Soft Shock (9 page)

Chapter Twelve

Friday
afternoon, Owen was sitting on the couch with his laptop and half watching some
reality show on television when Dante walked in wearing a black suit.

Owen looked up
at him. “There’s some weird sex stuff on Craigslist, man. Have you ever checked
it out?”

Dante laughed.
“Don’t tell me you’re looking for a date on Craigslist. Don’t have the police
up in here, asking me when the last time I saw you was. And you know a brother
gonna be the prime suspect.”

“Nah.” And he
hadn’t been. Not really. “What are you all dressed up for?”

Dante propped
his black-framed glasses on top of his head. “Business meeting.”

“That’s all? You’re
not going to share your latest scheme?”

“Nothing really
to share yet.” Dante tossed his briefcase in the direction of the dining room
and parked himself on The Throne, which was his finest E-Bay purchase
to-date—in Dante’s opinion. It was also his lucky chair and so the only
chair from which he’d play video games. “What about what you’re up to? I still
don’t know why you’re looking up Craigslist sex stuff.”

“I’m not. I was
taking a break from checking out the dating site.”

Dante rolled
his eyes. “I still don’t know why you’re doing that. First of all, I don’t know
what’s wrong with Camille. Second, you could walk out here any second and get
any girl to drop her panties by smiling at her. Why you wasting your time on
that site? Those things are for ugly people.”

“No, they’re
not for ugly people. And even if the panty dropping thing were true—”

“You know it
is.”

“Let me finish.
Regardless, I want more than panty dropping.”

Dante shook his
head. “Here we go again.”

“I want a real
relationship. A connection. And it’s easier to find it on here than out there.
For one thing, I know these girls are single and looking.”

“That’s what
they tell you anyway.”

“Yeah, well,
I’ll take my chances.”

“You do that.
And one day, you’re
gonna
meet some bored married
woman who put up a profile. You’ll take her out to dinner and you’ll think you
found your ‘connection’ or whatever crazy mess you’re looking for. Then one
day, you’ll be getting it on at her house, and her big-ass, crazy ass husband
will bust in and take your head off with a sawed-off shotgun.”

“So all these
dating scenarios you’re coming up with end with me being dead.”

“All the online
ones do.” Dante loosened his tie and threw his jacket over the back of The
Throne. The old Lay-Z-Boy recliner looked as if it had literally had the
stuffing beat out of it. The fraying, furry fabric was some weird orange-green
color, and both Owen’s and Dante’s moms hated it. “Can’t trust that stuff.”

“Okay.” Owen
moved his laptop to the spot next to him on the couch and stretched his legs
out in front of him.

“Got Halloween
plans yet?”

“Nope not yet.”

“My friend is
having this party, and you might meet a nice, normal girl in real life there.”

“Okay. I’ll
go.” He might as well. He didn’t hold out high hopes, though, as far as the
meeting a girl part went. Dante kept talking, but Owen got distracted by an
alert that popped up on the dating website telling him he had a new message. The
redhead with a profile pic featuring a sports bra and rock solid abs had
emailed him back.

#

Owen considered
himself to be in pretty good shape, but he was no match for Ruby, his third
date. Ruby was militantly vegan, rabidly libertarian, and acerbically pro-gun. The
vegan thing definitely was not a pro-animal rights thing as she enjoyed hunting
for sport. Her veganism was more about health. And heaven help anyone who
disagreed with any of her views.

Ruby was also a
yogilates instructor who loved to rock climb and who’d rowed crew on her high
school and college teams. She looked good on paper but in person—well.
Instead of a fun afternoon of rock climbing, he felt like he was scaling this
rock face behind a very judgmental drill sergeant. Oh yeah. She also taught one
of those boot camp classes at the gym where she worked.

“You’re not
getting tired, are you?” She called down to him from several feet above. The
way she asked it implied he’d better not
be
.

“Maybe we could
just take a short break or something.” They’d been at this for two hours. If
Owen didn’t get off this rock soon, he was going to start hallucinating food
and water. Ice cold water. Not like the tepid half full bottle of it in the
crunched up water bottle he had with him. In an effort not to let her show him
up, he gritted his teeth and found new holes for his hands. When he finally
pulled himself parallel with her, she smirked. “What?” he asked.

“Maybe it’s all
that meat, weighing you down. It’s bad for your system, you know,” she said.
“Guys.” She shook her head. Apparently, she was a bisexual but had never slept
with a woman or so much as dated one. She’d told him this while they were
suiting up to climb.

“Okay,” Owen
grunted. “Here we go.” He propelled himself forward. When he reached her, she
smirked at him.

“Don’t tell me
that’s all you got.”

“Not even close.”

“Let’s race.”
She checked the carabiners clipped into her harness and nodded to
herself
.

“Let’s go.”
Owen was all grim concentration, hand over fist.

“You’re not
doing so badly for a weak city boy.”

He’d grown up
with the outdoors, but he didn’t waste energy telling her that. Instead, he stayed
focused on the climbing. It was turning out to be the least worthless part of
the date.

“C’mon! Get
up!” She let out a whoop. Continuing to deride his efforts even as he pushed
past the progress she’d made, she laughed and kept plugging away. Ruby was big
on trash talk.

He lost track
of their spotters. He lost track of everything. He just knew he had to beat her.
And everything was going okay—better than before she’d egged him on into
getting his second wind—for a while.

Then he
slipped.

Chapter Thirteen

The doctor gave
him a pat on his good shoulder. “You’re lucky you’re so young and fit, Owen.
You should be good to go in a few weeks.” Dr. Fletcher-Smith had a heavy
Southern accent. He was pretty young for a doctor—he was probably around
Owen’s age, which would put him in his mid-to-late twenties. Dr. Fletcher-Smith
was a surgical resident at MCV Hospital where Owen had been taken after his
little slide down the mountain that morning. The doctor had just gone over
Owen’s x-rays with him, assuring him nothing was broken.

Owen had fallen
down the rock quite a ways before his ropes and anchor point had stopped him,
and he’d banged into it a few good times as well. As a result of his scrambling
around, he’d earned himself a sprained wrist and a twisted ankle. He’d banged
up his knee pretty good as well, and he had scratches everywhere. It could have
been worse, both Dr. Fletcher-Smith and the
ever helpful
Ruby had informed him.

“Thanks,” Owen
said. He stretched out the sore muscles in his arms and shoulders gingerly by
rounding his back and cautiously moving his arms out in front of him.

“We can
discharge you in a little bit,” Dr. Fletcher-Smith said. “Do you have someone
to take you home?”

Owen nodded. Ruby
had offered to stick around, but Owen had told her it was probably best if she
left. She’d been busy critiquing his rock climbing technique while he suffered
through pain of bumping and jostling all the way down the mountain and had kept
it up on the way to the hospital. He’d called Dante to come get him.

“Good. The
nurse will be in to see you in a few,” Dr. Fletcher-Smith said.

Owen nodded,
lay back on his bed in the E.R., and closed his eyes as he waited for the
nurse. Dating was turning out to be hazardous to his health. He hadn’t ever
really dated around—he’d been in one monogamous relationship right after
the other since freshman year in high school. He didn’t like this. There were
definite advantages to being a serial monogamist, and he wanted back in that
club.

A materialistic snob, a cat lady, and a vegan who was obsessed with
guns.
The last had been the most interesting of the three by far.
The most dangerous of the three as well.
Owen continued to
puzzle over Ruby and his strange morning while handling the last of his discharge
paperwork.

The first thing
Dante did when he showed up to the E.R. was
laugh
and
shake his head.

“You’re going
to have fun with this one, aren’t you?” Owen asked wearily, adjusting the ace
bandage around his wrist where he had a less serious sprain. His ankle—and
the corresponding pain—was much worse. “I’m glad my dating life is so
entertaining for you.”

“Me, too.”

They exited the
E.R., and Dante led the way to his Mazda, which he’d pulled up close to the
E.R. entrance so Owen wouldn’t have to hobble far to get to it.

“I told you
online dating was going to be the death of you,” Dante said as he unlocked the
car doors with the click of a button.

“This doesn’t
count. It’s not like she was a psycho or something.”

“You sure about
that?”

Owen considered
this for a moment. Then he said, “Look. At least I’m trying. Weren’t you
complaining not too long ago that I was moping?”

“Just please
tell me you’re still coming out for Halloween. Tell me there’s still hope.”

“Yeah. I might
even be done with the crutch by then.” Dr. Fletcher-Smith had given him just
the one crutch and told him to try to keep weight off the bad ankle as much as
possible. Owen tossed the crutch into the back and then maneuvered himself into
the passenger seat.

Dante snorted.
“I doubt it.”

“Hey. What is that
supposed to mean?” Somehow, Owen didn’t think Dante was talking about the piece
of metal he’d thrown into the backseat of Dante’s car.

“Nothing, man.
Nothing.”

“What are you
trying to say?” Owen turned in the bucket seat, careful of all the painful spots
in his banged up body, and stared Dante’s profile down.

“It’s cool,
man. We all have our addictions. You’re addicted to relationships. There are
worse weaknesses to have.” Dante, who’d never been with the same girl for
longer than a few weeks at a time, shrugged. “I guess there are anyway.”

Owen laughed.
“You’re the worst, man. I hope you know that.”

“Hey, watch it.
Unless you have someone else to rescue you from your idiotic date choices.”

He had a point
there.

#

Marci was
trying to get into a book for her final project for Professor Ming’s class, but
she couldn’t manage it. Every time she started in on the paragraph she was
supposed to be reading about economics in nineteenth century American South,
her mind drifted. This was a topic she was normally very interested
in—that was why she’d picked it for her final project—but tonight
it held no interest at all for her. And she didn’t want to admit to herself
that she had a very good idea of why that was so.

When Ronnie
walked by the open door to her room and poked her head in and said hello, Marci
was grateful for the distraction. Ronnie was still sporting a black polo shirt
with the white Schaffer’s logo emblazoned where a left breast pocket might have
otherwise been. She wore dark pants with it, and she brought the smell of fried
food grease mixed with perfume into the room with her.

“What are you
up to in here?” Ronnie leaned against Marci’s desk. “You spend all day at the
library just to come home and crack open another book?”

Marci closed
her book and scooted her chair back from her desk a few feet.
Crossing her legs and arms
,
she looked up
at Ronnie
. “Got a lot of work to do.”

Ronnie nodded
knowingly. “Mm hm.”

“And just what
is that mm hm about?” Marci asked.

“You haven’t
been your normal self for the past few weeks.
In fact, every
since that night at The Hops.
When you went home with that guy. The one
who knocked you over with his bike.
”

“What? That
doesn’t make any sense. His name is Owen, by the way.”

Ronnie gave
another infuriating, knowing nod. “When we go out, you barely even flirt
anymore. Not like you. And you haven’t gone home with anybody in weeks.” Ronnie
stood there, leaning her head to the side, and Marci knew she was putting two
and two together, so Marci took the time to build up her defense. “You haven’t
had sex since that night you went home with Owen, have you?” Ronnie smiled
slyly. “Well, technically, since before that. Have you?”

Marci busied
herself with needlessly rearranging the already neat stack of books on the
corner of her desk opposite the side where Ronnie stood. “I’ve been busy.
Midterms were right after fall break, and I’ve had to help Professor Ming grade
the tests for her undergrad philosophy class. I have my own papers to write,
and I have to work on this huge final project for Ming as well. It has to be
perfect. And of course, I…have the writing center.” Thinking of the writing
center reminded her that Owen hadn’t been in for a couple weeks. He’d called
and told one of the other volunteers that he wouldn’t be in for a while due to
an injury. An injury. Yeah okay. Was he in traction or something? Could he not
get around even if he had to use crutches? Not that she cared.

“What’s that
look on your face?” Ronnie narrowed her brown eyes in a look that contained
more scrutiny than Marci would have liked.

Marci made a
concerted effort to relax her facial muscles into a neutral expression. “What
look?”

“That same sour
look you’ve been wearing more often than not when you think no one’s looking
these days. The one Tyler calls the Steer Clear Look.”

“Nothing. I was
just thinking about Mom. How she wants me to come home for Thanksgiving and
watch her and the new husband
be
sickening together.” Glenda
King didn’t mean to be oblivious and neglectful. In fact, she prided herself on
being a nurturer. She was oblivious to the fact that she only made an effort to
reach out to her daughter when she wanted to show off or when she was in a particularly
good mood or when she wanted to yell at her daughter for screwing up. That
didn’t make Marci any happier to spend time at home.

She couldn’t risk
upsetting the balance of things, though. If she didn’t have a good reason for
missing Thanksgiving, G.K. would throw a tantrum that could go one of two ways,
neither of them good. Either Marci would be an ungrateful and horrible daughter
or G.K. would take on the role of Concerned And Attentive
Parent
.
G.K.’s attempts at being attentive were always disastrous.

The last time
that happened was when Marci was in undergrad at NYU and grieving the loss of
her asshole college boyfriend hard. G.K had taken a temporary position at a
teaching hospital in New York to be closer to her daughter and had only made
things worse. G.K.’s solution to all problems in life was rather drill-sergeant-quit-your-whining-and-snap-out-of-it
like. Whenever G.K. wasn’t busy instructing Marci to get over herself, she’d
been demanding that Marci admire her skills from the theater in the operating
room at the hospital. G.K. never missed an opportunity to try and mold Marci to
be another her. Better to keep G.K. at arm’s length. Better to pretend.

“I have to
hatch a scheme that makes going home for Thanksgiving impossible.
Gotta
come up with something good. I’ve been preoccupied
with that is all,” Marci said.

“Okay,” Ronnie
said.

“What? What’s
that tone you’re using?”

“Oh, I don’t
believe you is all,” Ronnie said. “You’re too used to your mom to allow her
antics to bother you all that much.”

“And what do
you think’s going on if you know so much?”

“I think
there’s more to this Owen situation than you’re willing to admit.”

“You tell me
yours, and I’ll tell you mine,” Marci said.

“Huh?” Ronnie
looked caught off-guard.

“Tell me what’s
been up with you lately, and maybe we’ll talk about what’s going on with me,”
Marci said. “We never did finish our conversation at Sadie’s place that one
night.”

Ronnie tapped
her fingers against her thighs and looked down at them. She’d painted her nails
a bright purple color recently. “It’s just…sometimes, people need more help
than you know how to give them.”

“Are we talking
about Jeremy here?” Marci asked gently.

Ronnie’s head
snapped up, and her closed off expression informed Marci that she’d said the
exact wrong thing. “You
would
jump to
that conclusion, wouldn’t you?”

“Ronnie, I only
want to help.”

“Yeah, well,
when you stop being so judgmental of people you don’t even know, maybe I’ll
start to believe that.” Ronnie pushed herself away from the desk.

“Ronnie, wait.
I’m sorry.”

But Ronnie left
the room and closed the door after her. Marci sat back in her desk chair and
twisted her dad’s class ring around on her gold necklace. Was she really being
too judgmental? Again, that creeping, sinking feeling that she was slowly
becoming the person she’d vowed never to be anything like crept over her. Maybe
she was more like Glenda King than she would ever care to admit.