I’ve hungered for too long
For that one drop of honey
That has hung from that lonely branch
Waiting to fall
Onto my tongue
Into my mouth
Coating my throat
Until I can’t breathe anymore
But it’s okay
Because death tastes sweeter
Than the world without you
I cock my brow and read it over. Romantic, I guess. Definitely morbid. It will do for now.
With the writing coming to a close, the muse having left with the last tendrils of sleep, I get up and start making myself breakfast.
Scooby is beating me to it, at the stove and making French toast.
“Morning, mon frère,” Scooby says to me, flipping the toast over in the pan. “Care for some French toast?”
“Bien sur,” I tell him, grabbing a cup of coffee and sitting down at the kitchen table.
“I didn’t know you spoke French,” he says.
“Just a little,” I tell him. “When I went to university in Berlin I picked up some German too.”
“You really are a man of the world aren’t you?”
I shrug. “I wouldn’t go that far. I live here, after all.”
“Yeah but LA is like the world of America.”
“I think New York is the world of America.”
“Did you know that LA is built on top of the third largest oil field in the country?” he says to me. “In the twenties, it produced a quarter of the world’s oil.”
I grin against the rim of the coffee mug. “I fear what would happen if you and Marina ever sat down and had a real conversation with each other.”
“You think we would be a good match, huh?” he asks, glancing at me over his shoulder with a twinkle in his bug eyes.
“Only in the fact that you both love your stupid facts.”
“Well sign me up, mon frère. She into short guys who ride bikes?”
I actually have to think about that for a moment. Even though we’re two fake dates in, I have no clue what Marina’s type is. I probably should ask her even though it could sting a bit if her answer is the opposite of me.
“I’m not sure,” I tell him.
“If she is, she’s in for a real treat. Tell her I’ll make French toast for her every morning. She’s into bees, right? Bet some of her honey will go down real well on this. It’s probably extra sweet.”
I can’t tell if he’s trying to be clever with innuendo or not.
“I always thought that maybe I’d be stepping on your turf,” he adds thoughtfully.
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know. Like she’s always been yours, you know.”
“She’s my friend.”
“I know. You never hold back from telling me that. I think Lazarus doth protest too much.”
“And I think Scooby doth fallen off his bike a few too many times.”
“That’s not how you use doth.” He waves his spatula at me.
“You think I don’t know? Anyway, we are friends and no she doesn’t belong to me. She isn’t mine.”
“It bothers you, though. I mean, you don’t seem like an alpha but I bet if you had the chance, you’d totally be claiming her.”
I exhale noisily and press my fingers into the table. “What are you going on about now? Alpha what?”
“You want to stick your dick in her.” He looks at me with a big grin. “It’s obvious, dude.”
“I do not…” I start but there’s no point in lying now, is there. “How is it obvious?” It’s not obvious. I’ve been very careful about that in case Marina got the wrong idea. Also, I’ve always had a girlfriend, which made hiding my attraction to her even more imperative.
He shrugs and gets plates out of the cupboard. “You look at her in a certain way.”
“Yes. As a friend.”
He snorts. “You do not look at me that way. And for that matter, you haven’t looked at any of your girlfriends that way either.”
I frown, feeling more confused than ever. Scooby is strangely astute for someone who is always high but I still don’t know what exactly he’s talking about.
“How do I look at them? How do I look at her?”
“Not that you asked,” he says as he slides the toast on the plate and nudges it toward me, “but you look at me like I’m the coolest man you’ve ever come across and your mind is blown daily by my infinite wisdom.”
I burst out laughing. “Okay, man. How high are you right now?”
He ignores that, passing me a fork, and then sits down across from me. “You look at your girlfriends like…sort of like they’re science experiments.”
“Science experiments?” I repeat through a mouthful of toast, then start coughing from the powdered sugar going up my nose.
“Yeah. Like, let’s take that last one. Simone, right? You were very analytical with her. Observant. Curious. You know, like you’re doing math in your head. You know that popular meme of the blonde lady trying to do math? That’s you”
“So I looked confused? Do I look like I’m doing math in my head right now, because I am mad confused.”
“Okay so I take it that you’re not good at math. My bad. I should have figured since you’re one of them creatives and all. Okay, so you looked at them like you were thinking all the time, trying to figure them out. You were never relaxed. You were always on.”
I mull that over. Maybe Scooby is right. Looking back over everyone I dated, I can’t remember a single moment I was relaxed. Maybe during sex but even right afterward, I didn’t feel that peace that I should have felt. That comfort I should have had with the girls I had been dating for a long time. In hindsight, it’s like they never stopped being strangers to me.
“And with the hot blonde beekeeper,” he says, stabbing a piece of toast and letting it hang off the end of his fork as he thinks, “you look at her like I look at this French toast.” He brings the toast right in front of his eyes as his face contorts into a mix of…hell, I don’t know what that is. He definitely looks hungry and yet sad about it at the same time.
“Constipated?” I guess.
“That will happen later.”
I grimace.
“But what I’m trying to convey is that you both want her and hate yourself for wanting her. You’re both longing and lusting.” He sighs dramatically. “I guess all those acting classes I did haven’t really paid off.”
“That’s because you took acting classes across the street,” I say, pointing out the window at the building where M Street Coffee is housed. Sure enough, on the other side of the building is the office of Alan M. Feinstein who taught Scooby a really bizarre version of method acting for a few weeks last year. Every time he came home from class he was limping. I’m still not sure what went on in there.
“Don’t change the subject,” he says. “You wanted to know what I thought, well there you have it. Marina is the dessert that you want but can’t have because you either think you don’t deserve it or you’re worried about the calories because you haven’t been going to the gym as much lately.”
“All right, mate, you’ve lost me now.”
“It will make sense at some point,” he says. “Helps if you’re high. Speaking of, want to go out tonight? I feel like getting outside, going to a bar, and all this talk about women makes me think I’m due for one. Or at least due for a rejection by one. Any interaction is fine by me.”
“Can’t,” I tell him. “I have a…thing. Rain check?”
He raises a brow. “I’ll hold you to that.”
With all the mad talk about Marina being dessert I’m not about to tell Scooby that tonight is date number three.
But even though I don’t mention it, it doesn’t mean it’s not eating me up inside. I can’t remember the last time I’ve been this nervous over a woman before and we’re not even dating for real.
Because you’re afraid of what this means. Because a kiss is just a kiss until it means m
ore. Honey coating your throat until you can’t breathe.
I shake it out of me. I put on some music, Deftones’ “Beauty School,” and get ready.
Tonight I’m taking Marina out for dinner to Mr. Chow in Beverly Hills. I used Daryl’s connections to get me a table because otherwise I would have no chance in hell. It’s mad posh, pricey and very exclusive.
And Marina has no idea. I know our original “plan” was to have some space between our “dates” but this was the only night that we could get. Luckily Marina didn’t object.
I slip on a white shirt, slim-fitting black suit, no tie, switching for a sleeker pair of moto boots, take out my eyebrow ring and try to tame my hair. I shave my face, getting rid of the semi-beard I always seem to have.
When I’m done, I’m fairly satisfied with the result. I’m not a bum by any means and take pride in my appearance, but it isn’t often I go out of my way to dress up. It’s certainly better than the bloody bee suit of yesterday.
“Heading out,” I tell Scooby, grabbing the car keys from the hook and then leave the apartment before he can comment on the way I look.
Eight minutes later, I’m parked outside of Marina’s house and like clockwork, Miss Havisham is peering at me through the blinds. One of these days I’m going to march right up to her door and say hello, but tonight is not one of those days.
I walk through the gate at the side of the house and go around the pool, lit up by tiny lanterns at night even though it’s never not covered in a layer of leaves. Obviously neither Marina nor Miss Havisham use it.
I take in a deep breath outside of Marina’s front door, my pulse quickening in my throat.
Take it easy, I tell myself. There’s nothing to be nervous about, it’s just Marina. Your blonde bestie. The crazy bee lady.
I knock.
I wait.
I wonder if I should kiss her hello. Should it be on the cheek? On the lips?
I’m afraid if I kiss her on the lips, we might start stumbling backward into her studio.
Dinner reservations cancelled.
Damn shame.
I knock again.
I still don’t hear anything.
I knock again. “Marina?”
Then here a loud exaggerated groan.
Bloody hell. This isn’t a good sign.
The door swings open.
Marina stares at me in such a way that I’m afraid she’s forgotten about tonight. She had texted me back and said yes this morning, didn’t she?
But then I notice how gorgeous she looks. Her blonde hair is piled high on her head, she has sparkling earrings on and what looks like a short, deep-purple dress with a low neckline. Those black heels she had problems with on our first date are on her feet, making her shapely legs look fantastic.
I realize I’ve been staring at her body like a creep so I smile at her and say, “You look very, very beautiful.” I point at her somber face. “Except for this. What’s all this? And by this, I mean why do you look like you want to kill me?”
She closes her eyes, shakes her head, pressing her knuckles into her forehead. “Sorry. I just had a really…my aunt called me about my dad. I’m in a mood now.”
Ah shit. “Do you want to cancel? We can stay in and watch Netflix instead. Unless you want to be alone, of course.”
Please don’t tell me you want to be alone. Please tell me you need me.
“No,” she says quickly. “We’re going out. I’ll get over it.”
“Want to talk about it?”
“Maybe later. Hold on.” She disappears back inside and grabs her clutch purse, then comes out and locks the door behind her. The outside light catches the glow of her dress and I reach out and touch the material.
“What is this, velvet?” I want to run my hands all over her fucking body and never stop.
“I know, it’s material you’d wear around Christmas, not summer,” she says, running her fingers over the bodice. Naturally I’m staring at her very full breasts that are very much on display. “But it fits and I think it’s flattering. Isn’t it?”
She glances up at me through darkened lashes and completely catches me ogling her. “Sorry, I didn’t hear you,” I tell her. “I was staring at your very lovely breasts.”
She laughs. “Well, I was sort of pointing at them wasn’t I.”
Now I’m faced with the dilemma of if I should kiss her or not.
Fucking man up and do it.
But she takes my arm in hers and starts walking off, leading me to the car. “Come on, we don’t want to be late. I have a feeling Mr. Chow is one of those restaurants that has goons who will grab us by the collars and literally hoist us out onto the streets.”
“You look nice, by the way,” she says later when we’re in the car and zooming down the 405 toward Beverly Hills, traffic light for once. “It’s kind of odd to see you in a suit. And to see your face.”
“My face?”
“You’ve got one hell of a jaw, you know that?”
“Should I shave more often then?” I ask, glancing at myself in the rearview mirror.
“Shave, don’t shave, scruffy, not scruffy. I like every single version of you.”
I wait for her to yammer on awkwardly as she sometimes does when she thinks she’s paid me too much of a compliment. But she doesn’t add to that.
I glance at her and her attention is out the window, watching the passing cars. Something in the car is changing, the space and air between us. There never used to be tension and now it feels thick enough to choke you. I can’t tell if it’s just that we’re going somewhere fancy, if it’s the infamous third date, or that I can still feel her lips crushed against mine, taste how sweet she is. Or maybe it’s all those reasons combined.
Whatever it is, it’s big and tangible and very real. I’m not sure how to deal with it and what it means but I know what Marina means to me.
“So what did your aunt say?” I ask.
She sighs, slipping further down in her seat as if she can hide from the question. “I wouldn’t talk about this on the third date with anyone, that’s for sure.”
“Well I don’t even talk about my own father with any of my girlfriends, so believe me, I get it.”
She glances at me thoughtfully. “Really? What do you say?”
I shrug half-heartedly. “Not much. I say my parents split and my mother remarried.”
“They never ask about your dad?”
“No…I never…it just didn’t come up. I’m not known for my deep conversations. They’d always badger me about that. ‘Why don’t you talk more, you never open up.’ Blah, blah blah.”
“But how can you get to really know anyone if you don’t open up?”
“You can’t.” I give her a pointed look. “You don’t.”
She nods slowly, chewing on her lip, getting it. All the girlfriends I’ve had, no matter how long I was with them, it never progressed to anything deep because I never let them see any deep parts of me. They got my poetry and that’s about it. Everything else was surface. It’s just easier that way.
Really, there’s no mystery to why I’m bad at love. Most of the time, I don’t even think I want it. I might not even deserve it.
“Then let me say, I’m kind of honored that you share that stuff with me,” she says, her eyes fixed on me with a wane kind of hopefulness. “And I hope you know I want to hear more. I know you still keep a lot of things to yourself and I totally get it but…I want to know everything, Laz, even the things you think would scare me.”
No, you don’t.
“Anyway,” she says softly, examining her nails under the wavering freeway lights. “My dad’s on another bender. He was doing so well, as you know. The last couple of times I’ve been to his house, he’s looked great. The house was free of booze, it was actually clean, the cat was fat and happy. I know I…” she trails off and when I steal another glance of her, tears are welling up in her eyes. “I shouldn’t get my hopes up about these things and I’ve been throu
gh it so many times, I just…”
I reach out and take her hand, squeezing it, rubbing my thumb along her soft skin. God, if I could take her pain from her. “There’s nothing wrong with having hope, Marina. It’s natural. It’s…needed.”
“Yeah, well,” she says, wiping her tears away with her other hand. “I have hope and he just lets me down again. I know it has nothing to do with me, I know that it’s not about him not loving me enough to stop. I mean, fuck. He killed my mother, Laz. He killed his wife. I know it wasn’t on purpose but don’t you think that would be e-fucking-nough to quit drinking forever?” She takes in a deep, shaking breath.
Fuck, I wish I wasn’t driving right now, that I could just pull the car over to the shoulder and bring her into my arms.
“So she calls me,” she goes on when she’s calmed a bit, “just before you came to get me. And she tells me that it’s my turn and my responsibility to take care of him again and I can’t. I can’t Laz, I just can’t. I know that makes me a terrible fucking daughter but I’m still so angry at him. For everything. It’s not getting better, every day it gets worse for the both of us. I feel like I’m…I’m drowning and there’s no one to save me. I can’t even save myself.”
“Your dad…” I start to say, then change my mind. “First of all, your aunt shouldn’t be calling you like this. If she can help out, she should and not involve you in every step of the way.”
“But she’s my mother’s sister, so obviously she’s harboring a lot of resentment too. And what is she going to do? Someone has to take care of him when he’s like this. He can’t do it by himself. He’s drinking himself to death. He won’t feed the cat. He won’t eat. He won’t clean. I…” She closes her eyes and takes in long deep breaths through her nose. I know she does this when she’s trying to ward off a panic attack. I don’t say a word, I just keep holding her hand. I want to ask again if I should turn the car around and head back but I think that will only make her feel guilty.
Finally, she opens her eyes again and looks at me. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. I asked.”
“I know. But you don’t want to hear my sob story, especially before a date.”
“You know I’ll hear all your sob stories, anytime, anywhere.”
Take Me To The Beach Page 37