Book Read Free

Dunkin and Donuts

Page 6

by Lyons, Daralyse


  “When you know, you know,” Marlene says simply. “Now, hand me a muffin. I’m starving.”

  I oblige, handing over a delicious coffeecake one with some sort of icing-like cream inside. Yum. “So, tell us about this girl.”

  “Well…We met on this paintball adventure. There’s a group that puts together activities for gays and lesbians. So a few friends and I decided what the hell? We signed up. So, yesterday, I played paintball and Desiree and I were the first ones to get killed so we got to talking. We just sat there chatting and laughing while the rest of our group played GI Jane. When it was time for the next round, Desiree and I were so intent on our conversation we could’ve cared less about some dumbass shoot ’em up game. Anyway, we bailed on the remainder of paintball, decided to grab lunch and… Well, I can’t actually stay for too long because I just dropped her off at her place to get dressed and we’re gonna go hang out downtown in a little while.” Marlene collapses theatrically on Brice’s couch. “The sexual chemistry is amazing. I’m exhausted.”

  “Have you rented the U-Haul yet?” Brice jokes. There’s an old adage that lesbians meet, start dating, and move in together right away. But, as far as I know, Marlene has never been a U-Haul lesbian.

  “Not yet…” she says cryptically. Maybe, she’s changed. Or maybe this Desiree really is someone special.

  “This is ridiculous.” Clearly, Dunkin doesn’t like the idea of his sister being swept off of her feet. “You should take your time, and get to know a person, before deciding that they’re right for you.”

  “Whatevs. We can’t all be as idiotic as you and Shayla.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Everyone and their mother knew you two were meant to be together ages before you admitted it to yourselves.”

  “We did,” Brice agrees. “You were clueless. It was sad, actually.”

  Dunkin groans, wraps an arm around me, and says, “Okay. I am officially butting out.”

  “Impossible.” Marlene rolls her eyes. “You couldn’t mind your own business if your life depended on it. But, I appreciate the sentiment.”

  True, Dunkin has always been protective of his sister. That’s one of the reasons I love him. Like Marlene, I highly doubt that he’ll be able to detach and refrain from micromanaging his sister’s love life. Still, it’s sweet of him to try.

  “Tell me more about these gay and lesbian activity groups,” Brice demands.

  “I didn’t know you were interested in activity groups,” I say, chewing thoughtfully on a pilfered bite of my boyfriend’s muffin.

  Brice looks at me, but declines to comment. Oops. As usual, I’ve put my foot in my mouth. I gather he’s interpreting my comment to mean that, since he’s such a big-boned fellow, he obviously wouldn’t be interested. I didn’t mean that at all. Brice gets winded walking up a flight of stairs and is bored by sports. I just didn’t think he’d be into some gay adventure group. But what do I know? Apparently, Dunkin isn’t the only one who needs to learn to butt out.

  “Sooo… Marlene,” he emphasizes her name, clarifying that his words are intended for her, and only her. “Details…?”

  “Sure,” Marlene absentmindedly fidgets with her eyebrow ring, winces, then runs her fingers through her short, spiky, recently died blue and purple streaked hair. “The group is great! I’ve done a few of their other events.”

  They make a beeline for Brice’s computer as he stuffs the last remnants of his second muffin into his mouth and grabs a third. Marlene is still nibbling on hers and, in fact, leaves a trail of crumbs in her wake on her way from the couch to the computer. The kindergarten teacher in me, as an automatic reflex, immediately trails after her, and picks up the crumbs she leaves behind. It’s a habit that’s difficult to break.

  Dunkin feigns disinterest from his recliner, but I have no shame about my own nosiness and so peer over Brice’s shoulder as Marlene navigates toward the Gay Play page where a series of gay male actors are engaged in a variety of activities—skiing, canoeing, jogging, climbing, and a number of other active things that presumably require a person to move. Brice doesn’t move. Still, the taste of foot in mouth residue from earlier discourages me from piping up as Brice registers for rollerblading in the park. I picture him in size thirteen rollerblades, knee pads, elbow pads, a helmet and spandex and bite back the urge to laugh.

  Chapter Seventeen

  As predicted, Brice is laying prostrate on his bed, ice stuffed between his legs, cursing (between moans) less than a week later.

  When he calls me, his voice sounds sheepish and pained. “I shouldn’t have tried to

  rollerblade,” he admits. “I pulled my groin.”

  “I thought the whole purpose of gay rollerblading was to try and get someone else to pull on your groin.”

  “Haha. Very funny. Seriously…It hurts.”

  Brice then proceeds to tell me the story of his gay rollerblading adventure—or, more accurately, misadventure. Apparently, he had decided that elbow and knee pads were uncool and that a helmet was beneath him and so arrived at the park with his rollerblades slung over his shoulder clad in—I kid you not—a pair of bicycle shorts and a Queen T-shirt. He did not consult with me before outfitting himself for his day with the boys. Also, he likely missed the episode of Modern Family where Mitchell tries to covertly get Cam out of his bicycle shorts—double entendre intended. Few men can pull off spandex and burly Brice is not one of those chosen few.

  But, I digress. Brice arrived at hunk central where a bunch of svelte, athletic men were stretching and laughing in their rollerblade gear. Feeling slightly out-of-place, but not wanting to let on, Brice flirted. He smiled. He preened. To hear him tell it, he was the life of the party for roughly ten minutes until it came time to actually rollerblade.

  Then, he put on his skates and realized his mistake. Brice is not especially athletic or coordinated. At 300 pounds, balancing his oversized body on a single strand of four, small, centered wheels was an accident waiting to happen. And happen it did.

  Surprisingly, he managed to stay upright and navigate the flat stretch of paved park terrain by wobbling and wriggling forward, inching his way around after his more practiced gay comrades, until a dog—albeit a tiny Chihuahua-looking thing—got loose from its leash and ran toward Brice, yapping and jumping.

  “Go away!” Brice snapped, teetering, but somehow managing to keep his balance.

  I’d have given anything to see my friend furiously waving his hands about while simultaneously maneuvering his substantial bulk and trying to keep his cool. Remember, he was a man on the prowl after all, only signing up for gay rollerblading in the hopes that he might meet someone. Unfortunately, I have to content myself with Brice’s recounting of the details since I can’t be there to see it firsthand.

  “Did you fall?” I ask. “Did the dog knock you down?”

  “No. I’m pretty proud of myself for managing to stay on my feet. I wasn’t exactly graceful, but I didn’t fall—at least, not then.”

  The dog’s owner had rushed over, scooped up the dog, and apologized as Brice skated slowly away. Crisis averted! And he was still vertical. Rounding the bend down the path after his group, Brice realized that the next leg of the skate was downhill and he hadn’t learned how to stop. Ever resourceful, my friend figured out a way to coast downhill a few inches then hop onto some adjacent grass to slow himself down before returning to the pavement to coast downhill some more then hop-stop onto some more grass. He continued on in this way for a while, managing to slow down his trajectory, and started to feel like he was getting the hang of things. Only, Brice failed to realize that, a little farther down the hill, the grassy area became bordered by a paved curb, a little lip of cement sticking up around the greenery.

  The next time he hopped up and jumped over, he misjudged the distance and the wheel of his rollerblade caug
ht on the paved lip sending his legs into a wild split as he collapsed onto the pavement, skinning his knees and buttocks and pulling his aforementioned groin.

  “Oh shit!” I say. “What did you do?”

  “I took off my skates, threw them over my shoulder, and limped back to my car in just my socks.”

  “Then what?”

  “I left.”

  “Without saying goodbye?”

  Evidently, even at thirty-one, even big kids, when they don’t like how the game is being played, will pack their toys and go home.

  “Will you come over and… ice my groin?”

  I laugh. “Sure thing. What are friends for?”

  And, while I refrain from saying so to him, when I hang up the phone, I can’t help but don a self-satisfied smirk and I say out loud to my empty apartment, “I told you so.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  “I’m thinking of having my boobs done.”

  “Who is this?”

  “Don’t be an idiot,” my mother says.

  I have no idea if she’s being serious about the boob thing. The woman is fifty-five and is still in amazing shape. My father looks at her as if she were Olivia Wilde. He’s so in love, and in lust, that it’s practically sickening. Once, when she and I went out for a drink, a couple of guys my age came over to the bar and hit on her (not me!). Vanity Ross is a knockout. She looks closer to thirty than fifty. The last thing the woman needs is a boob job. A lobotomy, maybe, but a boob job…?

  “Mom, your boobs are fine. Don’t be silly. Why are you even telling me this? Usually, I’m the last person you’d talk to about this stuff.”

  “Well, I want your opinion.”

  “I gave you my opinion,” I say somewhat petulantly. “Leave your boobs alone. You have a better figure than I do.”

  “Oh I know that dear. But, that’s beside the point. See, the doctor found a lump and it may be cancer and I was just kind of thinking that, maybe, I’d do what that Jolie woman did and have them take my boobs. You know…As a preventative measure.”

  “Wait. Rewind. You think you may have cancer?” I am starting to feel guilty for my earlier flippancy.

  “Everybody gets cancer eventually,” my mother says, dismissing my concerns. “Never mind. I’ll figure it out about the boob job myself. Besides, truth be told, I didn’t really call to talk to you about my breasts, sweetie. I called to tell you about your brothers.”

  “What about them? And, Mom, the possibility that you might have cancer is a big deal. We should talk about it.”

  “They’re getting married. Both of them. In a double wedding. I think the double wedding is a bit tacky, but you know how John and William are, always doing everything together.”

  My twin brothers are the center of my mother’s universe and, in her eyes, can do nothing wrong. I’m surprised she’s even admitting that the double-wedding idea is déclassé. Her adoration is insufferable. I bite my tongue to keep from asking her if John and William are marrying each other. In case you can’t tell, growing up in my brothers’ shadows left me with just the tiniest chip on my shoulder.

  “Good for them,” I say.

  “Yes, maybe, one day Dunkin will propose to you dear—assuming you don’t do anything to drive this one away.”

  “Mom, I love Dunkin. I’m not going to drive him away.” How did we circle back to the subject of me and my failed relationship history? The woman is diabolical.

  “We’ll see, dear,” she says. “That reminds me…Bring him over to the house on Sunday for brunch. I won’t take no for an answer.”

  And, before I can respond, she hangs up leaving the looming spectre of cancer in the air without even a thought about the fact that that might be an upsetting revelation for me, her daughter. That’s classic Vanity Ross.

  Chapter Nineteen

  “Wow, hon. That’s terrible!”

  I am in the living room ironing Dunkin’s shirts as he listens to me vent about my mother. The worst part about her dropping the c-bomb is that now I can’t yell at her. I can’t shake her and demand that she get quality medical care or tell her to stop being so superficial and deal with what may be a serious, life-threatening issue. What if she dies? I have to be nice to her. I have to pocket my pride and become the daughter she’s always wanted. I take a deep breath. I am trying not to catastrophize. Dunkin is a godsend, calming me down not only with his boyfriend conciliation but, also, his doctor expertise. He’s the only person I’ve told about what’s happening with my mom. When I called back to talk to her about it, she told me not to tell anyone.

  “Your dad and your brothers don’t need to know about this. They love me too much and they’ll worry.”

  “I love you too, Mom,” I pointed out. “I worry too.”

  “Nonsense. We’re women. We can handle these things. I only told you because, you know, it’s important for you to know about my medical history. Breast cancer has a genetic component to it, in addition to all the other risk factors.”

  “What about the boob job? Won’t Dad notice if they cut your boobs off and replace them with silicone ones?”

  She laughs. “I doubt it. No. I’m just kidding. If I do have cancer, I’ll tell your father. I just don’t want to worry him unnecessarily.”

  I tell her that I’ll drive her to her appointment in two weeks. I can’t believe they make a person wait two whole weeks for a biopsy! She thanks me and we disconnect.

  “What does your father say about all this?” Dunkin asks.

  “She hasn’t told him.”

  “How could she not tell him?”

  “Because she’s my mother and she thinks that a woman’s role is to protect her man from any possible knowledge about her that might make her any less attractive to him.”

  “That’s insane.”

  “She’s insane.” As I say this, I sniff the air. Is something burning? It smells like singed fabric. Dunkin and I look down at the same time as a cloud of smoke fills the air. It is emanating from the iron board where I have been ironing one of his favorite work shirts. The shirt is now—don’t be alarmed—slightly on fire. Shit! I throw some water on it then a towel over that and douse the iron-shaped burn mark on the back of my boyfriend’s shirt.

  “I’m late,” he says. “I’ll just throw a jacket on over it.”

  So I send my man off to work with a giant iron-shaped brown patch on his back and hope he doesn’t forget and take off his jacket at all during the day today. Clearly, Vanity and I are very different when it comes to our ideals around protecting our men.

  Chapter Twenty

  The Friday night before my family’s dreaded Sunday brunch, I agree to accompany Dunkin to a work party. We’ve had a seemingly endless stream of social engagements lately. I never realized that doctors were so in-demand. Most aren’t, I don’t think, but Dunkin’s practice is a lucrative one and his business partner is the king of all schmoozers which means that he gets invited to a lot of parties. Consequently, we get invited to a lot of parties. I’m not always the most adept at hobnobbing with the glitterati, as is evidenced by my earlier swinging faux pas, but I try.

  Tonight, Dunkin and I have agreed to play it straight. We’ve learned our lesson about playing tricks at parties. Sometimes, they backfire. Tonight’s party is being thrown by Antony Corbett, one of the practice’s wealthiest clients who lives in a penthouse apartment in Center City.

  “I never knew that physicians socialized with their patients.”

  “I try not to,” Dunkin says as we walk arm-in-arm, into the lobby. “This is sort of a necessary evil. This particular patient is a close personal friend of Scott’s and has gotten us a lot of connections that we wouldn’t have if not for Corbett. It’s sort of incestuous.”

  I kiss him on the cheek. “Speaking of incest…You look in
credibly handsome tonight.”

  “Um, thanks.” He chuckles. “Although you may not want to reference incest next time you come on to me.”

  I nuzzle against him and he smiles down at me seductively.

  “You look beautiful yourself,” Dunkin says, then shakes his head at me—never a good sign. “Shayla? Don’t take this the wrong way, but, is there something wrong with your shirt?”

  I look down and notice that, indeed, I have put my shirt on backwards. It looks ridiculous. I bought this slinky black, sequined number that, when worn correctly, shows off my figure nicely. Crap! Now, I’ll have to find a place where I can change inconspicuously. We’re already in the lobby and it’s too late to turn back now. The doorman greets us with a broad smile.

  “You must be here for the Corbett party,” he says.

  “Yes, that’s right,” Dunkin nods.

  “Far elevator on your left. It only makes one stop—at the penthouse.”

  “My shirt’s on backwards,” I hiss in Dunkin’s ear as he guides me toward the elevator. “I have to fix it before we go up there.”

  “Just turn it around on the ride up to the penthouse,” he whispers back. “No one will ever know.”

  Unfortunately for me, there are two breathless guests sprinting for the elevator after us. Damn. Just my luck. It would be rude not to hold the elevator for them considering the fact that the female member of the pair is brandishing her handkerchief at us and shouting, “Hold that elevator!”

  “Give me your coat,” I hiss at Dunkin who takes the hint and immediately wraps his coat around me so no one can see my fashion faux pas.

  Only, now, I won’t be able to change in the elevator and the minute we arrive at Antony’s apartment, they’ll offer to take my coat. Fuck.

 

‹ Prev