Chapter 11
Ricky
When I wake the next morning, I hear sounds of life beyond my bedroom door. Reaching for my phone, I see multiple text messages from Justin, one from Devan, and no text or call from Marilyn. Of course she didn’t contact me. She said she wouldn’t. That doesn’t mean I’m not disappointed.
Curiosity takes me to my sister’s text first—the time stamp tells me it was sent earlier this morning.
“What the hell, Ricky? Seven years ago! Marilyn deserves better. Don’t be mad at Justin. We don’t keep secrets from each other. Maybe you should try that. Make this right.”
“Fuck,” I growl and roll to my back in my bed. Sunlight streams from around the cheap mini blinds on my window, telling me that it’s past time to wake up. Tonight’s the night of the partner dinner, and even though I RSVP’d for two, I’m going solo.
Great. Not only am I alone, but I’m also not even stable enough to RSVP as one. I flop my arm over my eyes, remembering Marilyn’s expression as she stared down at my phone. If I could turn back time, I wouldn’t go back to seven years ago. I would go back to yesterday and erase that note or, maybe, erase her number altogether, allowing her to enter it.
I reread my sister’s text message—try honesty. I did that last night and all it got me was Marilyn’s wrath and out nine bucks for a pint of caramel ice cream. I begin reading Justin’s texts. The first few are from last night, asking what I did to make up to Marilyn and asking how it went.
“Shitty. That’s how it went.”
The last one is from this morning, confessing he told Devan my story. Not only my story, but our story—Marilyn’s and mine. Shit, now we’re an our. That wouldn’t be so bad. My lips curl as I recall the way she looked last night at her apartment, that sexy short robe, her hair all piled on top of her head. She was fucking gorgeous.
The thoughts I had after our hookup seem ridiculous today. I worried about her age, because seven years ago, she was only eighteen. It’s not that twenty-five is old; there’s still a ten-year difference between us. It’s that ten years doesn’t feel as large anymore.
The last sentence of Devan’s text message repeats in my thoughts: Make this right.
I don’t know if I can, but I know without a doubt that I want to. I want to make things right. Throwing on a pair of nylon shorts, I make my way out of the bedroom. After a stop in the bathroom, I head toward the kitchen, stopping in the doorway.
There’s a woman, with hair the color of Marilyn’s, sitting at the breakfast bar, facing the other direction and looking down at a phone. One of her slender shoulders is exposed, revealing part of a colorful tattoo.
Does Marilyn have a tattoo?
For a split second, I think it’s her, here, in my apartment. If she’s here, she hasn’t been with me. My hands ball into fists at my sides, thinking of Marilyn with Max.
I clear my throat as a warning.
The woman turns. “Hey. Max said it was okay if I hang out for a while.”
She isn’t Marilyn.
In that second, I realize she doesn’t hold a candle to Marilyn. This woman isn’t ugly, but she doesn’t have Marilyn’s blue eyes, turned-up nose, cheekbones, or soft lips. “Sure. Make yourself at home. I’m Rich, by the way.”
She grins. “Then why do you live in this crappy apartment?”
“Name is Rich, as in short for Richard, because if I were actually rich, you’re right, I wouldn’t live here.” And I wouldn’t have a roommate who brings home different women every night.
“I’m Kyla,” she says, extending her hand.
We shake. “Nice to meet you.”
“Yeah, there’s a problem at my apartment, and Max said he could make room for me.”
My eyes open wide. “Are you and Max serious? Like, in a relationship?”
Her smile grows. “Oh yes. Very serious.”
Inwardly, I grimace, knowing Max is not serious with any woman. “Okay, so are you moving in?”
“Not permanently.”
I rub my hand over my prickly chin and wonder what the hell is happening. Could Max be serious about one woman, or is she just a glitch—a delay—in his revolving door? Either way, if we’re now a household of three, I shouldn’t have to pay half the rent. Instead of bringing that up with Kyla, I pour myself a cup of coffee.
“I made muffins,” Kyla says. “There are a few in the microwave.”
“You made them?”
“From a box, but yeah.”
Opening the microwave door, I see the fresh muffins as the scent of sugar and blueberries fills my senses. Maybe Kyla won’t make too bad of a roommate. Peeling back the paper, I take a big bite, the blueberries melting in my mouth. “That’s fucking delicious.”
“Figure I should do something if I’m staying here.”
When it comes to questions about women, my go-to is Devan. Currently, my sister is teaching seventh graders about science, so I decide to ask the woman who happens to be sitting in my kitchen in an oversized shirt and tight exercise shorts.
“Kyla, can I ask you something?”
She looks up from her phone. “I’m in your kitchen.”
“You are. I kind of fucked up with a woman last night.”
She tilts her head and widens her eyes. “Kind of…?”
“Okay, I fucked up. How do I make it right?”
“Are you going to tell me what you did?”
I consider her question for a moment. “No, it’s a long story. Let’s just say that I’ve known her for a long time. We come from the same hometown. She’s been friends with my little sister forever. Last night, I hurt her without meaning to. I’d do anything to take it back. I can’t, because she doesn’t want to talk to me.”
Pouting her lips, Kyla nods. “She doesn’t want to talk to you, then communicate some other way. This is the future.” She lifts her phone. “I can talk on this or text. There’s email and still the rarely seen, some would argue more sentimental, handwritten messages. Smoke signals are a little impractical, but I’m sure there’s some mode of communication you can figure out.”
“If I do any of those options, how will I know if she even reads it? What if she doesn’t?”
“Then you’re no worse off than you are now.”
I reach for a second muffin. “I tried last night. I took a pint of her favorite ice cream to her apartment.”
Kyla sits taller, stretching her neck. “Ice cream is good. I’m guessing that didn’t work?”
I shake my head.
“Maybe she needs time. You know, a warm bath and a good night’s sleep.”
That makes me grin. “She said she had a date with a bath.”
“Yeah, you fucked up, because when a woman turns to her tub, she’s pissed off.”
“What can I do?”
“I guess you have two options.”
“Two options for what?” Max asks as he steps into the kitchen. His hair is wet, and he’s wearing black pants and a shirt with the shoe store’s moniker on his chest.
“Rich pissed off his girlfriend,” Kyla says.
“Wait.” My roommate stops and lifts his arms. “Since when do you have a girlfriend?”
“She’s not my girlfriend. She’s a girl and a friend.”
“Does she know that she’s not a girlfriend?” Kyla asks.
“Yes. I mean, she does. We’ve never put labels on things. No strings.”
Kyla looks at Max, and they both nod knowingly.
“What?” I ask, ready to take the rest of my coffee and muffin back to the safety and serenity of my room.
Kyla hops down from the stool, goes to Max, pushes up on her tiptoes, and, lifting her hand, ruffles Max’s wet curls. “Thanks for a place to stay.”
His expression when he looks down at her is somehow different from any expression I’ve ever before witnessed. “Anytime.”
Maybe there is something between these two.
When Kyla turns back to me, she has one fist on her hip. “Let me share a secret with you, Rich. A woman doesn’t soak in a long, hot bath over a friend.” She shakes her head. “Nope. It doesn’t happen. Maybe the real issue is that she wants more than you want.”
“I’m one hundred percent certain that isn’t true. She wants nothing to do with me.”
“Listen, I’m not saying that she’s lying to you. I’m saying that she’s probably trying to convince both you and her that she wants nothing to do with you.”
I’m wondering if a woman I just met in my kitchen is really that insightful about someone she’s never met. “How do you know this, other than being a woman?”
“Being a woman is in itself a criterion.”
Max grins. “I’m not sure who you think Kyla is.” Before I can answer without upsetting everyone, he goes on. “Her professional title is Doctor Kyla.” He grins. “Dr. Brenner.”
“As in your last name?” I ask.
“I’m his sister, and when I’m not staying at my brother’s apartment, I work as a psychotherapist. My specialty is relationship counseling.”
“Well, shit,” I stutter. “You’re a real doctor?”
“I have a PhD, so yes, a real doctor. I can’t heal your broken arm, but I can help with broken hearts. By the way, that session will be $300. I’ll have my receptionist bill you.”
With my lips together, I move my eyes between Max and Kyla, wondering if she’s serious, and also, how one sibling can have her doctorate while the other is a professional mall worker.
“I’m teasing about the bill,” Kyla says, making me smile.
“How the hell are you two siblings?”
Max goes to the microwave and takes the last muffin. “I know. It’s uncanny. What can I say? I’m fortunate to have the happy-go-lucky genes. Kyla got stuck with our dad’s overachieving DNA.”
I turn to Kyla. “Dr. Brenner, where is the line between trying to make it right and stalking? Right now, I want to go to her workplace with a dozen roses and beg for forgiveness.”
“Does she mean that much to you? You said she’s your sister’s friend and your friend…that’s all.”
Leaning against the kitchen counter, I take another drink of my coffee. “I think I want her to mean more. If she’ll give me another chance.”
Kyla winks. “Work on communication. The rest will come.”