Always the Last to Know (Always the Bridesmaid) (5 page)

       “That’s because they’re idiots.”

       “They’re not all idiots.  I mean, that one groomsmen of Evan’s is heading to law school in the fall…”

       “…just to bail his friend out of jail for that hate crime, I’m sure.”

      Riley has never liked Evan’s friends.  Hell, I’m not sure that Riley even likes Evan.  Granted it’s probably hard to like the guy who is nailing your little sister but still.  I assume that Riley thinks that Evan is like his friends, but he really isn’t.  I mean, he is intelligent, nice, and according to Carla, funny.  Carla had once said that Evan was really talkative, but shy around people he didn’t know that well.

      I have known him for four years and he is still quiet around me.  He has practically been a third roommate for the past year, but he is silent around me.  And Riley.

      Not that Riley has really tried to converse with him ever.  Probably because of the ‘he’s the guy sleeping with my little sister’ thing, which is probably reason enough for siblings, especially older brothers.  Being an only child, I wouldn’t know.  And, knowing how Riley is with Carla, I’m quite glad I’m the only kid my parents could handle having.

       “You know that you’re not half bad, right?”  Riley mutters, making a point to not look at me.

      I snort, “Wow, that was almost a compliment.”

      He rolls over onto his side, his back toward me, “Night, Jess.”

      I also roll over, my back facing his. “Night, Riley.”

***

      I don’t want to wake up at five in the morning.  It’s wrong and unnatural.  I try to will myself back to sleep by relaxing my muscles and letting the stress float out of my body from my head to my toes, a trick that I picked up from this website on astral projection.  I never did figure out how to go about astral projection but, in the end, I realized that being able to fall asleep is way better than being able to travel outside your body.  At five in the morning, however, I wish that my bladder could astral project itself to the bathroom so that I could go back to sleep. 

      I know that if I get up, I won’t be going back to sleep.  I’m one of those people that, once I’m up, I’m up.  And I do not want to be fully conscious at five in the morning.  Especially on a day that I don’t have to go in to work.

      I rub my face and let my hand drop on my side.  Only, it isn’t my side that I hit.  I follow the hand to the arm to the shoulder to the body of Riley who is still asleep next to me.

      I move his arm off of me and place it on his side.  Which is pointless since, a second later, he wraps his arm around me and pulls me closer to him.

      Great, I am officially Riley’s personal teddy bear.

       “Riley, get off of me.”  I mutter, trying to wriggle away from him.  His grip around me only tightens.  And I thought he was annoying when he was awake.

      I sigh, defeated, and try to fall back into a slumber.  My bladder can hold out until six, when Riley’s alarm is supposed to go off.  Then I will be free from his kung-fu grip.

      Super, now he’s mumbling in his sleep.  In my ear.  Well, in the general direction of my ear.  Either way, his breath on my ear and neck is giving me goosebumps.

      In a not entirely bad way.

      Despite the goose bumps, he is talking in his sleep
(something about Tom Petty, his man crush)
and has taken me prisoner and I HAVE TO PEE.

      I try to wriggle free once more, only to have his grip around me tighten again, to the point where I am having difficulty breathing
(evidently, in his dream, I am Tom Petty and he wants to keep me from “Free Fallin’” or something)
and the pressure on my bladder has increased by about a zillion.

       “That does it.” I whisper.

      I bring my arm toward me and jut out my elbow.  Just as my elbow is flying back to hit Riley’s ribcage, he makes this weird, abrupt move in his sleep
(I assume he is heading into “The Great Wide Open” with Tom)
and it turns out that my elbow will not be meeting his ribs.  No, instead it will be traveling a bit south of his ribcage to a place that I know Riley is quite fond of.

      As soon as my elbow reaches his nether regions
(completely by accident, honest)
, he wakes up with a sharp intake of breath as his only response.  Probably because he can’t form words.  The important thing is that I am free from his grip.  I fight out of my cocoon of covers and run out of the room, mumbling an apology to Riley before I shut the bathroom door across the hall.

      As I return from the bathroom, bladder relieved and teeth brushed, I see Riley lying in the fetal position, holding closely to his injured appendage.  Even though I know that I won’t go back to sleep, I am sure as hell going to try.  I mean, it’s five in the morning.  Even the birds in the nest outside my window haven’t started chirping yet.  And, with Riley tending to his injuries, I have no fear of him spooning me while he sleeps.

      As soon as I get comfortable in my bed, Riley starts talking.

       “I can’t believe you did that to Knudsen.”  He says quickly and quietly with a single breath.

      I sit up and stare at him, “Who the hell is Knud. . . oh my God, Riley, did you name your penis?!”

       “Do you not want me to have children, Reynolds?”

      I consider what kind of father Riley would be for a moment.  He and his son would play pick-up games of basketball in the driveway with the basketball goal attached to the garage.  And he would help his daughter with her math homework and threaten boys that came to the door that he once shot a man in Reno, just to watch him die, and he wouldn’t care to have to do it again.  Which would be highly effective if the boys didn’t know anything about Johnny Cash.  Of course, Riley would never let his daughter date a boy who didn’t know anything about Johnny Cash.

      No, Riley would make a great dad.  But there is no way that I can tell him that because then he will know that I was thinking about him being a father.  And I’m not sure to what awkward place that would take our friendship.

       “Actually, I think it would be best if the crazy Riley gene stopped with you.”  I add, “And I’m sorry about elbowing you
there
.  I was aiming for your ribcage.”

      He lets out a sardonic laugh, “Well, that makes it all better.  Thank you, Jess.”  His sarcastic smile falls into a scowl.     

       “I am sorry.  Really.”  I yawn and let my head fall back on the pillow.  So comfortable, so sleepy. . .

       “No.  No way in Hell are you going to sleep.  Not when I’m in this much pain.”

       “Come on, Callahan, no one has ever died of an injured Knudsen.”  I laugh, “Where did you even get the name Knudsen?”

       “That’s between me and Knudsen.”

       “Whatever.”  You freak.

      I watch him as he uncurls from the fetal position and attempts to find a sleeping position that won’t add further injury to Knudsen, all the while glaring at me.

      I turn my back to him and am fairly certain that I can actually fall back to sleep.  That blender-size margarita I had drunk is still floating around my body and making me sleepy.  I’m one of those fortunate people that never get hangovers, as long as I take two pain relievers and drink at least two glasses of water before going to bed.  The only thing is that, after a night of drinking, I am always tired most of the next day which I usually hate.  At this moment, however, it is a blessing.

      So it’s no wonder that someone would be knocking on my bedroom door.

       “It’s open.”  I say sadly.

      The door creaks open.  I can’t help but plaster a smile to my face when Matt enters the room in only a pair of University of Oklahoma sweatpants.

     
Jesus loves me, this I know. . .

       “Jess, your eyes, they go in your sockets.  Put them back.  It’s disgusting.”  Riley says, and not quietly, I might add.

       “I’m not afraid to hurt Knudsen again.”  I reply through clenched teeth.  Then I turn to Matt, “Hey, what’s up?”

      Matt rubs his face sleepily, “I heard some commotion.  I wanted to make sure everything was okay.”

      He is cute, nice, funny, AND concerned.  I look at Riley who just rolls his eyes.  Evidently he views Matt’s concern as being nosey.  But, then again, Riley is crazy.  I mean, who the hell would name his dick Knudsen?  No sane person, that’s for sure.

       “No, everything’s fine.  Riley and I were just arguing.”

      Matt looks over at Riley and grins.  Riley covers his chest up with the blanket.  Like he was being ogled or something.  Which SO wasn’t happening.

      Fine, so I was ogling him last night.  But that was only out of pure shock at the appearance of his chest and abs.

       “We didn’t wake you, did we?”  I ask, unable to take the smile off my face.

      Matt shakes his head, his curly hair bouncing, “No.  I had my alarm set to go run a few laps up the street but it’s raining outside.”  He kind of laughs, “I forgot how much it rains here in the summer.”

      I nod.  I have lived in Kentucky my whole life and, really, it isn’t a bad place to live.  It always gets made fun of in movies and television shows but you will never find a state that has nicer people in it.  Seriously, I never can pass a car on a back road without getting a wave and a smile from the driver.

      The only real beef I have with Kentucky is the weather.  Specifically, the summer weather.  We have some beautiful falls and winters, but the summer months of Kentucky are equivalent to the seventh circle of Hell.  It’s not only hot, but it’s humid.  And it tends to rain every few days, which we always need for crops.  Well, not me necessarily but the neighbors or family members that farm or own cows do.  In most places, rain tends to cool the temperature down for a few days.

      Not in Kentucky though.  Oh no, rain causes the humidity to go up a few degrees here, which means that if you have curly hair like Matt, it gets curlier
(and cuter)
.  If you have frizzy hair, like myself, your head tends to take on its own zip code.

      I lean over Riley to catch a glimpse of myself in my dresser mirror.  Dear God will I need some Frizz-Ease later.

       “Anyway, since you guys are up, would you care if I took over your kitchen?  Maybe fix some breakfast?”

      My smile reaches my ears.  “Yeah, go ahead.  I think there’s some frozen waffles in the freezer.”

       “I was thinking that everybody might like French toast, from scratch.”

      Am I still asleep?  Because a guy who is willing to fix breakfast
(from scratch, no less)
would definitely fall into the category of my dream man.

       “That sounds amazing.  Do you need any help?”  Not that I can cook, but I can point out where food is in the cabinets.

       “Sure.”

      YAY!  Everyone knows that making breakfast with a cute boy is one of the most romantic things ever.  I mean, think about it.  How many music videos and movie montages have a scene where a couple is fixing a meal together?  And how many of those scenes follow with them making whoopee on the kitchen table?

      That’s right, all of them.

      My grin spreads past my ears and into my hairline, “I’ll be there in a minute.”

       “See you in the kitchen.”  Matt laughs before leaving my room.

      Once I’m sure he is gone, I jump out of bed, do a little victory dance, then go in search of my hairbrush.

       “Seriously, Jess?  That’s all it takes?  Offering to cook you breakfast and you go all. . . gaga?”  Riley snorts and gets out of bed.  Not without some difficulty, due to Knudsen’s injury.  I can’t help but watch him move around the room, my face turning more and more red the longer I stare at his naked torso.

       “Gaga, Callahan?”  I find my hairbrush
(and voice, for that matter
) and fight with it to go through my hair.  He just stares at me as I pick the knots out of my mane.  “What is wrong with you anyway?”

       “I’m sorry.  It’s five in the morning and, last I checked, I didn’t set my alarm clock to elbow me in the crotch.”

      As soon as the final word leaves his mouth, Riley’s cell phone’s alarm beeps.  He looks up at the ceiling and mumbles something about God’s sense of humor.

       “Like I said, I’m sorry about injuring little Knudsen. . .”

       “
Little
Knudsen?  Talk about adding insult to injury.”  He makes a scoffing sound as he, I admit sadly, puts on his shirt.

       “Again, I’m sorry.”  I give up on my hair and apply a quick layer of lip gloss before heading out of the room, not particularly paying attention to Riley mentioning something about me getting burned.

      I walk into the kitchen, sad to see that Matt has put on a shirt as well.  That will just make for more obstacles once we’re on the kitchen table.

       “Glad you could make it.”  Matt smiles as he fights with the twisty-tie on the bread.  “If I was going to look for powdered sugar. . .”

       “Cabinet above the stove.  Here, I can get it.”

       “Nonononono.  I’m the one wanting to fix breakfast for everyone.  You just sit back and enjoy me making a wreck of your kitchen.”

      I grin, “As long as you don’t burn down the apartment.”

       “I’m not making any promises.”  He smiles as I hop on the counter.  I somehow manage not to drop any f-bombs when my ankle collides with the cabinet door.  Matt doesn’t notice me biting my lip to keep from swearing.  “So, how long have you and Riley been together?”

       “Huh?”

      Wow, that was real cool, Jess.  A cute guy who can cook asks you a question and you respond back with dumb eyes and a ‘huh’.  I hate me sometimes.

      Matt turns his attention back to the French toast, dousing the bread in eggs as he talks, “I just didn’t realize that you two were dating.”

       “Riley and I aren’t dating.”  I say quickly.  And, don’t ask me why, but this weird pang hits me right in the ribcage when I say that sentence.  Maybe all that alcohol is causing me belated heartburn or something.