A Kiss For You

by Rachel Van Dyken

  Veronica laughed and stood. “All right, that’s enough out of you. Let’s go. If we stay any longer, you’re going to face-rape that poor, unsuspecting man you’ve been taunting with your sexual salted caramel.”

  “Sexual a-salt.” As she pulled me out of my chair, I licked my lips, my eyes still on Blondie. “I wonder what he’d look like under a little salted caramel.”

  Ramona playfully pushed me in the shoulder, and I followed the girls, twiddling my fingers at Blondie as we walked away from the shop, laughing.

  Her hips swung as she walked away, and I sat there like an idiot with ice cream dripping down my hand.

  “Dude.” My twin brother, Jude, slapped me in the arm, sending my cone teetering.

  I scowled at him. “What the fuck, man?”

  “You weren’t even listening.”

  “You’re right. I was too busy watching one of the hottest girls I’ve ever seen lick her ice cream like it was her job.”

  He looked around. “Where?”

  “She’s gone.”

  “Man, why didn’t you tell me?”

  I smirked. “Because I saw her first.”

  Phil rolled his eyes from across the table. “You guys argue like sisters.”

  “That’s what happens when you share a womb for nine months.” I took a bite of my waffle cone, still thinking about her.

  Her hair was a soft shade of purple, tied up in a bun, and her face was framed by a blue bandana, tied on top. She looked like a pinup girl, and when she’d stood and walked away, I’d caught sight of the sweetest heart-shaped ass. I couldn’t help but imagine my hands around it and my face buried in her—

  Jude slapped my arm again. “You’re drooling, asshole.”

  I punched him in the bicep. “Lay off.”

  He rubbed the spot where I’d hit him and frowned.

  Phil shook his head and propped his skinny forearms on the table. “I miss the days when you guys were more worried about your Magic: The Gathering deck and binging on Snickers bars than girls.”

  Jude smirked. “Ah, the great sexual drought of our teenage years.”

  Phil made a face and pushed his glasses up his long nose. “Easy, guys. Some of us never outgrow that curse.”

  “Aw, come on, Phil. You’ve got Angie.”

  “True, and I love her. And, beyond all reason, she loves me too. Fortunately, Ang doesn’t give a shit that I’ll never be a blond, buff Bobbsey twin.”

  I shook my head. “You should have gotten into surfing with us, Philly.”

  He gave me a flat look. “First off, there’s no real surfing in Berkeley. Second, sharks.”

  Jude laughed. “I get it, man. If Dad hadn’t guilted us into learning before we left for college, we wouldn’t have either. But even if we hadn’t, you don’t live in Santa Monica without becoming a surfer.”

  I nodded. “It’s true. I mean, I hated surfing the pier, but the sound of panties hitting the ground when we came in from a session made it all worthwhile.”

  Jude sighed. “Ah, the good old days. It was so easy to get chicks. But I swear, when we started surfing, I thought I was gonna die. I could barely even paddle out past the breaks without having a coronary.”

  “Too many donuts.” I took another bite of my cone.

  “I think I lost thirty pounds in two months. And then came the girls,” Jude said, his eyes all dreamy.

  “So many girls,” I added.

  Phil made a face. “I hate this story.”

  “If you’d gotten into USC, you could have paddled through pussy with us,” Jude said matter-of-factly.

  “Please, UCLA would have been better,” I shot.

  “Whatever, dicks. Berkeley is better on all counts.”

  “Anyway,” Jude started, “New York is a totally different game. In LA, if you have a BMW and surf, you can bag pretty much anybody on the West side. Here, the bar is high. New York chicks don’t give a shit about any of that.”

  I frowned. “Sounds like a lot of work.”

  “Yeah, but it’s worth it,” Jude said with a smile. “You’ll see tonight. We’ll hit a couple of bars, see what there is to see. I’m so ready to get back into the game after wasting all that time with Julie.”

  He sounded flippant, but I knew just how much she’d hurt him. They’d moved out here together years ago, and just before I’d moved from LA a week ago, she’d dumped him.

  I clapped him on the shoulder, hoping he could find a distraction at whatever bar we were going to that night. “Tonight, you get in where you fit in.”

  He smiled. “Hell yeah. And you’ll see what New York is really like. We need a break. We’ve been locked up in the loft coding ever since you got here.”

  I shrugged. “We’ve been talking about this game since we were in middle school, and now that we have the tools and the degrees and we’re in the same place, it’s been good. We’ve been coding it for eight fucking years, and now we can really do it instead of just dicking around with it in our spare time.”

  Phil nodded. “Thank God you lost your job.”

  “Thank God for my severance and savings,” I added. “And that your parents are Silicon Valley yuppies and pay for the loft.”

  He laughed at that. “Otherwise, us quitting to go all in on the game wouldn’t have been an option.”

  “No pressure, right?” I joked, skirting the magnitude of the situation by pretending the risk we were taking wasn’t a big deal.

  Jude’s face softened until he looked all sappy and sentimental. “Really, man, I’m glad you’re here. I don’t like being split up. It’s been a shitty four years without you.”

  “It has,” I agreed. “But we’re back together now. And even though I hate being stuck in the city with the beach an hour away and no surf to be had—”

  Jude’s sappy face turned into a frown.

  “—I’m glad I’m here. Now, show me this high-class ass before I head back to the land of a thousand bikinis.”

  After we finished our ice cream, we headed back to the loft, and I found myself thinking about the pinup girl, wondering if I’d ever see her again. I’d been a fool for not chasing after her, stunned stupid by her blatancy, knocked out by the boldness of her. She’d seemed like a girl who knew what she wanted, and that confidence, that forwardness of her actions, had lit a fire in me that no amount of mint chocolate could cool down.

  Sideshow

  Courtney Love wailed about waking up in her makeup as I sat with my roommates in front of the long mirror hanging on my bedroom wall. I’d hung it sideways a couple of years before, low enough on the wall that we could sit at it, and framed it with lights, just like I’d seen on Pinterest, and I’d even used a drill, and nearly drilling a hole in my leg was so worth it. No one put makeup on anywhere else in the apartment.

  The light was perfect, the music was perfect, and the company was perfect. I sat between Veronica and Ramona, singing along with Courtney, as I uncapped my lipstick, a dark red matte called Heartbreaker. It couldn’t have been more accurate of a shade for me and not just because of my skin tone.

  See, I didn’t do serious or permanent, not with my hair color and not with my boys.

  I’d been lollipop pink and shamrock green. I’d been fiery orange and cotton-candy blue. In fact, I hadn’t really seen my actual hair color past a half-inch of roots since high school back in California. I hadn’t had a serious boyfriend since then either.

  Why choose one when you could have them all?

  Veronica called me boy crazy like it was an insult, and I was. Every time I met a new guy, I would fall into easy infatuation, a giddy affair with a time limit. I wanted zero commitment. I wanted the fun and the thrill and to call it before things got messy. Sticky. I always skipped out the door before those pesky old feelings got involved and wrecked the whole train. I wasn’t into napalm. I was more of a rainbows-and-ponies kind of girl — I wanted feelings, but only the good ones. And good feelings didn’t last past three dates. After three dates, so
mebody inevitably wanted more. Usually, it was them. Every once in a while, it was me.

  At that point, I didn’t skip out the door. I ran like my hair was on fire.

  You’d think it wouldn’t be so hard to find guys who were cool with no strings, but this was shockingly untrue.

  They would say they were fine with it, but I swear to God, at least a third of the time, we would hit that three-date mark, and they would profess their love. Date one would be easy, fun, always the best. Date two, I could feel those strings looming, hanging over me like a goddamn raincloud, but I’d just pop open my rainbow-striped umbrella and keep on skipping until date three when I’d get some variation of, I think I’m in love with you.

  The last one was a perfect example.

  As I had been getting dressed, he’d sat up in bed with eyes like the saddest beagle ever and said, I feel like you’re using me.

  I’d smiled and kissed him on the forehead and told him I’d call him.

  I never called him.

  I know, I know, trust me. I wish I could let myself fall helplessly in love, but I’d done that once, and when it had ended and I had been left alone to put myself back together, I’d known without a doubt that love wasn’t for me. The reason: He had driven me crazy. And not the cute kind of crazy. The kind of crazy that earned you a restraining order.

  Not that I was butthurt about what had happened — hanging on to things just wasn’t my style. I looked forward, not back. Forward was easy. Forward was fun.

  No point in lamenting all the things I couldn’t change. Instead, I’d learned my lesson and kept myself blissfully unattached.

  Once my lips were red and plump, my skin creamy and white, and my liner black and winged, I felt ready, getting up to inspect my reflection. My favorite black-and-white-striped bustier set off the tattoos across my chest with its sweetheart neckline, and I’d paired it with high-waisted black shorts with sailor buttons on the front.

  I smoothed a hand over the wide finger waves in my purple hair as Ramona belted the last verse of the song, and I joined in with an air-guitar accompaniment that would make Lady Love proud.

  Veronica swiped at the corner of her lips with the pad of her finger, inspecting her makeup. “Courtney Love was a badass. I don’t care what anybody says about her.”

  “I mean, she was a hot-ass mess, but she got to bang Kurt Cobain on the regular. I miss him.” I sighed and sat on the edge of my bed to put on my red wedges. “They were like the ‘90s version of Sid and Nancy. Totally, terrifyingly romantic. That’s what love is. All-consuming, self-destructive, and absolutely not something I’m interested in experiencing.”

  Ramona laughed. “You’re so dramatic. Shep and I aren’t like that, and you see us all the time, so I know you know better.”

  I shifted my boobs around in the bustier to maximize my rack. “Yeah, but that’s not how I love. You know me. Do you really think I’m capable of doing halfway on anything? I mean, need I remind you about Rodney? I would have gone toe-to-toe with Satan himself to hang on to that boy in high school. This is the same guy who wouldn’t let me speak when that commercial with Paris Hilton eating a hamburger came on. Like he would clap his hand over my mouth and force me to be quiet until it was over. He was a psycho, and for two years, I let him torment me.”

  “Ugh, fuck that guy,” Veronica said. “Even if he is a rock star.”

  “Don’t remind me.” My face was flat. “If he hadn’t dumped me, I probably would have hung onto him like a barnacle. A screaming, psychotic barnacle. Can you imagine me on tour? I really would have been like Courtney — lipstick smeared and mascara running down my face when I ran onstage and shoved him because he’d banged a groupie. But at least the three-date rule came from the whole mess.”

  Veronica rolled her eyes. “First of all, it’s three bangs, not three dates.”

  My brow quirked. “Who doesn’t bang on a date?”

  She ignored me. “And second, that rule is so stupid. And I say that with love. Think of how many relationships you’ve missed out on.”

  “You say that like it’s a bad thing. Listen, a multitude of things can happen after the three-date zone, and I don’t want to deal with any of them. Either I’m bored or I try to climb up their b-holes like an enema. Either they blow up my cell phone or get stalky. Or they propose marriage, like Clay.” I gave Ramona a pointed look.

  “What? He flew here all the way from Italy to ask you to marry him. What was I supposed to do? Leave him in the hallway with two dozen roses and that look on his face?”

  “No, you should have called the cops. The last thing I expected was him sitting naked on my bed looking like he’d delivered me everything I’d ever wanted via Lufthansa Airlines. I had to fake a headache and let him cuddle me, pretend all the next day that things were cool. I couldn’t break up with the psycho until he left for the airport.”

  Veronica laughed. “Oh, which one was the baby-talk one?”

  I groaned. “Derek. My God, he drove me nuts. We would get tacos, and he knew I liked the chips that were like three chips wrapped up together, so he’d dig through the basket, hand them to me, and watch me eat them.”

  They laughed, and I kept going, always happier with an audience.

  “The baby talk though, that was the worst. I wuv you a yacht. I wuv you a whole FLEET of yachts! Aw, schmoopsie-poo. Are you a sheep or awake?”

  Ramona waved her hand with the other on her stomach as she laughed so hard that she was barely making noise. “Oh my God!”

  “Seriously. But he was so hot. I mean, how could I resist a firefighter? With that ass? And that smile? I was willing to overlook a lot for bunker gear and smelling like a campfire.” I sighed. “But I mean, those guys are so much easier to deal with. The real kicker is when I go bonkers. Like when I was five dates in with Tony. Remember him?”

  Veronica sighed wistfully. “The one who could cook.”

  “Right? Dude made his own pasta. Fucking dream guy. But, I swear, I was begging to meet his mother by date five — after I told him no strings, and he was so about it. He slowly backed toward the door, said he’d call me, and I never heard from him again. There’s a chance he died in a gutter somewhere, but I’m pretty sure it was from his phone exploding from the eighty-four-thousand text messages I’d sent him. And that was just a mild case of stalking — I’ve crossed the line so many times, I’m surprised I’ve never had the cops called on me.”

  “You’re too cute for jail,” Veronica said with a laugh.

  “Not when my crazy eyes get going.” I crossed my eyes and drew a circle in the air around my ear. “Rodney trained me to trust no man, so ninety percent of the time, I convince myself they’re lying to me about where they are, what they’re doing, how they feel. I go clinger. I’d rather be clung to.”

  “I dunno. See, I disagree with Veronica,” Ramona said. “I think the rule makes sense. Penny, you’re larger than life. I’ve been friends with you for eight years, and I’ve seen how guys treat you. Every hetero man in the room notices you when you walk in. It’s like every curve on your body is sending a signal directly to them. They want to know you, and some, like Rodney, want to control you. This is a way for you to protect yourself against the whole thing. You break hearts so yours doesn’t get broken. And who knows? Maybe someday you’ll meet somebody who changes your mind.”

  I laughed. “God, I hope not.”

  She smiled like she knew better than me. “How long have you been on the three-date wagon now?” Ramona asked.

  “Two whole years,” I answered, proud of myself. “Two years of normal dates with no crazy on either side of the line. Everything has been perfectly smooth ever since I really decided to stick to the rule. This is better for all parties involved, trust me. I’d rather not put my heart through the meat grinder again, thank you very much.”

  Veronica snickered. “She said to her friend whose wedding is in two weeks.”

  “Oh, stop it. That’s what I’m saying — Ramona and Shep
are perfectly perfect. I’m just a mess, like Courtney Love but with tidier makeup.”

  But Ramona’s face had fallen into a sad expression. “Two weeks. That’s all we have left for this.”

  Veronica looked the same. “Less than that. You’re moving next week.”

  Ramona’s eyes misted up. “What am I going to do without you guys?”

  I knelt down between them. “You’ll start your life with Shep, and it’s going to be everything you ever wanted. We’ll see each other at the tattoo parlor every day. And Ronnie and I will be here, doing our makeup and trolling for boys at least three times a week, so you can come with us anytime. Be our wing woman.”

  She laughed and rubbed her nose. “Ha. As if you need help.”

  I smirked. “I wasn’t talking about me.”

  Veronica rolled her eyes. “Oh, ha-ha. You’re a fucking riot, Penny.”

  I shrugged innocently. “I mean, if you weren’t so picky, you’d be able to find a guy — at least for a night.”

  She made a face at me. “Maybe not all of us want a guy just for a night?”

  “That’s fair. But not even sometimes? I’d love to be your wingwoman, but it’s exhausting, and I’ve got goals of my own.”

  “Yeah, to eat every dick in Manhattan,” she shot, eyes twinkling and lips in a smile.

  My mouth popped open, and I laughed. “You bitch. I don’t have to eat them all, but having them in or around my vagina would be fine. You know, as an alternative.”

  “So slutty!” Veronica shook her head.

  “Thank you,” I said sweetly. “I love being slutty. I don’t make any promises, and I know exactly what I want. What the hell is everyone’s problem with that anyway? Who cares who I sleep with? Does it affect anyone but me and the guy involved? Answer: No. And I tell all the guys I whatever with what my expectations are, and they agree. It’s not my fault if they catch feelings.” I shuddered. “It’s like the emotional equivalent of gonorrhea — the clap, but for your heart!”