18. Eighteen
Eighteen
“Gladdys,” I say, rubbing my forehead as I study her lace-trimmed, floral dress and the crucifix that hangs from a gold chain to the center of her chest. “It wasn’t supposed to happen. I was going to do it by myself, you know? I’m a modern woman, I can . . .” I pause, lowering my voice. “Masturbate.”
I pace across the concrete floor.
“But then he was there. Like the universe knew I couldn’t do this without him or something. And, you know, I knew he would know what to do. As much as he drives me crazy, leave it to him to deliver some kind of-of-of erotic water experience in my time of need.” I let out a breath, eyes going to Scotty who’s filing her nails on the other side of the window, leaning casually, ignorant to my spiraling. “Then—and this is exactly what I didn’t want to happen—I thought he was going to kiss me. And, now hear me out, but, it’s like, I wanted that. Which”—I laugh maniacally—“just proves my point!”
I pause, feeling myself turning hysterical on the eighty-two-year-old deceased woman, and take a calming breath.
“Then there’s this other guy, which, he’s basically a mascot for everything I haven’t accomplished in my life. And his sidekick, Irma, who won’t coddle me because I’m old .” I bite a fingernail, looking back at Gladdys. “I guess I’m just wondering if it gets any easier. Like . . . how am I forty and feel like I have no clue or control over anything that’s happening? I want out of my marriage but can’t escape it. I want a career, but I’m not good enough for it. I want my kids to think I’m a good mom, but half the time they don’t see me . . .” My voice trails off with Scotty’s knock on the glass, the usual five fingers waving on one hand as she adjusts her Dolly Parton T-shirt with the other.
I lift my chin in response.
“I’m sorry, Gladdys,” I say to her dead body. “You probably didn’t need to hear all of this, but I appreciate you listening.”
I smile at her, briefly wondering what kind of life she lived and stories she would tell should she open her eyes and magically start talking back. Would she scold or congratulate me for letting my husband put a showerhead between my legs and spraying myself until I screamed?
Based on her dress and crucifix, I’d say scold.
I squeeze her lifeless hand before resting her palm over her belly then join Scotty in the witnessing room. Her eyes lift to mine as she continues to drag the file across her nails when I close the door behind me.
Through the speakers “Jolene” starts to play.
“Wanna talk about it?”
“About what?”
She cocks an eyebrow. “Definitely not about you letting Camp give you a showergasm and how conflicted you feel about it.”
“The hell, Scotty! You heard that?”
She tilts her head to the small speaker on the wall with a wry smile.
My eyes widen. “Do you always listen?”
She stops filing. “My best friend is having conversations with dead bodies, what do you think?”
I glare at her, dropping into one of the chairs with a heavy sigh. “Reed Simmons is back.”
“Oh, shit.” She sits next to me. “How is he ?”
“Too hot to be forty. And a photographer.”
She snorts. “Bet Camp loves that.”
“I thought he was going to rip his head off last night.”
“Isn’t this what you wanted?” She waves her hands through the air. “Him to notice you? Him to come home?”
“I did, but I wanted it to be his idea. I wanted him to want to do it, not do it because I said I was leaving. And there’s value in follow-through, Scott. Like, he’ll take advantage of me forever if I just let this slide and go back on my word.” I leave out the fact I heard that on a podcast, but the skeptical look on her face tells me she already knows and does not approve. I sink farther into the couch, feeling like a deflated inner tube and wishing the furniture would swallow me whole. “I just wanted this to end easy, but he’s, like, everywhere. Having dinner with us, planning picnics . . .”
“Shower humping you.”
“And that,” I say dryly. “And it’s making me . . . I don’t know, confused. Like, why couldn’t it always be like this? He went from not caring at all to treating our relationship like it’s a sacred mission from God. Like he’s always home. Eating. And smiling. And being all . . .”
“Wet.”
I scoff.
She sighs, sitting next to me. “You know it’s okay to want your marriage to work, right? And who cares if it wasn’t his idea. He’s there now—he’s stepped up to the plate—isn’t that what counts?”
I do not tell her that it is not what counts. That I shouldn’t have to tell him to show up. I don’t tell her that I heard once that healthy marriages have balanced dialogue, and one person shouldn’t always have to ask. That the reason men often view women as nags is because they are always asking. That the only plate Camp Cannon will ever willingly step up to is home plate.
Instead, I blow out another breath. “Where does that leave me with everything else though? The career? My independent-woman status?”
“Yeah, well, that status is way overrated.” She smiles, but it doesn’t meet her eyes.
I straighten, take her hand in mine, and am instantly aware that all I ever do is come here and complain about my own life. “You okay?”
She grins; it’s forced. “I’m not talking to dead people, if that’s what you mean.”
“You still dating that guy? What’s his name? Mark? Matt?” I’m a terrible friend—they’ve only been on a handful of dates, but for the life of me I can’t remember his name. “Did something happen?”
“Mike,” she corrects, rubbing her index finger across her bottom lip. “And he sent me a nude picture of him roller skating. So . . .”
I grimace; she laughs softly, but her eyes are distant.
“So . . . what’s going on?”
“It’s April.”
The pieces fall into place. “God, Scotty. I’m sorry. Zeb . . . I forgot.”
She shrugs. “It’s not your fault my brother’s missing his forty-second birthday because he couldn’t stop shoving a stream of shit in his veins.”
She’s trying to be funny but neither of us laughs.
I do the math; it’s been twenty years. We were in college, Zeb died, and Scotty came home and never left. When her heart shattered all those years ago, mine did too.
It’s hard enough finding one true friend in life, but a friend that survives the ugliest days and lowest lows? It’s a holy grail of relationships. Somehow, in this tiny town in the Blue Ridge Mountains, we found each other and weathered every storm, hand in hand. Sat in the lows with each other while we waited for the highs. Her bringing swear words, me bringing wine. I’ve seen her worst; she’s most certainly seen mine.
I study her, her perfect features, hazel eyes that look like they belong on a cat. I know her as well as she knows me. “Wanna talk about it?”
She shakes her head, smile returning, voice sing-songy to the tune of a children’s nursery rhyme. “I want to talk about you and Camp, standing in the shower, f-u-c—”
I bark out a laugh and swat her on the arm. “Go away. This is why I told Gladdys and not you. Pervert.” She chuckles. “Either way, I don’t know. I’m confused, I guess. About what I want. Who I am. I feel like an out-of-focus photo.”
She hooks her arm through mine and drops her head on my shoulder. “We all do, Joo.”
“I hate how intertwined we are. Everything feels . . . impossible.”
She hums a sound in understanding but doesn’t say anything else. No arguing or trying to convince me otherwise. Scotty sits next to me and simply lets me feel.
“Does everyone masturbate?” I ask.
“The fact you have to ask is disappointing to me, Joo.”
“Huh,” I say, somehow still shocked by this information. “I feel like you’ve been keeping secrets.”
“You obviously haven’t been going through my nightstand,” she quips with a cocked eyebrow. “Or reading enough of my monster smut.”
I snort, she shrugs, then we both stand.
“I have to go. Ms. Mitchell wants to have a meeting with me about the boys. Again. And then it’s the damn library.” I roll my eyes, slinging the strap of my purse over my shoulder. “Let’s do something. Drinks or dinner or whatever. No corpses.”
She nods, smiling as she tugs the sleeves of her blazer—black today—over a shirt with Dolly Parton’s smiling face. “A boxing gym just opened in the old warehouses; I’m trying it out. They do a fourteen-day trial. Come with me.”
I shake my head with a puff of laughter. Scotty does all things any-day-trial. She never commits, always dabbles. Keeps me unattached, she explains.
“Yeah, okay.” I wrap my arms around her. “Getting my ass kicked seems on-brand for me right about now.”