Changing Lanes

by Vining, Season

  “Oh,” I say, shaking my head. “Silly me. Side note: hearing you try to rap in that accent just may be the whitest thing I’ve ever heard.”

  “Fuck off,” Marley says, sticking her tongue out. “I know you’ve heard worse. And forget that sad little dinner you’ve got. I brought cake,” Marley says, flipping the box open. Inside is a round white cake with strawberries on top. Written in sloppy letters is ‘Eat Me.’

  “Cake for dinner?” I ask.

  “Sure. Why not? We are grown women. We do what we want,” Marley answers, sliding out of her bright pink coat that matches her hair. Today she is covered in black and white polka dots, green pants and tan boots that lace up to her knees. “Plus, I figured if you didn’t want it, you could always deliver it to your neighbor—as an instructional invitation.”

  She laughs at her own joke as I grab two forks from the drawer. “Do we even need plates?”

  “Yes, darling. We’re independent, not uncivilized.”

  I pull down two plates from the cupboard and place them on the table. Marley turns on the faucet to wash her hands, only to hear a loud rumbling noise echo through the house.

  “Oh shit!” I say. “I forgot I don’t have water.”

  “What on earth are you on about?” Marley asks, twisting the knob off. The noise stops and her eyebrows shoot toward her hairline in question.

  “Let’s have cake and wine and I’ll tell you about it.”

  So, over vanilla almond cake filled with buttercream and fresh strawberries, I relive the water leak fiasco from last night. Marley laughs and claps every time I mention Lane getting another look at my tits.

  “I used bottled water to brush my teeth this morning and then went to work, totally forgetting to call a plumber,” I say, shoving the last bite of my cake into my mouth.

  “Well, let’s see ‘em then,” Marley says, waving her fork in my direction.

  “See what?” I ask.

  “Your goods, the girls, the melons, if you will, though I think you’re closer to grapefruits.”

  I sip my glass of wine and stare at her. Again, she motions with her fork.

  “You want to see my tits?”

  “It’s only fair. Everyone else has.”

  “No. And not everyone else has seen them. Just my ex-husband and my neighbor. And this guy in gym class my senior year who happened to be at the right place at the right time.”

  “But it’s not fair,” Marley whines. “You barely know him. I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”

  “I barely know you too! I don’t need to see yours,” I say. “You keep those,” pointing to her chest, “in your shirt, and I’ll keep Sandra and Dee to myself.”

  “Sandra and Dee? Your boobs are called Sandra Dee?” Marley snorts before finishing her glass of wine.

  “Sandra,” I say, cupping my right boob, “is the more rational of the two. She likes high necklines, nude-colored bras, and at least five dates before sex.”

  Marley grins. “And Dee?”

  “Well,” I say, moving my hand to cup my left boob, “Dee is a bit crazier—the party tit if you will. She hates bras, thinks nipples should always be visible through your shirt, and enjoys public groping.”

  Marley breaks into a fit of giggles. She squints her eyes and points her fork across the table, directly at my chest. “I told you I liked you, Stella. But now, it may be love.”

  I stack our empty plates and put them next to the sink. “Sorry, I don’t play for that team.” I lean against the counter and think about Ryder Willis, the hero in the last Alaina Taylor novel I read. “I like them tall, dark, and handsome with a side of mysterious. Those little indentations that cut in at the hips like an arrow to the promiseland? Well, those are good too.”

  “That’s oddly specific, love.”

  “Not when you read the books I do,” I offer. “Now what are we going to do about my water?”

  Marley jumps up and runs to grab her purse. She fishes her phone out and holds it up as if she’s won a prize. “I know a guy!”

  “Of course you do.”

  “I don’t know what you’re insinuating, but I’m in real estate. I know a lot of guys,” Marley says while pressing buttons on her phone.

  “Do they all owe you favors?” I ask with a smirk.

  “Only the pretty ones. Jordan, love, it’s Marley,” she says into the phone.

  I busy myself with packing up the cake and putting it in the refrigerator while Marley continues her conversation in the front room. I pour us each another glass of wine and take a sip of mine. The sweet burn slides down to my stomach and warms me from the inside out.

  “He’ll be here in twenty,” Marley announces, stepping back into the kitchen.

  “You’re amazing,” I say, clinking my glass against hers.

  “You keep saying that, yet I still can’t see Sandra Dee.”

  _______________

  Turns out, the repair is simple and only takes the plumber a few minutes. Marley flirts with him so much that he only charges me for the hardware. That girl is a whirling tornado of sexual energy and whimsy, and my lifeline here in Grace. She leaves me with a kiss on the cheek and the remaining cake.

  Around midnight, I find myself standing over my kitchen sink eating another piece of cake, with no ulterior motives whatsoever. The window there just happens to have a direct view of Lane’s front porch and I just happen to keep my eyes glued to his door while eating.

  Just when I’ve finished my cake and given up, Lane’s front door sweeps open and out he comes. He’s in jogging pants and a long sleeve t-shirt, earbuds tucked into his ears. I grin as I watch him stretch his arms high above his head. Lane bends his right leg, grabs his shoe and pulls it tight against the back of his thigh. He repeats this with the other leg and I am mesmerized, watching his ritual before running.

  I rinse my plate off and cringe when the pipes make a loud sputtering and creaking sound as water comes out of this faucet for the first time since my water was restored. I glance to Lane’s porch and am relieved to see he’s already gone. Sighing, I wonder why I’m so intrigued by this guy. He’s at least ten years younger than me, a bit mysterious, and has an adorable dog. Sure he’s really attractive and seems sweet, and god that vocabulary. But he’s not the only attractive and sweet guy on earth. So when I look at him, why does it feel like he is?

  I groan and shake my head. “Just go to bed, Stella.”

  Knock knock.

  My heart pounds as I turn toward the front door and stare at it. Another knock echoes through the mostly empty house. I tiptoe to the front room and glance out of the window. Lane stands on my porch, his earbuds now hanging around his neck.

  My stomach twists as I slide the chain free, turn the deadbolt and pull the door open.

  “Hi,” he says, giving me a wave. “I know it’s late, but I saw you were up.”

  “You saw me?” I ask, my eyes adjusting to the lack of light.

  Lane gestures in the direction of my kitchen. “Through the window.”

  “Are you spying on me?” I ask, hoping that he senses the teasing in my tone.

  “Are you spying on me?” Lane asks in return. Yes.

  “Of course not. I was eating cake.”

  “Cake?” he asks.

  “Cake.” I answer. “Would you like some?”

  “It’s midnight and you’re eating cake?”

  “It’s midnight and you’re going for a run?”

  Lane chuckles, and holds his hands up in surrender. “You’re right. None of my business. I just wanted to check on your water situation. Did you get it fixed?”

  I lean against the doorframe and cross my arms to hide the fact that I’m not wearing a bra. Again. “I did. My friend came over and got it sorted out for me.”

  “Your friend? The girl with the pink hair?” he asks.

  “You are spying on me,” I tease. Lane shakes his head and gives me a shrug.

  “She’s kind of hard not to notice. Glad you got i
t fixed,” he says. “I’d hate to think of you over here with no water.”

  “Do you think of me at all?” I watch his gaze slide down my body, lingering on my bare feet before returning to my face.

  “Only when I’m awake,” he says, giving me a wink. This is definite flirting and I’m more surprised than flattered. Still, my insides vibrate and hum as my hands push against my ribs, trying to stay calm. The idea that this guy is attracted to me makes me wonder what he’s willing to do about it. “Well, I better get going.”

  “Why do you run so late?” I almost slap a hand over my mouth in disbelief. “Was that rude? I’m sorry.”

  He gives me a grin that could melt me on the spot. Lane turns his head and the light from the streetlamp reflects his baby blue eyes. When he turns back, they are all I can focus on. “It’s not rude. I know it’s strange. You want to make sure you’re not living next door to a weirdo or serial killer, right?”

  “Right,” I agree, returning his grin. “Though, if it’s up for debate, I’d prefer a weirdo over a serial killer.”

  “I work from home,” he says. “Overseas investments, which makes me keep strange hours. Going for a run is the only thing that winds me down, clears my head. So I can actually get out of work mode and get some sleep.”

  I nod. “I get that.” Ten seconds of silence and staring and I can’t take it anymore. “Well, have a good run. Thanks for checking on me.”

  “Goodnight, Stella,” Lane says, before popping his earbuds back in and taking off down my steps.

  “Goodnight,” I say, as I watch him disappear down the sidewalk.

  6

  I’VE JUST SETTLED down on the sofa with a new book when there’s a knock at the door. Groaning, I set down my wine glass and shuffle to the front of the house. I check my outfit to make sure I’m presentable, shrugging at my yoga pants and comfy sweatshirt. When I swing the door open, Marley is there with a huge canvas bag slung over her shoulder.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask. A gust of wind blows through the open door and I wave her in. “Get your ass in here, it’s freezing.”

  “It’s hardly freezing,” she says. “You’ll have to adapt to real winters sooner or later, love.”

  “It’s probably going to be later, rather than sooner. You know, it’s hard to teach an old dog new tricks.”

  “What does that mean?” Marley asks. “Did you just call yourself an old dog? You people and your weird sayings.”

  “You people? Who people? Where are you going?” I follow her as she stomps upstairs in her combat boots. Marley enters my bedroom, unzips the bag, turns it over and shakes out all of the contents onto my bed. “What is all that? And why didn’t you call first? Us people always call first.”

  “A, if I would have called first, you would have said no. I mean, look at you already in your wool socks and sweatshirt. And B, all of this is my emergency preparedness kit.”

  I glance to the mess on my bed and back to her. “Said no to what? What emergency?”

  “The emergency of you trying to become an old spinster, reading romance novels and spending evenings in, not wanting to get laid. We’re going out tonight.”

  “Nope,” I say, spinning on my heel and heading for the door. “Thanks for stopping by, but there’s no way—” I’m cut off when Marley grabs the hood on my shirt and yanks it back, pulling the neckline tight against my throat. “Damn. No need for violence.”

  “Shut it,” she says, standing in front of me now. “You did not upend your whole life, leave that whoring ex-husband of yours and move cross country just to sit in this house every night. It’s not often I volunteer to be the designated driver, so take advantage. It’s just a lowkey wine crawl through downtown Grace. I’ll introduce you to a couple of my mates. It’ll be like a girls night out. I know there’s a party girl still left inside somewhere,” she continues, poking me in the chest now. “Get your arse in the shower and find her.”

  “I never said I didn’t want to get laid. I’d just prefer—I don’t know—like a delivery service or something. Is there a catalog I can just choose from and Uber drops him off with a current medical background report and a pocket full of condoms?”

  “Oh, UberDick. I like it. We should copyright that,” Marley says tapping her chin with her index finger. “Now get going.”

  In less than an hour, Marley has me fluffed, buffed, and dolled up. I haven’t worn this much makeup since high school, but I have to admit it looks good—different, but good. She finishes curling my hair and sprays a bit of hairspray to hold the look. I stare at my reflection in the bathroom mirror while she sifts through the pile of clothes on my bed. A smile creeps across my face and I can’t help but feel a spark of something inside. Confidence, perhaps?

  “You’re a size six, right?” Marley calls out from my bedroom. I join her there and look over the four selections she’s laid out.

  “Why do they make such slutty dresses for toddlers? I can’t wear any of that,” I tell her.

  “Like hell you can’t. It’s called stretch, love. I’m leaning toward the red dress for you, blue for me.”

  I hold the red dress in front of my body. “You can’t be serious. This is not enough material to cover my ass, let alone my whole body.”

  She snatches it out of my hand and rolls her eyes. “You are so dramatic. Fine. Put the purple one on and wear those strappy silver heels you have hidden in the bottom of the closet.”

  I pull off my robe and hold up the purple dress in front of my body. “I can’t wear a bra with this.”

  “Right. So Sandra and Dee fly free tonight. Big deal.”

  “Also, how the hell do you know what I have hidden in my closet?”

  “You took a little too long in the shower. I got bored. I said to find your party girl, not ride the pulse setting on your shower head to the promiseland.”

  I snort. “How does this thing go on? It’s ridiculous,” I complain, wrestling the tiny criss-cross straps from around my neck.

  “Nonsense, you can just let some hunk tie you up with it later.” Marley helps me into the dress. It’s backless except for a thin tie that laces up the back like a corset. She ties me in and spins me to face the full length mirror in the corner of my room.

  “Wow,” I say. “I think I’ve found my party girl.”

  Marley grins and smacks a kiss on my cheek. “Yes,” she says. “But you’ve got to take your knickers off. Nothing tackier than a panty line.”

  “What? No. There are plenty of things tackier than a panty line. What am I supposed to wear… you know, down there?”

  She laughs and waves in front of her crotch. “Nothing. You’re going commando.”

  My eyes go wide at the thought. “And just let my Miss America hang out?”

  “It’s just like you Yanks to nickname your vag after your country. The patriotism here is a bit overbearing.”

  “And if I were to say something crude about the Queen?” I ask.

  She whips her head toward me, eyes glaring. “Besides, darling,” Marley continues, ignoring my jab. “If your vag is hanging out of that dress, we’ve got bigger issues at hand than no panties. Now, get rid of them, let me throw on this red number and we’ll head out.” She slaps me on the ass and I curse in response.

  I shake my head and remove my panties, tossing them in my hamper. Facing the mirror again, I slowly twist back and forth in the dress, watching the short skirt flutter around my thighs. My hands smooth down the front of the soft material, over my hips and drop to my sides. I don’t think about my ex-husband or my filthy ex-best friend, the first thought is how I wish Lane Holder could see me in this dress.

  I smile and let out a chuckle, happy to have found this woman hiding inside me. Not that I’m willing to give up my wool socks and oversized sweatshirts, but this is invigorating. Still, I can’t stand the thought of going anywhere without panties, so I fetch them out of the hamper and put them back on. Marley will have to deal.

  I check out my
reflection again and I see a glimpse of the old me, the one before a husband who took me for granted and a best friend who was no friend at all. And for the first time in a long time, I like what I see.

  We arrive at a pub called Freebush ten minutes before the wine crawl is to start. When Marley checks her coat, people stop in their tracks to look at her. She’s so vibrant and beautiful and it makes me a little nervous to take my coat off. But this is no time to be shy. I’m here and I’m going to embrace every bit of this new life.

  I slink out of my coat and hand it over to the coat check girl. She gives me a ticket and I’m not sure where I’m supposed to put it. So, I tuck it in my cleavage and follow Marley into the pub. There’s a decent crowd scattered throughout the space. The place has a real old world feel to it. Everything is dark, polished wood and brass. The decor is simple with black and white framed photos of different locations in Grace.

  “Oh, sweet. They’re here,” Marley says, grabbing my hand and pulling me toward the bar. We navigate our way through the maze of people, Marley parting the crowd while I shuffle to keep up. Lots of people wave hello or greet her with a hug and it’s easy to see that she’s no stranger to this place. She props herself against the bar and hits me with a sinful smile.

  “Reagan, Kennedy, this is Stella.” A brunette and blonde turn to spot us and immediately squeal before wrapping Marley in a hug.

  “Hi, Stella. I’m Kennedy,” the blonde says. “We’ve heard so much about you. Usually this event is pretty tame, but we’re bound to change that. Glad you decided to join us tonight.”

  “You say decided, I say coerced,” I reply.

  “Strongly encouraged,” Marley counters.

  “Anyway, nice to meet you both.” Reagan offers a little wave and smile, returning her eyes to the television above the bar. “Is it just coincidence that you both share names with former presidents?”

  “Nope,” Kennedy says. “We’re sisters. Our mom is obsessed with themes. From every room in her house to her children’s names. We have a big brother named Nixon.”

  I laugh as Marley nods and mouths “It’s true.” They’re both beautiful girls, but completely opposite in looks. Reagan has dark hair, chocolate brown eyes and a smile that lights up the room, while Kennedy is blonde with blue eyes and a bubbly personality. Reagan seems more reserved. Now that I’m looking closer, I can definitely tell they are related. They both have almond-shaped eyes, full lips and a button nose. Beyond that, the two sisters seem like night and day.