I Made You My First

by Threadgoode, Ciara

  I sat on the commode, watching Judy finish her hair. I told her everything that had happened with Irish and me at the airport and then at the drive-thru. After she’d said no way and really a hundred times, I stopped myself, wondering if I should tell her about what had happened on the patio. She’s my best friend but she’ll probably just laugh at me.

  Before I even had a chance to decide, Judy asked, “So what did you do to make Irish dream about you?” She had a smart-aleck grin on her face.

  I smiled and shook my head. “Well nothing really…”

  Before I could finish the sentence, she added, “J.C., the door wasn’t closed tightly when I got home yesterday. Don’t tell me nothing happened.

  Of course she’d seen something. She grinned from ear to ear, waiting for me to spill the beans. Feeling a little like I’d just been busted by my mother, I looked at her with big eyes and a frozen smile.

  “Come on, J.C., you know that truth is self-medicating, right?” she smiled.

  Sure, easy for her to say. She wasn’t the one making out with a guy she’d met only hours earlier. I took a deep breath, and then spilled every last juicy detail about what had happened on the patio. Her eyes never left my face.

  She kept saying, “Oh my.”

  I decided then that I’d gladly tell her about our escapade on the patio, but I would keep my erotic dream to myself. Grabbing my phone and cigarettes, I walked out to the patio, and settled down in a chair. I pulled my knees up to my chest and wrapped my arms around my legs. Everything I’d just told Judy was swirling inside my head. Was I embarrassed about my behavior yesterday? I hadn’t thought so, but now I wasn’t so sure.

  Judy joined me. “So, what would you like to do today, girl?” She asked, holding a bottle of clear fingernail polish. She began uncapping the bottle, waiting patiently for my reply.

  “I really need a shower, so that’s what I’m going to do first.” As I reached for my cigarette pack, I continued, “and after that, I’m not sure. Whadda you want to do?”

  Head down, stroking her fingernails with the brush, she asked with some motherliness, “Did you call Irish and thank him for the flowers?”

  “Not yet,” I said, exhaling. I focused on my cigarette because I knew what was coming next, and I was right.

  “Well if you don’t want to talk to him, you should at least text him a thank you. That was a sweet thing he did.” She was right. It was sweet and I did love the flowers. Judy was only three months older than me, but sometimes it felt more like three years. She’d always mothered me and quite honestly I’d always appreciated it. I counted on her advice, trusted her opinion even more than my own, as I had my mother’s. Judy really cared about me, that I was sure of. I gave her an agreeable nod and continued to smoke.

  “We’re not having make-out remorse, are we?” she asked, looking up at me with a silly grin.

  I had to laugh. “I’ll call him after my shower, I really will,” I assured her. Judy, feeling proud that she’d parented me appropriately, went back to painting her nails.

  What the hell was I going to say to him? Hope we did more in your dream than we actually did before getting busted...like a couple of high school teens. Or maybe, thanks for not laughing at my drunken efforts to jump your bones after having met you mere hours earlier? After telling Judy all the juicy details of our patio encounter, I was feeling like I may have come off a little too easy or even loose with Irish. He had basically told me that he didn’t date, only had casual sex, and now maybe I appeared to be coming off even cheaper than he had in the relationship department.

  As I felt Judy’s eyes on me, she said quite seriously, “Do you think if I hadn’t come home when I did, that you would have...done it?”

  Was she a mind-reader now? I pulled away from her stare and looked at the sky, focusing on a beautiful cluster of clouds shaped like circus animals.

  “I don’t know, Judy, I really...don’t know. I might have.” That was all I could think to say. I wasn’t feeling good about myself at that moment, and I sure couldn’t blame it on the alcohol.

  Chapter Three

  As the water pounded on my skin in the shower, I tried to justify my actions with Irish on the patio yesterday. He was the type of guy that all women were attracted to like magnets to iron filings. He was a perfect picture: golden brown hair with sun-kissed blond highlights, honest blue eyes, and soft full lips. He also had the face of an angel, one that any woman would trust. It was as if his smile spoke directly to my heart. He could surly make any girl want to take off her clothes. And it wasn’t only his looks, but something special and almost mysterious, that I couldn’t yet put my finger on, but it was there. As I wiped the fog from the mirror, I stared, looking at myself, judging. I grabbed my brush, still thinking about Irish. I was sure that if such a thing were achievable, he’d have a black belt in womanizing. He’d as much as warned me. He didn’t do girlfriends. If I was smart, I wouldn’t let myself become emotionally involved. My heart would be broken. He’d said so in a few words.

  I was here on vacation but I’d been a native, I’d moved to North Carolina two and a half years before to help take care of my aunt. She’d been my mother’s favorite sister and best friend for as long as I could remember. They’d spoken on the phone everyday at least once, sometimes more often. I can still picture my mother’s face, her laughing and giggling while talking to her sister on the phone. When my parents were killed in an automobile accident three years ago, my aunt was the only family member who helped my brother and me.

  When she’d had to return home, I promised her I’d call every day, and I did; only it was more like every other day. During one of my calls, Uncle Clay had answered the phone and announced that my aunt Jean couldn’t come to the phone because she was too ill. When I pressed the issue a little, he explained that she’d been sick off and on for a month or so and they were going to request nursing care because he was no longer able to tend to her by himself. After that phone call, I decided I needed to be there. It was something I knew my mother would want me to do. Judy and another friend, Kerry, helped me box my belongings and I rented a local storage unit. I could put my life on hold for a while, I’d told myself, but how long that would be was anyone’s guess. I flew east within a week of my phone conversation with Uncle Clay. It was the right thing to do.

  My brother had decided, for both of us, to sell my parents’ house, my house. He justified it by saying I could never afford to pay the bills for its upkeep. He just didn’t want to be bothered. He had his life and didn’t want to be responsible for watching over me, or a big house, and all the upkeep that came along with it. John was ten years older and moved out of our family home when I was eight. We didn’t really know each other. When we were forced to deal with something together, he seemed to go out of his way to remind me he saw me as nothing more than a child. That attitude got old for me fast.

  I’d barely turned twenty-two when my parents were killed. I was now twenty-four and my brother and I were still no closer. While making our parents’ funeral arrangements, we disagreed about everything. I felt I knew what they’d want way more than he would. After all, I’d lived with them; he’d barely called or visited. When it came to the music or the clothes my mother would wear, I dug my heels in and didn’t allow him to dismiss me like a child. Thank goodness Aunt Jean came to my rescue. When John lost patience with me, he’d point his finger and preach like a minister during a hell-fire and brimstone sermon, “You’re a spoiled child, Jurnee, and stubborn. Those two combined do not make you an adult.”

  I must’ve heard that speech a hundred times, and I always knew when it was coming. Overhearing it one day as we argued about the funeral details, my aunt piped up, and standing smack in the middle of John and me, said, “John, she isn’t stubborn. She’s just passionately adhering to her opinion. That’s definitely an adult trait.” He stopped his finger pointing and walked away. I smiled at her, thinking to myself, I must remember that, and I have.

 
“Everything happens for a reason, Jurnee, although we may not understand it at the time; if you hang in there, all the pieces eventually fall into place” was her advice.

  I appreciated her positive message, but if she meant my relationship with John would somehow mend itself, I had strong doubts. We were just too far apart. I’d chosen my friends and they were my family now. Other than my aunt, my friends were really all I had. It was sometimes unsettling and even scary when my thoughts wandered to what would become of me when something happened to Aunt Jean. I’d be alone and homeless. Living with my brother wasn’t an option. He’d never offer and I’d sure as hell never ask.

  Jude told me when I first left California to help Auntie that best friends are always there for you whenever, wherever, however, and most important, forever. They’d understand you and not pass judgment. She swore an oath that when the time came for me to return to California, I’d have a home with her. I loved her like a sister. Whether or not it ever came to that, it had felt good hearing her say those words. It got me through many homesick days. After my first six months in North Carolina, Auntie began encouraging me to visit my friends. She knew how close we were. After that first trip, she encouraged me to go again, every few months. I gladly took her up on it but usually waited about four months before I actually went. These get-away trips were called my sanity vacations. Leaving her this time was difficult. I knew this trip might be my last before she passed away. While I was sitting on the plane, waiting to take off and thinking about something really happening to her scared me, maybe more than I could admit. I decided not to think about it. Not until it was necessary. That was my way. I hadn’t even called her since I’d arrived at Judy’s. I opened my phone to find three missed messages from yesterday. Two were from Judy and one was from Aunt Jean’s house. I quickly dialed the number. What was wrong with me?

  “Hello,” I heard an unfamiliar older voice say.

  “Hello, this is Jurnee. May I speak to Aunt Jean or Uncle Clay, please?” It had to be a new nurse who’d answered. Four nurses were coming throughout the day, all of whom I dearly loved.

  “This is Hazel, dear, and both your aunt and uncle are resting right now, but your aunt has been asking about you.”

  My thoughts drifted as I figured out the best thing to do. “Please tell her that I arrived safely and I’ll call her tomorrow.” Seconds ticked by while I waited for her reply. “Yes, child, I’ll tell her you called as soon as she’s awake. Bye now.” Click!

  Nice talking to you too, Hazel. She’d hung up. I was disappointed in myself. No matter what’s going on here, I’ll call her tomorrow. I tied my hair back quickly and headed for the living room to find Judy. She was in the kitchen dropping chicken breasts into a large casserole dish that was filled with herbs and spices.

  “What’re you doing?” I asked with a hint of sarcasm that she ignored.

  “Well, I thought we’d have chicken and salad for dinner tonight. Sound good?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Did you call Irish?” she asked, sliding the casserole dish into the refrigerator.

  “Um, not yet, but I was just about to,” I lied.

  “I’m just not really sure what to say,” I confessed, sitting on the counter. She gathered salad veggies from the fridge and began setting them in the sink to be washed.

  “Just start with thank you for the flowers and let him take the conversation from there. Remember, less is more, J.C., or something like that,” she grinned.

  I laughed at her, even though she was right. But if this conversation with Irish was going to get at all awkward as I thought it might, I’d rather do it outside, without an audience. I jumped off the counter, leaving Judy to prepare the salad. I sat down in a patio chair and with a deep breath punched in his number. It was ringing and already I was starting to feel anxious and warm.

  After four rings his voicemail started, “Hey, this is Irish. Leave a message and I’ll get back with ya.”

  Okay. Now what? Beep. I hung up. Well you handled that really well, Jurnee, I thought. Deep breath. I can do this and punched re-dial. One ring, two rings.

  “Hello.” Son of a gun, he answered.

  “Hello?” I took another deep breath. “Hello, Irish?”

  “Yes, speaking,” he stifled a giggle.

  “Thank you for the flowers.” Silence, then more silence. Now it was just plain awkward.

  “Jurnee, hi, did you say something about flowers?” I contemplated closing the phone.

  “Ugh,” I groaned.

  “Really, you’re going to pretend you didn’t send flowers this morning?” I asked, icicles dangling from my words. I was now feeling really irritated. This was difficult enough without him making a game of it too. Please, please don’t let him bring up anything that happened on the patio.

  “Oh, Jurnee,” and I swear I could picture him smirking. “Is this the girl I picked up at the airport yesterday?”

  “Dude, seriously?” I scoffed as I felt my eyes close. “No, I’m sorry. You know, sir, I’m sorry to have bothered you. I must have dialed the wrong number.” Click! I disconnected the call, smiled, and lit a cigarette.

  Seconds later my phone beeped. It was a text: I love the way you say my name.

  What did that mean? How do I say his name? I listened to myself as I said his name. What does that mean? I replied, with another text. With phone in hand, I waited.

  Beep. With that little southern drawl, he said.

  I don’t have a southern drawl, I assured myself. Do I? Where are you? I typed quickly.

  A couple of seconds passed and my phone beeped.

  The text read: Call me, please.

  Okay I’d call him. He did say please. He picked up after the first ring.

  “I’m so glad you got the flowers. So do you like them?” His voice was sweet and sincere this time.

  “Yes, they’re beautiful. What’s the occasion? It’s not my birthday, or wait, is it?” I teased.

  “No, they weren’t for your birthday. That’s not for another ten days now, isn’t it?”

  Shut up, I thought. How could he know that? My mind searched every conversation we’d had so far. There was just no way. My birth date had never come up. He hadn’t even known my name until I put it in his phone. I couldn’t move. I was unconsciously holding my breath and finally let it out.

  “Are you still there?” he asked.

  My mind wouldn’t focus. Finally I found my words, “Yeah, I’m still here.” I wasn’t sure what else to say. My mind was still searching for any explanation.

  “So what’re you doing today? Any plans?” I barely heard him.

  “Um, I’m not really sure yet. Why?”

  “No reason really, I was hoping to see you again, that’s all.”

  I pulled the phone from my ear as if it would somehow help me concentrate better as I searched the living room for Judy.

  “Hey Irish, can I call you back in a few minutes?” I finally asked.

  “Sure,” he said. “Oh, and I sent the flowers so that hopefully they’d make you think about me as much as I’ve been thinking about you. I just wanted you to know. Give me a call later if you want.” Then we were disconnected.

  I jumped out of my chair and headed for the house. Judy must have spoken to Irish while I was in the shower, I thought. Now I was becoming obsessed. Less freaked out than when I first heard him say my birth date, but still obsessed. I really needed to know how he knew. Judy was in her room making the bed. I stood in the doorway, watching her tuck the sheets neatly under the mattress. I noticed she was lost in her own thoughts.

  “Judy,” I said softly. She jumped.

  “Oh, did you call him?” she asked, continuing to make her bed.

  “Yes, but I have a question for you,” and I slid my hands slowly into my back pant pockets, my eyes focused on her face.

  She stopped what she was doing and turned to look at me. “Did you speak to Irish while I was in the shower?” Her look went to a confused stare
.

  “No, why would I talk to him?” she asked curiously.

  “Well, when I thanked him for the flowers, I asked him what the occasion was and he somehow knew that my birthday was ten days away. Judy, I never told him my birthday.” I stared at her, waiting to see if I could read her body language, her guilty, blabber-mouth body language. She gave me nothing.

  She actually looked as surprised at the information as I was. “J.C., I didn’t talk to Irish other than yesterday when he was here. I swear to you, I didn’t.”

  I could tell she was being truthful. “Did you ever leave your purse alone with him?” she asked.

  I searched through the steps in my head: airport, no; car ride, no; drive-through, no. “Here he went to the bathroom,” I remembered. “He put my bra under my pillow and my purse was on my bed,” I almost shouted. Judy smiled with narrowed eyes. I hadn’t told her about him putting my bra down his pants. “So he opened my purse and looked in my wallet, really?” I flew into my room to find my purse. It was creepy. I began searching through the items in my purse, meticulously inventorying everything. Nothing was missing and everything looked the way I’d left it. I felt confused and violated at the same time.

  Judy stood at the foot of my bed, her arms crossed in a typical motherly fashion. “Anything missing?” she asked. Her soft voice actually stopped my mind from racing so fast. I was beginning to have crazy stalker thoughts.

  “No, everything seems to be here,” I answered. I took my wallet and opened it. Everything was in its place. “Why would he go in my purse? It doesn’t make any sense.” I looked up at her puzzled face and felt goose bumps cover my arms and a chill run through me.

  “I don’t know, sweetie, maybe you should ask him?”

  Now I was starting to feel angry. “Oh, I’m going to ask him, all right,” I muttered. I was thoroughly upset and ready for a fight.

  “Maybe you should calm down before you call him. You’re just guessing that he went into your purse at this point. At least give him a chance to explain,” she spoke calmly in her warm, mothering voice.