by Deena Bright
“Listen, I don’t doubt that Kyle is a great guy,” she says, clacking on her keyboard. Sighing, she looks around her screen at me, and adds, “I’m just saying that after a year of being with someone… you should be using more intense words than ‘loyal’ and ‘fun.’ That’s all.”
“If you’re talking about ‘love,’ well of course I love him.” I counter, hating when the stupid L-word comes up in conversations. People throw that damn word around like a hot potato and make it seem like it’s nothing.
“Have you told him this?” she asks, bluntly.
“Of course not… it’s too soon,” I reply.
“A year is too soon? Okay… let’s suppose a year is too soon. How long do you think it takes to know whether or not you are in love with someone?”
“God, are you always this nosy and pushy?” I ask, hoping to change the subject.
“Yes,” she admits. “Now answer the question.”
“I don’t know how long it takes, because I’ve never… never… actually…”
“Been in love,” she states, smugly.
“So, you seem to think that since I wasn’t pierced immediately by Cupid’s love-struck arrow that I must not really love him. Right? Well newsflash: that’s not how it works Vivian,” I state, assuredly. “It takes time to fall in love. It’s not like it is in the movies. There’s no flash and zap of electricity and you just know it’s love.”
“Says the girl who’s never been in love,” Vivian says, getting up and tossing her cup in the trash. Walking up behind me, she leans over and whispers in my ear, “Let’s just say, I’ve got a pretty good sense of people… I can typically spot the signs of a woman in love… you’ve got none of them.”
“Well that was real nice,” I say, standing up and packing up my shit. “I didn’t realize that my Linguistics partner was an expert on love and relationships… and I certainly didn’t know she was a total bitch either.” Throwing my bag over my shoulder, I walk to the door and say, “Great session. Have a nice night… or date.”
Vivian blocks the door and closes her eyes. “Shit. Shit. Shit. This is precisely why I don’t have any female friends. I can’t keep my thoughts to myself, and my mouth shut. I’m sorry… I am. And you’re right. I’m such a bitch… but I don’t want to be a bitch to you. Let’s start over. I won’t pry into your relationship. It’s not my place. So, what do you say? Can we just sit down and work on the project?”
Staring at her, her features have completely transformed. She looks pained and vulnerable—nothing like I’ve ever seen her look before. Suddenly, I feel like I’m the one who should be apologizing for changing her entire demeanor. “Yeah, of course… I’m sorry. I do have a tendency to overreact… and I’m not real big on the whole ‘girl talk’ stuff.”
Sighing with relief, she says, “Oh thank God. I’d like for once to not have my big-ass mouth ruin a friendship for me.”
“Well, you do have a big ass mouth,” I agree, smiling. “But I could probably open mine a little more every now and then.”
“Well look at that… we’re bonding,” she says, sitting back down and flipping through her files. “We’ll be braiding hair and telling ghost stories in no time.”
To:[email protected]
From:[email protected]
Subject: Latest Update
Gwen,
School sucks. I’m sure you know that as well as I do though. You have no idea how badly I hate being surrounded by idiots. You would think that a college as hard to get into as JMU is that the place wouldn’t be inundated with a bunch of assholes whose brains are smaller than their sphincters. Yes, I just said sphincters. I can picture you cringing right now. The way your face scrunches up, but your nostrils flare. The scrunching is cute. The flared nostrils—not so much.
I talked to that Sarah chick that I was stalking on Facebook. She agreed to be my partner for that project. We seemed to get along well. After I shut my mouth and stopped offending her. You know me—NO FUCKING FILTER.
Oh, you would have loved my outfit last night. I totally channeled your fashionista side last night. I had a date after working on my project. It went okay. Yes, I slept in my own dorm… alone. I’m slowing down and trying to be less “active” as you say
Alright, I’m going down to dinner. Beef tips and noodles again. I’m going to get the cereal. Shocker! Please keep an eye on mom and dad for me.
Miss you! Love you!
V.
ONE OF THE hardest things about being at Kyle’s frat house is watching all the couples together. I feel like a voyeur most of the time, just watching and staring. They’ve all got to think I’m some kind of nutjob with an obsession. I envy their comfort, their openness—the way the girls can sit on guy’s laps, kiss their necks, rub their backs while 50 other people are in the room. I don’t have that kind of courage. I reserve the PDA for PDA (public displays of affection for private displays of affection). I believe physical contact should remain private, behind securely closed doors.
Bo-Bo and Lyla apparently have a different perspective on things—as do the other 20 paired off people, hanging around the common room. “Want to get out of here,” Kyle asks, nudging his nose into my hair.
I nod, really wanting to escape the visual orgy playing out in front of me. Kyle leads me to his room—a room he shares with two other fraternity brothers. There’s a dirty sock on the door handle that looks like the wearer might have stepped in some sort of gummy, sticky substance as well. “Looks like we need a different venue. Do you think Hannah’s home?” he asks, looking hopeful.
I raise an eyebrow, answering his question.
“Of course she is,” he says defeated, leaning his head against the doorframe of his room. “Does that chick ever leave your room?’
“Classes and meals,” I say, shaking my head. He knows that already though; he’s just frustrated.
Kyle’s eyes light up. “How about the roof?” he offers, smiling. Then he sprints down the hall and stops in another room, grabbing a twin mattress and some blankets. “First year… I can take what I want, and he can’t say a thing.”
Following him up the stairs, my heart warms at the sight of him carrying blankets and a twin mattress up the stairwell without complaining or difficulty. “I’m impressed,” I compliment, helping him on the last few steps and out the door.”
“You didn’t realize I had mad man skills, did you?” he boasts, letting the mattress fall onto the flat part of the roof.
“Oh I knew, I certainly knew,” I chuckle, flopping down on our makeshift bed under the stars. “This is pretty romantic for ‘spur of the moment,’ Mr. Mason.”
“Yeah, well I pull out the big guns when I haven’t seen or touched my woman in over a week,” Kyle says, lying down next to me. “Speaking of which, ummm, that week is over, right? I mean, you’re… you’re clear for takeoff?”
“And Mr. Smooth just became Mr. Lame,” I say, shaking my head. “If you’re asking if my period is over, then yes, Kyle, I’m done for another 28 days.”
“Oh thank God,” he sighs with relief. “I’ve been pretty excited to see you.”
“You usually are,” I joke, as he starts kissing my neck.
“You’re just so hot,” Kyle compliments, unbuttoning my shirt.
I’m fairly certain there is a book somewhere of phrases guys think they are supposed to say to a woman before, during, and after sex, because they believe those particular words are sexy or necessary. I hate when Kyle tells me that I’m “so hot.” The only time he even uses the word “hot” is before or during sex. I’m far from being hot. I know that. He knows that—everyone knows that. Typically, I believe words more along the lines of “cute” or “adorable” fit me more accurately. Being five foot two inches tall and 103 pounds with red hair and freckles, hot just doesn’t seem to cut it. Every time I hear him say it, I tune him out and plan out the following day. If he’s going to pretend, then I’m pretending too.
Kyle and my first boyfriend, Jake
, could pretty much be interchangeable. Kyle is a little better looking and more physically sculpted, but for the most part, I normally go for the same kind of guy each time. They’re nice, sweet boys, boys that you’d build forts with, wrestle in the backyard with, and catch lightning bugs with. The perfect best friend—and boyfriend. They’re fun and reliable, but more than that, they’re safe and comfortable. I like that. I don’t do risky.
Tugging on my nipple, he whispers, “Will you flip?” Without answering, I roll over. Kyle slides my underwear down, only freeing one of my legs.
“Can you throw a blanket over us—in case someone comes out?” I ask, feeling very exposed on my hands and knees outside on a roof, getting ready for my boyfriend to fuck me from behind.
After he covers us, he begins to press against my opening, slowly. I don’t really have a favorite position, but this one is up there on my list. I know that if he’s ramming me from behind that he’s hornier than Hell and that we’ll be done in no time flat. I like that—especially in this particular position and location.
“SARAH! LOOK!” KYLE points at the sky. “Did you see it?”
“See what?” I ask, barely able to keep my eyes open. We decided to spend the night on the roof, wrapped in blankets. More like, Kyle decided. I’m longing for my own bed, flannel pajamas, and remote control. But, he was pretty insistent and persuasive. He even made a fraternity pledge make us some hot chocolates. He’ll be the perfect husband and father someday.
“Open your eyes,” he says, running the back of his finger along my cheek. “You’re missing it.”
“Missing what?” I say, opening one eye.
“The meteor shower… it’s amazing,” he swoons, staring back up at the sky. Looking up, I’m stunned at the illuminations in the sky. It seems like a dream. What looks like falling stars are everywhere, bathing the night sky in streaks of flashes of light.
Sitting up and bringing the blanket with me, I say, “Kyle Richard Mason, you planned this all along—didn’t you?”
“Guilty,” he admits, sitting up next to me. “You get all freaked out when I try to be romantic or plan something with a little romance… so… I figured that…”
“That you’d trick me into it,” I finish. The smile splaying across his face says so many things—things I’m terrified to hear and know.
Kyle wraps me in his arms and pulls me back against his chest. “Just look at it Sarah. It’s beautiful.”
“You’re right… it is. I just wish you’ve would’ve been honest with me… this is incredible. I love sharing it with you,” I say, truthfully.
“Sometimes, I just don’t know how you’re going to react to this kind of stuff,” Kyle explains. “Most of the time you hit the road whenever I get too mushy.”
“A meteor shower? That’s not romantic. That’s science… we both know how much I love science,” I joke, snuggling back against him.
Kissing the top of my head, he says, “It is romantic, Sarah. It’s like a thousand shooting stars. Tonight, you can make 1000 wishes—they’re bound to come true.”
“Well then Mr. Starstruck, if you’re making 1000 wishes tonight… tell me the most important one you’re making.”
I feel his arms tighten around me. “Easy… that you will someday love me as half as much as I love you.”
To:[email protected]
From:[email protected]
Subject: LIVID
Gwen,
I’m so fucking pissed off. Can you even begin to believe that Jeremy is marrying that skank? Can you say, “Gold digging whore?” I know I can. What could he possibly even see in her? I will never consider her my sister. Fuck, I might not ever even call her my sister-in-law. I’ll just refer to her as “My Brother’s Trophy Wife.”
Next time I’m home for the weekend, I’m putting cyanide in her wine—God knows she drinks enough of it that I’ll have plenty of opportunities. Maybe I’ll just puncture her big fake boobs, and she’ll fly away like a popped balloon.
Oh and get this, Mom said that they’re doing a destination wedding… IN PARIS. (But you probably already know that!) Did you know that they said that guests have to pay our own way to freaking France? Well guess what, Jer? Your baby sister will be sitting this one out. I can’t believe he’s marrying her. I want to punch someone! Oh and… he told me everything over a text message. Dickhead.
Alright, I have to go. I need to meet Sarah to work on our Linguistics project.
Love you Gwen! Miss you!
V.
“IS SOMETHING WRONG?” I ask, not understanding Vivian’s surly mood. She came into the study room, dropped all her shit, and just started typing her portion of the abstract and analysis, not saying one word to me.
“Wrong? No, nuh-huh, not a thing. Everything is just peachy,” Vivian says, shaking her head, squinting her eyes in anger.
“Okay then, you just don’t seem—”
“Nothing wrong at all. I’m fucking thrilled as shit that my brother is marrying a trollop,” Vivian rants, surprising me. “Just what I always wanted… a sister-in-law that I loathe. How could anything be wrong? I’m as happy as pigs on shit.”
Laughing, I say, “I think it’s supposed to be ‘flies on shit,’ but hey, this is your rant. You can put whatever you want on a pile of shit… but I’d recommend you just throw the shit directly on your brother’s fiancée—it would probably be more satisfying.”
I don’t really peg Vivian as a weepy, come-comfort-me kind of woman. If I had to wager a guess, I’d say she’s more of a get mad/get even and bitch like crazy about it woman. So, I hope my response is taken lightly like I intended.
“Really? I’m talking about the Marx family crisis, and you start talking about shit and flies? Well, that’s just great. I was right about you all along,” she says, stuffing her computer into her Kate Spade laptop carrying case.
“Vivian, I didn’t mean to—”
“We’re far enough on this damn project, we can call it a night. Let’s go get shitfaced.” Walking to the door, she opens it and says, “You’re coming… no excuses. You’ve got a fake right?”
Scrambling to get my stuff together, I say, “Yeah, Kyle got me one when we first started dating.”
Apparently, you can’t date a fraternity boy without a fake I.D. Otherwise, you won’t get to see him until after all the bars close down and you meet up at some stale-smelling frat house with passed out people sprawled around everywhere. So, the guys typically convince legal-aged sorority chicks to give them one of their old driver’s licenses for their underage girlfriends, and you can officially consider yourself able to drink… and able to see your boyfriend in a public venue. It’s really very thoughtful and romantic. Not. But, it is nice to have one when I need it.
Whenever we go out, I’m no longer Sarah Sloane, but quickly become the quirky little “Lexie Adams,” instead. I’ve met Lexie before. She seems nice enough, and we do resemble each other, if you don’t account for eye color and breast size. Instead of going away for spring break her junior year, Lexie decided to enhance other elements of her appearance. She went a little too large, in my honest opinion, but if you ask any of the guys in Kyle’s fraternity, her tits are perfect. Men.
“YOU DON’T HAVE to be so right all the time,” Vivian pouts, downing her third beer. “I know I’ll go to the wedding. I know my parents will pay my way there… and I even know that I’ll pretend like I’m happy about it… but right now, I’m going to be pissed and act like a badass.”
“Sounds like a plan,” I say, stirring my vodka and cranberry. “I get it though. It does suck… who wants to welcome people into their family when you already hate ‘em?”
“Exactly… you’re so fucking lucky you’re an only child,” Vivian remarks. “You’ll never have to deal with this shit… or other shit that sucks.”
“That’s the first time I’ve ever heard that. Usually people feel badly for me for not having any brothers or sisters. Hell, I feel bad for me. I always wanted an old
er brother,” I admit, licking the droplets of my drink off my straw and putting it back in my cup. “Thought it would make things so much easier… someone as an ally against my parents.”
“What do you need an ally for? There’s no way you’ve ever done anything wrong,” she states, eyeing me suspiciously.
“True… but if I had a sibling, then we could get in trouble together… or he or she could take the fall for whatever I got blamed for,” I reply, chuckling.
“Oh yeah, that is true. The things I’ve blamed them for… shit… I’ll tell ya what too. They never once ratted me out,” she says, smiling. “Damn it, I’m going to have to do this for Jeremy… and for my parents. This sucks.”
“I’ll get us another round,” I say, standing on very wobbly legs. “On second thought… maybe you should.”
“Jesus Sarah, lightweight much?” she asks, hopping up and sashaying to the bar.
The bartender eyes her like a piece of meat, and she eats it up like a pro. Flipping her hair, she points over to me, pouts her lips, and bats her lashes at him. He leans over the bar, takes her hand in his, kisses it, and nods. Then, he scrolls something on a small beverage napkin and hands it to her. Vivian turns around, looks at me, and winks. When he hands her the drinks, I notice immediately that there’s never been any exchange of money.
“That bartender’s sorry that you walked in on your boyfriend with another dude,” she says, sitting down. “Here’s his number. He said to give him a call if you feel like getting back at your boyfriend.”
“What? Did you just pimp me out for free drinks?” I ask, incredulously.
“Uhhh no… I gave you a free bang and a free drink,” she states, sipping her beer. “You should be thanking me.”
“Hello? Have you forgotten about Kyle?” I ask, shaking my head. “I told you that whole story yesterday about how he wishes I’d love him as much as—”