodder, grist for the grist mill, nevertheless. I could picture Daphne and Dr. Dick, heads bent together, laughing in that raspy way of dirty old men over what to do about poor Ginny.

  Paranoia. Not my usual problem. I shook myself out of it. It wasn’t always all about me ... was it?

  “Okay, I’m in.” Jill glanced at Ian fondly. “And you don’t have to go. But you’ll owe me.”

  He smiled, conceding the point. They’d definitely reached a new acme in their relationship. Maybe the upcoming wedding wouldn’t be the disaster I’d envisioned.

  “As long as we have you both here,” I said, finally grabbing the floor. “When’s the big day scheduled?”

  “The second Saturday in December,” Jill answered promptly.

  My jaw dropped. I hadn’t really expected an answer. CeeCee and Daphne looked as poleaxed as I felt. “What?” I said, my voice sounding distant and tinny to my ears. “What?”

  “So soon?” Daphne asked.

  “We set a date,” Jill explained calmly. She knew the bomb she’d dropped but was determined to act like it was no big deal.

  I nearly choked on a bite of toast. Tears filled my eyes as I reached for my water glass. I quickly tossed back several large gulps. It didn’t help. I coughed as if I were intent on hacking up a lung. Tears streamed down my face. I squeaked out, “It’s really happening?”

  “It’s really happening,” Jill repeated, happy.

  Ian sometimes had that effect on her: rounding out her sharp edges. Sometimes I appreciated it; sometimes I loathed it. He said to the group as a whole, “She’s eating better. We weren’t going to get married unless there was some improvement there.”

  “Ian ...” Jill murmured, uncomfortable.

  “I guess I have you guys to thank.” He gave me a slight smile. “And the purging of the Ex-Files.”

  I stared at Ian in shock and surprise. Was the world coming to an end? Ian? Being sensitive? Actually acting as if Jill’s friends had value and worth? Actually thanking us? I sure as hell wouldn’t want my boyfriend bringing up my faults, problems and weaknesses to my girlfriends who knew them backwards and forwards anyway, but he’d done it so nicely. I stammered, “Um ... yeah ... weird ... who’d’a thunk it?”

  “Wow.” CeeCee gazed at Ian as if considering him a new species. Maybe he was.

  Daphne regarded Ian with a kind of female adoration only seen when the human male does something so rare, remarkable, and wonderful that they drop all their feminine defenses. The words “about to swoon” crossed my mind. I instantly felt real fear. But she snapped herself out of it and breathed, “I can’t wait for the wedding. It’s going to be fabulous. You’re really doing it.”

  “And you’re all bridesmaids,” Jill said.

  “God, NO!” I flipped out. “I don’t do bridesmaid dresses.”

  “I won’t do bridesmaid dresses,” CeeCee added calmly.

  “The wedding’s black and white,” Jill told her. “You’re all wearing straight black dresses.”

  CeeCee rolled that over in her mind. I envisioned myself in a straight black dress. It wasn’t a terrible picture, but I was sure there was a pitfall in there somewhere. Jill simply shrugged her acceptance. Straight black dress. The best one could hope for. Daphne nodded eagerly.

  “I need you to make some appointments pronto,” Jill said, acting as if we’d all acquiesced though the silence was deadly. She pulled out a card with the name of a shop where we were to go try them on. I glanced down at the pink and cream business card and swallowed hard. A wedding. Jill’s wedding. White lace and promises.

  But a straight black dress, I reminded myself like a litany.

  Jill suddenly turned into an animated Bride from Hell, pulling out samples of items from her own big-ass purse—a new addition my mother would be proud of—and showing off satin and vellum and even pastel mints in cool wedding-like shapes. “And check this out,” she said, stabbing a snapshot with one fingernail. It was a chocolate truffle dressed up in a frosting/gel tuxedo.

  “Too cute,” Daphne said.

  “No shit.” CeeCee stared at the photo and absentmindedly ate one of the mints.

  I murmured something appropriate, I think. In truth, I was kind of deflated. Here, I thought I’d had all this big news about myself and Will. My friends had trumped me with bigger, better stuff at every turn.

  Daphne regarded me with sudden concern. “You okay, Blue?”

  “Just fine.”

  “How’s it going with Don the Devout and your mom?”

  “Mom’s great. Don’s tolerable.”

  “Do you think you’ve worked things out with him?” Daphne asked seriously. “I mean, so that he can be put to rest?”

  “Amen,” CeeCee murmured.

  I was in a bitchy mood. In truth, it wasn’t Daphne’s fault. Her liaison with Dr. Dick definitely pissed me off but it was my problem, not hers. With an effort I shook off my bad feelings and launched into the tale of Don and Schematic Man. By the time I was finished the waiter had cleared our plates. The mood had definitely lightened. Daphne actually leaned over and hugged me. “You are so funny,” she said, which made me feel like a worse heel for being so annoyed with her.

  “So, Dr. Dick’s going to be at ‘Getting Able’?”

  “With his wife,” Daphne revealed on a sigh.

  “Ex-wife,” I reminded.

  “Are you sure they’re divorced, Blue?”

  “Positive,” I responded promptly, but I could feel my certainty eroding even as I spoke the words.

  “I just get the feeling ... I don’t know.”

  “God, maybe you’re right.” I felt like I’d been hit with a low blow. Was it true? Not that Dr. Dick had lied to me. I’d just assumed by the snippets of conversation I’d overheard now and again whenever I barreled into his office a bit early—as I’d been wont to do before I was nicely, but pointedly, asked to wait for my appointment. That was from Dr. Dick himself, not the snotty Janice. But I’d been so sure he was well and truly divorced. Now, I couldn’t say why I’d been so certain.

  “I’m pretty sure she’ll be there with him,” Daphne said.

  “Along with Carmen ... and maybe Jackson.” Did my voice really sound as depressed as it did to my ears? I was dreading this Kane event more and more. The only good news was it was making my forthcoming trip down to San Diego to see Black Mark seem like less of a chore.

  “You’re not going to back out, are you?” Jill demanded, surfacing from her coma of wedding bliss long enough to snap at me.

  “Did I say I was?”

  “It’ll be okay,” Daphne soothed.

  “Yeah.” CeeCee was ironic.

  I got up from my chair, throwing down my part of the meal cost and a healthy tip. “Love to stay and chat, but I’ve got an Ex-File to see. Number Six. Wish me luck.”

  “Luck,” Ian said, sounding totally serious.


  I saluted them all on my way out.

  I headed down the 405 to San Diego, leaving early enough to almost make the freeway a breeze to drive. My mind drifted to my burgeoning romantic relationship with Will, the one I didn’t get to tell my friends about. Since the Rocket had nearly taken my head off he’d phoned me a number of times. He didn’t offer any more information about his supposedly ex-girlfriend and I didn’t ask. I had my hands full with my own Ex-Files; I didn’t need the aggravation of his.

  Our conversations went like this:

  “Hey,” Will would greet me.

  “Hey,” I’d respond.

  “Are we getting together tonight?”

  “I can’t. I’m getting off late and I have house guests.”

  “When are they leaving, again?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “I’ll call later.”

  “Okay.”

  This left me to figure out what to do at home with Don, as he’d extended his trip indefinitely. He’d been needling me for Brad Knowles’ number—my own fault for being a smart mouth—and I’d finally given it to him, hoping he would just vamoose. But it didn’t happen that way. If anything, Don seemed more ensconced in my place than before. He explained that he really just couldn’t get around like he should and therefore couldn’t meet with his prospective dealership sellers. It sounded like an excuse for a free vacation to me, but hey, I’d gotten past caring. I had enough balls in the air with wrapping the Tuaca job, trying to scare up future work, and obsessing over what Will Torrance and I were becoming. Whenever I was home I chose to hole up in the sanctuary of my room rather than deal with Don. Mom checked on me every now and then, to make sure I wasn’t sick, but whenever I complained about Don she tsk-tsked me and said he would be leaving soon enough, as would she. I could tell she was disappointed in me. She wanted to see me in a committed relationship. I wanted to see me in a committed relationship—but not with Don.

  But was Will the one?

  I recalled Holly mouthing “careful,” to me, and her tail-between-her-legs attitude after the missing cream incident. If Will could reduce the Holy Terror to a quivering mass of jelly, I was in deep trouble.

  And truthfully, whenever I picked through my brain to my real feelings, I would land on that synapse that said “wham, bam, thank you, ma’am” was nothing I ever wanted to experience again. Charlie had cured me of that forever. But Will ... was this the way it was always destined to be? I really needed more field testing with him to be sure. Maybe, in a different venue, with a different set of circumstances and a—my evil mind stepped in here and suggested ‘different partner,’ but I swept right past that to ‘different mood’—maybe then sex with Will could be stimulating and exhilarating and something to damn well think about morning, noon, and night. That’s the way it should be at the beginning of a relationship, right?

  “Right,” I said aloud, stepping on the accelerator. The Explorer jumped forward toward San Diego and I chased my doubts away with steely determination.

  Time to put thoughts of Will aside and concentrate on Black Mark.

  I hadn’t called Mark and warned him of my imminent arrival. I hadn’t wanted to tip my hat, so to speak. Meeting the Ex-Files is stressful enough anyway, for crying out loud ... and probably for both sides, come to think of it. But I really didn’t give a rat’s ass about how THEY felt. I was only concerned with how I felt, and with this thoroughly selfish frame of mind, I’d set out for San Diego on this gray November morning, glad that I lied to Don and my mother by telling them I had to work. Mom seemed okay with the working through the weekend thing; she did it all the time herself. Don, too, probably, in his business, but he seemed more perturbed by my flitting away than he had any right to. I had this weird feeling he was actually trying to reconnect with me. I’d done nothing to reveal that I might actually be interested, even less to behave like someone he might want to be with (I’d taken to belching loudly in front of him rather than discreetly hiding behind a few girlish hiccups, and I’d been gratified to see the strain on his face at my distinct lack of couth). I’d also studiously avoided any serious conversation or intimate moment with him. Did this make me more desirable? Possibly. If so, he was a true Rat-Man. I’d known girls who were the ultimate Rat-Women, but not that many men. Don seemed to be one. The more distant and unlovable I became, the better he seemed to like me.

  Good ... God.

  A worry niggled. How would I ever get rid of him? Maybe I should have told him about Will, or would that have boomeranged on me, as well?

  My brain suddenly jumped—in that irritating way it seems wont to do—straight to Jackson Wright. Why, I didn’t want to look at too closely. Maybe it was because Jackson never showed interest in anyone and hence had women fawning all over him. I’d been one of the few who’d remained aloof in high school, although it was out of self-preservation rather than lack of interest. I’d known instinctively that he wouldn’t want anyone who wanted him. Very, very high school. Ridiculous. But true.

  But back to Black Mark: my purpose in heading to San Diego. He was the next Ex-File to meet, greet, and delete. I knew where he lived and where he worked. Sometime alcoholic that he was, he’d managed to buy into a restaurant/bar that was more about the drinks than the food. He was one of those types who periodically make a drunken phone call to an ex-lover, only to call the next day and apologize. I’ve had a few of his drunken calls over the years, and I’ve chatted on the phone with him after the requisite “I’m sorry” on several morning-afters. This is how I know more about him than I really want to. He makes a point of keeping ex-girlfriends informed.

  So, the key points about Black Mark are: 1) he is currently married; 2) it is a tempestuous relationship at best, and 3) he has one son with said wife, another with the girlfriend before me, and I think there was a child conceived during his high school years who must be a teenager by now. Prolific sire, he is. Stellar Dad, he is not.

  But my memory is sharp: Black Mark was one hell of a lover. I ran screaming from Don the Devout straight into the heat of Mark’s incendiary passion. Not that Don was a bad lover; heavens, no. It’s just that Don’s less-than-perfect other traits drove me to the edge of insanity. It’s like some wild, cosmic joke that I’m dealing with both Black Mark and Don the Devout in my life again at the same moment in time.

  Wonder what Dr. Dick would make of that.

  Anyway, Mark was great in bed. Pure fact. He made me nuts over sex. Obsessed and out of control. I’d pretty much always enjoyed lovemaking with the right partner. But Mark ... I hate to admit it, but the guy knew how to do things to me that made me claw, and howl, and turned my cheeks red with embarrassment whenever I thought back on our lovemaking. I shocked myself with my abandonment. After a love bout with Mark, I would find myself staring at my reflection in the mirror, cataloguing my flushed face, wild hair, and sparkling eyes. I saw what I’d hitherto only heard about: the “freshly fucked” look. I’m ashamed to say it looked damn good on me.

  And then I would look over at Mark, still tangled in the sheets and catch his smile. He had this lazy amusement about him right after sex that only made me want to do it all over again. We spent a lot of our time together in the bedroom. A lot of it.

  However.

  Mark also had one doozy of a temper. What time was not spent howling between the sheets was spent screaming at each other everywhere else. He made me INSANE!!!

  I took up nail biting during the Black Death. Nearly took those nails down to the quick. To this day I fight the compulsion.

  So thinking I glanced down at my nails. Nicely trimmed and just over the edge of my fingertips. No polish. I can’t be bothered while on the job. I had a sudden urge to grab onto a nail with my teeth and rip away for all I’m worth. Curbing the impulse took real willpower.

  This did not bode well for my upcoming meeting.

  There was the chance he wouldn’t be at work or home, I reminded myself hopefully. The last time he’d called me had been nearly a y
ear earlier, anything could have happened since then. But earlier this week I’d phoned the number for his bar—the Pot O’Gold Saloon—and been treated to a recording in his raspy voice that invited all and sundry to come in and enjoy Guinness and Irish stew. On St. Patrick’s Day drinks were on the house until noon. I could just imagine what that meant for the afternoon and evening of that holiday. Hopefully, this revelry was saved for just once a year.

  The second to last time Mark had called me he’d been roaring drunk and bound and determined to drive up to Santa Monica right then to see me. I’d managed to convince him otherwise—although he probably depressed the receiver just long enough to get another dial tone for the next ex-girlfriend after he hung up on me. He phoned me two days later, contrite, sober, and full of promises that he definitely would stay sober from now on. These promises were for himself, apparently, as I had no stake in the deal. Bitch that I am, I suggested maybe he should find some other line of work. I explained that owning a bar seemed to create inherent problems for alcoholics. Mark quickly informed me that he was not an alcoholic; he just mistreated alcohol. Though I failed to catch the distinction, I let it pass.

  So, now, approaching the city limits of San Diego, I checked my watch to realize that it was only about ten-thirty in the morning. As it wasn’t St. Patrick’s Day, it was a wee bit early to appear at the Pot O’Gold. I was just debating on what to do when my cell phone started singing. Glancing at the Caller ID, I realized it was my home number.

  “Mom?” I answered.

  “It’s me,” Don said.

  I swore silently and pungently to myself. I did not want to talk to Don for any reason.

  “What time do you get off today? Do you know yet?”

  My lie about working had apparently already taken on a life of its own. “Um ... not sure.”

  “Sounds like you’re driving.”

  “I am. Had to make a run for stuff.”

  “I thought you had PAs for that.”

  “Don, was there something specific?” I asked. As ever, a good offense is the best defense.