Crying.
Straightening up, I cough into my hand to clear my throat and then lift my chin, offering Pauline a forced, indifferent shrug. “I’m in shock. Who could have predicted any of this? Juliette leaving, Ash appearing… Juliette coming back. And…” My voice breaks; I shake my head, sigh lightly. The ache deepens every time I speak her name aloud, but I have to, have to be realistic, rational. I have to accept the truth. “And Ash leaving.” I bite my lip, trapping a sob. “It all happened so quickly, I haven’t had time to sort it out in my head. To take stock of what’s left of…me. My life.”
“Let me help you with that. Come on. Let’s sit, all right?” Pauline loops a hand around my arm and gently guides me out of the kitchen (after I nearly fall on my face, slipping like a cartoon character on the polished tiles) and into the living room, seating me upon the plush loveseat, spreading a knit blanket over my lap. The blanket is gold and cream and beige, cabled and thick, so soft that, unthinking, I knead my fingers into it like a cat. But I can’t purr, can’t even smile, though I try my best to fake a smile—which results in Pauline patting my head and tsk-tsking again.
She sits down beside me. Her brown eyes are wet with love, her forehead creased with worry. I draw in a deep breath for her sake, try to relax my face muscles, try to think of something light—or funny—to say.
But all I can think of are Ash’s words: I’m leaving. I’m sorry. All I can feel is the void she left behind, and again I’m falling, like the man with the broken parachute... Falling forever in a shattered shard of time.
God.
I went through a brief goth phase in high school and am beginning to feel stirrings of that melodramatic, black-cloaked, witch boots-wearing girl waking up inside of me, eager to recite hopeless snatches of poetry and make charcoal sketches of bleeding anatomical hearts.
But I scold and hush my sullen inner child and give Pauline another pasted-on smile, pulling the blanket all the way up to my neck. “I’ll be all right. It’s okay. I mean, really… It’s okay. Like I said, it was all just such a shock—”
“Molly.”
My mouth snaps shut. Pauline’s tone leaves no room for misinterpretation: my desperate protestations and unnatural grins have only reinforced her conviction that I’m utterly cracked. “You have Ash’s cell number. What if—”
“No.”
“But you need to talk. You need to tell her what happened. Don’t just give up—”
“No, no, I haven’t given up, but…” I swallow and meet Pauline’s anxious brown eyes with my own sheepish gaze. “I’ve already tried calling her. Today. About twenty times.” I bow my head, tracing the blanket pattern with my sore, heavy-lidded eyes. Every blink hurts. “She won’t answer my calls. Or texts. I left a message, told her the truth, but the truth sounds too much like a lie.” I breathe out thinly, swallowing again. “I mean, I can’t imagine why she believed Juliette in the first place, but she did, and let’s face it: Juliette’s a great actress. She convinced her. And I don’t know how to undo what’s been done.”
“Hey.” Pauline eases her arm around me, and I curl against her; her chin rests on the top of my head, coils of hair brushing against my face. “We’ll figure this out. I promise.” Her fingers make soothing circles on my shoulder, around and around, until my heartbeat begins to slow. “And if you need any help kicking Juliette to the curb—”
“I’m going to do it.” I sit back, push dark, tangled strands from my face. “Tomorrow.”
“Good, because the thought of her slinking around in your house while you’re relegated to that little cottage makes my claws come out.” She paws at the air to demonstrate, flashing her glittery, orange-painted nails. “I swear, Molly, if I lay eyes on that lying, cheating quote-unquote person ever again—”
“Well, hopefully she’ll go quietly. I think she feels guilty. Genuinely guilty. Or she seemed to, anyway, last night.”
Pauline scoffs, raising her arms above her head to draw her curly mane into a ponytail. “It’s a crime against etymology to apply the word genuine to Juliette. Unless it’s used in a phrase like She’s a genuine fraud. She’s a genuine phony. She’s a genuine lying, cheating—”
I grumble, “Point taken.”
Pauline draws her knees up to her chest, face surly. “You just can’t trust her, Molly. No matter how many crocodile tears she sheds. No matter how many pretty words come out of her pretty mouth.”
Suddenly cold—Pauline is a feverish creature and keeps her air-conditioning on the highest setting: hard frost—I draw the blanket tight around me and try to think warm thoughts: of sunshine, of campfires, of Ash’s hot skin against my lips...
I sigh, shutting my eyes.
“I just can’t stand to see you hurting like this. And to know that she caused it—again! It’s…it’s unbearable.”
“Paul.” I turn my gaze to her and attempt one last faux smile, a small, shivery thing that fades as quickly as it appears, and I shake my head. “I opened my door to Juliette. I invited her in, let her stay. You can’t put all of the blame on her—”
“I can, and I do!” Sentient loops of hair spring out from Pauline’s ponytail as if to emphasize the vehemence of her point. But then her shoulders droop, and she shifts to face me fully, pressing her hand against my cheek. “Look, I just… I just love you, and I want to protect you from the Juliettes of the world—although, if there’s more than one Juliette in the world, I’d like to have a nice, long chat with our creator—or alien overlords. Whoever’s stupid enough to take the credit for this place.” Pauline arches a derisive brown brow. “One Juliette is more than enough for our little planet to bear. In fact, she might fare better on the moon. Fit right in with all of those shiny-suited women with their cone-shaped breasts…”
I laugh despite myself, and the knot in my chest begins to loosen. “Have you been watching Mod Maidens from Mars again?” Pauline is obsessed with bad sci-fi movies from the fifties and sixties. She and I used to watch them together in our dorm room back in college, and we even dressed up as antennaed Martian twins for a costume party—complete with puffy white moon boots and silver-lame dresses.
“Actually, it was Lunar Ladies in Latex,” she says, with a bright-eyed grin. “Brad went to a used bookstore last week and found a whole box of old sci-fi movies for a quarter each. So he bought the lot for me. We could watch one later, if you’d like. Terrible special effects and talentless overacting are the perfect remedies for all of life woes.”
“You should write a self-help book.”
“Nah. I should be a love doctor. I’d prescribe the perfect awful movie for every one of love’s perils: Vixens from Venus for unrequited love; Those Cosmic Cuties for dating disasters; A Rocketship Romance for the heartache of long-distance love…”
She pauses to peer at me thoughtfully, wrinkling her brow. “And for you—The Venusian Triangle. It’s this incredibly offensive exploitation film about a human woman who flies to Venus and falls for two hot alien ladies—both in possession of the aforementioned cone-shaped breasts. She can’t decide which sexy Venusian to take back to Earth with her…but I won’t spoil the ending. Are you up for it?”
“Sounds awesome.” I smile, really smile, all at once overwhelmed with gratitude and soul-deep affection for my best friend. If it weren’t for Pauline, I’d still be flailing in the cottage, striking up conversations with ladybugs and fruit flies and, perhaps, that brown water spot on the bathroom ceiling that vaguely resembles a camel jumping rope.
But, instead, here I am, cold but coddled, and I have a delicious dinner and a horrid lesbian sci-fi movie (if I’m honest, I’ve kind of got a thing for those cone-shaped bras) to look forward to. I’m still galaxies away from the land of Okay, but I don’t feel untethered and alone anymore, and that’s a solid, if tiny, first step in Okay’s direction.
Something beeps in the kitchen, and Pauline springs to her feet. “That’s my surprise! I’ll just go take care of some odds and ends, make that tea, an
d—”
“Can I help?” I start to rise.
Pauline presses her hand against my shoulder, shoving me back down onto the sofa and tucking the blanket around my arms. “Don’t you dare! You’re my guest, and, anyway, there’s nothing to help with. I’ve already set the table, and the food’s nearly done. So just sit here and look pretty and daydream about alien chicks in see-through jumpsuits catfighting on the red dunes of Mars.”
My imagination latches onto the image—in far too much detail—and a slow blush creeps up from my toes. “I…could do that, I guess.”
“Excellent!” Pauline claps her hands and then whirls around to disappear into the kitchen, humming softly to herself.
I listen to her for a few seconds until I recognize the song—Pour Some Sugar on Me—and then I curl up beneath the blanket, resting my head against a pillow embroidered with a bright yellow hen. When I close my eyes, I see the bloodred Martian landscape, barren and desolate save for two women in spacesuits facing off like rival cowboys in an Old West black-and-white.
One of the women flips up her helmet’s visor: it’s Juliette, wearing silver face paint and metallic lipstick and a deadly expression, the kind of expression I’ve only ever seen her wear once or twice before, when she lost a coveted role to an actress she deemed unworthy of the part. She clutches a bulbous ray gun in her right hand, comically huge, as long as her arm, and rests it back against her shoulder, shifting her weight from one hip to the other, actually swaggering. Then she gives her opponent a slow, contemptuous smile.
“Didn’t think you’d show,” Juliette says, eying the other woman critically. “Seeing as how you split when the going got tough. Not much of a fighter, are you—what is it, Ashley?”
“Just Ash.” And Ash raises her visor, revealing her storm-grey eyes and her calm, subtly curving mouth. “And I didn’t split.” She reaches behind her back; in one swift, eye-blink instant, she draws forth a ray gun twice the size of Juliette’s and at least three times as…well, shiny. Its silver gleam, reflecting the sunlight, makes her blonde rival wince. “I just had to pick up my old friend here.” Ash’s smile widens as she pats the gun with affection. “I call her Miss Never—because she never misses.”
“Ha! You think you’re so clever.” Juliette glares, repositioning her feet and touching her finger to the trigger of her own gun. “But you’ll never best me. Molly and I have history. Years of it. Years of kisses and inside jokes. We’ve had sex thousands of times. What do you have to offer, Ash? Some woo-woo painting lessons and a smoldering gaze? You don’t even know her—”
“I know that I’m drawn to her.” Ash’s jaw clenches as her finger, too, touches the trigger of her gun. “And that I want to know her, everything about her. And that—”
“That what?” Juliette scoffs, rolling her eyes heavenward. “That you’re soulmates? That you’re destined to be together, get married, adopt a ton of brats and disgusting dogs and get matching tattoos?” She fakes a gag and laughs curtly.
But Ash keeps smiling, patiently waiting for Juliette to finish. Then she says, in an unhurried, even tone, “I know that Molly is worth fighting for.”
“Then fight,” Juliette seethes, flipping her visor back down with an ominous ping.
And the ruddy landscape ignites with crisscrosses of light. The sounds of the ray guns echo against the dunes—somewhat reminiscent of the pew-pew soundtrack from that old Space Invaders game. Juliette and Ash disappear amidst clouds of disturbed Martian dust, hurling lasers and slicing banter at one another—
“Hey, Molly?”
I open one eye, reluctant to give up my spacewomen fantasy, but Brad is peering over me with such an anxious look on his face that I sit up, the blanket folding down to my lap. I blow a hank of hair from my face and attempt a tired smile. “Hi, Brad. I didn’t hear you come in.”
“You didn’t?” He exhales, hands on his hips. “That’s good. Good.”
I watch him for a moment, expecting him to say something more. But he doesn’t, so I arch a brow and ask him, “So, how’d the old molars fare?”
“What?” Brad rakes a hand back through his hair, forehead creased. His eyes are glassy, dazed, and he keeps glancing between the front window and the kitchen doorway.
“Your…teeth,” I croak, then cough into my hand, shoving the blanket off of my legs entirely. I stand up beside him, shivering in the frigid air. “Um, Pauline said you had a dentist appointment. You seem kind of—I don’t know—out of it. Did they give you painkillers or Novocain or—”
“No, no.” And Brad chuckles softly to himself, crossing his arms over his chest. “Sorry. Sorry, I must look so weird to you right now. It’s just…” He steps closer and speaks in low voice: “I didn’t have a dentist appointment. It was a ruse.”
“A…ruse?” I whisper.
“Yeah. To put Pauline off the scent.” He arches a brow, and that familiar, bright-as-sunbeams smile lights up his unlined, handsome face. “Of this.” His hand emerges from his shorts pocket to produce a small black velvet box.
A ring box.
I frown for a moment as I mentally slide the pieces into place. One distracted and nervous, ruse-making Brad plus one mysterious little ring box equals—“Oh!” I gasp. “Brad, is that—”
“Shh, shh!” He presses a finger to my lips, and it’s then that I realize the poor guy is trembling all over. And sweating. Beads of perspiration gleam along the planes of his face, and the collar of his t-shirt is soaked through. With fumbling fingers, he flips the ring box open to reveal a sparkling, princess-cut ruby in a silver setting. The stone catches the lamplight and twinkles deeply, its color warm and rich.
“Wow, it’s gorgeous!” I smile up at Brad, squeezing his shoulder. “She’ll adore it.”
“Well, I really hope she will.” He gazes down at the gem, head tilted, mouth curving up. “Paul doesn’t like diamonds, you know, and her middle name’s Ruby, so I thought…” He shrugs as a slow blush creeps over his cheeks. “I don’t know anything about stuff like this, Molly, but the jeweler assured me this is a fine-quality stone, as fine as any diamond out there. What do you think of it? You think she’ll like it, honestly?”
“Honestly. Absolutely.” I beam, nodding, and tears sting the corners of my eyes, but they’re tears of happiness, of unexpected, unbridled joy. I wrap my arms around Brad and hug him tightly.
“I can’t believe my best friend is about to get engaged…” My heart is so full of love, it’s outgrown my chest, pressing hard—painfully hard—against the cage of my ribs. “When are you going to ask her?” I whisper into Brad’s ear, glancing toward the kitchen, where Pauline is still humming to herself. She’s crossed genres from ‘80s hard rock to, appropriately enough, the theme song from Disney’s Beauty and the Beast.
“Well, that’s the thing. Um…” Brad draws back, rakes a hand through his mussed hair again, and gives me an awkward smile. “Can I borrow your car for a second?”
“Oh… Sure.” I reach into my jeans pocket and pull out my key ring, which boasts exactly one car key, one house key, the key to the cottage, and a custom-made keychain reading Sappho is my homegirl—a gift Pauline gave me after I came out to her in college. It’s still one of my prized possessions. I smile softly as I gaze at its scratched surface, and then I drop the key ring into Brad’s outstretched hand.
“Did your truck break down? You didn’t have an accident, did you?” To this point, I’ve attributed his odd behavior to marriage proposal anxiety, but if he was in a car accident, even a fender-bender, he might have a concussion…
“My truck’s fine.” Brad gives me another one of his trademark ear-to-ear grins and gestures toward the large window fronting the living room. “Go on, Molly. Have a look.”
I regard him curiously for a moment before I round the sofa and walk up to the window ledge. Staring out, I don’t notice anything of particular interest: there are clusters of pine trees bordering two sides of the big parking lot, a busy highway just visible over
the treetops. There’s a small boy riding his bike over the sidewalk between apartment buildings, an energetic white dog leaping behind him…
And then there are the cars. A few dozen cars, belonging to apartment residents, mostly likely, many of them parked haphazardly just below.
Almost…too haphazardly.
My eyes narrow, and I lean forward, pressing my hand against the glass.
Sure, some people are naturally bad at parking. They can’t stay in the lines, or they pull up too far, or they don’t pull up enough. Sometimes it’s even purposeful. My mom has a perplexing habit of parking halfway between one spot and the spot in front of it—to give her car “room to breathe.” But this…
This defies explanation.
There are cars parked sideways.
There are cars parked diagonally.
There are cars nearly scraping against other cars.
This is beyond haphazard and outright hazard. I mean…what does it mean?
I narrow my eyes again—and then I draw in a breath.
Wait.
Because, if I squint a little, if I look at the cars as a whole, taking in their unexpected horizontals and diagonals, connecting it all together… If I read the angles of the cars together—
“Oh, my God.” I whirl around to gape at Brad, saucer-eyed. “How did you… I mean, does everyone know? Did they all—”
“This has been months in the making, Molly,” he whispers, gaze sparkling. He joins me beside the window and looks out, hands on his hips. Then he nods his head. “I had to pick a day when everyone would be available to lend me their cars, and let me tell you—not so easy, when you’ve got thirty-seven families involved.”
“I can imagine.” I blink toward the window again, disbelieving. The vehicles aren’t randomly parked, as I had at first assumed, but strategically positioned so that their combined slants form letters, words. Four words, in fact: Will you marry me?
It’s a glass-and-chrome proposal for Pauline. Brad had probably been directing drivers when I pulled in, but I’d been so lost in my own sad thoughts that I hadn’t noticed him out there—or the fact that every car in the lot appeared to have been parked by someone with severe spatial impairment. My own little VW noses right up against the building, directly below and out of sight.
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