The Good Life

by Beau, Jodie

  Eww. Maybe not. These people are sick!

  “Whatever,” I said, rolling my eyes again.

  “Is ‘whatever’ what you say when you know you’ve lost an argument?”

  I didn’t answer. He had me. I couldn’t very well tell him I would love to contribute my DNA to his dirty friends’ bed sheets. That was just sick.

  “My roommate is staying at his girlfriend’s tonight. He said you could sleep in his bed.”

  “Ew! Not after what you told me!”

  He laughed again. “You can sleep in mine then. I’ll even change the sheets for you.”

  He went over to his dresser where he pulled out a folded sheet from the bottom drawer. “Your mom washed these for me over Christmas break,” he told me. “I can still smell the Tide.”

  My mom was very motherly towards Jake. She always had been. She felt bad for him because his own mom wasn’t very, well, motherly. She was a bit of a party animal. She was the kind of person who started drinking as soon as she woke up in the afternoon. She didn’t do a lot of laundry.

  Jake’s parents were teenagers when he was born. They broke up when he was a few months old and had been fighting over him ever since. They didn’t fight over him the way most separated parents fought over their kids, though. Most of the time the parents both wanted more time with the kids, but in this case, they both wanted less time. The fights went like this:

  “What do you mean you can’t take him this weekend? You promised you’d be here! I have plans!”

  “Oh give me a break! I had to keep him two extra days last month and still had to pay you child support! Unless you want to give me some of my money back, you can keep him this weekend.”

  The reason why I knew about these arguments was because they would often have them in front of other people, including my brother and even Jake.

  Jake always acted like such a tough guy and pretended it didn’t bother him, but I knew the truth. I’d never forget the first and only time I’d seen him cry. It was Father’s Day. I was about eight, which would have made Jake about ten. He had spent both Friday and Saturday nights at our house which was pretty normal, especially during the summer. His dad, who had gotten married by this time and had two more children that he actually seemed to love, was supposed to pick Jake up from our house on Sunday afternoon to take him to the zoo with his brother and sister. But he never showed up. My mom tried calling him for hours and kept getting his machine. She finally called his mom to come pick him up. I’m not sure what Jake’s mom said on the other end, but we could all hear what my mom said on our end, and we knew Jake’s mom wasn’t coming to pick him up either. It wouldn’t have surprised me any if his mom said something along the lines of, “This is Father’s Day, the one day a year I’m guaranteed my freedom.”

  We had a table in our living room back then that was covered in my dad’s plants. Some had vines that hung down over the edge of the table and some of the vines nearly reached the floor. That table was a great dark place to hide under during hide-n-seek. It was under that table where I saw Jake that night while my mom was on the phone.

  He hugged his knees to his chest and cried; the Father’s Day card he’d made for his dad ripped up in pieces on the floor at his feet. It was a quiet cry and he had his face pressed down into his knees, but I could tell he was crying by the way his shoulders shook. I’d seen my brother cry plenty of times as a child, but Jake seemed tough and strong, and even though I should have moved on and acted like I never saw a thing, I was so surprised that I froze for a minute and gawked. That was when he lifted his head up and saw me looking at him. He stared at me for a minute with his big, brown eyes bloodshot and wet with tears. I couldn’t just walk away after that so I crawled under the table with him and held his hand.

  “It’s okay, Jake,” I whispered. “I can ask my mom to take us to the zoo next weekend if you want.”

  He didn’t say anything or even acknowledge that he’d heard me. He just cried even harder. So I let go of his hand, put my arm around his shoulder, pulled him toward me and let him cry.

  My mom found us a little while later and she, too, crawled under the table.

  “You know you’re always welcome here,” she told him as she patted his knee. “Now let’s get out from under here, you two. Dad wants pizza!”

  It’s funny how certain memories stay with a person. I didn’t remember a whole lot about my life as an eight-year-old, and Jake and I never spoke of it, but I didn’t think I’d ever forget that Father’s Day. It was the first time I’d ever felt real love for someone that wasn’t related to me.

  Even at his frat house ten years later I still had a soft spot for Jake, and it was hard to stay mad at him, especially when he was willing to make a bed for me at almost four in the morning. I sat at his desk and watched him pull the old DNA-covered sheets off his bed and put the clean ones on. When he finished, I yawned, stood up and stretched my arms over my head.

  And that was when he walked over and kissed me. It was so unexpected and happened so fast. One second he was at his bed, and the next second he had crossed the room and his lips were on mine. It’s hard to make a move like that and get it just right. Usually the guy ends up missing the target or smashing teeth to teeth. Or the girl ends up choking on bubblegum and needs life-saving maneuvers. This, though, was just right. It was the perfect amount of sexy mixed with the perfect amount of sweet. Since my arms had already been over my head at the time, he put his hands on them and gently pushed them against the wall behind us. I don’t know if it was all the crying I’d done earlier, or the fact that I’d been awake for almost a whole day, or the two plastic cups of beer I’d stolen from the keg when no one was looking, but I suddenly felt weak and dizzy. It was like I was falling. When he ran his tongue along my bottom lip I felt like I was falling off a cliff and never hitting the bottom. In two years Riley had never, ever made me feel that way.

  But then Jake pulled away. and it felt like a crash landing. He put his hands to his head and grabbed onto a few clumps of his hair like he was frustrated. “Shit, Rox,” he said. “I’m sorry. You’re just so cute when you try to look mad.”

  I was still so dizzy from his kiss that I couldn’t figure out how to form words. I just stared at him with what was probably a deer-in-the-headlights look.

  He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, his hands now clasped behind his head. “I’m gonna sleep downstairs. Make sure you lock the door behind me, okay?”

  He walked out the door. I was pretty disappointed he didn’t stay, but when I remembered the pain I’d felt earlier when I imagined him betraying me and breaking my heart, I knew he did the right thing by leaving. Because if he had kept kissing me like that, there was no way I could have said no to him.

  The next morning Mom called and woke me up bright and early. There was a winter storm on the way and she wanted me to leave early so I’d be home safe and sound before it started snowing. I was headed out the front door of the frat house when Jake called to me from the couch in the living room.

  “Roxie?”

  I turned around. “Yeah?”

  He sat up and yawned. His blanket fell down and exposed his tattooed chest. I’d never been a huge fan of tattoos before, but he really made them look good. Think Justin Timberlake in Alphadog, but with darker hair. Smokin’!

  “Are you leaving?” he asked.

  “No,” I said, my voice dripping with sarcasm. “I’m going outside to build a snowman.” I smiled to let him know I was only teasing.

  He stretched his arms and yawned again. “Let me buy you a coffee first. You can’t get on the road without caffeine.”

  I could have gotten my own coffee, but I didn’t argue. We walked to a coffee shop on campus. It was kind of weird. The silence between us seemed to magnify the other sounds around us, like the sounds of our feet crunching into the snow.

  When we got into the café he ordered two coffees and we sat down in a booth. He looked tired. His eyes were bloodshot and he h
ad his hood pulled up on his head because his hair was a disaster but he still looked damn good to me. Seriously, when did he get this hot, and how did I not notice?

  “So what do we have to do to make this not weird?” he asked.

  I smiled at him. I love a guy who gets right to the point and doesn’t bullshit. “In the movies we’d probably go outside and get into a snowball fight to cut the tension. There would be a montage of scenes of us falling into the snow and laughing together …” I paused as I thought about it. “But it’s too cold for that shit.”

  He grinned.

  “It’s not weird,” I told him with a shrug. “Shit happens. People get drunk and make out sometimes. It’s fine.”

  “I didn’t have a single drink last night.”

  “Oh,” I paused, surprised. “That explains a lot.”

  “Explains what?”

  “Why you were so annoying. A few drinks would have done you some good.”

  “Yeah, probably.”

  “But really, it’s not weird. I’m glad you kissed me.”

  “You are?”

  “Yeah. I was hoping to get laid at the Get Leid party. I thought it would make me feel better about Riley. So I’m glad I got at least a kiss. I kind of think you owe me a lot more than that for twat-blocking me all night.”

  He actually choked on his coffee. “I can’t believe you just said twat-blocking.”

  We both giggled.

  “I guess I’ll have to take a rain check,” I told him with a wicked grin.

  I could tell he thought I was kidding, but I wasn’t sure I was. A relationship was out of the question … but maybe, just maybe, we could pull off a one-night-stand someday. A girl could dream.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Caroline Ganier stood in front of me in her stupid, ugly cardigan sweater with a nametag that said “Skank Queen, Ristorante Manager.” Okay, it didn’t really say that. The Skank Queen part anyway. And if they were going to use the Italian word for restaurant, why didn’t they also use the Italian word for manager? I hated the place immediately.

  There was no way I could tell her I was there to apply for a job. That would be a ten on the mortification scale. Standing there and shitting my pants in front of her would have been less embarrassing than asking her for a job. Yet, there I was ringing the doorbell before hours wearing a nice pantsuit and holding a manila folder on the very day a wanted ad was listed on Craigslist. What the hell else would I be there for?

  “Roxie Humsucker,” she said (Yes, that’s my maiden name. Can you see why I was in such a hurry to change it?). With a smirk on her face not unlike the one I saw when I caught her in my boyfriend’s bed more than ten years ago, she leaned on the doorframe, crossed her arms and raised her chin up. She looked seriously entertained, and I wanted so badly to punch her in her stupid, ugly face!

  I am known for my quick-thinking skills. But it’s a total fake-out. The reason people think I’m a quick thinker is because I prepare so extensively for every situation I can think of. I make it seem like I’m a quick-thinker, but really, a lot of thought goes into nearly everything I do. But this, this I was not expecting in any part of my imagination. I have to say, though, that for being put on the spot like that, I was impressed with the way I handled the situation.

  “Hey there...you,” I said, purposely not using her name so she would think I forgot it even though it was on her nametag. “I’m so glad someone’s here. I just ran over on my lunch break because I heard you guys do catering for large groups.”

  She gave a sly grin like she didn’t buy the story. “Yes, we do catering. You didn’t have to come in person though. We have the menu and prices on the website. You can order it online, too.”

  “Yes,” I said, thinking fast, “but this is kind of last minute so I wanted to do it in person. I’m in a jam and I need it this Thursday. Will that be possible?”

  “Of course. For how many people?”

  “Thirty,” I said quickly.

  Damnit! Why didn’t I say twenty?

  Almost $400 later, as I was walking back to Jake’s Jeep, the only positive thing I could think of was that this would make a really funny story someday. Oh, and that she’s not aging well.

  I got back into the Jeep and blasted the A/C. That incident was a serious blow to my self-worth, not to mention my dwindling bank account. My overall outlook on life took a major nose dive. I couldn’t continue to job search after suffering such a blow. Job applicants needed to be oozing with confidence, not pouting over a bad memory and a mean girl.

  I was starting to think moving back here had been a bad idea. I’d only been home two days and already these people and events from my past were trying to bring me down. What happened to the last ten years I’d spent maturing into a classy and confident woman? All it took was an old rival with bad hair and suddenly it was like I was back in high school again with a head filled with silly, childish insults. I mean, yes, her hair could use some serious professional help and that turquoise eye shadow didn’t work with her skin tone whatsoever, but that’s no reason for me to call her a stupid, ugly face. It was her personality that made her ugly, and if I stooped down to her level, I would be just as bad.

  In one of the classes I took in college, we discussed the problems criminals faced once they were released from prison after an extended period of time behind bars. I don’t remember the exact wording of this theory, but it was something about how their minds stopped maturing when they entered prison. If they went in at twenty and were released at forty, their minds were still mentally age twenty. They ended up socially inept and were unable to develop mature relationships with people their own age. This usually resulted in them returning to their lives of crime. Or looking like total pervs trying to date women twenty years younger.

  Now I wondered, was this similar to what happened to me? Was my marriage a prison? Am I now being released from incarceration with the maturity level and mental capacity of a twenty-two year old? Am I socially inept?

  I had a lot to think about. I needed to go somewhere where I could find some clarity and peace of mind and do some serious soul-searching, which is how I ended up sitting at the water fountain in the mall sipping on a frozen Coke. I know how bad sodas are but I wasn’t concerned with calories anymore. First, a brutal I-don’t-love-you announcement from my husband, followed by memories of several breakups from the past coming back to haunt me, all in a few days time. I was done. Over it. It wouldn’t bother me one bit if I got all bloated on soda, filled my closet with unshapely muumuus, grew a beard and adopted a dozen cats.

  Oh, speaking of the boyfriend…after Riley took Skank Queen to the Incubus concert I’d bought him tickets for, he was recruited by a Big Ten college hockey team and given a full athletic scholarship. He spent most of his freshman year on the bench as the back-up goaltender. Rumor had it he was destined to be the starter the following year once the current starter graduated, but the rumor never had a chance to turn into reality because he got in a car accident that summer and suffered a career-ending injury to his knee. I’m not proud to admit this, but Allison and I threw a killer party the night we found out. Karma had come back around and smacked Riley on the butt real good. Now I was starting to wonder if Miss Karma was after my ass, too, probably because we threw the party in the first place.

  I didn’t go to the mall to shop. I thought I could people-watch for a bit and maybe see some people who had it worse than I did to help put things into perspective. It was always easy to do that in New York where there were less fortunate people all over the place. But everyone looked pretty happy to be in a suburban shopping mall in the middle of a weekday. The teeny-boppers were giddy as they walked past me, proudly carrying tiny pink bags from Victoria’s Secret. These girls were like junior-high age. I know it’s off topic, but my daughters, if I ever have any, will NOT shop at Victoria’s Secret until they have graduated from high school!

  The couple who looked to be in their sixties looked pretty happy, too, as th
ey slowly walked hand in hand. Even the group of three middle-aged ladies in full-out exercise gear who were walking swinging-arms-style looked happy. Once the frozen drink started to make my teeth hurt, I was about to give up and go home. And then I saw a Sephora!

  This was the part of my movie where the clouds parted and suddenly there was light again.

  I just had to go in and try on some turquoise eye shadow to see if I could rock that color with my skin tone. It looked pretty good on me, and I really wanted to buy it, especially since there was a free gift with purchase. Ahhh, the free gift with purchase had gotten me so many times in the past. But I was supposed to be different now. I didn’t know who I was without Caleb just yet. I didn’t know who the Michigan Roxie would become or even if I wanted to be a Michigan Roxie at all. But I knew I couldn’t be the New York Roxie and only a New York Roxie would spend $20 on one eye shadow color.

  Then I remembered the Good Life List. One of the tasks was to go to a department store and create a divorce registry. I shrugged and headed towards Macy’s. It was as good a time as any.

  The young salesgirl looked seriously confused when I asked.

  “We have a wedding registry and a baby registry,” she told me. “But no divorce registry. I’ve never heard of such a thing.” She scrunched up her face like she thought a divorce registry was a bad idea.

  Oh, what do you know anyway? What are you, like fifteen? Wait until you’re in my shoes before you judge, you little bitch!

  She pointed me in the direction of the registry kiosk and told me to come back for a scanner when I was ready.

  I hit the wedding button on the screen since I wasn’t going to be registering for baby bottles and bibs. When it asked for the groom’s name I typed in Dick Microphallus at 123 Douchebag Avenue. I believe I just proved a theory – a person coming from a failed marriage really was like a newly released prisoner. I was now basically twenty-two again. Hmm, that might not be so bad!