Authors: Kim Holden
(Kate)
I wake up at 10:37am and goddamn if I don’t feel continental this morning. Getting caught up on sleep is something I’ve only recently had the luxury of enjoying. The concept has been foreign to me for the past, oh I don’t know, all my life.
Maddie must be at work so I get out my laptop and search for a nearby grocery. There’s one within walking distance. I take the elevator down to the gym and run for thirty minutes and then I shower and grab my wallet and phone and head out for the grocery store. When I exit the building I find myself drawn to the Starbucks next door like a moth to a flame. I don’t like fancy-
schmancy coffee shops. I like mom-and-pop, small local joints. But I’m already through the door and my veins are practically humming. I order a large black coffee, which I know pisses them off because I’m supposed to order in pretentious coffee-speak, but it’s been ages since I’ve been in a commercial coffee shop and I’m desperate for my coffee. I don’t have time to peruse the gigantic menu of froufrou drinks to get the jargon just the way they like it.
I get the standard litany of questions. “Milk, soy, non-dairy creamer?”
“No thanks.”
“Flavor shot?”
“Nope, black’s good.” I’m bouncing on the balls of my feet in anticipation. And when she hands it to me what I want to say is
come to mama
, but what I really say is, “Thank you
so
much,” with extra emphasis on the
so
.
I find the grocery store and pick up what I can carry back to the apartment. As fate would have it they also have a small two cup coffee pot that I score for fifteen dollars on sale. On the walk back, I hold the grocery sack in one hand, clutching the coffee pot in the other like it’s the fucking Holy Grail.
Back at Maddie’s apartment, I decide to do some cleaning. I assume she probably works a lot because it’s dirty as hell in here. It’s not like I’m Mrs. Clean, but I figure it’s the least I can do to help her out. I vacuum and clean the kitchen and the bathrooms until around 5:00, when she’s due home.
At
5:15 she announces she’s starving and hasn’t eaten all day and that I just
have to
try the sushi place down the street. I’m not really a big sushi fan—which I know is sacrilegious in certain crowds—and I’m also a vegetarian. That alone reduces my options, and when you factor in my distaste for rice, I’m not left with much to choose from. Of course I don’t want to be rude because I’m the guest, so I tell her, “Sounds good, let’s go.”
The restaurant is packed, but she knows the maître d
’ by name and we quickly get a table.
“Do you come here often?” I ask, impressed by the quick service.
“No, only about twice a week.”
I nod. I’m getting used to just nodding now to get past the shock of her lifestyle. I guess I shouldn’t be shocked since my mother lived it her whole life, and after all they were sisters. Maybe being high maintenance is genetic or something. It definitely skipped me and Grace if that’s the case.
As I start to scan the menu looking for something edible, I realize that Maddie’s ordering a round of martinis. My eyes widen, but hers are already glued to the menu. “What do you like?”
I lean across the table and whisper, “Maddie, I’m only nineteen. I can’t drink, dude.” It’s not that I don’t drink, but I’m not into it tonight. And I don’t have a fake ID if our server decides to card me when he comes back.
She dismisses me with a wave of her hand. “I come in here all the time.”
That’s some sort of explanation? I shrug and raise my eyebrows. “Okay.” I’ll offer the drink to her when it comes. Something tells me she won’t turn it down.
“So, back to the food. What sounds good?” She looks almost food drunk just taking in the menu. Like it’s making her high.
“Um, yeah, so I’m vegetarian. What kind of options do I have to work with?” My eyes are racing furiously across the menu looking for anything that says vegetables.
Again, she dismisses me with a wave of her hand as the waiter returns with our drinks. “I’ll order for both of us.”
The food comes out, and by the time the waiter is done setting it all on the table, I’m stunned. Several long plates crowded with colorful rolls, bright pink and white fish, and mounds of wasabi fill the entire table
. “Maddie, I think there’s some mistake. This is a lot of food.”
“
No, this is all ours.”
I frown. “But there are like six plates here and there are only two of us.”
She shrugs and looks at me like I’m speaking Japanese. “Sushi’s not very filling. Besides, you want to have some variety. Try a little bit of everything.”
I nod for what must be the hundredth time. “Um, okay. So, point me toward the meat-free items here, Maddie, because it all looks the same to me.”
She laughs as though I’ve just said something childish. “I think you’re safe with these two plates.”
“You
think
, or you
know
? Because my bowels are on the line here.” I feel like I have to cut to the chase to get my point across.
She wrinkles her nose. “Kate, that is
disgusting
.”
“Sorry. I’m just telling it like it is. This body knows, and it’s a fairly swift rejection once it hits the point of no return.”
Her nose is still wrinkled. “Just eat off these two plates and you’ll be fine.”
I’m about thirty percent confident in her advice and unfortunately everything on the table smells fishy because there are shitloads of it in front of me. I decide to trust her. I take a bite and it tastes funny, but I can’t tell what might be rice and what might be fish. Either way, I have to fight my gag reflex with each bite. I eat three pieces, alternately downing water between each bite.
Maddie polishes off both martinis and an impressive amount of food and then denies a take-out box when it’s offered for the rest of the food still sitting on the table. I’m not kidding, if this stuff didn’t taste like ass I would’ve been able to eat off what she threw out for a couple of days.
When the check comes she reaches for her purse and delicately hits her forehead. She’s got a flair for the dramatic. “Oh my gosh, I must have forgotten my wallet at the apartment.” She turns fawning eyes up at me, and it becomes obvious that we will not be splitting this bill. “No problem, I’ll get it,” I say. I mean, I
am
her guest. It’s the least I can do for her letting me crash at her place for a few days.
She pushes the receipt across the table and I almost piss myself, because the bill is $173.00! I only have fifty bucks in my wallet, so I put it on my only credit card. The one I reserve only for emergencies, which means I try never
to use it. It feels a little bit like I’m turning over my first born as I relinquish my card to the waiter. I’m pretty thrifty with my money, not because I’m some sort of miser, but because I have bills to pay every month. And I’m responsible about it. I always allocate a little bit of money to have fun with or to help someone out, but I just blew that whole wad in one dinner. It’s okay
,
I tell myself, and by the time the waiter returns I’m resigned to the fact that this was a learning experience and something I’ll probably laugh about later.
Maddie excuses herself to the restroom while I’m signing the credit card receipt. By the time she returns my lower belly starts gurgling. It’s a low, foreboding rumble, speaking to a time in the near future in which it will make me pay for whatever it was I just fed it.
We race back to the apartment and I make it to the bathroom with about half a second to spare before I shit my pants. The culmination of my sushi experience is angry and explosive.
After I’ve been thoroughly chastised by my colon, I decide to just chill in my bedroom and read for a while. Around 9:30pm I start looking at the clock every five minutes. At 10:00pm I’m pacing the floor. And by 10:30pm I’ve nearly worn a path through the carpet and my hand’s sweaty from the death grip I’ve got on my cell phone. I’ve been staring at it for a good fifteen minutes now. It’s still early in California. I tell myself that he’s probably at the beach. But what if he’s home and just avoiding me because last night’s conversation was so uncomfortable? Aw shit, just call him and get this over with or it will eat you up. I scroll through the contacts on my phone and tap his name. His face appears on the screen with his long, million shades of blond, sun-bleached hair hanging over one eye. He’s laughing, but the one eye that’s visible looks like it’s twinkling right at me. I look at this photo every time I dial his number for a few seconds before I put the phone to my ear, because it’s like he’s greeting me in his goofy way before I even hear him answer. I smile, which relaxes me. The phone rings four times and I’m waiting for the voicemail greeting after the fifth ring. But then he answers.
He’s panting like he’s out of breath. “Gus’s fire department, you light em', we fight em'.”
“Hey, where
is
the fire, dude?”
He takes a few deep breaths. “Sorry, I was just loading up my board and I could hear the phone ringing but the damn door of my truck was locked and—”
“I thought the locks were broken.”
“They were. Now they aren’t I guess. I don’t know what the fuck’s going on. The electrical system is jacked.”
“Maybe you should get a new truck?” I offer, but only because I know it will spur a debate.
“Why would I want to do that?” He’s mock-offended. We do this at least once a week.
“Oh I don’t know, maybe because your truck is from 1989. Or because it has over 300,000 miles on it. Or because something’s always broken.” I’d be devastated if he got rid of it. I love his truck, mostly
because
it’s a piece of shit. But he’s so protective of it that it’s fun to tease him.
“Dude, it’s just getting broken in. It’s got character.” His defense is spectacular.
I laugh. “I know. I love your truck and all its broken character.” Then I drop the act. “How were the waves today?”
“Sucked. It was crowded as all hell and I think every tourist and his brother picked tonight to rent a board and try to conquer the waves. It was full-blown chaos. Why do people think because they watch a surfing movie once or twice they’re somehow qualified to rent a board and try to fucking kill us out there? I mean
, bull riding looked fun as hell when I saw a guy do it at the rodeo when I was six, but I wouldn’t jump on one myself. There’s etiquette, you know? There are rules.”
“Yeah.”
“Anyway. How’s Minnesota day two?”
“Well, I had sushi with Maddie tonight.”
“Sushi? You hate sushi.” He says knowingly. I love it that there’s someone out there who knows everything about me.
“Yeah, well it’s not too fond of me either. I think Maddie was a little confused as to what was fish-free and what wasn’t.”
“Dude, not the meat shits?” He sounds concerned, but there’s amusement in his voice, too. Gus hasn’t eaten meat for years either, and he knows how even a bite can mess with your digestive system in a very violent way.
“Yup. It was hostile.”
“Aw, that sucks. I’m sorry.” But he’s laughing that deep belly laugh that I love.
“It’s only funny because you weren’t the one who almost shit her pants in front of an aunt she barely knows.” I’m laughing too, relieved this is a normal conversation tonight and not like last night’s.
He laughs even harder and then takes a deep breath trying to rein it in. “Sorry, Bright Side. Oh, I needed that today.”
It’s quiet after a few residual chuckles escape him. And with it the nervousness creeps up on me again. “Gus?” I try to mask it, but my voice betrays me.
“Yeah.” It’s long and drawn out when he says it, like he knows what’s coming.
“Can we just be honest for a minute? It ... happened. We can’t treat it like the elephant in the room anymore. We have to talk about it.”
He exhales loudly. “Agreed.”
There’s a pause that neither one of us seems to want to address until Gus speaks up. “Listen, I know we were drunk and it’s like this big cliché, but it just happened. I mean, I didn’t have this grandiose plan to get you wasted and have my way with you.”
Is he being cavalier about this? Because we really need to talk it through. “
I
wasn’t drunk. I had two glasses of wine in like four hours. And I know you didn’t have much more than I did. Are you mad at me? I don’t want things to be weird between us. It’s not something I planned either, you know.”
“Yeah, I know.” His voice sounds sincere again.
It’s quiet for several moments. “You still there?” I ask.
“Yeah.”
“So what happens now? Because I don’t think there’s a handbook to navigate this one.” My voice is calm but my insides are churning, which I hate. I usually don’t let things bother me. I can’t. I haven’t felt this way for a few months now.
And then he asks quietly,
“Do you regret it?” He sounds almost timid.
I release the air I’ve been holding in my lungs and a little of the nervousness goes with it. “Are you seriously asking
me
that? Gus. You know me. That’s practically my motto:
no regrets
. Regret just leads to second-guessing and anger and sadness and I sure as hell can’t afford any of those.”