by J. L. Mac
Everyone was staring.
Shoot! Say something, Linds!
“Ah, well, it’s just that you know… the d-dance… and I was just um, you know, wondering if you maybe needed a d-date?” I stuttered out as I shifted from one stupid foot to the other.
“Oh.” He looked over at the lunch table that all of his rotten friends sat at and I could see a couple of the boys snicker and shake their heads. This had bad, bad, bad written all over it. “Nah, no thank you.” He smiled his easy smile and walked out of the lunch room just in time for the bell to ring.
My gut turned queasily and I wanted to fake being sick so the nurse would just send me home. “Nah, no thank you?” What was that? I offered to go with him to the dance. It wasn’t like I offered him the garbage off of my tray!
The buzz of my classmates’ giggling as they shoved past me was horrible. I should’ve listened to Dad. He told me at the beginning of this school year that all boys are punks and to stay the heck away from them. He’s right. Guys are nothing but trouble. If I lose my mind and try talking to a boy again, remind me to save myself the trouble and check myself into the nuthouse before the middle school career ending embarrassment happens again, ok?
Thanks,
Lindsay
There’s this state of being called “happiness” and as far as I can tell, it’s an illusion. Somewhere deep inside, I guess I associate happiness with magic. There’s sleight of the hand and optical illusion, but when it comes right down to it, magic is all about appearance. And so is happiness. Happiness is most definitely an illusion—you think you’re happy, that you’re doing well… at least from the outside. But on the inside, where it really counts, it’s all sleight of hand; you’re just showing your audience what they want to see, which is that you appear happy. Ergo, happiness=magic.
And let’s face the facts on that notion, shall we? I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but there’s no such thing as magic. It just doesn’t exist. Saying something is magic is just a nice way of admitting you got played. Tricked. Duped. Scammed. Conned. And every time you put on that “happy” façade, you’re just playing yourself.
I know this firsthand. I’m no stranger to being conned and everyone in this town knows it. Bottom line: if magic doesn’t exist, happiness doesn’t exist. For me, at least. I might as well add luck to the list too; I know my maker skipped over me the day he was giving that out.
I have exactly four things going for me. My son, Trey, my dad, and my over-opinionated gay younger brother, Brian. Oh, and, uh, this other… thing. A long-standing relationship with a person I can never have but could quite possibly be utterly and irrevocably in love with. We have this thing and it’s crazy but we keep coming back to each other. Day after day.
So maybe 3.5 things. I’m not sure this thing qualifies, since I don’t really know whether it’s coming or going.
The thing about having a thing is there’s always some other thing that comes along to muddle it all up. I have these four things and I’m trying damn hard to keep everything headed in the right direction, but it would seem that Central Issue forgot to dole out my flak jacket at the start of this battle called life.
I glance at my cheap wristwatch to check the time. 1:18 p.m. “She’s consistent if nothing else,” I mutter to myself. I know Maggie will drag herself in any minute. She’ll flop into the other side of our booth and toss her purse on the table and then she’ll start. I should just enjoy the silence while I have it.
My best friend must hold the record for fastest talker on the planet. She rambles on a mile a minute, her junky purse on the table bugs the hell out of me, and her complete lack of punctuality is irritating, but I love her something fierce. She’s understanding and supportive and the only person I really have to help with Trey. My younger brother, Brian, helps when he can, but he’s almost always tied up doing something for that demanding boss of his.
My tired eyes drift over to the door of the sandwich shop just about the time that Maggie pulls it open. A gust of hot, dry, Las Vegas air comes swooshing in with her and she looks to our booth. I raise a brow and tap my index finger on the scratched up face of my watch.
She looks her typical relaxed self, an eclectic bohemian in strappy gladiator sandals, a coral ribbed tank top, and a long, flowing cotton skirt that seems to have every color of the rainbow sewn into the fabric. Her wavy hair is wild and unkempt and she seems as chill as can be. If I dressed like that, I’d look homeless. Maggie looks like a crunchy hipster gypsy who’s just back from following Phish.
“Yeah, yeah. I know,” Maggie huffs as she makes the short walk from the door to the first booth that we claimed as “ours” so many years ago. Maggie is the “glass half full” part of this duo and she can keep that title. I’ll stick with realism. It’s the safest route.
“You know, one day I’m not going to wait and you’ll drag in here late and be left to wonder where I went.” I smile curtly to cap off my idle threat.
Maggie tosses her purse onto the tabletop right on cue and flops down into the worn, cushy booth. Her long coal black hair drifts easily over her shoulder and I can tell her motormouth is at the ready.
“So?” She leans back passively with questioning eyebrows and I’m honestly shocked.
One word? Who is this person and where did my mouthy friend go?! “What?” I ask back as I mirror her relaxed posture.
“You know what! Nick said you never called him. What gives?! Do you want to be some old maid with a dozen cats or something?” she spouts off lightning fast, then takes a hefty draw from the iced tea I ordered when I got here.
“I’m allergic.” I dance around the issue at hand, knowing full well that Maggie won’t let me skate on this one.
She lets out a low, annoyed growl that seems to emanate from deep in her gut as she drops her head down onto her folded arms. I sit and stare at the top of her head while she mumbles into the small cavern that her arms have made. Her head finally pops up to face me again. “Allergic to what exactly? Happiness? Dating? Casual sex?! Which you need desperately, might I add.”
“Hey! Keep it down, loud mouth! I was being a smart ass about the cats. I’m allergic. I don’t need casual sex. I manage just fine, thank you very much.” I shrug and look down to my lap to avoid Maggie’s scrutinizing glare.
“So you finally bought stock in batteries?” she quips with a smirk. One painted plum purple fingertip pops into the air like a loaded weapon and I brace for the zinger. “Oh, I know, you went and got one of those rechargeable ones, huh?! Clever girl,” she adds while shaking her head sarcastically. “Going green while getting off. You’re a pioneer, my friend. Even better if it’s solar powered. Do you set it in the kitchen window to charge? Right next to the basil and dick—I mean dill weed?”
“Hardy har, smartass.” I narrow my eyes and nod. “I just haven’t had the chance to call him and quite frankly, I’m not chomping at the bit to hook up with him either.”
Maggie rolls her wide brown eyes dramatically. She doesn’t care about my weak excuse any more than I do. “He’s hot. He’s a gentleman. He’s successful and has no baby mama drama or ex-wives! What’s the issue?” she questions as she ticks off Mr. Right’s attributes.
“Jonathan. You know they’re still friends, right?” I cock an eyebrow at her and watch as she’s already begun shaking her head at me.
“Who. Freakin’. Cares? Seriously, doll, you need to get over the ancient stuff. We were kids. Both times. You’re nearing your 30s, chick! Time is running out.”
I inhale deeply and decide to do what I always do. Deny. Delay. Deny some more. “Okay, I’ll call Nick tomorrow.”
“Good!” Maggie chirps victoriously. She smiles widely for only a moment, takes a sip of her drink and looks back at me sympathetically.
Great. I love bad news. “No openings, right?” I guess before she does the ugly job of telling me.
“Don’t stress about it, okay? Michael said that the minute we’re hiring, the first spot is all
yours.”
I battle against my natural desire to slump in defeat and choke back the disappointment I feel. I’m actually starting to get more frustrated than depressed about my lack of a good job these days. If Maggie pats my hand consolingly, like she usually does, I feel like I might have to slap her. I’m only a temp right now and if I don’t find something soon, I’ll have no other choice but to get in touch with Trey’s father. I hate the thought that I may be forced to swallow my pride and demand that he help with the son he denied so many years ago.
Nine years ago, I was a whopping 19 years old and a freshman at the University of Nevada, Reno. The most complicated thing I had on my plate was figuring out how much slacking I could get away with before I had to study for an exam or write a paper.
He was my first love. My first lover and my first, and hopefully last, true heartbreak. I fell head over heels in love him. He fell head over heels into my panties a few times and that was that.
He, of course, sent me a ridiculous text message only two months into our relationship that was chock full of bullshit break up lines like, “We’re just so different,” “It’s not you, it’s me,” and my absolute favorite, “Let’s be friends.”
I, of course, cried and ate ice cream until I started puking it back up and said to myself, “self, something is not right here.”
Two pink lines confirmed what I had already known deep down. I was knocked up, alone, broke, and about to be a college dropout. It took less than a year for me to completely fuck up and lose everything. Awesome.
I insisted that Trey’s father meet me so that we could talk. I guess I was naïve enough to think that maybe he would make it all right. He didn’t. In fact, he didn’t even believe me. He said that I was a mistake and he was transferring to a school in Texas to be with his high school sweetheart, Sarah. He said that they were just on a break, whatever the hell that means. I started crying and things quickly went from bad to hellish when he jumped from his seat and spouted off some shit about me lying to him and trying to trap him just like his buddies said I’d do. Needless to say, I bolted from that Starbucks like a woman on fire and never looked back. I’d never felt so cheap and disposable in my life.
I moved back to Vegas and moved in with my dad and younger brother, who were more than supportive. They welcomed Trey into the family like he was the MVP to the Fuller team, helped us out for a few years, and then helped us move on with our lives. Neither of them made a fuss over Trey’s father. I told them that I had no interest in going after him for child support and they both respected my decision. Trey and I have been our own little family since the beginning. We don’t need the sperm donor. We never have.
I’ve been too proud to try to find his dad. I never wanted a damn thing from him and I was hoping I never would. I already got the best that he could ever give me anyway. Trey is more perfect than I could ever imagine and it never ceases to amaze me that from that catastrophic “relationship,” I came away with this magnificent child.
But now, my temp position is about to end. I’ve been here for eight months and in one week, I’ll be jobless. I have no prospects and no idea how I’m going to pay the bills after that. I dread turning to my father or Brian again; they’ve already done so much and I want so much to continue to stand on my own two feet, but I only have enough in savings to last us one month. Maybe.
“Earth to Lindsay,” Maggie says in her singsong voice.
My attention snaps to her and I shake off my walk down memory lane. There’s no use in going there anyway. “Sorry. I was just thinking about some stuff,” I mumble as I check my cell phone for the time and secretly hope to see a text message from the one person who might make me forget all about the trouble that awaits me in one short week.
The clock tells me that it’s already 2:10 and I have to get my butt over to pick up Trey; my inbox tells me that I do indeed have a text from Russ. Thank goodness. My thumb glides over the screen to open the message. I can feel Maggie staring at me. She doesn’t approve.
“Still talking to the creeper I see.” She leans back and resumes her relaxed posture.
I sigh and smile as I tune out Maggie’s diatribe about Russ and read his text.
Can’t wait to talk. Will you be free tonight?
My thumbs tap out my response and I send the message along.
Me neither. Bad day. I’ll talk to you soon.
I start gathering my things and look at Maggie. She’s shaking her head with this look of part amusement, part skepticism.
“What? He’s no creeper! I’ve known him for nearly ten years, Maggie. I think if he was stalking me so he could rape and murder me, he’d have done it by now.” With my eyes averted, I start to gather my things from the seat beside me.
“No. Correction, Linds, you don’t know him at all. Russ,” she says with disdain. “Who the hell is this guy? Girl? Person? He could be a psychopath! He could be an old man! He could be anyone!”
“Yep. And that’s the beauty of it. He could be anyone and it keeps me intrigued,” I chime as I scoot out of the booth and smooth my floral print sundress. “Love ya. Gotta run.”
“Ugh! Bye, sicko! Only sickos pen pal with strangers for years and years, you know,” Maggie bemoans as she stands and only half hugs me goodbye.
I secretly enjoy that my pen pal clearly annoys her, just like her purse on the table annoys the hell out of me.
USA Today Best Selling Author, J.L. Mac, is twenty-seven years old and currently resides in El Paso, Texas, where she enjoys living near her family. She was born and raised in Galveston, Texas. J.L. admittedly has had a long and sordid love affair with the written word and has loved every minute of it. She drinks too many glasses of wine on occasion, and says way too many swear words to be considered “lady-like.” J.L. spends her free time reading, writing, and playing with her children.
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Also by J.L. Mac
Wreck Me (Wrecked #1)
Restore Me (Wrecked #2)
Seven Years of Bad Luck