Authors: Liza Palmer
“So you guys are dating?!” Jill asks Lisa.
“He’s great—you know, good in the sack, good job—”
“Good in the sack? You’ve slept with him?” Jill asks, horrified.
“Yeah, sure,” Lisa says.
Jill is silent.
Judging.
I crane my neck to see where everyone is. “Everyone” meaning Sam. And kinda Grady. I imagine the next few minutes are going to get a tad messy. They’re both out by the smoker. From the looks of them, their mannerisms going back and forth between stifled laughter, arms tightly crossed across chests and conciliatory pats on Martin’s back, they’re quite involved in what they’re doing. Involved enough not to hear or be a part of what is sure to be a revealing conversation . . . if Jill has anything to do with it.
Jill blurts, “Grady is a southern gentleman! How could you sleep with him so quickly? You’re now the . . . you’re now the girl he—”
“A southern gentleman? Jesus, he is actually from this century,” I say, trying to lighten the mood. I pop a grape in my mouth from a platter yet to be set out.
“They do things differently down there. It’s very clear who they . . . you just shouldn’t have—”
Lisa cuts in. “He wasn’t a southern gentleman when we had sex in the alleyway right outside of Lucky Baldwin’s.”
“Had sex? Are you—”
“You’re so busy defending his honor that you’ve forgotten it takes two,” Lisa says, opening the fridge for another beer.
“Yeah, but he’s not . . . he doesn’t . . .”
“
Jill
. . . ,” I say.
“But now you’re just the girl he has sex with rather than the girl he marries,” Jill says, stepping closer to Lisa. To implore Lisa, beg Lisa.
Pray
.
For
.
Lisa
.
I fear for Jill’s safety in these milliseconds.
“Whether I want to be the girl Grady has sex with or the girl he marries is a choice I get to make, not him. Or do you not know that?” Lisa says, opening up her beer with a bottle opener on her key ring.
“Wait, what?” Jill asks.
“I get to choose what happens next.”
Jill is quiet, her mouth opening and closing like a dying fish’s. She shakes her head every once in a while, with a little huffing sound. Another grape. Another swigged beer. Jill is stuck in a blustery continuum. As I swallow the last bits of the grape, I wait for Lisa’s simple words to stop floating around in my head and make sense to me.
I get to choose what happens next.
Why this is as revolutionary as man’s first flight is a debate for another day, a day that will hopefully involve a lot of bourbon. Women make proclamations about how amazing they are in the privacy of girls’ nights out across the globe. “
The best thing that ever happened to him!
” But most of us believe men are somehow doing us a favor when they choose us. That we are something to be borne, tolerated, changed and asked to stay quiet and slim down. There’s this set of rules we must abide by in order to be worthy of love. A love that’s based on a persona as far away from our real selves as possible. The secret you. Was I a partner in my relationship with Ryan or was I constantly amazed that he deigned to date me for as long as he did? As Lisa reaches across and pops a grape in her mouth, I close my eyes.
Did Ryan ever even know the real me?
Lisa offers me a grape.
“No,” I say, almost in a whisper.
She pops one in her mouth and goes back to waiting for Jill’s pending reply.
I continue. “No, I mean . . . yes. I’d like a grape.”
“Then why’d you say no?” Lisa asks, extending the platter.
“Because I just asked myself a question and the answer is no,” I say, putting the grape in my mouth. I breathe in the cold sweetness.
“What was the question?” Lisa asks.
“Did Ryan ever know the real me.” Another quick glance outside. The men are crowded around the smoker. Sam bends all the way back, shaking with laughter, as Martin finally comes around to how funny this all is. The confused guests milling around them, however, are less than thrilled about the night’s food prospects.
Lisa’s mouth tightens and she nods. She doesn’t say anything.
“Oh, sweetie,” Jill says, reaching over to me. I take her hand. I choke back a surprisingly strong wave of emotion.
Jill senses this and cradles my hand even tighter in hers. Lisa just looks like she wants to kill someone. I’ll give her Ryan’s address later.
I continue in a whisper. “He hadn’t touched me in months—closer to a year. Okay, he hadn’t touched me in over a year. Said something about me being too clingy. Of course, I thought it was my fault and made the usual leap to me being repulsive and untouchable.”
“As you do,” Jill says, trying to get as close to me as possible.
“Of course it couldn’t have anything to do with his tiny-ass dick,” Lisa says, shaking her head, her mouth tight. I crack a smile and act momentarily offended.
“We were all thinking it, sweetie,” Jill says, soothing me and urging me to continue.
“I always tried to be so cool, so indifferent, you know? Like my entire life was no biggie—”
“No pun intended,” Jill says, interrupting.
I continue. “Because he always told me how intense I was. And I just thought, I’m not intense, I just . . . I just care. It became more and more clear that he didn’t,” I say, my voice climbing several octaves, soon to be heard only by whatever dogs are unlucky enough to be in the vicinity.
“Oh, sweetie,” Jill says, now squeezing my shoulder, pulling me closer.
“And I can’t even . . . I can’t even begin to tell you how exhausting it was,” I say for the first time.
“
Was
being the key word here,” Lisa says.
“What did I think . . . what
do
I think is so wrong with me?” I ask, tears streaming down my face.
“That he’s right. That you are too intense. Whoaaaaaa,” Lisa says, miming someone turning down the volume on a stereo. A pack of guests walk into the kitchen. Jill gives them a warm greeting, tells them food is on its way and that booze is in the red buckets. So good to see you, she oozes. Lisa blocks me, and my streaming tears, from the pack of guests. I love her for that. My dad used to say that there were only a chosen few he’d “go in the jungle with”—referring to his time in Vietnam. While I love Jill dearly, in any “going in the jungle” scenario she’d be disastrous. But Lisa? Lisa I’d go in the jungle with.
As I gather myself, I feel lighter. But at the same time, I’m somehow burdened by this new knowledge. Maybe I don’t have to be someone else for someone to love me. I can be me. But I went underground for a reason. That nerdy kid with the hyperactivity problem was a tough sell.
“So, what’s up with you and Sam then?” Lisa asks.
“Who knows?” I say, blowing my nose.
Jill and Lisa are quiet.
“You think I should go over there and grab his crank?” I say, laughing.
Lisa looks like that’s exactly what she thinks I should be doing. I stop laughing. People are still arriving. This is an official party now. The wafting smells of the smoker tantalize the guests with meat they’ll never have. That and the fact that apparently there’s a lucky man in attendance who is fixing to get his crank grabbed by a panicked brunette with something to prove.
“You guys are ridiculous,” I say, my face flushing.
Jill and Lisa are quiet.
“What?”
They look at each other.
I ask again, “
What?
”
“I don’t know. You were just talking about how Ryan never knew the real you, you know? And how, I don’t know, I’m going to go out on a limb and hazard a guess that there was no crank grabbing in that relationship,” Lisa says.
“There was no crank to grab,” Jill says, unable to help herself.
“I can’t believe we’re having this conversation,” I say, completely embarrassed.
Jill says, “We’re not saying you do anything you’re not comfortable with—”
Lisa interrupts. “And I think we’re kind of using
grabbing his crank
as a euphemism at this point.”
“A euphemism?” I ask.
“Yeah,” Lisa says.
“A euphemism is supposed to be less offensive,” I say.
“You want me to say
cock
?” Lisa says, the word
cock
ringing throughout Jill’s house like the bells announcing Paul Revere’s fateful midnight ride.
“Fine.
Crank
,” I say, checking to see where Sam is. Out of earshot, I pray. I can’t . . . I can’t find him. Okay. Good.
“Like I said, I think we’re using
grab his crank
as a euphemism for maybe doing something a little outside of your comfort zone,” Lisa says.
“And maybe a little naughty,” Jill says, her voice literally quivering with excitement.
“Naughty? Really?” I say, shaking my head. I don’t . . . I don’t know why I’m so against this. It’s actually kind of hot. I’d like to fancy myself as someone spontaneous and a little risqué. I’ve never given this a second thought since I’m so positive I’ll be rejected as an asexual female friend who’s clearly misread the signs. I’m afraid of my own sexuality. When I dipped my toe into what I thought was the Real Me, Ryan told me to back off. Even worse, he seemed more annoyed than turned on. And it was just a toe. It was a flirty nightie and a dog-eared page in Jill’s
Kama Sutra
. It was me playacting at what I thought a vixen would do. And even then I was rejected.
But it worked for that relationship. If I never let loose, I never really gave over. Of course, it’s not about crank grabbing at all. It’s about intimacy. I always held some piece of me apart like it was something to be ashamed of. Something to be embarrassed by. Something to perfect. Now I know what I was holding back, what I’m embarrassed by . . . is my love. I fear that my defenseless heart and my unconditional love is a burden no one wants.
So, it sits. Behind a wall. Safe and waiting. For someone who keeps looking and doesn’t ever give up.
“You guys need any help?” Grady says, sliding his hand back around Lisa’s waist. She places her hand over his and gives him a quick kiss.
“No, thank you,” Jill says.
“I’ll head over to pick up the pizzas in a few minutes,” I say, my face flushing as I sense the heat between Lisa and Grady.
“How many did y’all order?” Grady asks.
“I thought one pizza for every three people?” Jill replies.
“So, thirteen?” Sam says, sidling over and leaning against the shining granite countertop in Jill’s galley-style kitchen. I can’t help but look at his crotch. I fear I just may lunge at it, unable to stop myself. I dig my hands into my jeans pockets.
“Yes. Thirteen,” Jill says, smiling coquettishly.
“It’s a parlor trick. I’ve been waiting for someone to have a math-related problem all night,” Sam says.
“Ha!” I laugh. Loud. There is a rippling shift in the physics of the room. Time jumps, then stops. People freeze. Yet somehow my barking laughter echoes and echoes and echoes throughout the room. Sam’s stare is fixed. Maybe there’s a line of spittle from the bottom of my lip to the top. Perchance I have a smattering of grape still on my tongue. I don’t know. I’ve clearly gone insane.
Sensing this, Jill and Lisa jump in with loud laughter meant to drown out my single blurt of hysterics. Sam smiles and watches me. Pointedly.
“I’d better be heading out to Pizza Joe’s,” I say, sighing out of my fit of laughter.
“Have Martin give you some money on the way out,” Jill says, pouring herself a glass of wine.
“Got it,” I say, smiling and slinking past Lisa and Grady in the forever narrowing kitchen. Then Sam. As I inch past him, I place a hand on his waist. The ribbed base of his gray sweater is woolly and soft; the slippery hardness of his leather belt slides just underneath. The tips of my fingers rest and then press into . . . him. His torso. His skin. His body. It only took milliseconds, but I feel like I’ve crossed the Rubicon. My hand falls away as I continue out into Jill and Martin’s living room. I don’t look back. I don’t check to see if Sam is wiping away my cooties. As I look for Martin I keep telling myself that what I did was hot. That Sam might have even been turned on. That this fledgling attraction I’m feeling is reciprocated. Even as I’m becoming exhausted by my mantras, I vow not to allow my fears and insecurity to get the better of me.
I find Martin in the living room, he gives me the money and as he winds through how embarrassed he is about the smoker, I look out into the driveway.
“Oh, wait. I’m blocked in. Do you know who . . . who drives a, it looks like a Datsun 280ZX or something.” I crane my neck so I can see the car better. It’s an old, low-slung, bluish sports car. I can’t quite make it out. Martin walks out onto the porch, takes a closer look, walks past me with a disapproving look and back into the living room.
“Hey! Who’s driving the old Ferrari?”
Ferrari? I whip my head back around. Now I can just make out the slightest hint of the bright yellow hood ornament.
“That’s mine,” Sam says, looking past us to see what the problem is.
“Frannie’s got to get the pizzas, can you move your car so she can get out?” Martin says. Sam drives a vintage Ferrari. No, this is fine. I can . . . I can handle this.
“Sure,” Sam says, patting his pockets and pulling out a set of keys. I’m watching him. Studying him. Remembering what his body felt like beneath my touch.
Sam walks past me and out into the driveway. I follow him as Martin closes the door behind us. The cold weather hits me and I can see my breath in little hyperventilating puffs.
“Thanks for doing this,” I say, pulling the keys from the depths of my purse. I beep my car unlocked. I can take or leave you, Sam Earley. You and your vintage Ferrari and knowledge of Lynyrd Skynyrd’s “Simple Man.” It’s fine. He’s totally out of my league yet kind of perfect for me. Lisa’s words ring in my head. It’s my choice how this night goes. I decide. Maybe he’s just as nervous as I am. Ever think of that? I throw my purse onto the passenger seat and take another look at Sam as he ambles down the driveway: a successful architect, way over six feet tall, blond and walking toward a Ferrari. Right. And he’s lovely and smart and has a southern accent.