Chapter 2
two
Something hits my chest. When something else lands on my cheek, I open one blurry eye. I swat the dish towel off my face before rolling over and snuggling deeper into the warmth of my blanket.
“Why can’t you wake me nicely like a good hostess?” I grumble.
“Then you wouldn’t know you were with me,” Aggie says.
“Let me guess. You get bored with nice.”
She appears in my field of vision where everything in her living room is sideways.
Across from me, she plops into her patchwork chair.
One leg is tucked beneath her butt, the other swings out front.
She’s already wide-eyed, perky, and dressed for work in an array of mismatched colors.
There’s no trace of a hangover on her impish face.
“What the heck is that?” Squinting, I try to focus on what she’s holding between two oven-mitted hands. One mitt is a shark; the other is a shaggy crocheted llama.
“It’s my coffee mug.”
“No, that’s a coffeepot for the coffee maker.”
“You act like you’ve never seen me drink coffee before.”
“An entire pot?”
“It’s my source of energy,” she says, sounding disgustingly chirpy. “Just like blood is yours.”
“Ha-ha. Not funny.” I pout and scratch my nest of tangled hair. When I sit up, my quilt falls to the floor around my ankles. I crack my neck, left then right, before rolling my shoulders.
“You’re always so doom-and-gloom. Sometimes I’m not sure. Look at your T-shirt, for crying out loud.”
I look down and tug at the fabric of my band T-shirt, taking in The Cure’s upside-down logo. “But it’s my favorite T-shirt.” One of the few items I have from before. “You don’t like their music?”
“Maybe I would if I was old, or sad, or the Princess of Darkness. You know, like you.”
“We’re the same age.”
“You’re plus five, or is it ten?” She glances at the ceiling as if to search for the answer she already knows.
“Maybe in maturity.” I toss a pillow in her direction.
“Aw, there’s my little ray of soul-sucking darkness.” She catches the pillow and blows me a kiss.
I kick the quilt away. “And I’m not sad. I’m . . . introspective,” I say, choosing my words carefully. Aggie has no idea all the things I hide from her.
I stand and stretch before stumbling to the kitchen in search of a coffee mug. When I find something semi-usable, it’s a mug in the shape of a single breast. On the side, in bright pink bubble letters, it reads, Don’t be a boob! Lift your mood with a cuppa joe from Mr. Moon’s.
The first time Aggie and I met, I was sitting alone at Mr. Moon’s.
She parked herself in the empty seat across from me and told me a dirty joke.
I laughed because it was raunchy and she was dressed like a nun.
Back then, she worked birthday parties and delivered corporate Candy-grams. She held me hostage for three hours before I escaped.
I ran into her at Moon’s twice more before I agreed to tell her my name. How she discovered my cell number is still a mystery. Apparently, the sun likes to annoy the rain.
In the living room, I steal her coffeepot and pour coffee into my boob cup. I squeeze my eyes tight before taking a sip from the nipple, noting lack of caffeine drives me to desperation.
“So, remind me why you came back last night? I know you told me, but everything’s a little foggy,” she says.
“Pipes broke again. Water was everywhere. You know I need showers twice a day.” I walk to the window and peer outside.
“Your sweat glands should win awards for all the time they put in with your running. So, who’s fixing them?”
“I don’t think they can be? I use super-strength deodorant.” I look over my shoulder and bare my teeth.
“Your pipes, dummy.” She rolls her eyes.
“Ha! See? I can be funny.”
Aggie makes a game-show buzzer noise like I’m wrong.
“So, who’s fixing them?” she repeats, smiling as she anticipates my answer.
I return to the couch and sit, ignoring her. When she clears her throat with displeasure, I huff. “You already know who.”
“Mm-hmm, sexy landlord Evan.” She inhales the aroma of her coffee with fluttering eyelids and a swaying chin, like she’s devouring his image.
“Ew, no,” I respond too fast with a wrinkled nose. The second I do, I know my disgust appears fake.
I take another sip to hide my face. She’s right, although I don’t want her to know she is. He’s painfully attractive, but showing interest in any man would set her off.
“Will he be the first on your list to unapologetically bang?”
Frustrated, I smack the cushion. “How do you remember that from last night and nothing else?”
“I remember the important stuff.”
“You forgot that plan was for you. Not me. A slightly important detail. Besides, I could never do the one-night-stand thing.” I race through my words, becoming defensive.
“Mm-hmm.” Aggie keeps her cool and peers over the top of her coffeepot. Her shark mitt eyes me with seriousness, so I turn my gaze in a new direction, becoming very interested in a section of chipped paint on the closest wall.
Have I before? I’m unsure. I wasn’t even sure if I was a virgin after. That is, until a gynecologist reported I might not technically be. It’s strange to know I may have slept with someone but have no idea who he was . . . or who they were.
This information isn’t something the two people who claim to be my parents would know when they schooled me on my past. They focused on family, their memories of everyone around me, or their memories of my youth.
I shiver, recalling their lessons. This is Uncle Joe. That’s Aunt Meredith. You were best friends with your cousin Samantha. You liked vanilla, not chocolate. You believed in the tooth fairy until you were twelve. You didn’t even want your driver’s license; you were too scared to drive.
While I was attending Northwalton University in Chicago, they had no clue who I was becoming as an adult. They lived in Maryland, seven hundred miles away. I was on my own for three years before returning home in a broken state.
So I keep quiet, ignoring Aggie’s baiting. The problem is she’s planted a bothersome seed. It nags at me, sprouts arms, and grows, rooting its way into my thoughts. My jittery foot taps the floor, because now I’m curious to know if I could have a one-night stand, and if I could with Evan.
I shake my head, pushing the thought away. Ridiculous. He’s annoying. He’s cocky.
My fingers tighten around the handle of my mug. I take too large a sip and burn my tongue.
“I hate him,” I say, but the lie burns more.
“Then he’s perfect. You’ll sleep with him and move on.”