Crazygirl Falls in Love (19 page)

To my delight I learn that he and his girl split up a few
weeks ago. As in, not to my delight because I wish them badly, but
to my delight because single male 8s, 9s and 10s are rarer than a
chupacabra (mythical cat-goat animal thingy). While the Stranger is
pure Spanish heartthrob, David is a British born-and-bred
hanger-oner-er to the Beautiful People. Unlike the others he
doesn’t speak with a Spanish accent nor possesses that lovely
Mediterranean tan. I think he knows them through work. I guess they
accepted him into their super exclusive clique because, well, he’s
beautiful. David is at least an 8.5. He’s tall (as they all are)
with a slim but nice build. His skin is pale but his eyes and hair
are dark. Onyx-black dark. And he has nice hands. I’m big on nice
hands. There’s nothing worse than those long, spindly pencil
fingers, or short, hairy-knuckled stumpy ones.

Pulling an 8.5 is excellent work as far as I’m concerned so I
launch into conversation, full of hope and eager
anticipation.

An hour later I’m leaning on my elbows on the kitchen counter,
both hands holding up my glum cheeks, so bored I think it might be
terminal. I occasionally take a hand and start tapping the counter
top, hoping he’ll get the message. He doesn’t. Over the course of
the past hour I’ve discovered why this guy is so pale. I have
inadvertently started conversing with that most elusive of hot guys
- Video Game Dude.

“I don’t smoke, I don’t do drugs, I don’t drink coffee, I
barely even drink. I game competitively, which I think is a far
superior addiction.”

“Really, wow, that’s great.” I mumble through my cheeks with
as much enthusiasm as I can muster.

It’s been over an hour since he started
talking about this crap and you know what? I’m starting to see that
the anti-social members of the general public who choose to stay in
on Friday nights, record-listening and sushi-making and playing
with their cats, have a point. Extricating oneself from a
conversation you have absolutely no interest in hearing about,
without seeming rude or socially ungraceful, is
impossible
. Impossible, I tells ya! I
can’t just walk away, I need an
excuse
to walk away, but there’s ice
cold brewskis all around us and as much food as I want on the
counter. I’m going to have to use – you guessed it - my ever
reliable bathroom trick.

But he’s still talking, not giving me a chance to lie about my
urgent bladder relief requirements,

“... it’s all about pattern recognition. If you don’t
recognise the sequence coming up in a Doom Time Phase Event you’re
efforts are as useless as a kill screen. Just last night I was
playing Grand Theft Auto and I lost concentration for a
second...”

He goes on while I roll my eyes at the
ceiling and swirl the warm dregs of champagne at the bottom of my
bottle. This guy is
killing
my buzz. I’ve demoted him to a 6. As I’m about to
take another bored sip I feel a shadow come up beside me and start
yanking at my arm.

“Penny! Rusty’s here!”

I turn away from droll David and look down at my panicked
sister,

“Rusty? As in the
other married guy
Rusty?” I feel my
eyes widening in surprise.

“
Yes, yes, yes!” Emma is jumping from foot to foot, “he was
supposed to fly back to Vienna this weekend but he’s stayed to
surprise me. What do I do? If he sees me with Dublin, or if Dublin
sees me with him... Oh shit!”

I raise my eyebrows. Emma never swears. I grip her shoulders
with both hands,

“Calm down. I’ll go distract Dublin, you go speak with Rusty.
Tell him you want to escape, that the party is too loud and you
want some privacy. Get him to take you out to dinner. It’s too
risky having them both in the same city, let alone the same
house.”

Emma looks relieved.

“Okay. Thanks.”

She follows me to the door of the lounge room. I give her a
wink as I slap her bum lightly in the direction of carrot top
freckle guy, who I instantly recognise as Married Guy Number Two. I
start to walk over to the fireplace where Dublin is checking his
phone. I’m going to have to have a serious chat with Emma about
this whole sleeping-with-two-married-guys debacle. I’m not sure if
it’s technically cheating, I mean, can you cheat on a guy who is
himself cheating? Regardless, the bottom line is that no one should
cheat because it’s just such a pain in the ass.

Maybe it’s my laziness talking, but I can’t imagine anything
worse than having two boyfriends / lovers /
guys-I’m-trying-to-get-to-date-me at the same time. The time-math
doesn’t add up. There are only seven nights in a week. I need to
allocate at least one to running, so I’ve made that Mondays. Twice
a week I hang out with the girls, dinner with Chloe or a poetry
recital with Mags or just heading out to a bar with them. So say
that’s Tuesdays and Thursdays. Fridays are usually drinks with work
people. Saturdays are spent with Emma. Sundays are designated
Hangover Day, or English Breakfast Fry Up Day, or Retro Movie Day
(or all three).

That leaves Wednesdays. My one day of the week where I don’t
always have plans, and every second Wednesday I’m usually dragged
to a networking event. The times when I have had a boyfriend /
fiancé / whatever, I’ve had to give up a lot of the stuff I usually
do when I’m single. I end up seeing the girls only once a week (if
that), I don’t go out with work people on Fridays and wind up
ignoring Emma’s texts on Saturdays.

So with that in mind, can you imagine
having
two
boyfriends? Where would I find the time? Where does anyone
find the time? Do these people have some sort of special super
secret Time Making Machine that magics a couple of extra nights a
week? Because if they do, they really should share it with the
world.

I'm almost beside Dublin now. I’m about to
tap him on the shoulder when I see a hallucination walk through the
door. It feels like that burrito from lunch has jumped up from my
tummy and lodged itself in the back of my throat
(
mmm... semi-digested
burrito...
)

I cannot believe my eyes. They literally do not register the
person in front of me. I think I’m imagining it. It’s a dream. It
cannot be real.

He’s wearing a red t-shirt and is walking towards me with a
bashful smile. It's the Stranger.

***

“Hola chica.”

Why is he wearing red? Is it for me? It can't possibly be for
me? If it’s not for me than who is it for?

He pulls me into his arms.

“I thought... you travelling?”

It’s the best I can manage. Penny no function brain well
without.

I suddenly feel ridiculously self conscious about my all-green
ensemble. I begin to blush, but with shame and regret as opposed to
embarrassment. With his arms around my waist, his gorgeous head
buried in my mane of blonde curls, I subtly shove both hands behind
my back and try to pry off my green bangles. They click as they hit
the floor. Not that it’ll help much, but it’s better than nothing,
right?

“I come back on earlier flight,” he says as he nuzzles deeper
in my shoulder.

I start silently thanking God for remembering to douse myself
with my D&G Velvet Rose right before I left my
apartment.

“Why are you wearing red?” I ask.

He looks down and says the most perfect words in
existence,

“For you, mi amor.”

I’m a goner. I grab his face in my de-bangled hands and in a
wild, quasi-bewildered display of passion I start kissing him. We
kiss and kiss and kiss. This is the most romantic thing that’s ever
happened to me, and all it took was a red t-shirt on an emotionally
unavailable man. Who might not be that emotionally unavailable
after all.

I eventually pull away,

“You’re really wearing it for me? I don’t understand, I
thought…”

I thought you would be dating the vile seductress by now? I
thought you weren’t interested? I thought you were travelling
today? I thought you don’t do relationships? I thought I thought I
thought…

But instead of raising any of those questions, I cheat. I end
my mental line of inquisition with,

“Never mind.”

We cuddle some more, and just before I
succumb to officially falling in love with this guy the last lines
of my defence system surge.
Be careful
Penny
, that voice warns.
This guy is a distorting mirror. A life with him
will be a mesh of insecurity and suffering alternating with magic
and romance. The only way to understand him is to open yourself up
and become vulnerable all over again. Will you ever know what is
really going on inside his soul? Will you ever truly know what lies
beneath?

Romantic Left Brain immediately starts
talking back to cautious Right Brain.
Oh
shut up. Why can’t you just go with the flow a little more? You’re
young, he’s young, no one’s clocks are ticking, this is the
perfect
time to be a
little impulsive and madcap. He’s done something really sweet for
you tonight. Maybe it won’t be repeated tomorrow, or the next day,
or ever again, but you should relish it
now
. This moment is the one that
matters.

But the distorting mirror theory!
Sensible Right puts up one final
fight.

Balls to that. So he’s a distorting mirror, big whoop. You’re
an adult, you can handle it. Enjoy now, ask questions
later.

I still haven’t fully registered that he has come dressed in
red for me. For weeks, months, it has felt like getting this guy
into a relationship was the equivalent to running up a hill. An icy
hill. In roller-skates. Pushing a hundred tonne boulder. And yet,
here it is. Is this the cosmos throwing me a bone after all the
caustic relationships and disgusting men I’ve been subject to in
the past?

As the Stranger and I kiss and hug and nuzzle our faces into
each others’ necks, I get this niggling feeling that I’ve forgotten
something…

Oh my god, Emma!

I spot them immediately. Dublin is no longer in front of the
fireplace, he’s standing with Rusty and Emma near the front door.
My pint sized sister’s face is as white as a funeral lily, her
blue-green eyes large as saucers. Her lips are parted in fear, and
is it just me or is she shaking? The looming figures of Dublin and
Rusty tower over her threateningly. Dublin looks upset, Rusty looks
livid.

I take the Stranger’s hand and rush over in their direction.
As we near I see Rusty’s face is bright red, so red that the
freckles on his face aren’t showing anymore. I find this amusing
for the briefest of moments, before he takes an aggressive step
towards Emma and starts shouting in her face,

“Is that true? Did you tell this guy that he was your
preferred option?”

“No… I mean… no of course not.”

Worried, I step forward to help but feel the Stranger holding
me back. I consider shrugging him off but maybe his arm-pull has
made a valid point. Maybe it’s time to stop being the
overprotective sister?

“Then what?” Dublin asks her loudly, “he’s the one you want to
be with? What the fuck, Emma?”

“I… I…” The small white animal which used to be my sister
stutters.

“I can’t believe you’ve been with another guy this whole
time!” Rusty yells.

“I… Uh… Um…”

People are starting to mass around them. Ignoring the crowd
Rusty takes another step forward so that his face is a few inches
away from Emma’s. They’re almost nose to nose. He lifts up his hand
and starts jabbing an accusatory finger in her face. I’m so shocked
that at first I don’t move. His face has turned into an angry
snarl,

“You fucking bitch, you don’t even have the decency to admit
it. Who the fuck do you think you are?”

Oh no you di’int!
Not time to be the overprotective sister? Like fun it’s
not!

I literally push the Stranger off me as my
body fills with piping hot rage. In a split second I have shoved
myself between Emma and Rusty. I’m facing him, my face as red as
his. I knock his finger out of the way with a hard slap and
point
my
finger up
to
his
face.

“You don’t speak to her that way, motherfucker!” I
yell.

I hear the room emit a collective gasp. It’s gone deathly
quiet (well, except for the really loud music). Rusty’s face grows
even redder (if that’s possible) and his body tenses. He moves up
so that our faces are only a few centimetres apart. I’m a head
taller than Emma but still slightly shorter than him. I know he
wants me to feel intimidated (and trust me, I do), but I won’t back
down. No fucking way.

“Who the fuck are you?” He barks.

His spittle is hitting my face. I feel like
I’m losing control, like this is some sort of out of body
experience I’ll be telling my therapist about in years to come. I
want this fight. I am
relishing
the prospect of this fight. But, seeing as I’ve
never been in a rumble before, I don’t quite know how to start
it,