Can't Go Home (Oasis Waterfall) (4 page)

Actually, most of the females in these parts talk about how unattainable and uninterested he is, which is why I’m perplexed as to why he was coming on so strong … to me. It just does not add up. I even used the calculator on my phone to do the figuring. Or I secretly snapped two pictures of him when he wasn’t looking to send to my mom. Tomato. Tomahto.

Don’t get me wrong; I’m flattered, full-out freaking flattered. I may or may not have squealed the second he got out of my car after dinner, especially after he said that he’d see me again “sooner, rather than later.” I may have even called my best friend, Sydney, and gushed about how dang hot and sexy and kissable and touchable he was—although I didn’t kiss him or touch him.

In my mind I did though, a couple of times. I wasn’t ignited by his sense of humor, intelligence, or generosity; it was good old physical attraction that sparked my engine, and the new battery helped a little too. Granted, Dre was pretty witty, obviously very generous, and seemed oddly intellectual for a handyman, possible angelic handyman.

Dre Donley is the kind of good-looking that makes “hot” sound like a cliché or an understatement. He’s not short, nor is he too tall. (I’m only 5’2”, so everyone towers over me. It’s hard for me to judge height.) Anyway, he’s just normal height, whatever that means. His body, his body is sublime. Crap, if I plan to write a book someday, then I need to work on my adjectives. Alright here goes: God-like, perfect, sculpted, chiseled. No, I’m not doing him enough justice.

Ya know when you see a body builder and think “Ew, lay off the roids and protein shakes?” Well, his body is not like that—at all. Ya know when you see a nerdy type, and you think “Awww, can I carry that gallon of milk for you?” It’s not like that either. Well imagine some cosmic force shoving them together, pounding them as one, creating the perfect body.

Dre’s muscles were clearly defined in the thin t-shirt he had on. But in no way was I afraid his shirt was going to disappear as his biceps “Hulked” right out of them. I could just make out the curves and shapes of each muscle on his pecs and abs. Not that I was really checking him out. Whatever, I was checking him out—a lot. Even his jeans did that sexy, hanging-on-his-hips thing that makes you just want to take a quick peek at the scrumptious little “V” that starts right below his belly button, illustrating the most direct and quick route to euphoria.

But it’s not his body that gives you the sense of total euphoria, it’s his bluish, greenish, yellow speckle-y eyes that stare right at you, through you even, that make you just want to rip off your clothes, his clothes, the dude standing next to you’s clothes—whatever you’re into. And trust me, I was into Dre.

Dre’s eyes are his golden ticket, but even his hair is like the backstage pass that goes with the VIP ticket. It’s that light brown, dark blond “come jump me hair.” It’s a little longer than it should be, like he’s a month or two overdue for a cut. It’s got that messy, run-your-fingers-through-it look that makes you want to rip it out as you scream his name. Not that I thought about it—too much.

And his smile, even it’s adorable and devilish at the same time. His grin is crooked and impish, but his teeth are million-dollar choppers, pearly white and straight as soldiers at inspection. Dre’s look is polished, but messy; perfect, but flawed. Man, I really do need to work on my descriptions and adjectives if I ever do plan to write a book. Can I just say; he’s as hot as all get out?

So yes, I am replaying the entire day’s events in my head as I’m waiting for my ever-tardy best friend to show up for our lunch date, a lunch date that she’s pretty much missed now as I take the last bite of my grilled chicken salad. (630 Weight Watchers points) Regrettably, I can’t even eat a full dinner tonight since I inhaled two slices of bread, bread she would’ve stopped me from devouring had she been here on time.

I’ve been trying to take off my “college” weight since, well, college. I’d like to say I put on the infamous Freshman Fifteen, but I’ve always been a bit of an overachiever, so I doubled that fifteen for good measure. I’d also like to say that I drank those excessive pounds onto my body from partying too much, but I’d be lying if I did. I gained all my weight, because my mom is a crazy, neurotic freak-job. I know all 20-something girls think that about their mothers, but I’m not kidding. No exaggeration here.

When I was little, my mom was terrified that I’d follow in her foodsteps, not footsteps, actual FOODsteps, and get fat just like she did. My mom, mother extraordinaire, bamboozled me as a toddler and young girl. Every time I wanted a cookie or ice cream or cake or a brownie or anything delicious that a young child throws head-banging tantrums for, my mom gave it to me. Anything.

However, before she gave the coveted scrumptious delectable to me, without my knowledge, she dribbled Tabasco sauce or anise flavoring (that stuff that makes things taste like black licorice) on it, destroying its taste, forcing me to gag and vow profusely to never try it again. I couldn’t believe how many kids loved those God-awful foods and begged for them constantly.

I spent my elementary and high school years oblivious to her shenanigans and only ate fruits, vegetables, whole grains and lean meats. You know, basically healthy, bland foods, foods that you’re supposed to eat. I was trim, fit, and had a smoking little body, a body that I’d kill for now.

I went to college and one drunken night, my roommates and I got pizza and wings, foods I’d tried and loathed in the past. That night after some serious hard drinking, I fell in love with bar food. But I didn’t know what true love was until I met that creamy, icy dessert. Ice cream and I have been inseparable ever since. It’s amazing that I only gained 30 pounds, considering I was making up for 18 years of lost edible euphoria. What mother does that to her daughter? Mine, that’s whose!

In all honesty, I wish I’d never fallen to the other side. I’d still have my tight little body, and my Weight Watchers app wouldn’t be getting more use than my Facebook and Twitter apps put together. But I digress, my mom tried. She put forth an effort. In hindsight, she probably should’ve modeled better behaviors, taught modification, and maybe even emphasized physical activity on occasion. Instead, I’m sitting at a table in a café, alone, licking the salad dressing from my fork, computing calories, wishing I could order the key lime pie.

Finally, Sydney walks in. Heads turn; she smiles only at me. Syd notices the eye-popping stares and spinning heads, but she never lets on. That’s part of the game. Play it aloof, and they’ll come crawling. Tossing her hair to one side, she leans down and kisses each of my cheeks, European aristocrat-style. “Darling, you look gorg,” she says, fluffing my hair.

I, by the way, do not look “gorg.” I may have forfeited my typical getting ready time this morning, while I was on the phone with my mom, recapping my dinner with Dre. Therefore, my hair is frizzy, and my makeup is less than minimal, more like nonexistent. “Gorg” would definitely not describe Kathryn Howell today.

“Now Katie, have you finally accepted that tall, blonde, and beautiful wants you?” Sydney asks, beckoning our server.

Oddly, we now have a male server, who is taking over for the frumpy, middle-aged server who brought me my iced tea and salad. Strangely, two days in a row, my servers have swapped out. Yesterday, because I was a snide, jealous bitch, and today, because this dude thinks he might get somewhere with my best friend. Bless his little heart. I wish I would’ve gotten “Allie with an i’s” phone number for him.

Sydney pauses to order wine, a cheeseburger and loaded cheese fries—quite the combo meal. (I’ve never once seen her eat a fruit or a vegetable, unless catsup counts as a vegetable.)

“Or are you still droning on to whomever will listen about how there’s no way he could be interested in someone like you?” Sydney asks rudely.

Did I mention that Syd is a total bitch? I mean, a card-carrying, certifiable bitch. I know so many people who have those sweet, doting, thoughtful best friends, who are there for them in a second’s notice. Sydney is not one of those friends. Actually, I am that friend to her—not vice versa. If you asked Sydney what the definition of a friend was, then she’d probably say someone who’d lend you her best pair of jeans and stilettos.

“Stop calling me ‘Katie,’ unless you want me to start referring to you as ‘Ivy’,” I threaten.

“Okay, fine. I just think you’re acting like seventh grade ‘Katie’ did when Todd Lenz held hands with Kim Ritzman at the basketball game,” Sydney recalls.

“Hello? This is nothing like that,” I argue. “First of all, Todd was obviously not into me; he was making out with Kim by the third quarter. And Dre, well, I don’t know what heck is up with him … at all.”

“You let Todd get away … and right into that skank’s arms. No way he could’ve wanted that bucked teethed loser. If you wanted him so much, you should’ve gone after him,” she explains.

“You can’t call a seventh grade girl a skank … anyway … I don’t even understand how that is even relevant right now,” I claim.

“Duh … sometimes, I think I should be the one with a Master’s in English,” she jabs, rolling her eyes.

Sydney pulled a full four semesters in college with a 1.9 GPA when she decided that college was only for “ugly people who couldn’t get by on their looks.” Hey, I warned you; she’s a bitch.

Continuing, Syd says, “Seventh grade Katie didn’t think she was good enough for Todd. And now … now … 24-year-old Kathryn doesn’t think she’s good enough for Dre.”

The server brings Syd’s wine, and pours her a glass while simultaneously staring straight down her blouse. I’m actually impressed that he didn’t spill the Merlot in her lap. “I’m just saying, Hon, if we’re going to have a party, can it
not
be one of your ‘woe-is-me-pity-parties?’ They’re so lame and such a buzz kill.”

“Buzz kill? That’s your first sip,” I counter.

“Oh that’s right. I’m sorry I’m late. I had a lunch date with my director. A liquid lunch … in his office … on his desk.” Sydney laughs, throwing her head back as the men in the restaurant gawk and probably adjust themselves.

“You’re telling me that I sat here by myself for lunch while you were getting drunk and screwing your director … again?” I ask incredulously. When would I ever learn?

“Don’t get all pissy. You need to lighten up and start getting in the game,” she says. “Katie … I mean ‘Kathryn,’ I’m sure there are men out there, maybe this Dre guy, who want to do you too. You just have to grab the ball and slam dunk it.” Did she really just say “maybe” guys want to have sex with me? She’s unbelievable.

Sydney turns sideways in her chair, hiking her skirt up around her thighs, crossing one long leg over the other, revealing more leg than both of mine put together. “Watch this,” she commands. Sydney leans over and feigns buckling her already-buckled high-heeled, strappy sandal. As she sits back up, she lightly trails her hand back up her leg and then finally flips her hair over her shoulder. Within five seconds, the busboy and server are at our table refilling our waters and clearing my plates. “You have to sell the merchandise. You want this Dre guy, then make him want you.”

“I never said I wanted him,” I add quietly, looking at my empty iced tea glass.

“You never said you didn’t either,” Sydney says.

Sydney and I have been friends since fifth grade. I had just moved to town, and the teacher paired us up as “bonding buddies.” Sydney’s job was to show me around and introduce me to other students. My job was to bail her out of trouble when she got caught on the playground explaining to four other students what the word “foreplay” meant. (Her definition back then: doing four dirty things before you had sex.)

At recess on my first day at Reynolds Elementary, Sydney told me to stay in the big climbing tires while she stood outside with her friends. I was under no circumstances allowed to exit the tire without her approval. I went into the tire, and did as I was told. Sydney was the “Queen Bee,” and she was holding court outside of the tires. When she and her friends were talking, one girl said she heard the word “foreplay” on the bus and wanted to know what it was. Sydney explained what it was and that was that.

After recess, all the girls blabbed, and Sydney was called in to the office. I knew then what I had to do. I knew the importance of getting in with the “cool kids” at school. Or at least I thought it was important at the time. Truthfully, the “cool kids” are just like everyone else: afraid, shy, awkward, and dying to fit in and be accepted.

Anyway, I raised my hand and took the fall for Sydney, my soon-to-be best friend for life. My new teacher sent me to the office, where Sydney was already waiting to see the principal. I confessed that it was me who defined the dirty word. Sydney said that it was she. We fought about it in front of the balding, paunchy principal. I told him that I just wanted to fit in, so I told the dirtiest, coolest thing I knew. Syd said that I just wanted to be her and steal her growing popularity. He didn’t know what to do, so he let us both off the hook and sent us back to class with a very stern, very fake warning. Our friendship was sealed.

Our friendship has faced some rugged terrain from time-to-time. In tenth grade, I shrunk her lime green cashmere sweater after I put it in the dryer on high heat for two hours. Also in tenth grade, Syd kissed the guy I was crushing on in the hallway right in front of me. (Coincidentally, the sweater incident happened a few hours after the kissing betrayal. I’ll never admit that it was intentional.)

In eleventh grade, Syd told everyone at a party that I’d never seen a penis. (I hadn’t.) With in three seconds flat, five penises were whipped out and flapping in the wind. I was mortified—and quickly educated.

In twelfth grade, Sydney walked in on me making out with her older brother one weekend when he was home from college. All of Syd’s friends had to swear to never touch Kyle. I made the vow, but he was way too hot to care about that silly promise. (He’s married and has triplets now, completely off the market.)

Then, in college, I got the grades Sydney wanted, and she got the bar maid job I applied for. (Sydney didn’t even apply for it. She got the job, simply because she walked in with me when I turned in my application.) I stayed in college, graduating with Bachelor’s and Master’s degrees. She did not. It’s been a battle of the best friends for nearly fifteen years.