Depths (4 page)

Apparently everything.

“Your girlfriend is a fox,” I say after Whit’s closed the front door behind her.

“I told you, Cohen. You got one shot. Don’t make me have to kick your ass right now, when you’re practically crippled.”
           “Maybe Kensley was right,” I say.
           “Maybe Kensley is a bitch.” Deo was always pretty cool about not throwing how much he hated Kensley in my face when she drove me crazy, but they had never liked each other. I guess now he’s not going to hold back.

It’s not exactly like he’s wrong.
           “Possible. But also, maybe she was on to something. Maybe I could change and she’d want me back.”
           “Dude, why would you want to change for her? For anyone?”
           “Whit changed you,” I say. And it’s true. Deo went from this slacker, freeloading hippie to a full-on respectable adult all in the name of love and Whit’s fine ass.
           “True. But the difference is, Whit never asked me to change. And she was worth it. You just need to find someone who’s worth it. Then it’ll all fall into place.”
           “Like who? The only women I interact with are at work, and they’re usually buying recliners for their husbands.” I pinch the bridge of my nose to relieve the last of my headache, but the mystery sludge has already made me feel a hundred times better.
           “I don’t know, man. I can see if Whit can think of anyone to set you up with.”
           “What about…what’s her name? I saw you talking to her at Rocco’s place the other day? She came in for some ink. You used to date her.”
           “Claire?” Deo says, his eyebrows raised in disbelief.
           “Yeah, what about setting me up with her?” Claire was hot as hell.
           “No way.” Deo crosses his arms and shakes his head.
           “Come on, man. She looked super put-together. I was actually surprised to see her in there getting a tat. What’d she get anyway?”
           “A bird. Tramp stamp, obviously.”
           “I’d like to see that,” I laugh.
           “I’ll think of someone else.”
           “Why? Are you weirded out that you dated her first? Because I’m cool with it,” I say, even though I’m not entirely. But these are desperate times, plus Deo dated half the local population before he met Whit and got tamed.
           “Nope. I just don’t think you’d be a good fit. Besides, she gave shitty head.” Deo makes a grimace I’d never expect any guy to make in connection with the thought of a girl going down on him.
           “No such thing,” I protest.
           Deo laughs. “Trust me, dude. You don’t want any of that.”
           “Challenge accepted.”

***

It was Whit who finally helped set me up on the date with Claire. Most of her hottie friends from college were already hooked up, so it wasn’t like there were tons of alternatives.

“You look great,” she sighed after I asked her for the third time. But she did get up to unbutton the top button on my new shirt. “Did you iron this?” Her eyes are so dark I can’t really tell, but I think she’s teasing me.

“Too much? God, I’m such a dork, right? It’s just been years since I was on a first date with a girl, and I don’t want her to think…I don’t know what the fuck I want her to think.” I push a hand through my hair, then groan, realizing I just undid all the time I spent in the bathroom trying to make it look half decent.

Whit’s laugh isn’t reassuring. She grabs my wrists and pulls my hands down, then musses my hair more. “Stop. Worrying. And loosen up. All this gel and starch is going to make you look nervous, then you’ll feel nervous. You’re amazing, Cohen. If I wasn’t with Deo, I’d snap you up in a second.”

“Stop torturing me, or I might push him off the side of his boat just to take you up on that.”

She squints at a piece of my hair, moving it back and forth like it matters, then grins. “I’m way too mean for you, Cohen. And you and Deo are—and it hurts me to say something this cheesy, but it’s so true—you guys are like peas and carrots.”

“Am I the peas or the carrots?” I smile when she shakes her head.

“The peas, buddy. You’re so the peas.” She glances over her shoulder when Deo comes in and her whole face goes bright.

“So what are you? Cause you guys look pretty peas and carrots to me,” I say as Deo practically runs over, grabs Whit around the waist, kisses her neck, and shakes her back and forth.

Through her insane laughter, she gasps, “The steak! I’m the steak!” She turns in Deo’s arms and kisses him, the slaps at his chest. “And you,” she turns to point at me, “need to find your mashed potatoes.”

“I thought you were going out for Mexican tonight?” Deo asks, kissing Whit behind the ear.

“I’ll explain later,” Whit whispers, clearly meaning later when they’re locked in the bedroom for hours on end.

As much as I totally love my friends, eavesdropping on their sexy-time plans is not my bag. “Hey, I better get going. Thank you for messing up my hair, Whit.”

“Trust her.” Deo says, clapping his hand against mine. “She knows what looks good. Obviously. She picked me.”

“Ass!” she cries, biting his jaw with little nips as I head out the door.

“And Cohen!” Deo yells as he throws Whit over his shoulder and she pounds her fists on his back. “No worries, man. You got this. Just be cool. Be yourself.”

“Right. Okay.” I leave them, crazy laughing and so damn in love it hurts to watch, and head to my car, a responsible gray Honda that gets amazing gas mileage.

I pause, my key in the lock. Maybe I am totally not spontaneous enough. Maybe I am no fun. Maybe I need to break out a little.

And Claire may just do that for me. I drive to the restaurant we planned to meet at, a little open-air Mexican place on the beach that serves the best pozole. It might even be better than my abuela’s, though just thinking the thought makes me nervous that lightning will strike me down where I stand.

Claire is next to her car, a little yellow Beetle with a crushed-in headlight. She’s leaned back, her hands splayed over the scratched hood, a big, sexy smile on her face.

“Hey. How are you?” She pushes back off the car and makes her way to me, kissing me softly on the lips as a ‘hello.’

“Uh, I’m, uh, I’m good. I’m really good now that I’m finally here with you.” She has her arms around my waist and is running her fingers over my back in a way that’s more intimate than that kiss.

I feel like our wires got crossed in a huge way. Like maybe she thinks we’ve met before; I know her from Deo dating her, but we never did more than wave across a parking lot on the first of their three disastrous dates. Maybe Deo has some other half-Mexican half-Jewish friend he introduced her to?

When she tilts her head back, I can see her eyes are pretty glassy, and I realize that, like most of the girls Deo dated before Whit, she probably spent the day tanning and getting high. Not that I’m judging. It’s just those girls were never really my type. At all.

“So, I’m, like, so totally starving.” She pulls the words out so they’re a few seconds away from a slur. “Wanna go in?” She bites her lip and grinds her slight hips against my side.

“Sure. After you.” I hold my arm out to let her go before me, but when she almost crashes into the statue of St. Francis in the poppies by the walkway, I grab her around the waist.

She loops her arms around me and giggles. “Oh, Calvin, I’m gonna like you!”

“Cohen,” I correct, walking her in quickly. I try to ignore the dread that’s rushing through me and chalk it up to nerves instead. “Two for dinner, please,” I say to the hostess.

“Mmm,” Claire sighs. “Can you tell our waiter to bring over some bread?”

I cringe and the hostess rolls her eyes and says in a flat voice, “This is a Mexican restaurant. I can bring you some tortillas and salsa if you want.”

“Perfect!” Claire claps. “And hurry.”

No ‘please.’ Maybe it is super dorky of me, but my parents are all about manners, and Claire’s brusque behavior is grating.

But I’m supposed to be staying open-minded. I’m supposed to be taking chances. So she came on a date a little toked? It’s not something Kensley would have done, but maybe that’s a good thing. Kensley ripped my still-beating heart out of my chest and shredded it. I want the anti-Kensley.

I look at Claire’s brown curls, her sweet hazel eyes, and soft lips, curved in a flirtatious smile. So she yanks the tortillas out of the hostess’s hands? So she eats with her mouth open? So she interrupts me a couple of times and can’t seem to remember my name? These are tiny things, and I decide to stop being so damn judgmental.

Then she opens the drink menu. “Jose Cuervos!” she squeals. “Double margarita, frozen, sugar on the rim, and fast,” she demands. “And enchiladas. Extra sour cream.”

I will not judge her disappointingly generic order. I will not.

“A Negra Modella and the pozole, please.” I hand the menus back to the waiter, who was sort of checking Claire out before she opened her mouth. Now he’s looking at her with the same feeling of dull horror I’m trying to suppress clear on his face.

“So, Claire. Are you in school?”

She shifts some half-chewed chips and salsa around in her mouth. “Mmm. Yeah. I am.”

I wait for her to say more, but the salsa must be pretty damn amazing, because she’s scooping it up so fast, she’ll be scraping the bottom of the bowl soon.

“Um, what’s your major?” I wince at my predictable question. I’m not doing much to stray from the dud Kensley accused me of being so far.

“Undeclared.” She’s licking some salsa off her thumb. I’m half sure she’ll lick the bowl any second now.

“Yeah, I hear that. Sometimes it’s hard to know what you want. I started as an engineering major, but eighteen credits a semester along with the pressure of keeping an insanely competitive GPA was pretty intense. Plus, I basically hated every class, so I switched to accounting.” The waiter puts our drinks down and she picks her glass up with both hands, sucking on the rim and chugging at least half the liquid in a few long gulps.

When she sets the glass down, she licks some sugar off her fingers and lets out a sigh. “Oh my god, so damn good. Did you say eighteen credits?” I nod, she shudders. “I did twelve when I was a freshman, and I failed three of the classes. No way. I can only do six a semester.”

“Six? Credits?” Now it’s my turn to chug my drink.

“Yeah. My father said it’s way smarter to just go slow, you know? College will be the best years of our life. Tons of my girlfriends are doing six or nine credits. It just lets you focus more, ya know?” She pauses. “So, you’re an accounting major.”

I’m trying really hard to keep my eyeballs from rolling out of their damn sockets. Six credits? That’s, like, eight years of college! “Was. I
was
an accounting major. I graduated.”

“Wow.” Her mouth forms an adorable little ‘o’ and her eyebrows go so high, they almost disappear into her brow line. “I thought you graduated with Deo’s class? A year ahead of me?”

I nod around another long sip of beer, hoping the alcohol dulls my brain sooner rather than later.

“So, did you keep taking eighteen credits? Cause I thought that was too hard?” She takes another drink, and I decide to blame her misunderstanding on all the pot and booze she’s currently full of.

“No, I always just took fifteen a semester after that, like most people do, and that put me on course to graduate last May.” I try not to sound like some tightwad prick, but I shouldn’t have worried. She’s using the stirrers to take a sip so long and deep it sucks her cheeks in.

By the time she comes up for air, her back teeth are definitely floating.

“Most people do
not
take fifteen credits!” She throws her hands up and giggles when she bumps her drink. “Fifteen! You…” She points and me and smiles a smug, loopy smile. “You are smart, Calvin. I like that. I really do. You know that?”

I don’t bother to answer. Why should I? She’s so far in, she won’t recognize a word I say. The food comes, and it’s delicious. Or mine is. I would ask Claire what she thinks, but the question might confuse her. Anyway, she’s way more interested in sucking down a second enormous margarita.

She doesn’t seem to notice that I’ve stopped trying to make any conversation, and she continues to jabber about brain freeze, some kind of mutant puppy she desperately wants to own that’s made when you mix a Chihuahua and a poodle, and how she always tries to get in classes with male professors because, and I quote, “lady professors can be so unfair if they’re older and jealous of what they don’t have.”

Like eight years of college and no medical license to show for it?

I laugh at my own joke-thought, and that’s when I realize this date is just a lost ass cause. I call the waiter over and nurse two more beers. I know for a fact the third is a huge mistake and realize I’ll probably have to break up Deo and Whit’s sex-fest to have one of them pick me up, because I’m in no position to drive. I am officially that loser friend. The uptight, anal-retentive, no-fun asshole who’s the perpetual butt of every joke in every comedy.

My life is a cesspit.

By the time I pick up the check, Claire’s voice has reduced itself to fuzzy white noise that I’m totally happy to tune out.