Better Late Than Never

by Ghiselle St. James

  “Well then…” Kyle brushes invisible lint from his pants and walks to the window, climbing out.

  “Wait, that’s it? You’re just gonna leave?” I demand, following behind him.

  “Yup,” he answers, curt. He climbs through the window and I stop him.

  “Seriously, Kyle?” I hiss at him. “Now you’re mad at me?”

  I pictured this going differently in my mind. Kyle was supposed to demand that I not go out with Grayson because he wasn’t finished with me. Then he was supposed to throw me down on the bed and have his wicked way with me. Well, my red visitor would have derailed those plans, but then, in all of that, he was supposed to realize that he’s been in love with me all along. And then we were supposed to live happily ever after with lots more sex thrown somewhere in there.

  That’s the outcome I want. How do we get back there?

  “Me? I’m not mad,” he dismisses before stepping onto the large branch that leads to my bedroom window.

  “You are unbelievable,” I accuse. “You’re all over Becky yesterday, sent me a lame text for my birthday…” I hedge, coming up short with the list of things that have made him a horrible friend. Dammit!

  Frustrated, I continue, “Not to mention…you’re all over Becky seven days a week! We shared something intense just now and you won’t even stick around to talk about it.”

  “What’s there to talk about?” he challenges. “It was a mistake, right?”

  Unbelievable! Fucking unbelievable!

  I picture myself pushing him the rest of the way down and his neck snapping. And then I picture me taking my very first mug shot and the orange jumpsuit I’d have to wear for the twenty-five to life manslaughter charge…

  Yeah, I wouldn’t look very good in orange. My purple hair would clash with it.

  But my so-called best friend is not through. “Let’s hope he doesn’t put the notch in his bed post too high for you to see,” he delivers with finality, cracking my heart wide open.

  “You’re an asshole, Kyle Moxam,” I say, my voice choked with hurt feelings. “And I hope he does put me on his bedpost. Up against it.”

  Kyle’s eyes bulge comically, and he stares at me like I might have grown two heads and bitten his dick off. Maybe I have – grown two heads, that is – because I follow through on my earlier thoughts and shove him so hard that he loses his balance on the branch, slips and then falls…the hard limb hitting him between the legs.

  I wince, almost reaching out to help him when he grabs his crotch in agony, but he can go fuck a duck. Slamming my window shut, I angrily get ready for my non-date with Grayson. But even as I ride next to him to the paintball field, all I can seem to think about, all I feel is Kyle – his lips on mine, his hands on me.

  He was an asshole to me and yet he still consumes my every thought. Now that is some bullshit.

  Kyle – Past

  As I palm my aching crotch from where the thick branch of Savi’s oak tree hit me when she shoved me, I can’t help but think that I deserved this somehow.

  We kissed! Finally! And then I ruined it.

  I had snuck into her bedroom early this morning to drop off her birthday present. That was all I was supposed to do. But when I saw her sleeping – how beautiful she looked – I had to stay, needed to stay. Besides, I had some explaining to do. I hadn’t given her shit for a birthday gift because I was too caught up in Becky and too jealous of Grayson.

  So, I stuck around, sitting on her futon waiting for her to get up. Then I fell asleep, only to be awakened by a very pissed off…and hot, Savannah. She was wearing tiny sleep shorts and a tank top that showed off all the parts she kept hidden under cute dresses.

  All the parts I ached to see.

  My head was spinning from being so close to her, and when she started staring at my dick – already hard from it being morning and all – I couldn’t help myself. So, I touched her, and it was almost too much to bear. When we kissed, it felt like the stars aligned and the Universe cheered. The rightness of our lips molded together hung heavy around us, and then we just fell. Into the moment, into each other, into passion.

  I don’t know how far it would have gotten; don’t know if I had touched her between the legs like I’d wanted to, if she would have stopped me. But we did stop and not because either of us wanted to.

  Grayson.

  He’s been everywhere she is lately. I don’t know what his game is, but it feels like he’s winning. Out of anger – and a whole lot of jealousy – I said some things that I never should have said.

  Maybe I should have demanded that she not go out with him, that we take the time to explore what had just happened. Maybe I should’ve told her the truth about Becky and me – that we were over. Maybe I should have invited myself on their little date, ruin his plans the way he’s been raining on my parade. But I did none of that. Instead, I fucking broke her heart.

  I saw the moment it happened, too; saw the light die in her eyes as my words destroyed her hope and her feelings for me.

  So, as I hobble my wounded-dick ass to my car, I know I have a fucking lot more to make up for, and I can’t help but blame my fucking cousin, Grayson. We have been at each other ever since we were twelve and Connie Deacons chose me for the school dance over him. Believe it or not, he was a good guy back then, class nerd and all. After that day, he ditched the glasses and took out his braces. He’s been a bad boy ever since, the kind that girls around here drop their panties for whether they intend to or not. And, as of right now…

  A stupid ruiner of dreams.

  Fuck this guy.

  Chapter Five – Is This the End?

  Savi – Present

  BESTIE BOYD IS looking at me with more pity than he would a stripper who made no tips on a night full of perverts with fat wallets. I don’t blame him.

  “Is it stupid that I felt hopeful as you told that story, even though I know you guys don’t end up together?” he asks, reaching out a sympathetic hand to mine.

  I feel the tears edge my eyes; the same hopeless, broken-hearted feeling from thirteen years ago returning. I blink them back quickly, holding on to what pride I have left. Seeing as I am two sheets to the wind and will definitely fall on my ass if I ever get up from this stool, I would say I’ve got very little pride remaining.

  I swivel on my bar stool, facing the television. The attack on Pearl Harbor was a devastating event. So many lives lost, so many hurt. I wonder if the Japanese soldiers knew that this would be the outcome, if they would have sacrificed what they had. Or was it out of love that they willingly gave up their lives as a requirement for trying to win the war?

  To win often demands sacrifice.

  And isn’t my love life one sacrifice after another?

  “Did anybody ever have your attention the way that Kyle guy did?” Boyd asks, regaining my attention.

  I swivel back around to face him and misjudge it entirely. One minute I am reaching for the bar counter and the next I am doing a three-sixty and my face is meeting the plush carpet of the ground. I am assuming this was a safety measure instituted by the owner because he is a Psychic who knew my klutzy ass would waltz into his bar one night, all sorry for myself, and drink myself into a stupor and face plant at some point or another.

  Or maybe my guardian angel put down the bottle long enough to save my ass.

  “Safety feature,” I hear Boyd say as he squats down to my level of shame. “I had a feeling that a few of my customers would be face-planting in here, so I installed the plush carpets to make the hit less painful.”

  I did not realize that he owned the place. Smart, I think as I lay there. At least the carpet smells nice down here.

  Bestie Boyd extends his hand and I take it, grimacing as I look around the bar to see the patrons staring at me. Heat grabs at the skin of my neck and squeezes and I pull my hand back wanting to disappear. I underestimate the grip Boyd has on me, so by yanking my arm back, I drag him into me. His head knocks into mine and I almost see stars…until I
grab my forehead and try to scramble away from Boyd, effectively hitting my head into the counter.

  Now that makes me see stars.

  I groan, embarrassment taking me on a wild ride of regrets, when one of the patrons comes over and helps us both up. The man, who seems to be in his late forties maybe early fifties, with graying hair, looks at me with disgust. As if both of us aren’t in a bar together, making bad decisions.

  “Hey, buddy, I know I saw you order tequila and regrets more than five times tonight,” I snap at Mr. Judgey when I am standing upright, albeit a little wobbly.

  Bestie Boyd snickers at that and Mr. Judgey Pants has the decency to look chastened, but I am not through. On a roll, I continue, “So don’t go looking at me with your “I’m-better-than-you” eyes when you’ve been ordering enough liquid courage to make scoring with the transvestite you’re seated with a campaign example on the dangers of drinking.”

  I’m surprised the man hasn’t punched me in the tit. I would deserve it.

  Gasping, the man reddens, whether out of anger or shame, I don’t know. Don’t care. I turn away from him, already done with the conversation.

  He started it.

  After a few long seconds, I finally plant my ass back onto my stool and Boyd makes it back around the bar. The man must have walked away because I see Boyd stare in the direction of where the man came from and then burst into a fit of laughter.

  “He’s leaving!” he announces in between laughs.

  I turn – successfully this time – to see Judge Moody gather up his date who is wearing impossibly high heels, a skintight red dress with her dick bulging out, a jet-black wig on her head, flawless makeup, and a black scarf to cover her Adam’s apple. Something about the transvestite reminds me of Kyle’s ex-girlfriend from college and I hate that I’m even thinking about her right now.

  What would Claire be doing here anyway?

  I dismiss the thought, shaking my alcohol-addled head. “Holy shit, even the transvestite has better style than I do,” I lament, staring after the two. “She’s a dude and even she’s getting laid tonight!”

  Bestie Boyd starts laughing all over again and I take my time in facing him once more, not wanting a repeat of a few minutes ago.

  “Not helping, bucko,” I deadpan.

  Boyd holds his hands up in mock defeat and has the decency to look forty percent chastened. Forty, only because I can see that the asshole is trying to keep himself from laughing.

  Prick.

  I think about his question, though, surprised I even remember it beyond the alcohol settled in my head like a swimming pool, and I sigh. Tears build along the seat of my eyes, taking their rest there. Because, if I’m honest with myself, no one had ever captured my attention the way Kyle did. Not saying they haven’t tried.

  Hello? Still single!

  Savi – Past

  My non-date with Grayson was what I needed after the morning I’d had. He didn’t ask me why I was so sulky, or bitched when I slammed his door with a little too much force, nor did he balk when I screamed at the old lady who took too long to start driving at the green light with more road rage than a meathead on steroids in bumper-to-bumper traffic. He did laugh, though, when the old bird flipped me the finger and yelled profanities at me that no crypt-keeping biddy should.

  I liked her.

  We laughed. We played. We shot little kids – no mercy. We got shot – no sympathies from those little brats. We pigged out on corn dogs and pizza. We drove dirt bikes – well, I fell off mine. We talked as if we had known each other for years, and in some moments, we didn’t even talk and that was good, too. The important thing was that I didn’t have time to think about Kyle.

  However, being home now, he is all I can think about, and girlie’s not dealing. Like, at all.

  I have typed and deleted dozens of texts in the hour that I’ve been home. My bedroom is littered with paper; letters I’ve started and stopped. Frustration and loss are eating away at me like a parasite feeding on me from the inside out. I want to find him and punch him in the gonads. But another, irrational, part of me, wants to find him and pick up where we left off. The other, sane, part of me knows better than to try to contact him at all because it knows that I’d drop trou’ regardless.

  I am defenseless against that boy.

  That night, I endure a fitful sleep. Charged with bursts of remembered reels of what happened between us this morning, my best friend plagued my dreams. Somewhere between sleep and wakefulness, I hear my cell phone ping with a message. Blinking my eyes open, I stare at the ceiling, my breaths coming in hard and fast. I’m achingly aware of my hard nipples and groan when a thumping sensation awakens between my thighs.

  I can still feel his hands on me. The dream seemed so real. Yet, as my eyes drift to the futon he was snoring on only this morning, all I see is the space he should occupy. A hollow feeling in my chest has me losing my breath. I don’t want to lose him. I can’t. The thought alone has me dying inside. He’s my best friend, and although what I feel for him surpasses friendship, I’m willing to sacrifice my love for him to keep him in my life.

  Snatching up my cell phone from the nightstand, my heart rate doubles as I read his text:

  Is this the end?

  Is this the end?

  On Monday morning, I try to go through the motions at school. Kyle and I have yet to talk about what happened between us but far be it from me to break first. So, here I am, trying to go a full day without my best friend. It is achingly noticeable that Kyle isn’t here; almost as if I’ve lost my suit of armor. With him by my side, I was accepted. With him in my corner, I was able to navigate people and their emotions and the unwanted attention I received on account of my oddball style and my give-no-fucks persona.

  I keep my head down throughout the classes we would have shared, attempting to blend in with the wall and not draw attention to myself; but it is pretty difficult to do so now in my English Lit class. It is my favorite class aside from Art, taught by one of my favorite teachers.

  “What was Shakespeare saying when he said “to thine own self be true”?” Miss Bellamy asks the class. We are discussing Hamlet, one of my favorite Shakespearean plays.

  She waits a few seconds, her eyes settling on me. Her brows furrow as she realizes that I am not going to answer, before flitting around the rest of the class. I am itching to give my answer – and she knows it, too. Shakespeare is the bomb dot com, period.

  “Ah, Sarah-Sue,” Miss Bellamy acknowledges. “You’ve got an answer. Shocking.” Her smirk tells a sarcastic story. She and Sarah-Sue have a pretty rocky relationship. They do not get along at all, and neither of them hide it.

  The class jostles in quiet laughter, afraid to upset Boobs McGhee, Sarah-Sue. If Kyle were here, his and my amusement would have been loud and carefree, not giving a damn about her feelings. Today, though, my spirit is halved. My best friend and I are in a cold war.

  “Miss Bellamy,” Sarah-Sue lilts in a deceptively sweet voice. “You actually taught something worth my input. Shocking.”

  Miss Bellamy bristles, but she refrains from answering this bitch. I can almost hear the litany of fucks she’s telling her, though. Clearing her throat, Miss Bellamy says, “Your answer, Sarah?”

  She smirks as if she’s won, but if I were her, I wouldn’t poke Miss Bellamy. I’d smack her down verbally if I were not so out of it.

  “Okay, so, I think, like, Shakespeare was telling people that they, like, need to tell themselves the truth,” she answers, partially right if I’m being fair. She continues, “For example, Savi’s self should have told her not to wear those shoes with that dress on that body with that face.”

  Her burn registers, and while a moment ago, they had been afraid of laughing lest they get Sarah-Sue’s evil eye and wrath, the class laughs at me exaggeratedly. I peer down at my black and white striped dress and my gray flats with the pink bow. My hair is caught in a ponytail with an orange hair tie, the end curling over my shoulder. My outfit
is deliberate, as all my fashion decisions have been.

  I roll my eyes and sigh. Here we go again. From the moment I set foot in Rainier High School, she has always tried to embarrass me or make me feel less than her. As if I even care what she thinks or give two shits who she is.

  It never works, and it never ceases to piss her off.

  “Apologize this instant, Sarah,” Miss Bellamy demands.

  “Sorry you have no sense of style, Savi,” she sneers with her permanently fake smile.

  “To thine own self be true, ladies and gentlemen,” I vocalize before Miss Bellamy can send her to the Principal’s office. “Also means that despite what airhead dick receptacles like Sarah-Sue may say about your sense of style, you continue to be your own person rather than a pop princess’s should’ve-been-swallowed sister. Yay, for individuality!” I stick my hand up in the air for emphasis.

  The class, unable to contain their reaction, bursts into laughter and ohs. I hear some of them hiss “burn” under their breath, but I don’t even acknowledge them or the daggers Sarah is staring at me. She is fuming, but I’m already over her and this class…and boys with kind brown eyes. I start packing my backpack because, after what I just said, I definitely have a date with Principal Gardino.

  Miss Bellamy sighs as I pass her, handing me a Principal’s slip with a disappointing shake of her head. Yet, when she looks at me, pride shines in her eyes. It should make me feel good that I proverbially stuck it to the quintessential high school bully, but I can’t find it in me to care. I needed to get out of there. My equilibrium is off and I refuse to reach out to the person who balances me more than anyone ever has.

  He is in best friend time out.

  Is this the end?

  It has been days since I’ve seen Kyle. To be correct, it has been…three days, eight hours, fifteen minutes and counting since I’ve seen my best friend.