I stare at him because what the hell else am I supposed to do? He delivered Alex’s gifts to my house for weeks. I’ve probably tipped him more than a hundred bucks. He likely thinks the tips mean I’m into him. A movie date is crossing the customer-delivery guy line. Besides, I’ll choke to death if I have to deal with his cologne for an entire evening.
I know my silence has stretched on too long when he clears his throat. “Uh . . . I . . . uh . . .”
“Look, Fred. It’s cool of you to, um . . . want to cheer me up. I’m not in any state to be going to the movies with anyone but Charlene, here.” I thumb across the table at my best friend. “She’s the only person who can reasonably deal with my emo ass. Thanks for the offer, though.”
“Oh, right. Okay.” He bobbles his head in understanding. “Well, see you around.”
I feel bad for rejecting him, but it’s for the best. Besides, he asked me out immediately after I mentioned Alex’s dick having been in my mouth. I’m sure he thinks if he takes me to a movie, I’ll blow him. If he talked to Alex, he’d know it takes much less to get that out of me. Or it did. I’m turning over a new leaf, one that no longer includes blow jobs without definite commitment.
“That guy wears a lot of cologne.” Charlene waves her hand in front of her face. “It’s too bad since he’s hot.”
“He does and he is.”
“Didn’t I tell you he had a thing for you?”
“You sure did. You could start a side business as a psychic. All you need is a crystal ball.”
One day I’ll have to start dating again, but Fred is not the guy and now is not the time. Charlene may have a point about talking to Alex if I’m going to get over him and move on. No matter how the conversation goes down, it’s bound to be painful.
On Saturday morning I realize I’ve run out of clean clothes. One of the major drawbacks to apartment living is the inconvenience of using communal laundry facilities. I cart everything into the elevator and navigate my way to the laundry room. All the machines are in use. The whole room smells like onions and detergent thanks to some burly guy in ripped sweatpants who’s eating a sub. I don’t feel like waiting or socializing, so I pack up my stuff and head to my mom’s. I’m also low on groceries, so I plan to scam a meal out of her.
I’m folding my third load of clothing, eating my second turkey and cheese sandwich, and watching hockey highlights when my mom drops down beside me. She’s holding a magazine in one hand and a martini in the other. She smacks the entertainment magazine on the table with a dramatic flourish. Alex’s scruffy, lumbersexual face is plastered on the cover. His face is everywhere these days.
“You’re coming to the game tomorrow night,” she says with finality. My mom never uses that tone, so she must mean business.
“What game?” I maintain a neutral expression. I think.
My mom knows I know what she’s talking about. The Hawks have made it to the Stanley Cup finals. I’ve watched every game up to this point, often while hugging the Waters beaver. Tomorrow the Hawks are playing what could be the title game.
“This is the first time Buck has ever been in the finals.”
“But—”
“No buts, Violet. You’re coming with us. So is Charlene.” She gives me her angry mom stare. It’d be funny if the turkey sandwiches in my stomach weren’t thinking about staging a revolt.
“Fine.” I’ve dodged every home playoff game at this point. I can’t avoid Alex forever and I should be there to support Buck. This could be the silver lining on his hockey career. I gesture to the magazine. “What’s this?”
“There’s an article in there you should read. I think you’ll find it very entertaining and informative.”
I give her a look as she flounces out of the room. She thinks if she leaves it here after saying something like that, she’ll entice me into reading it. It’s difficult not to give in, but I manage not to look.
When I get back to my apartment, I find a gigantic box of maple sugar candies in front of my door. Alex has been by again. My stomach rumbles in anxious anticipation.
Ms. Bullock must have been waiting for me to get home because she pokes her head out the door, cigarette dangling from her lips like a semi-flaccid, burning penis. Holding it between two gnarly fingers, she hides it behind her back so it’s in her apartment rather than the hall. “Your friend stopped by again.”
“I see that. When was he here?”
“He left a few minutes ago. Stayed for a good three hours, he did. The only reason he left was because he got a phone call and it sounded important. He brought me a little present, too.”
Three hours is a damn long time to wait around. His perseverance makes more than my heart hurt. She disappears from the door and returns a minute later with her own little box of maple candies. Goddamn Alex for being a smooth bastard.
“Did he say anything?”
“Oh yes. He had lots to say about you. Lots of questions, too. That boy has it bad for you.”
“I don’t know about that.” I pick up the box of maple candies. Underneath is the same magazine my mother tried to entice me to read as well as a USB stick and note.
Violet,
I know you’re hurt and angry, but please watch the interview on the USB.
It airs tonight at eight. I miss you.