The Journal of Mortifying Moments_A Novel

by Robyn Harding

  Finally Mick emerged, pulling Kelly off him like a leech. “Why don’t we grab some cans and take this party back to my place?”

  “Sounds good to me,” Billy said, looking at me hungrily and dragging sexily on his unfiltered cigarette. I felt the bottom of my stomach drop with nervous excitement.

  “Let’s go.” Kelly was already grabbing her coat.

  “Can you excuse us for a second?” I said, grabbing Kelly by the collar and dragging her to the ladies’ room.

  “So?” I asked her, alone in the stark lighting of the bathroom. I closed one eye to improve my focus. The beer and the jet lag were making me feel dizzy.

  “So what?” she said, going directly to the mirror and fluffing her hair.

  “Well, should we go to Mick’s place or what?” I said.

  “Like, duh? Yeah, of course!” she said. “Why? What the fuck’s the matter? Don’t you like Billy?”

  “I totally do. It’s just that . . . I thought we wanted to go clubbing and stuff. You know, have the whole London experience?”

  “I think these two can give us the London experience pretty good, don’t you?” She elbowed me conspiratorially.

  Soon we were in the back of another cab, where I rested my head against Billy’s tobacco-scented denim jacket while watching the scenery whiz past. Beside us, Kelly had one leg thrown over Mick and appeared to be eating the lower half of his face. Thankfully, within half an hour, we were inside Mick’s dingy, cluttered, Shepherds Bush flat.

  “Drink anyone?” Mick passed out the cans that fizzed over as we opened them, having been jostled on the ride. We laughed and splashed each other with the foam. It was celebratory, a once-in-a-lifetime kind of night.

  Almost immediately, Mick and Kelly fell into an armchair and reconvened their passionate kissing. It was now getting a little uncomfortable, having escalated to moaning, hair-clutching, and ass-grabbing. I wondered why Mick didn’t take her off to his bedroom—she was obviously hot for him! But upon further visual inspection, I realized that we were in a one-room studio apartment. The dingy futon covered in questionable stains that Billy and I were seated on was actually Mick’s bed. Eww! I stood up.

  “Let’s take a walk, shall we?” Billy said, reading my mind. He grabbed two cans and then escorted me outside. It was after midnight, and the streets were quiet. I thought I would have felt uneasy walking around a London neighborhood at such a late hour, but as Billy held my hand, I felt completely at ease. Something about him made me feel safe. I think it was his air of cool confidence—which was especially impressive, since he probably weighed several pounds less than I did.

  We crossed the street and entered a park, Billy leading me knowledgeably to a secluded wrought-iron bench. We sat side by side, and he passed me a can of beer. “Cheers,” he said, and we clinked the cans together. He held his drink up. “To meeting such a special girl . . . from so far away.”

  I smiled and blushed, taking a drink from my beer. God, he was so cool. I looked up at him. The streetlight in the distance shone behind him, giving him a halo effect. Our eyes met, and the moment suddenly felt incredibly special, magical, meant to be!

  “Do you believe in fate?” I asked. It was a really nerdy thing to say, but my feelings had overwhelmed me. And I was drunk enough not to care if I sounded like a wiener.

  “I do,” he said, smiling down at me. “I think sometimes two people are intended to cross paths—even if it’s only for a single night.”

  “That’s what I think, too,” I gushed. “I feel like I was meant to come here and to meet you and to sit in this park drinking beer with you!”

  “You were meant to,” he said huskily. He leaned in, and our lips met, softly, gently, tenderly.

  Wow! Now I was really sure this moment was destiny. He was such a great kisser. Within seconds, we were swept away on a wave of passion. I grabbed his face and pressed my lips hard against his. I felt his arms wrap around me, his fingers creeping under my shirt, up my back to my bra clasp.

  “Kerrrryyyyyy!” I heard my name called in the distance. Damn! It was Kelly. Were they finished already? ”Kerrrrrrrrryyyyyy!”

  “I guess she’s ready to go,” I said.

  “Sounds like it,” Billy said morosely, removing his hand from my shirt.

  “I wish . . . I wish I could stay longer with you.”

  “Me, too.” He gently tilted my chin so our eyes met. “But remember . . . we were meant to have this time together. If we’re meant to see each other again, we will.”

  “I think we will,” I said. “It’s fated.”

  “Kerrrryyyy!” Kelly was sounding pissed off now.

  “We’d better go,” Billy said. He kissed me quickly then led me out of the park.

  “Dad!” I cried, running into his arms. God, it was so good to see him after so long. I pressed my face into his tweedy jacket, inhaling the familiar scent of his pipe smoke and the greasy stuff he still used in his hair. Hopefully, the stale beer smell wasn’t leaching from my pores, revealing our antics of the night before.

  “How was your flight?” he asked as he led us to his car, a backpack in each hand.

  “Long,” I said. “I’m pretty jet-lagged.”

  “Yeah,” Kelly said. “I’m really quite jet-lagged.”

  As we journeyed through the city, my dad pointed out sites of interest, and we both pretended we had never seen them before.

  “So cool!” Kelly exclaimed. “I’ve never seen anything like it before in my life!” I shot her a look in the backseat, but she just winked at me. She was really overdoing it.

  Eventually, we pulled up to my dad’s new home, a quaint, two-story, redbrick structure.

  “I hope you won’t be too overwhelmed,” my dad said as he lifted our luggage out of the boot. “But there are a lot of people who are so excited to see you.”

  “Umm . . . they’re here now?” I had hoped to use my jet-lag excuse to sleep off the remains of my hangover.

  “Not everyone. Only your auntie Rita, uncle Fred, and your cousins.”

  “Oh . . . okay,” I said weakly. I vaguely recalled that Rita was my dad’s middle sister. I’d seen pictures: grainy snapshots of their family in front of Stonehenge, to be precise. I think she had a couple of kids close to my age.

  Before we’d reached the front steps, the door swung open, and there stood a pleasant-looking woman in her fifties wearing a formal Sunday suit. “There you are!” she rushed toward me in a cloud of perfume. She took me in a tight embrace then quickly released me. “Look at you!” she said, misting up. “You’re such a beautiful young lady. We’ve missed so much.”

  “Thanks,” I said awkwardly. “This is my friend Kelly.”

  “Hello, Kelly.” Aunt Rita extended her hand briefly. “Fred!” she called to my uncle, who was somewhere in the depths of the house. “Kids! Your cousin Kerry is here!”

  We managed to make it into the small foyer before being bombarded by the second wave of relatives. Uncle Fred, a fat, bald and jovial man hugged me briefly before joining his wife to marvel at how much growing I’d done over the past twenty years.

  “And this is your cousin Gillian.” My dad introduced me to a stout but pretty girl a little younger than me, with her mother’s auburn hair and father’s ruddy complexion.

  “Hey,” I said casually. We didn’t embrace. “How’s it going?”

  “Good. Did you have a good trip?”

  “Great.” I smiled, recalling the special, destined moment of last night.

  “Where is William?” Aunt Rita was flustered. “I thought he was with you?”

  “Not with me,” Uncle Fred replied. “William?” He boomed.

  “William!” Aunt Rita cried. “William?”

  God, I hoped William would appear soon and put a stop to their bellowing. My head was splitting.

  “There you are!” Aunt Rita cried with delight. She and her husband parted ways to allow their son through.

  “This is your cousin William,” my aunt
said proudly.

  Ohgod. Ohgod. Ohgod. Ohgod. Ohgod. Ohgod. Ohgod.

  “Oh, God!” Kelly vocalized my horror.

  Despite the fact that he was clean shaven and his hair was combed neatly into a side part, there was no mistaking it: William . . . Will . . . Willy . . . Billy!

  Yuck! I was speechless, vaguely nauseated! I couldn’t believe that my fated, destined, meant-to-be romantic moment was with my cousin. My first cousin! I wanted to turn and run. I wanted to race to the airport, hop the next plane back to Seattle, where I would spend the next seven days brushing my teeth with Comet! Billy . . . er, Cousin William, was more composed.

  “Yes . . . uh, nice to meet you . . . Kerry.” He held out his hand.

  Eww! Eww! Eww! I couldn’t even look at him for fear that I’d visualize us making out again. And I’d been so into him. Thank god Kelly had called for me when she did, or who knew what could have happened? It was too revolting to contemplate. And now I had to shake the hand that had fumbled with my bra clasp! The blood-related hand that had fumbled with my bra clasp. I reached out and shook it quickly.

  “I’m Kelly.” Kelly stepped forward, smiling smugly at him, her hand extended.

  He took it and politely said, “Good to meet you, as well, Kelly.” He was really holding it together. Perhaps I was not the first relative he had accidentally almost got to second base with on a secluded park bench?

  Kelly was smirking at me. Her words from the previous evening rang in my ears. “You have a connection,” she’d said. “I can totally feel it.” Of course we had a connection! Our parents were brother and sister, for Christ’s sake! Jesus! Now that he was shaved, Billy actually vaguely resembled my brother Greg. I thought I might throw up.

  “Isn’t this wonderful?” Aunt Rita chortled. She scurried to the hall table and returned brandishing a camera. “Let’s get some photos of the cousins together. William, come here and put your arm around Kerry. Aren’t you two cute together? Gillian, you squeeze in there, too.”

  Chapter 23

  My therapist is back from her vacation. Judging by her pasty complexion, if she was at a nudist colony, it wasn’t anywhere sunny. She is reading my latest mortifying moment while I sit opposite her, suddenly feeling icky all over again. I watch her face to see if it contorts in disgust. Her expression is unreadable, but I can reasonably predict what she will say:

  “So, is making out with blood relatives a habit of yours? Is no one off-limits to you?”

  Or

  “When visiting a new city, do you usually commemorate the occasion by getting disgustingly drunk and allowing yourself to be fondled by a total stranger? A stranger who just might turn out to be your father’s sister’s child?”

  But instead she says, “I’m very pleased that you’ve continued with your journal in my absence. I’m sure this last entry was difficult to write, but I hope it made you see that it was nothing more than an unfortunate coincidence.”

  “Umm . . . yes . . . okay . . . thank you.”

  “Don’t be too hard on yourself. In some cultures, marriages between first cousins are actually desired.”

  “We only kissed for, like, five minutes!” I shriek. If she is trying to make me feel better, it’s not working.

  “Now, tell me what else has been going on with you while I was away?”

  I am relieved for the shift in subject matter. “Well . . .,” I say, trying not to blatantly stare at her sensible (aka “hideous”) pumps. Surely a woman of her education and means could wear some more stylish and attractive footwear? I clear my throat. “Yes, I do have some news to report. . . .” Then I gleefully recount my sort-of date with Sam and how I turned him down when he wanted to come home with me. (I do not mention my hairy legs or messy apartment.)

  “Good for you,” she says, smiling and nodding. “This is a very good sign that your self-esteem is getting back on track.”

  I was expecting something a little more enthusiastic than “good for you.” She obviously doesn’t realize how good looking he is. I will bring in a photograph next session, and then she will be more impressed.

  In contrast, she seems very excited when I relay how I invited Nick to the open house at my mother’s. “You must feel very comfortable with him,” she says.

  “I guess I do.” I shrug, blushing bright pink. “But you know . . . he lives, like, right around the corner from her, anyway. . . .”

  “I’m encouraged to see that you still feel hopeful enough about your romantic future to take a chance like this.”

  But later, when I mention Nick’s invitation to Trevor, he is flabbergasted—and not in a good way. He is sitting beside me in my office, pretending to discuss a piece of paper that we just pulled out of my recycling bin.

  “You what!” he yelps.

  “I, uh . . . invited him to my mom’s open house.”

  “Are you joking?”

  “No. He lives a couple of blocks away from her, so I just thought—”

  “Kerry,” he says, sounding exasperated with my stupidity. “Do you realize how weird this is?”

  “He didn’t seem to think it was so weird!” I snap.

  “Okay. Tell me his reaction,” Trevor says.

  “He sort of laughed and said ‘I’d love to meet your mother.’ ”

  “See?” He flops back in his chair. “See? Can you imagine if he had invited you to meet his mother? Wouldn’t that freak you out?”

  “I don’t know! I—” Trevor is making me feel insecure and full of doubt.

  “Here’s what you need to do,” he says matter-of-factly. “Send him an e-mail and say: ‘I don’t know what I was thinking when I invited you to my mother’s open house. Please don’t feel obligated to attend. Why don’t we grab a drink somewhere instead?’ ”

  “Okay,” I say weakly.

  “Now,” he says, speaking loudly and enunciating clearly. “You’re really going to move the needle with this, Kerry. Way to push the envelope.”

  When Trevor leaves, I follow his advice. I send an e-mail disinviting Nick—or rather, giving him the option of avoiding spending an afternoon at my mom’s condo, and suggesting a casual drink instead—because I would still really like to get together with him. I guess it was a little odd to invite him to meet my mom when we barely know each other. I mean, it’s not like we’re dating or anything but . . . I don’t know. That night at the aquarium, I felt so comfortable with him that it didn’t really seem like a big deal. But according to Trevor, it is definitely a big deal.

  My phone rings. “Hello, this is Kerry.”

  “She’s back,” Michelle says directly. “She wants to meet with us.”

  “When?” I ask, matching her no-nonsense tone.

  “Tonight. Six o’clock.”

  “Where?”

  “Crocodile Café on Second.”

  “I’ll be there,” I say, then hang up. Oooh! That felt like a scene from a James Bond movie or something. Well, not quite international espionage, but we were discussing quite a dramatic event. The three of us have not been together with Sandra since the night she called the cops on us. Let’s hope we don’t have a repeat of that fiasco (but I will make sure I am looking my best, just in case.)

  For the rest of the day, I am distracted and have difficulty focusing on work. My mind jumps from the impending meeting with Sandra to my e-mail disinvitation to Nick. These two factors, combined with my general lack of enthusiasm for my stupid job make getting anything done almost impossible. I can’t stop checking my e-mail for a response from Nick, but find only work-related crap or my brother checking up on my Christmas shopping on his behalf.

  At five thirty, as I am about to leave for my meeting with Sandra and the girls, my phone rings.

  “Oh, good. You’re still there,” a male voice says.

  “Yes. I was just leaving,” I say formally.

  “I’m glad I caught you. It’s Nick Marra calling.”

  “Oh, Nick!” I say, a ridiculously large smile overtaking my face.
“Sorry. I thought you were a media rep or someone.”

  “No!” he laughs. “I’m not selling anything. I just got your e-mail, and I wanted to call.”

  “Yeah, well . . .” I suddenly feel shy and self-conscious. I clear my throat. “I realized it was a bit weird of me to invite you to my mom’s place when I’ve really just met you so I—”

  “I’d love to come,” he interrupts. “Unless my being there would make you uncomfortable?”

  “Not at all!” I say in relief. “I just thought maybe you’d rather get together for a drink or something?”

  “Well,” he says. “If I have to choose, I guess I’d go for a nice quiet drink, just you and me. But I wouldn’t want you to have to spend an afternoon alone with your parents’ friends. I’ve done that before, and I don’t advise it.”

  “How about we do both, then?” I say playfully.

  “Sounds good,” he replies in what sounds to me like a very sexy voice.

  “I just didn’t want you to feel awkward at my mom’s,” I continue. “I don’t normally introduce guys to my mother on the first date!”

  Date? Did I say date? Dammit! For all I know, Nick may think this is just a casual, pre-Christmas drink to discuss our experiences as Shooting Star mentors. Or our mutual love of whales. I can’t believe I said date!

  There is an awkward pause, and then Nick says, “No problem. I’m sure it’ll be fun.”

  I mouth a silent thank-you to him for not mentioning the date comment. Talk about jumping the gun! “Well, that would be great, then,” I say, and give him the address of my mom’s condo.

  “All right,” he says. “I’ll see you Saturday.”

  When I hang up, I realize I am grinning from ear to ear. I think I really like this guy! He is so good looking and kind and generous and . . . in an artistic field. And I met him at a work-related function. And he has sandyish hair. Yikes! If his name started with D I might think he was the one Ramona was talking about.