by Liza Palmer
“Maggie, these are Christina’s friends. This is Erin,” Cole says. She looks up at me. Her eyes are flat. Nothing about me registers with her. It’s as though one look at my Area calms every woman down. I am no threat to her man. Erin doesn’t bother to smile or even extend a hand. I loathe her even more now. Cole continues, “And this is . . .” He stops at the next girl. She is alarmingly beautiful in a Los Angeles Exotic Dancer kind of way.
“Cheyenne,” she says, sipping her beer. Well, then . . . she was destined to be a stripper from birth. Poor dear.
“Oh, yes. Cheyenne,” Cole slurs. I can’t stop myself from looking down at his crotch to see if he is becoming aroused. Unfortunately, during my covert operations I am caught by the entire table checking out Cole’s package. Domenic is staring right at me.
“Hey, there, partner, see anything you like?” Cole has his hand on my shoulder. He jokes with me like a couple of guys about to smack a high five in celebration of Cheyenne’s ample breasts. I’d like to remind him that according to the bouncer, I am his fat, possessive girlfriend.
“You know I can’t see anything.” I swing my purse off my shoulder and decide to head back to the bar. The large table is alive with drunken conversations and explosions of laughter. I leave the gaiety and march back to the bar for another drink. Domenic has yet to say word one to me. This, Peregrine, this is what I’m fucking afraid of.
I return and sit at the end of the table closest to Cole and farthest from Domenic. Peregrine and Inez have their purses there. I figure I’ll just wait until they come sit down, and then I’ll be able to look enticingly fun. I pull the maraschino cherry from my drink and drop it into my mouth.
“You clean up good,” Cole says.
“Don’t try to be nice.” I drink my second Amaretto Sour of the night.
“I’m not. I feel a little bad about before.” I can smell Cole’s breath.
“Good, you should.”
“That rhymes,” Cole says, trying to smile.
“So does Fuck off.” I am beginning to slur.
“No, it doesn’t,” Cole says.
“Really? How about you do it anyway,” I say.
“Fine. Fine. Just let me apologize.” Cole slams his beer on the table. The whole table turns toward Cole and me.
“Maggie?” Domenic says, leaning over Cole.
“Hey,” I mumble. I can barely look at him.
“I’m glad you made it.” Why? So you could make sure I know you see me as just a friend? Yeah, I got it.
“Do you get the one with the big ones?” Cole asks Domenic in a forced stage whisper.
“What?” Domenic looks over to see if any of Christina’s friends heard what Cole said. They didn’t. But they might notice Cole miming a girl with huge breasts.
“She’s a Stone Cold Fox, D. Brown!” Cole high-fives me.
“I’m all aglow with pride, Cole,” Domenic says and leans back, rejoining the conversation with Dre, the distractingly tall busboy. I begin to hatch a plan to maim Christina and all who walk with her. I’m sure at some point I will remember this little vignette, but right now all I want is another drink.
“I’m heading up for another one. What are you drinking?” I ask Cole.
“Seven and Seven. I’ll go with you.” Cole stands up, straightening his shirt.
Maybe Cole is sorry for what he said. Maybe the reason I’m here tonight is to make something happen with Cole? Domenic? Screw Domenic. He couldn’t care less. Cole might secretly like me, too. He did call me little one time.
“Fuck these bitches.” Cole waves his arms over the table and turns to follow me. He’s burbling something about “big-ass titties” when I snap out of my trance. I grab my wallet from my purse and sneak a peek at Domenic. My “peek” becomes a slow-motion stare. He is sitting back with his arm around Cole’s now vacant chair.
He looks good. He did something to his hair. I don’t know what it is but he looks amazing. He is wearing a light blue dress shirt under a dark blue V-neck sweater. The shirt is not tucked in and falls below the sweater. It complements the khaki pants that actually fit his lean body. He dressed up for this girl. I walk to the bar with Cole and catch a final glimpse of him saying something to Christina in confidence while Erin does her best to act like she doesn’t notice.
“Can I have a Kamikaze shot, another Amaretto Sour, and a Seven and Seven, please?” I ask Ronald Reagan behind the bar.
“Kamikaze, huh?” Cole finds a few bar stools and plops himself down, pulling a bowl of pretzels over.
“I’m a little thirsty,” I lie.
What I am is a little fucking fed up with being the other girl. Erin is over there having a normal night, being set up on a date by her girlfriend and on her way to having a wonderful time. The guy likes her because she is cute and small, however pockmarked she is. They’ll get married and have little zit-faced kids together. I down my shot and breathe in quickly.
“Can I have a sip of yours?” I ask Cole, who’s genuinely thrown by my uncharacteristic behavior.
“You can have it.” He slides the 7 and 7 over and asks the bartender for another. I down his drink. I pull mine over and bring it to my lips.
“Are you okay?” It’s Peregrine. Thank God. I might have shared my feelings with Cole if she hadn’t shown up. That would have been frightening and awkward for both of us.
“I’m fine,” I slur. I have never had so much to drink in such a short time before.
I feel drunker than I’ve been in a long time and even more hopeless—a magical combination. It’s taken exactly thirty minutes. Why did I even come? There’s always an Erin.
“What do you need?” Peregrine strokes my hair while trying to block Cole’s view of us. It gives me a false sense of privacy. Partygoers are beckoning Peregrine to the dance floor. She waves them off.
“I need you not to tell me I’m better off without him. I need you not to tell me that she’s a silly little whore.” I stare at her.
“She needs some coffee.” Domenic is suddenly standing over me and even in my drunken stupor I panic that he’s heard too much.
“Puddin’, go on back to your little date.” Peregrine tries to shoo Domenic. Her first instinct is to protect. I am her cub tonight and she perceives Domenic as the orange-vested hunter who has me in his sights. He steps forward.
“She needs to go home.” His face is distorted like he’s behind a fishbowl.
“Your little date is wonderin’ where ya are, why don’tcha head on back,” I slur.
“She’s fuckin’ smokin’ hot, man.” Cole wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and raises it so Domenic can give him a high five in celebration of his “smokin’ hot” find. Domenic doesn’t even look at Cole.
“Maggie? Come on.” Domenic grabs my arm.
“Leggo. Pickie Pock Mark wants a drinkie,” I manage, pointing back at Erin.
Peregrine stands back, and I can see her mind working. Or maybe that’s what’s happening. Let’s face it, how credible am I at this point? Inez pulls closer into Peregrine as the thought finally cements. I look to the back table and Erin is staring over at us. It seems Pickie Pock Mark is getting jealous.
“D. Brown hittin’ it with the hotties,” Cole says to no one in particular.
“I’m the only sober one here. Let me handle this. I’m sure you’ll let Erin know why I’ve left, and there are so many people no one will even notice we’re gone.” Domenic moves close to me.
“Maybe you should take her home?” Peregrine toys. Inez smiles.
“I wanna go home.” I lean back into Domenic. He puts his arm around my shoulder. I “secretly” smell him.
Domenic steadies me with his arm and grabs my purse. I can see Inez lean back into Peregrine. Peregrine is whispering wildly into her ear. Another pack of partygoers drags her and Inez onto the dance floor as we’re leaving. The last thing I see as I’m walking toward the stairwell is Peregrine standing on top of the bar, reaching down for Inez as Modern English’s I
Melt With You pounds in the background. I wobble into the stairwell of the museum in the arms of Domenic Brown. I can smell his shampoo from where I am leaning on his shoulder. And I am leaning, which is freeing in one way and completely horrifying in another.
The world is spinning. I wonder if I’m really leaving the party with Domenic. I’m not so sure. I look up and stare right at him—every inch of him. The black stubble on the bottom of his chin. His long black eyelashes. He has a cut on his neck, probably from shaving. His skin is blotchy in patches, but on the whole it’s definitely clear, unlike some people. Echem. His lips are chapped right at the top, but puffy and full in general. Pink. Very pink.
“You’ve got good skin. Pink lips,” I burble.
“Thanks. Are your keys in your purse?” Domenic stands me up and rummages through my purse, looking for my keys.
“My keys are in my purse. Are you driving my car?” I am swaying back and forth. I am screaming inside my head, trying to stabilize.
“I’m going to take you home. Is that okay?” Domenic retrieves the keys and comes over to me. I stare at him again. Is that chest hair? Interesting. I’m noticing now that he’s wearing a buttondown shirt as opposed to a T-shirt. He is angling his body to lead me across the street to where my car is parked. But, always on the alert, I cunningly deduce that he’s leaning in for a kiss, so I pucker up and wait. I’m now on some corner in Pasadena kissing the air in front of Domenic Brown.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
No, in Your Eyes, Lloyd Dobler
The first crush I can remember was in fourth grade. His name was Josh and he had strawberry-blond hair in a classic bowl cut. In the days before Olivia, when I wasn’t on the edges of popularity, I found solace on the monkey bars. Not the act of going across the monkey bars, but sitting atop observing the landscape of the playground. One fateful day, Josh came up below me and stole my shoe—a slip-on Van (blue and yellow). Even then I remember thinking—This is it. He’s now my boyfriend. The whole shoe thing? Elementary school foreplay. After swooning for far too long, Josh returned the shoe—okay, threw the shoe up at me as he yelped “Weirdo.” My knight in shining armor. I climbed atop those monkey bars for the remaining seven months of fourth grade. I never changed shoes—thinking somehow it was the intoxicating blue-and-yellow slip-on Van that drew him to me like Circe’s call. You’d think after over fifteen years, I would have come down off those monkey bars.
Domenic is soooo gentle. Wow, those lips are soft, I can’t believe this is happening to me.
“Babe, we’ve got to get you in the car.” Did he just call me babe? Was I kissed? His hands are on my shoulders and he is softly shaking me. I believe I have fallen asleep. I put my hand out to balance myself, and the coldness of the street sign shocks me.
“Babe? I’m not your babe. Pickie Pock Mark is your babe. You’re all fancied up for her, forfuckssakes . . .” I believe there is, in fact, my own drool on my chin. Yes . . . yes it is.
“I’m here with you. Can you make it to the car?”
What? Without throwing myself at you? “Yeah, I think I can conshrol mesself,” I slur.
Domenic and I walk across the street together like we’re in a three-legged race. He opens the car door for me and I climb in. My car looks different from this angle. Domenic opens the driver’s-side door and eases himself behind the wheel.
“You’re taller than I thought you were.” Domenic adjusts the mirror and puts the key in the ignition. I pull my seat belt around and come to the realization that I’m far too drunk to be witty. I’ll just sit here and be quiet. I won’t say another word and maybe I won’t humiliate myself any further. I search my memory for evidence that Domenic and I kissed. I am deep in thought, feeling my own lips, as Domenic signals and pulls out onto the street.
Surprisingly, I am able to direct him to my back house with little difficulty while keeping my witty banter to a bare minimum. Domenic Brown is coming over to my house. I don’t care what the circumstances are. He’s coming over. I am starting to get unbelievably thirsty, and my eyes can no longer stay open. I roll down my window and allow the fresh air to revitalize me. I look like someone’s dog. Domenic finds parking on the street in front of my house.
“Just take the car.” I heave myself out.
“One step at a time. First, let’s get you inside.” Domenic takes my hand as we cross the busy street. It feels so natural and right. His fingers curl around my hand, and I can feel the heat of his body soaring up through my arm. I have never touched Domenic before. Sure, we’ve bumped into each other “accidentally.” I have stood next to him and quietly smelled him. Maybe there has been some fantasizing that could be considered virtual touching. But this is the first time we’ve actually touched on purpose for a prolonged period of time. I feel places tingling in me that I didn’t know existed. I can’t think straight. I hold his hand back.
“Which key opens the front door?” Domenic opens the screen door and holds up my key chain. I try to stabilize myself on the bulldozer and concentrate on the keys. I’m completely distracted by the hand-holding. I can’t seem to focus on anything but Domenic’s amber eyes.
“You can ask for it if you want, you know . . . as the days go by and by and byyyy.” I can’t fathom why I choose these words in response to his key query.
“What? Maggie, I am asking you.” Domenic is trying each key in the slot, figuring this method will take less time.
“Oh, not that. In the song. The song on your CD. I’m not gonna hurt ya.” I lean in; he tilts his head into me. I proceed to stage-whisper: “I heard the hidden track on the hidden-track CD.” I am tapping my head on the side and winking elaborately to let him know he’s a genius for thinking up such a concept.
“Yeah, well.” Domenic finally gets my front door open and Solo begins her barking, growling, and running-away routine. He seems a little startled but continues into the house.
“G’grrrrl . . . g’grrrrl.” I approach Solo and try to calm her down.
“Nice place.” Domenic puts my keys on the counter and sets my purse on the floor. The entire house is packed up in thirty-six boxes.
“Thanks.” I go into the bathroom to take out my contact lenses with the exacting hands of a surgeon. I have taken my lenses out in darkened movie theaters and on amusement park rides. Now I can add drunk to this impressive list. I am putting on my glasses as I come out of the bathroom. Domenic is standing in the living room, letting Solo smell him. I start uncontrollably jabbering.
“I get it, you know. I’m the girl in the window and you’re Lloyd Dobler . . . and that song is just a good song . . . but then I think you’re trying to tell me something. You know? That thing. That . . . it’s so hard to tell someone right to their face . . . and I get it. I talk that way, too.” My arms are raised above my head as an homage to Lloyd Dobler and Peter Gabriel’s “In Your Eyes,” one of those climactic movie moments where the wallflower hero finally leaps past his comfort zone to profess his love for the impossibly popular, yet astonishly available, love interest. Domenic approaches me slowly, pulling my arms down into a normal position.
“I’m not Lloyd Dobler and I think Peter Gabriel’s ‘In Your Eyes’ is highly overrated. But you are the girl in the window, so let’s just get you in bed so you can sleep this off.” Domenic leads me through my bedroom door. I don’t know whether to be terrified or excited. I am a little of both. I take my boots off. Thank God, my socks are respectable. This whole thing could have gone really bad really fast.
We are standing by my bed. I can’t help but look up at him for some kind of answer to what the hell is going on here. My thoughts are jumping all over the place, starting and stopping. I feel weightless. Then I start thinking about the heat of his hand and I can’t think of anything at all. The world begins spinning again. I wish I could really appreciate this. Instead I find myself swaying uncontrollably in front of Domenic Brown and my own queen-size bed, saying things I wish I had the balls to say to him sober.
I reach
my hands up and set them gently on his shoulders. Domenic is holding my arms and unconsciously rubbing my elbows. As we stand there, the sound of his hands on my crisp white shirt is the only sound in the room. I stare right at him and let him see the truth of what I want. If I’m correct, this same lack of inhibition is allowing me to finally see clearly that he wants the same from me. He looks away and clears his throat.
“Okay. Let’s get you to bed.” Domenic leans over me and pulls the sheet back on my bed. His hand rests on my arm as he gestures for me to climb in.
“I’m not gonna hurt ya, you know . . . I’m not gonna hurt ya. Please, I heard the song. I didn’t read into it. I didn’t. I just . . . okay . . . wait . . . wait . . . I guess I did. I guess I did read into it. I didn’t want to . . .” I have my hand over his heart. I let my thumb swipe over the part of his chest exposed by the V-neck of his dress shirt. His skin is warm. Domenic closes his eyes and breathes in. The world begins spinning.
“I know. I know. We just need to have this conversation later when we’re all a little less drunk. Just get to bed, Maggie, please?” Domenic sits me down on the bed and gently takes off my glasses. He puts my legs under the sheet and pulls the sheet over my clothes. He tucks in bits of the sheet underneath my body. He smooths the fabric over me. I can feel every fiber of my being stand on end as his hand passes over every inch of me. I get this wave of emotion. I love the feeling of him touching me. I close my eyes.
“G’night, Maggie. I’ll see you Saturday.” Domenic’s hand is lingering on my waist. I don’t remember falling asleep. But I remember what it felt like to not be alone as I drifted off that night. It was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever felt.
I wake up the next morning exhausted. It’s nine thirty; I’m hung over and more than a little confused about what went on last night. I have one day to get ready for the big move. I get to the kitchen, find my one mug, and set up the lone coffeemaker. I have just enough coffee left in the freezer for my last pot in this house. I grab a filter from an open moving box.