Always the Last to Know (Always the Bridesmaid) (9 page)

       “Ew, no.  I’m just living
at
Riley’s.  I’m not living
with
Riley.  There’s a difference.”  If nothing else, this is good practice for when I tell my mother about my change of address, which may be never.  I mean, she rarely stops by the apartment and never mails me letters or presents or anything.  Why would she even have to know where I live?  I mean, really?  I could totally get away with not telling her that I moved.

      You know, as long as Riley’s mom doesn’t find out and tell my mom.  Which would ultimately happen since Ms. Callahan likes to randomly pop by Riley’s house.  Plus, Ms. Callahan and my mom are best friends and she would end up telling my mom about my new living arrangements.

      God, Ms. Callahan is such a big mouth.

      Yeah, there’s the pot calling the kettle black.  I can’t keep a secret to save my own life.

      Annie shakes her head, “You and Riley aren’t together?”

       “Right.  Like I said, we’re not living together; we’re sharing a house.  There is a difference.”

      Annie pats my head, “Sweet child, the only difference between ‘living together’ and ‘sharing a house’ is the amount of sex you’re having.”

       “Annie!”

       “You know, just as well as I do, that one night you and Riley will be at the house you’re sharing and you’ll both drink a little too much and, before you know it, you’ll be knocking boots.”  She says, going back to her window to file away deposit slips.  “It happens more than you think, you know.  And cowboy boots are in this season.  Wearing them in bed would add some passion.  I wonder if I still have a pair. . .”

      Surely it isn’t right to hear these words coming out of the mouth of your fifty-year-old-bank-teller-coworker-possible-dominatrix?  Do other people in their fifties talk about this kind of thing?

       “Jess, I’m just worried about you.  You’re not sleeping with Riley, right?”

       “Right.”  I say uneasily.  I don’t know where she’s going with this.  Honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised if she asks me if I think that Riley will partake in a threesome with her and her husband.

      I’m just saying, it’s Annie.

       “Have you ridden that Italian stallion yet?”

       “Italian stal. . . Matt, you mean?  No I haven’t slept with him.”

      Annie throws her arms up in frustration, “Well, what is wrong with you, Jess?”

      Really?  She wants to play
that
game with my self-esteem?  At 9:30 in the morning?  Is she trying to make me suicidal?

       “It’s not exactly on the level but, if you are willing, I know of a service you could call if you were wanting to. . .”

       “No.”  I say quickly, just so she can’t go into any detail about how she knows of this “service”.  I didn’t even know a town in Kentucky had that kind of “service”.

       “Jess, when was the last time you had sex?”

      I close my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose while breathing in and out and thinking peaceful thoughts about birds and the ocean tide and Owen Wilson.  Nothing can ever bother me when I think about Owen Wilson.

       “Why does this matter?”  I ask, my eyes still closed.

       “I’m just curious.”

      I open one eye and stare at her.  She’s sitting at her station with a small notepad in her lap and is tapping a pencil against the counter.

      I open my other eye, “Are you taking notes on me?”

      She sighs, “If you must know, I’m trying to develop a main character for a story I’m working on.”

      I stop pinching my nose, “I didn’t know you were a writer.”

       “Oh, well, you know, it’s just a hobby.  I’ve had a few short stories published in journals but I’m working on a novel now.”  She smiles, proud of herself.

       “That’s really great, Annie.  Can I read the stories you had published?”

       “I’ll do you one better.  I’ll bring in the story I’m working on now and let you read it tomorrow.”

      I smile.  I cannot believe Annie’s been published.  More than once.  Not that I doubt her ability.  I mean, she certainly has no problem expressing herself vocally, why should she not be able to express herself in a literary sense as well?  But wait. . .

       “You’re writing a story about me?!”

      She laughs, a little too loud, I might add, “No, silly girl.  I’m just fishing for information and ideas and all.”  She taps the pencil against the counter again, “Now, you never did answer my question.  “When was the last time you had sex?”

       “Annie, I don’t really want to talk about this.”

       “Sweet Jesus, honey, are you a virgin?”  Annie asks in a worried whisper.

       “Would it matter if I was?” 

      Twenty bucks says that Annie’s head is going to explode.

       “Well, no, it’s okay if you’re a”, she leans in closely to whisper, “virgin.”  She returns to her leaned back position, “But you’re not, are you?”

      I wonder how many other jobs question their employees about their sex lives.  Prostitutes, politicians, celebrities, definitely not part-time bank tellers. . .

      I sigh, “No, I’m not a virgin.”  However, if I could go back, I would definitely keep my V-card for longer than I did.

      She jots down a few notes as she continues to talk, “How old were you the first time you did It?”

      Why do people remind me of that night?  I’ve been trying to repress that night for over four years and every time I think I’ve got it buried away, someone comes by with a bulldozer to dig it back up.

       “I was seventeen.  Listen, Annie, I. . .”

       “When was the last time you had sex?”

      Grr.

       “Sophomore year of college.  Fall semester.  With my boyfriend at the time.”  Who broke up with me because he was a jealous bastard who couldn’t handle me having any guy friends.  Granted, my only real guy friend was Riley.  Still, the guy couldn’t handle having any ‘competition’, as he put it and we ended the relationship.

      I’m totally better off without him.  Even if I did just read that he has created a social networking site that’s being called the next Facebook.

       “That was three years ago.  My God, how do you manage to survive?”

       “You need air to survive, not sex.”

      Annie shakes her head, “You have so much to learn, dear.”

***

       “I would help you carry those paint cans in, but I’m morally opposed to all of this.”  Riley says, not taking his eyes off the TV.  I don’t miss him smile as I stub my toe against the door frame.  He takes a sip of beer, “Besides, I’m pretty sure that Drew Barrymore shows her boobs in this movie.”

      I roll my eyes and head into the kitchen.  Despite Riley’s disapproval, he had spent last night sanding and priming the walls in preparation of the paint job.  His mom has owned a paint shop for the past fifteen years; I really don’t think he could have helped himself in at least part of the process.

      That, or he was trying to get the thought of his mom doing It with the Mystery Kisser out of his head.

      I smile as I begin mixing the paint in the can, “This color is going to look so great in here.”

      Riley snorts, but doesn’t say anything.

      I begin to silently count down from ten.  Riley is in the kitchen before I make it to six.

      He stares into the paint can confused.  I have to actually laugh when he cocks his head to one side.

       “That’s not yellow.”

       “You’re an observant one.”  I grin, looking up at him.

      He squats down to get a better look at the color as I pour it into a brush pan.  Our foreheads practically touch as he stares even harder at the paint, still confused.

       “But I thought you wanted yellow.”  He says, looking at me.  With his face so close to mine, it takes me longer than it should to think of words.

      I gulp, “And I knew that you didn’t want yellow.  Plus, this color will look good in here.  It’s rich and bold and your favorite.”

      Riley smiles, “Thanks, Jess.”  He stands back up and I feel a moment of sadness now that I can’t smell his combination of cologne and soap.

      I pick up two rolling brushes, “So, now that you approve of the color, do you want to help?”

      He takes a brush from me, “Sure.  Mostly because I don’t trust you not to fall and break your neck on that stepstool.”

       “Your confidence in me is truly overwhelming, Callahan.”

      After awhile, Riley realizes that I am fully capable of standing on a stepstool without falling… okay, so I fell off once but I managed to catch myself from hitting the floor.  I may or may not have twisted my ankle a little bit in the process. And it may or may not be a little swollen right now.  And hurting like an absolute son of a bitch.

       “Hey, what’s that on your nose?”

      I shake my head, “I’m not falling for that again, Callahan.  This paint is going to be impossible to get off my face.  Plus, you’re the reason I almost busted my ass while ago.”

      Riley laughs, “We both know that you would have fallen off the stepladder with or without me dabbing your face with paint.”  He shrugs, “Besides, I know how to get this off your face.”  He swipes my face with the paintbrush, causing me to quickly move and lose my balance.

      Riley grabs my arm and pulls me toward him before I fall backward off the stepladder.  Instead, I fall forward, on top of Riley, and we hit the ground, my paintbrush landing directly on top of his face.

       “I am so sorry.”  I try not to laugh as I remove the paintbrush off his now very, very red face.  “But I would like to remind you that if you had bought the stepladder with the wider rungs, I wouldn’t have been as likely to lose my balance and crush your ribcage.”

      He mumbles something that sounds very similar to ‘bullshit’ without opening his mouth.  I grab the wet dishcloth that’s conveniently at arm’s length and wipe the paint off of Riley’s lips.

      I stop wiping the paint away as I realize what this looks like.

      More importantly, I realize what this
feels
like.

      Here I am, lying on top of Riley, one of my closest friends and pseudo-landlord, slowly wiping his lips.  I mean, yeah, it’s to get paint off but still.  It’s making my insides do strange things.

       “Jess, I, um, need to. . .”

       “Get up?  Yeah, sorry.”  I slide off him quickly and stand up, ignoring the blinding pain coursing through my right ankle.  “Are you okay?”

       “Yeah, I just,” he looks at me sadly and sighs, “yeah, I’m fine.”

      His face is not so promising.  “Are you sure?”  Good God, I have crushed Riley’s ribcage!  I knew I shouldn’t have ordered the large fries at lunch.

      He nods as Jackson pads over to him.  He woofs quietly as he looks down at his owner before turning a suspicious pair of big brown eyes at me.

      Even the dog knows that I crushed Riley’s ribcage!  Why the large fries?  I knew that I should have got the fruit cup at lunch instead of those damn fries.

      He sits up and rubs one of Jackson’s ears.  I don’t say anything as he tries to hide the wince he makes when he attempts to support his weight on his right arm.

       “I’m fine, Reynolds.  Stop giving me that look.” 

       “Stop giving you what look?”

       “Stop giving me that look where you’re contemplating driving me to the hospital and wondering if I’ll need a blood transfusion and if we’re a match.  A blood match, I mean.”

       “I wasn’t giving you that look.”  Mostly because my blood type is O-negative – I’m the universal donor and give blood as often as I can – so I don’t even have to wonder about giving him some of my blood.  Which I would do in a heartbeat.

      Now, if he said I was giving him a look where I was wondering if we were a bone marrow match, then, yeah, he would have been correct.

       “Yes, you were giving me that look.  But I’m fine.  Really.”  He starts to get up but wavers a little and takes my hand tightly in his own to keep his balance.  “You’re not driving me to the hospital; it takes a lot more to break me than you think.”

      He lets go of my hand as quickly as he had grabbed it.  Is it because he felt that same weird bolt of electricity go through him like it did me whenever his hand went into mine?

      No, I’m going crazy.  We probably should have opened more windows before starting this painting project; the fumes are definitely getting to me.

       “So, how are things going with you and Mark?”  Riley asks, picking up the paintbrush with his left hand since his right wrist is probably throbbing like my right ankle is.

       “You mean Matt, and you know it.”  I give him a pointed look as I start painting again.  “And things aren’t going anywhere with us.”

      Although Matt did offer to help me pack last night, which was incredibly sweet of him.  I declined his offer, but since Evan was busy comforting Carla over the fact that her mother is dating someone in secret, Matt stayed in my room and watched me pack.  While I sorted through clothes for Goodwill, he went through my monstrous collection of DVDs and VHS tapes.  We talked about music
(he likes Tom Petty, and was excited to hear that Tom and the Heartbreakers hold a special place in mine and Riley’s hearts)
and movies
(he was also excited to see that I owned all the National Lampoon’s Vacations’ movies, and could quote the bulk of them)
and our favorite drinks.  He admitted to liking Sex on the Beach, which I thought was respectable for any guy to actually admit to liking.  I mean, I don’t even like to say that I like that drink, and I’m a girl.

       “If you like him, you should date him.”  Riley says, not looking at me.

       “Thanks for your permission, Callahan.  I was waiting to get your approval.”  I snap.

       “We’re living together, Reynolds.  We’re going to date people.  I just wanted to let you know that it won’t be weird if you bring a guy here.  And I assume that it won’t be weird for you if I bring a girl back here.”