“You’re not forgettable! It’s probably just malarkey. The Weekly World News isn’t known for their dedication to accuracy in reporting.”
“They were right about that man that had a baby,” I say, sighing loudly.
“True, but I’m sure they have this wrong. Plus, you’re the one who came up with the whole ‘let’s not keep in touch’ thing, effectively slamming the door on any future possibilities.”
Oh right. I keep forgetting how I shot myself in the ovary with that one. “Hey, I had a good reason at the time. I thought if I pretended to be an ultra-cool, breezy girl, it would make him come rushing back.”
“You should call him and tell him you made a mistake.”
“I can’t. From the start, we both agreed it was casual and temporary. I can’t go back on that now and say, ‘whoops, turns out I want forever.’”
“Why the hell not?”
“Because it would be setting myself up for guaranteed rejection—he’s made it really clear he loves the single life. I pretended I was super on board with who he really is. I can’t very well go back on that now and tell him I lied and I’m actually just like every other woman out there who wants the ring and the monogrammed towels. As soon as I do that, he’ll know I’m a big, fat liar, and he’ll lose all respect for me.”
“So, you really pretended your way into a corner.”
“Yes, and now I’m waiting for the paint of shame to dry.” I let the truth of my words sink in a little even though they feel like third-degree burns on my insides. “I should go so I can get my boots on, hike up the mountain, and serve this disgusting slop to an even more disgusting couple, then maybe I'll just walk directly into the ocean and end it all… Oh, wait, I can’t. I need to plan the menu for my brother's wedding supper, and go get fitted for a bridesmaid dress because, in a couple of weeks, I’ll be celebrating something I’ll never have—true love. But don’t worry, because when that’s over, I’ll be back to serving an endless stream of copulating couples.”
So, at least there’s that to look forward to…
29
Men Being Childish and Churlish
Pierce – Valcourt, Avonia
“Jesus Christ,” I say, staring at the mess of little white bits all over my 3D Lego Qadeathas model. I pick up one of the bits and press it between my fingers. “Leo, you wouldn't happen to know why the realms of Qadeathas, as well as my $12,000 dining room table, has been sprayed with some sort of waxy substance, would you?”
Leo, who is lounging on my couch watchingShark Tank, glances up to take a peek at what I'm talking about. “Oh,that. I was making wax fingers earlier.”
“Wax fingers?”
“You dip your fingertip into melted wax from a candle.”
For fuck’s sake. “And why exactly would you do that?”
“Because it's fun. It feels nice and warm and just the slightest bit dangerous in case you get your fingers too close to the flame. I made littleClash of Clashaction figures for you. See?” He stands and walks over to the table, pointing to the tiny wax ghost-like things that have been drawn on with a Sharpie. “Oona, Luc, Matalyx…” He holds up the biggest one. “I used my thumb to make Zhordal.”
“How many street drugs have you taken? Seriously, Leo, if you had to estimate your lifetime use…”
Leo rolls his eyes at me. “None, obviously, if you don’t count Mary Jane or a little Molly.”
“I actually do count those. But setting your brain functioning aside, you didn't think that perhaps you should clean up after playtime?”
“Isn't Mrs. Bailey going to be here tomorrow morning?”
“I don't employ her so she can clean up after my toddler brother.” I walk over to the living room, pick up the remote control, and shut off the telly, feeling very much like I would were I the father of a twelve-year-old boy. Good practice I suppose, should I ever accidentally have a child of my own. “Clean it up. Now.”
Leo rolls his eyes at me, then walks over to the kitchen to get a roll of paper towels. “What flew up your arse?”
“Oh, I don't know, perhaps that my idiot brother moved in while I was out of town and won't leave?”
“If by ‘idiot’ you mean young at heart, fun-loving, and charming, then I'll take that as a compliment.”
“It’s not, and please don't. Now, cocktails start at eight. Are you going to be ready in time? Because I'm not waiting for you.”There you go, Pierce. Set firm limits and stick with them. It’s the only way he’ll learn.
“Oh, I'm not coming,” Leo says, shaking his head. “I'm afraid I'm not invited.”
