A Mess of Reason (11 page)

“She’s always with someone else, always has
a new boyfriend…hell, she’s fucking engaged, Rox.”

“Well, why do you think that is,
shit-for-brains?”

“I can’t be the one who ruins her chance at
a happy married life with kids, Rox.”

“Then stop being a douchebag and don’t…what
are you not getting?
Be
in her happy married life. Have the
kids with her. Be the man. Be the baby-daddy. Is this really so
complicated for you? She moved across the country to work with you,
sure, but she moved across the country because you, darling Scout,
asked her to. Get it? You asked her. Not even on one knee, mind
you.”

“I can’t ask her not to get married.”

“Why not?” she says with an indulgent laugh
chasing her words.

“I’m leaving. I have to get to her—I can’t
let her stay there stranded. She doesn’t even know you guys aren’t
coming because there’s no service up there—she’s going to feel like
everyone forgot.”

“Listen to me, guns. If you go there, then
you better not leave her stranded. Do you read me, sarge? Do I have
to crowbar this into your brain? Don’t fuck this up.”

*

What should have taken me three hours took
me six, four of which were white-knuckle driving. Thank God Rox and
the girls hadn’t tried to brave it or I’d be on a rescue mission
instead. Well, now that I put it like that, I sort of am on a
rescue mission. For what exactly? We’ll see soon enough.

Tess has no idea her girlfriends are not on
their way. The cabin is perched deep in the mountains at Snow Bluff
Ski Resort. I helped Tess find it three years ago when she was
looking for a little real estate investment that would be closer to
Echo Mountain instead of the East Coast, which is where she was
living at the time. The reason people flock to Snow Bluff is
because it’s a true escape from the world, since you really cannot
reach anyone.

Before I got on the road, Rox and I
transferred all the bachelorette party goods into my truck so that
Tess could at least see the efforts the girls went to for her.
Yeah, right down to the rainbow penis lollipops and the Mr. Stud
blow-up doll. You can imagine my fear of the highway patrol finding
my truck flipped over while a yard sale of penis paraphernalia lies
scattered across all four lanes. Rox claims I have half a nut now.
Jesus.

I arrive at eight and it’s pitch black
outside. A thick blanket of snow muffles every noise as the
blizzard comes at us in full regalia. Even with chains on all my
tires, the trek here was a blinding doozy. The cabin looks to have
every light on, including Christmas twinklers that glow like
fireflies under the mess of snow that covers them. Music is blaring
loudly—I’d say ten out of ten on the volume dial—as I walk into the
cabin.

Tess is nowhere, even when I yell like a
bear for her. The smell of cinnamon, vanilla, and evergreen hits me
like a syrupy nasal bomb as I make my way to the kitchen and set
down the boxes full of party stuff. Looks like Tess made some
headway on the party decorations as I notice the pecker piñata
hanging in the middle of the living room, along with stacks of
games and tubs full of beer all capped with plastic penises. I yell
out a few more times for her, then walk to the back of the house
where the bedrooms are.

The master bedroom is my first thought; it’s
most likely where she’s getting herself all dolled up to party with
the girls. There’s not a chance she could’ve heard me come in. I
can’t even hear myself think because the music is even louder back
here. Shoes, bras, panties, and makeup are scattered all over her
bed in an explosion of color and chaos. On her nightstand is a
gargantuan vibrator that looks like something King Kong’s bride
could get off on. That’s my girl. I see two empty shot glasses, and
one half empty beer sporting a penis topper. Oh, you can bet she’ll
be thrilled to see me. I go toward the bathroom door, calling her
name out again through the thunderclap-like decibels and the blow
drier. Nothing. I walk just to the edge of the door and peek in,
hoping to hell she’s not on the can or in some other precarious
position that I’d catch hell for if she saw me looking.

And there she is.

Buck naked, back to me. Her golden frenzy of
hair flying as she’s dancing. I mean dancing hardcore…singing into
her hairbrush, the whole nine yards, and while I’m startled seeing
her in this really sexy way, I’m violently shocked and stunned by
what else I’m seeing.

Fifteen years in and never one word. Fifteen
years is a long time to never know something this immense,
something so incredibly alarming that even I can’t look away. The
catastrophic blur zipping through my head is moving so fast, I
can’t even speak. And then, as I’m about to touch her shoulder, she
turns her head to me and catches my eyes. My fingers aren’t even to
her as she’s scrambling into the towel rack to cover herself
up.

And here I am again. I can’t seem to get it
right with her. We can’t seem to get it right. I walk out of the
bathroom, sit on the bed, and sink into the idea of what’s about to
come down, because tonight all hell is going to break lose between
me and my best friend Tess.

*

“Fifteen years Tess.
Fifteen!
” I’m
yelling. Even after I’ve turned the volume on the stereo down to a
three.

“
Fifteen
,” I shout again, as I try to
sort through the secret she’s imprisoned inside of her for all
these years.

Of course she’s crying. Again. I’m pretty
sure this is going to be a winner of a night. I grab the bottle of
tequila on her dresser and slam back two shots. Then I hit a third
one for good measure…and luck.

“So let me get this straight.” I’m talking
very loudly, so she can hear every single word. My tongue is hot,
fast, and sharp. I’m mad, sad, outraged. She’s likely all of those,
too, along with a heap-load of other emotions that I can’t even
begin to dissect.

“It was okay for me to hold your hand while
you got an abortion… Yep, they let me—an eighteen-year-old kid
whose baby it was not—stay in the room to hold your hand. That’s
right, Tess.” I don’t want to make her feel small or insignificant
like I feel right now, but I do need to shake her a bit.

“It was okay for you to give me all the
dirty details about the night that Striker popped your cherry in
high school. Me, Tess.” I feel akin to a stick of dynamite. I think
it’s the only way we’re going to be able to move this amount of
earth, though.

“It’s okay that you tell me every goddamned
time you’ve got your period to the point where I can tell you the
exact day it’s coming. And I’m a guy, might I remind you.” I’m
actually chuckling now. It’s an evil, cold chuckle but at least I’m
finding a wisp of humor in the fact that I’m good for something to
my best friend.

“It’s okay that I know you have a waxy
build-up in your left ear but not in your right ear. What else do I
know about you, sweetheart? Well, I know where your mother is
buried and that you go there with violets every spring on the very
same day she died and place them on her grave. I know you like the
rainbow jimmies on your pancakes, but not the chocolate ones, and
that you take one lump of sugar in your tea, not two. You like
pickled Brussels sprouts in your martinis, not olives. You carry a
small peppermill in your purse with you everywhere you go. I know
that your tongue tastes beautiful, like mint tea and cloves. I know
that you have the greatest ass from New York to California. I know
that your singing voice is better than Liberty Storm’s, but you’re
too intimidated to use it because of my Grammy status.” Quite a
diatribe for a guy, huh? I’m just getting going.

“Now, on the flip side, what
don’t
I
know about you?” Apparently plenty.

“Well, I don’t know if you currently have a
Brazilian or a Hollywood wax because you haven’t shared that with
me in a while. I don’t know what it feels like to lie naked,
skin-against-skin, next to you, but I would imagine it’s lovely.
Though I’m guessing, I now know why you never did want that from
me, huh, Tess? I guess I know why we never got it on. Or got past
kissing. I don’t know if you’re marrying Creed because you love him
or because you’re too afraid to find out what could happen with us
if you did break it off. But somehow you must be okay with him
knowing your secret…but not me?
Me, Tess!
”

I could give a flying fuck if you think I’m
being mean right now. We—me and Tess—we’re better than a lifetime
full of bullshit lying.

“Oh, yeah, and one more thing. I’ve known
you for fifteen
fucking
years, Tess. And never—not once—did
you ever tell me how the fuck your entire back got melted like a
fucking ice cream sundae as though someone took a blowtorch to
you.”

She slams the door. And locks it. And you
know the fuck what? This is bullshit. I have a bottomless pit full
of questions for her, and in the next few days I’m going to get all
the way down to that dark, locked-up pit. I go out to my truck and
grab my toolbox. Then I crowbar the trim off the door, and jimmy
the lock back to the other side, because I’m not doing this her way
anymore. I’m going to MacGyver my way in whether she likes it or
not. I’m done guessing. I’m over her Morse code crap. I’m doing it
my way. I’m forcing myself in and she’s got nowhere to go because
we are stranded like Noah on Ararat, and I’m pretty sure it’s gonna
be a few days before we get out of here.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

TESS

Not even my best girlfriend knows about it.
Because its too ugly to share. Since I was five I’ve managed to
hide it.

Oh, sure, there were questions.
Easy-to-navigate stuff at first.
Why don’t you wear tank tops?
Why do you swim with a T-shirt on? Why don’t you have to shower
after gym class with all the other girls?
Then as I got older,
the questions got harder, but I managed
. Why won’t you let me go
to second with you? Why won’t you get naked with me?
I’ve
become a fast talker over the years. It’s actually become a game to
me. How can I throw them off the track? I’ve become an expert at
distracting people with red herrings.

It’s simple really, I lie. Lying is easy to
do, the more you do it. Lies become reality when they are the only
truths you want to share. Bonus is, I’m thin and I really am small
chested. So I go with the whole
Ha, ha, ha…I’m flat chested
jokes that everyone has used on me since I was twelve. Funny thing
is, I just play into their hand. Guys love making fun of chicks who
are flat chested, especially the young guys. It ironically worked
in my favor; I was downright grateful for their twisted, mean
jokes. They sealed the deal—joke was on them. My shirt never came
off. Never not once.

The left side is so melted that I only have
half of an areola and a semi-melted nipple that stays flat-ish. My
right side is a normal areola and nipple, but the skin around it is
torched like crumpled velvet. My chest, belly, and back are all
cooked, seared, melted…whatever name makes you feel best works for
me. Torched, as in even doctors cringe a little when they look at
me. Imagine the warm fuzzies I feel inside over that. They don’t
want to cringe—they’re professionals after all—but alas, they are
human. I watch their eyes and their mouths twist, and with no words
I know exactly what they’re thinking. Mind reader.

My fiancé has never, not once seen me
completely naked. There’s a curve ball for you eh? Even he’s
convinced I’m to self-conscious about my small tits to show them.
My own little scapegoats. I get dressed in the closet or a locked
bathroom. Aren’t I elusive. Cagey? A bit. It’s my armor. I wear a
skintight burn vest that makes my skin appear smooth under any
clothing I have on—that way, if someone touches me when I have on a
T-shirt, they think their touching smooth, “normal” skin.
Normal
is what people like.
Normal
is what people
want to see…and feel.
Normal
=
good
.

I wish I could tell you I’m not mortified by
this. I can’t feel bad or guilty or anything other than what I
feel. I don’t want pity and I don’t want to be stared at. I just
want to be me. I don’t want to be know as “the girl with the…” And
as hard as I try to be different from others in how I dress and
whatnot, I also want to be normal when it comes to nakedness.
Everyone wants to be normal naked.

Now, the one person in the world that I
share damn near everything with knows that for our entire
relationship I have been lying to him. That kind of throws a wrench
into things. Part of the reason I never could let myself be with
Scout in the boyfriend way is that I knew he would eventually see
it. I knew I wouldn’t get away with any sort of lame excuse as to
why he couldn’t hold my entire naked body against his. I knew Scout
would need all of me inside and out. And sadly, it’s not something
I can offer to him. You see my dilemma now, don’t you?

Creed, on the other hand, couldn’t give a
shit. He just wants to fuck. Crass, I know. That, however, keeps my
secret well hidden. It also keeps the truth of my heart well
hidden, if we’re going to get all “deep thoughts” here. Lucky me,
he’s never even asked. I told him one time as a warning,
I don’t
do tit
. And that was that. He never went there again. I think
he’s more of an ass man, truth be told…and mine is fine.

Once Scout has popped the trim off the door
and unlocked it, he slides in a bottle of tequila along with two
shot glasses. Then he comes in and stands directly in front of me,
one hand snugged deeply into his jeans pocket, the other rubbing
his handsome, well-stubbled jaw. His eyes are ice cold and he’s
shaking his head at me in disbelief. I’m in my white, oversized,
button-down shirt and my panties, sitting on the floor looking up
at him as my heart dances around inside a box of glass shards.
Needless to say, I’m an emotional wreck.