Friends and Other Liars

by Kaela Coble

  It was enough of a mistake the first time. I knew accepting those last screwdrivers Ally made was a bad idea. Once everyone had scattered off to bed, Murphy and I found ourselves alone, as we always find ourselves. Normally, we just play cards or, better yet, go to sleep, but the extra drink was what pushed us into that dangerous territory between reminiscing about the past and worrying about a future where everything will be different. The next thing I knew, we were kissing. And then we were more than kissing.

  He claims not to understand why it can’t be an ongoing thing. Of course he doesn’t understand—he’s a guy! And before that night, he was a virgin! Of course he’s going to want to keep having sex, the poor boy. But it cannot happen again. Not with me. Murphy is my best friend, nothing more.

  Granted, before last weekend, we did kiss on two occasions. One was on a particularly rough night, about three months after I lost my virginity to Hardy Crane, when I realized Hardy was never going to leave Brandy for me. Trust me, I know how disgusting that is, on all levels. Hardy is the most grotesque being on the face of this planet, and I’m convinced the only reason I was into him was because of what was going on with my parents. Plus, the therapist my parents forced me to go to when they got back together told me about this bonding chemical that gets released in girls’ brains when they have sex. It’s the same one that gets released when you breastfeed. For a girl who’s never experienced it before, the shrink says, it can be particularly overwhelming. So I blame that. Plus, I was drinking a little more in those days. Ironic, huh? While my mom was finally drying out?

  Anyway, one night after Hardy canceled plans on me for, like, the tenth time, Murphy literally shook me by my shoulders and told me Hardy loved Brandy, not me, and I needed to get over it because I deserved better than that scumbag anyway. I was in such pain, but so grateful for someone finally shaking me out of my trance that I kissed him. But it stopped there.

  The other was after Murphy got dumped by Charlotte Bicknell. She is a year older than us, and all the boys were completely infatuated with her (or rather, with her enormous boobs). I didn’t think Murphy even liked her all that much (at least above her chest), but he sat on my glider, crying. Actually crying tears. I had never seen him cry before. I’d heard him cry, over the phone, those first few months after what happened with Danny’s stepfather when we started talking to each other because we couldn’t talk to anyone else. But I’d never seen him do it in person, and I thought maybe he would want me to pretend like it wasn’t happening. But when I stood up and said I was going to go get him a glass of water, he caught my hand and pulled me onto his lap. He kissed me long enough that I forgot about the water. By the time he went home, he wasn’t crying anymore.

  Both times, we agreed it was a huge mistake, brought on by loneliness rather than any desire to be together. We didn’t want to ruin our friendship. So when we woke up the morning after we had sex, I assumed we would be on the same page. Instead, when I said we couldn’t do it again, Murphy seemed disappointed. He said he was thinking it should happen more. Well, of course he thought that. I mean, he is a guy.

  It’s not that the sex was bad. Not like I’m some expert, but it was miles better than the handful of times I was with Hardy. It turns out Ally’s right about sex being better when it’s with someone you care about. But that’s just it. Murphy and I care about each other, and bringing sex into the mix will just confuse things. I don’t want to lose my best friend just because we had a hormonal teenage moment after a couple drinks and a hit of Danny’s new supply.

  The worst part is, even though the exact details are kind of hazy, I can’t shake something Murphy said when we were lying together after it happened. I was trying to make light of the situation, so I said, “You see? It’s not such a big deal. I don’t know why you waited so long.”

  And then he said it. “I think I was waiting for you.”

  Shit.

  Well, maybe not. He could have just meant he was waiting for me because we’re friends, and he knew I would be nice even if he sucked at it. That’s probably what he meant.

  Right?

  As I walk into the shop I’m greeted by Shawna and Donna (yes, they rhyme), who are waltzing to Garth Brooks. The sight is funny all on its own, considering Shawna is five ten and robustly framed and Donna, the owner, barely clears Shawna’s elbow and would weigh about a hundred pounds soaking wet after a hot dog–eating contest. But the oddity is compounded by the fact that Donna is wearing a purple velvet monstrosity of a hat on her head, complete with rhinestones and fringe. I will excuse that the day’s Ugliest Drop-Off winner has been chosen without our normal voting ritual, because I can’t imagine anything could top this hideous thing.

  I lean against the doorframe, happy to be out of my head and overtaken by something silly. Donna tips her head back and, finally able to see, spots me. She breaks away from Shawna and shuffles toward me, her hand outstretched. I smile and take it, and she shuffles me back to Shawna and positions our hands together.

  “You need the practice, Ruby,” Donna says. “Prom will be here before you know it!” She steps back and waves her arms in the air like the conductor of a symphony as Shawna and I begin to sway, me stepping on Shawna’s toes every five or six counts.

  Crap. Prom! Of course Donna would remember. I think she and Shawna are more excited about it than I am. For months, every time I came to work, one of them thrust a formal wear magazine at me with the corners turned down on pages of dresses, hairstyles, and makeup they liked. Shawna ordered the dress I finally selected at cost from some retail connection she has, and she even spoke directly with Cecile, Murphy’s mom, to tell her what to order me for a corsage that would match it. I think Nancy is feeling a little resentful that she’s been boxed out of the process, which makes me feel guilty, and that leads to me feeling angry. Shawna stepped in last minute last year when she realized Nancy was out of commission and it was getting down to the wire. Excuse me for betting on a more reliable horse this time around.

  The radio changes to a more fast-paced Dixie Chicks song, and Shawna and I break apart. The three of us jump and shake our hips and twirl each other around. As always at work, I feel my burden lighten. With these ladies, Shawna in her early thirties and Donna well into her fifties, I feel my age, instead of the hundred years I feel compared to my friends.

  Halfway through a mock pirouette, I spot a customer standing in the doorway, looking hesitant to fully enter the shop.

  “Come, come, dear!” Donna says, and leads her into the store. “You don’t have to dance, but you must sing a tune for us!”

  The girl indulges Donna with a smile and laugh, but is clearly uncomfortable, and rightfully so. I recognize her as one of the giggling sophomores.

  “She’s kidding,” I say to her. “How can we help you?”

  “My mom sent me in to check if she has any money on her account.” At this, the dance party is over. Donna heads into the window to model her headgear, and Shawna starts straightening the rack of jeans nearby, still bopping and humming along with the music.

  “No problem, what’s her code?” We’re a consignment store, so people bring us their old clothes and we sell them, splitting the profit with the consigner. It’s up to the client to come in and check if we owe them any money, and we assign each an account code so we know the person checking the account is allowed to collect it. We’ve had a few cases where kids have tried to collect on their parents’ accounts in order to buy drugs. I know because I see them at Danny’s later.

  “77621,” she says.

  I circle around the cash-out counter to punch the code into the prehistoric Mac computer and get the hourglass symbol on the screen. “It’s just going to take a couple minutes to pull up.”

  She smiles. She has a nice smile. Kind eyes too. “No problem,” she says. “I’ve never been in here before, so I’ll look around. You guys have some cool stuff!”

 
“Absolutely. We actually just started taking summer stuff, and there’s a bunch of cute sundresses right over there if you want to check them out.”

  “Thanks, I will!”

  Shawna sidles up and plops down in the chair next to the computer. Just as Ally did earlier, Shawna notices me squinting toward the back of the store, lost in thought. She whistles and waves her hand in front of my face. “What’s with you?” she asks.

  “I think I might have found Murphy’s next girlfriend.”

  “Oh! You caught your reflection in the mirror, then?”

  “Oh, Shawna, give it up!” She’s been convinced Murphy and I are destined for each other since… Well, I’ve worked here for two years, and Murphy came in to take my lunch break with me my second week, so…one year, eleven months, and two weeks? When I mistakenly told her he and I had made a pact to go to senior prom together, our “fate was sealed,” according to her. I told her the only reason we decided to go together was because of our respective junior prom experiences.

  I went with Eddie Rodowski, who grabbed my ass about forty times before puking all over my dress. He went with Ramona Sturgess, who Emmett set him up with because she was rumored to be easy. She spent so much time complaining about her recent breakup with Jed Donaldson that Murphy deposited her at Jed’s feet and told them to work it out because he didn’t drop a hundred dollars on a tux to be a couples’ counselor. After that, we thought it would be best to go with each other so we could be ourselves and not have the huge romantic pressure that comes with prom. We have the best time with each other anyway.

  Even knowing all this, Shawna thinks we’re secretly in love. Just because she’s older than me, she thinks she knows everything.

  “You listen to me, Miss Ruby. Your generation might buy into the whole ‘men and women can be friends’ thing, but it’s a load of bull. Sooner or later, something is going to happen between the two of you, and when it does, you’re going to feel like a total idiot for waiting so long to see it.”

  I feel myself start to blush and get up to busy myself straightening the rack of yet-to-be-tagged clothes behind the computer. Once the sophomore girl leaves, I will stand on a stool and read the brand, size, and category of each garment to Shawna as she types them into the computer, and based on the condition and popularity of similar items in the store, we price it. Then we print the labels and tag the clothes before we put them out on the floor. I look forward to the repetitiveness of this process. It will help me focus on something other than what I’m focusing on right now, which is the memory of Murphy’s mouth on my neck.

  “You little hooker!” Shawna cries out. My eyes shoot over to the sophomore, who whips around to see the commotion, smiles, and then returns to browsing.

  “Shhh, Shawna, Jesus!” I whisper yell at her.

  She lowers to a whisper, but gestures emphatically at me to follow her to the dressing rooms on the other end of the store. I do, but only to avoid a louder scene. “Something already happened between you two, didn’t it?” she asks.

  “No,” I say, but I struggle to suppress a smile.

  “Hooker!” she whispers at me, swatting my arm.

  “Okay, okay! We…accidentally…had sex.”

  She shrieks and claps her hands, moving into a happy dance.

  “Stop it. Stop it!” I say, grabbing her arm to get her attention in the midst of what appears to be some kind of fit. “Listen, it didn’t mean anything, and it’s never going to happen again. So there goes your little theory right out the window.” I go to march back to the computer, and she stands in my way. I try to go around her, and she blocks me with one hand on my shoulder.

  “Ruby, you’re eighteen, and you’ve had a pretty fucked-up couple of years. I’m sorry if I’m the first to tell you this, but sex always means something. You and Murphy have something special, and you know it.”

  I think for a second, my eyes stinging. “Murphy and I do have something special. It’s called friendship. It’s one of the few things I’ve ever been able to count on, and that means more to me than any stupid sexual encounter. Now please, drop it.”

  She lets me pass this time, and when I get back to the counter, the sophomore girl is waiting. “Sorry for the wait,” I say, plastering a smile on my face as I circle back to the computer. “It looks like your mom has $43.31 on her account. Do you want to take those off that amount?” I point at the short stack of sundresses she’s laid on the counter.

  “No, I’ll pay for those myself. I wouldn’t want to do that without asking her,” she says.

  I smile. So she’s cute, she’s smiley, she’s a sophomore, she’s not a spoiled brat, and she’s cool with shopping for secondhand clothes. I like this girl.

  “You go to Chatwick High, right?” I ask as I open the cash register and count out her mother’s money. It’s a dumb question. Of course she goes to Chatwick High—it’s the only high school for twenty miles. She nods. “What’s your name?”

  “Taylor. Taylor Bishop.” She smiles and extends her hand to me. Bonus points for using her last name and shaking hands, unlike most people our age.

  “Taylor, I’m Ruby St. James. Tell me, do you happen to have a boyfriend?”

  8

  RUBY

  NOW

  I climb the stairs to Murphy’s apartment, all five flights of splintering wood attached haphazardly to the back of the apartment complex. The staircase has the appearance of a fire escape, but it is actually the main entrance to the apartments, one on each floor. From the street, the building gives the appearance of a single-family Victorian mini-mansion. Chatwick’s Main Street is lined with buildings like this—enormous, old, and audacious in color, with chipped paint and sunken front porches piled high with items to be included in next summer’s yard sale.

  I remember when I was little, imagining cavernous hallways and rooms filled to the brim with antique items little girls were normally not allowed to touch. It wasn’t until Murphy started taking me with him on his maintenance trips that I realized most of these buildings were sectioned off into depressing two-bedroom units his parents rented out. This one is the largest one.

  I hesitate on the landing before the final flight of stairs. What the hell am I doing here? This was not the plan. All day I threw myself into work, assuring myself I would not be coming here. Not only does Murphy’s arrogant summoning deserve to be rebuffed, but the more I interact with my old friends, Murphy in particular, the more likely it is that the secret I’ve worked so hard to bury will be resurrected. And yet here I am.

  What is wrong with me? This is ridiculous.

  I turn to go back down the stairs.

  “Someone there?” Murphy asks. I remain frozen midstep. Maybe if I don’t move, he’ll think he imagined the noise and just go back into his apartment. “Ruby, I can see the top of your head, dummy.” I look up and see him looking down at me through the wooden slats of the stairwell, waving. “Hi. Would you get up here already?”

  I concede, trapped.

  “What were you doing?” he asks as I get to the top of the stairs.

  “I wasn’t sure this was your place.”

  He nods slowly, his lips pursed. He’s not buying it.

  I stand on my tiptoes, peeking over his shoulder. He remains still, sizing me up. “So are you going to invite me in or not?” I finally ask.

  “I guess,” he says sarcastically, stepping back and waving me inside.

  “Jesus, Murphy, do you have to make everything so goddamn awkward?” I say as I move past him.

  “Me?” he says innocently. “I’m not the one creeping around on the stairwell!”

  “I told you, I—”

  “Wasn’t sure it was my place?” he mocks.

  “Yes.” I feel my face flush, so I don’t meet his eyes. Instead, I survey the place he calls home. It’s small by Chatwick standards but large for New York City�
�s, a typical bachelor pad complete with leather furniture and a neon beer sign over the kitchen sink. I’m surprised how tidy it is, remembering the state of his childhood bedroom. There is a distinct smell of Pine-Sol, and imagining him spending the day cleaning in preparation for my arrival is no small consolation for the vulnerable position I find myself in.

  Murphy shuts the door, and my heart races as if he’s slid closed the bars of a jail cell. It’s the first time I’ve been alone in a room with him since I was eighteen years old. Despite the flush of heat from my aerobic climb, I shudder, thinking of the last time I saw him before I left Chatwick.

  “Nice print,” I say, pointing my chin at the canvas hanging on the wall that’s farthest away from him. It’s not actually that nice; I just want an excuse to put some distance between us. It’s a generic painting of a little bistro with café tables and barrels of flowers in front. Two people face each other, their silhouettes blurry, sipping coffee. The colors are muted; the texture is flat. It looks like it was mass-produced for customers of Bed Bath & Beyond who need something to hang that goes with everything.

  “Thanks. Mom picked it out.” I glance at him, and he is half grinning. Is he smiling because he’s embarrassed his mother decorated his apartment, or because some other woman chose this for him? This Krystal person, perhaps? How ridiculous that I’m even putting this much thought into it. It shouldn’t matter to me. And it doesn’t.

  It doesn’t!

  “So,” I say, running my hand over a plush blue blanket flung on the back of his black leather couch and adding it to my mental evidence locker. “Now what?” Oh God. Did that sound like what I think it sounded like? I still can’t manage to meet his eye. If I do, it will be so much harder to pretend he’s just any other person.

  “I don’t know. You wanna go for a ride?”

  “Sure,” I say, thankful he didn’t respond in the pervy way he would have when I last knew him.