Experiment in Terror 04 Lying Season (4 page)

“
When in God’s name did you get a dog, Dex?”

I heard him scratch his chin scruff over the phone. “Hmmm, maybe a week ago. I sold my old apartment, got a new one. And the new one allows dogs. And now we have a spare bedroom, perfect for guests like you. You’ll be our first one.”

“
I need to lie down,” I managed to say, and did just that. I lay back onto my bed with a pillowy thunk, while Dex explained that his old apartment in the Queen Anne district had been for sale for a while. Someone finally bought it and they snapped up one in Belltown, right beneath the monorail. And all this time, Jenn had wanted a dog but they weren’t allowed pets. Now that they were, Jenn went and bought some sort of white French Bulldog that apparently looked like, well, a fat rabbit.

I didn’t know what was more disturbing. The fact that all this happened and Dex never said a word of it to me or the fact that they got a dog together. Sure, there was no kid on the way, thank God, but a dog was a huge commitment.

And now I had the chance to see it all up close.

Still, I couldn’t turn Dex down. If I did, he’d think something was up. And honestly, as much as the idea of living with Jenn and Dex made me want to vomit (for real, the bile was making its way up) and cry, I couldn’t afford to be in a motel, not after all the money I’d spent in the last few weeks.

I did have to turn down Sunday night though. Because that was my date with Brock.

“
I’m sorry…what?” Dex said after I told him.

“
I have a date,” I repeated.

He burst out laughing. The anger steamed up inside me.

“
What’s so funny, asshole?”

“
I’m sorry, I’m sorry, kiddo. It’s not funny, it’s just surprising. Who is it with?”

“
Brock. My bootcamp trainer.”

He started laughing again. Howling, actually. When he calmed down long enough he sputtered, “The ‘roid monkey?”

“
He’s not a ‘roid monkey!” I said defensively, even though I had called him that earlier. Ugh, I definitely talked to Dex too much. “And so what, why can’t I go out with him?”

I was hoping Dex would say something that would make me think he was jealous in some way. But no.

“
You can go out with whoever the hell you want to, kiddo. But you’re a hard rock chick of sorts and he’s a jock. And those two types don’t mix.”

“
Dex, this isn’t high school. Grow up.”

“
Some things don’t change.”

“
Oh, were you a fuckface back in high school too?”

Pause. I knew he was taken aback at my ferocity.

“
Yes. And a skid and a bit of a punk.”

“
Well so was I,” I reasoned.

“
It’s too bad we didn’t go to high school together,” he said. “We would have made a good couple.”

I swear, I was this close to hanging up the phone. Or throwing it against the wall.

But Dex continued, smoothly, “Listen, if this date is important to you, Perry, then by all means go on it. Come up on Monday. We’ll figure something out.”

The weight behind his voice made me reconsider whether the date was worth it or not. What if it was more important for the show for me to be there earlier? What if an opportunity came along? I could always go out with Brock when I got back.

“
It’s nice to see you have a social life for once,” he added.

And that comment made all the difference.

“
Monday it is,” I growled into the phone.

CHAPTER THREE

When the night rolled around, I still hadn’t had a chance to talk to Ada about my boy woes. The night before, she had come home after I had fallen asleep, something she had been doing more and more often now that she was dating Layton, and was off to class in the morning.

I couldn’t even catch her after school because she went straight to a friend’s house and then jettisoned home before we all went out for our dad’s birthday dinner.

My dad is a fellow Scorpio like myself, bringing up the end of the spectrum, which still leaves him full of scorpion sting but with none of the passion. At least, none of the passion that I understand. I’m pretty sure the only thing my father feels passionate about is convincing his wavering theology students of the “truth.” That and really good Chianti.

Naturally, his birthday dinner was held at a really old, authentic Italian restaurant just outside Portland, a place he and his brother Al had been coming to since they were young boys. It was no Olive Garden, I can tell you that much.

I half-expected that Ada would have brought Layton with her, but I guess when you were in the tenth grade, bringing your boyfriend to your dad’s birthday bash wasn’t something you took lightly.

It was for the best. I know nothing would ruin my dad’s birthday more than having his teenage daughter’s older boyfriend there but from the glances I stole of Ada on the drive over there, I could tell she was a million miles away and already pining for him, her bright blue eyes swimming in the early darkness. I felt pity for her and her young love for exactly three seconds before reality slammed into me and I realized I was no better than she was.

With family being such an important factor to Italians like my father, I knew that my Uncle Al was going to be there, as well as my nephews Matt and Tony. I hadn’t seen those three since the whole lighthouse incident in late summer and I had been itching to see them ever since. It felt like years ago when I had first met Dex in that fateful tower, when my life had twisted around on itself and changed its course.

What I didn’t expect was that Uncle Al had brought a special guest with him to the dinner party.

“
Her name is Marda,” my mom told Ada and me as we got out of the car and walked towards the restaurant. Mom looked elegant as always and not the slightest bit cold in her lacey caplet that barely covered her toned arms.

I struggled to keep up in my heels, not used to dressing up for any occasion, plus I was dealing with overused leg muscles.

“
Al has a girlfriend!?” I cried out. I was happy for him, of course, Al seemed like such a lonely bachelor since his ex-wife left him, but it was still surprising. He didn’t go out much, except to play the occasional poker game, so I wouldn’t even know where he could meet any women. It’s not like he’d be at the grocery store, pushing his cart around with the bananas facing a certain way (I had read this is what some singles in grocery stores did. A certain type of fruit in one direction meant you were single. I think melons and bananas were probably all you needed).

My mom gave me a funny look, probably because of the very unladylike way I was walking. “Yes, Marda is his new girlfriend. You should ask him how they met; it’s mostly your fault.”

My fault? I hadn’t played matchmaker since my high school days and that was only because I was the fat, helpful girl who had attractive friends, but before I could ponder that any further, we entered the restaurant to cheers and applause from the waiters and kitchen staff (no one does birthdays like an Italian restaurant) and the sight of Al, Matt, Tony, and a petite blonde woman (Marda, I’m guessing) standing around a Chianti-strewn table.

And then my eardrums were blown out. Drunken exaltations (noting at least one bottle of wine was empty), hugs, cries, slaps on the back and loud hellos were exchanged among the Palominos at deafening levels.

I gave Matt and Tony one big hug at once, happier to see them than I originally thought. There was something about those twins, their goofy demeanor with an underlying wholesomeness, that made me miss the person I was when I last saw them. Everything seemed so simple then.

I pulled back and peered at them. They looked different somehow. Cleaned up (I’d say fresh-faced if Matt didn’t appear to be suffering from some bad acne) and maybe the slightest bit older.

“
You guys are starting to look like men,” I said, and grabbed both their biceps for show. There still wasn’t much there.

“
So are you!” Tony exclaimed with a smile that made him look momentarily younger. He then grabbed my arm, which was now bare after the hostess took our coats away.

I looked down at it and blushed. I know I had lost some weight but it had only been two weeks since I started the sessions, and though my arms were stronger, they certainly didn’t look much different. It would be a long time before I looked like Sheryl Crow.

“
Thanks, I think,” I said to them just as Uncle Al came over and picked me up in a bear hug.

“
Perry!” Al exclaimed joyously, his voice muffled into my shoulder.

“
Hi Uncle Al!”

He put me down and gave me the once over. A wash of concern came across his wrinkled brow.

“
You’re looking beautiful, you’re as tiny as ever,” he said, but I didn’t quite believe him.

“
But?” I prodded him.

“
But nothing.” He smiled and put his arm out for Marda, who came slinking under it with a shy expression.

“
Perry, meet Marda,” he said, squeezing Marda’s slight shoulders. She was a very lovely, sweet-looking lady with small, sparkplug eyes and a long porcelain face, roughly my uncle’s age (late forties). A good match for Al, who wasn’t quite as robust and hard-faced as my father.

We shook hands quickly, her grasp warm.

“
Quite the grip you’ve got there,” she commented, taking her fair hand back and looking at it.

I blushed. I was always the person assigned to open any tough pickle jars. My small but durable hands were probably freakishly strong now thanks to the boot camp. Push-ups really did work every part of your body.

“
Sorry,” I said. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“
She’s my lady friend,” Al boasted, squeezing Marda closer into him and kissing the top of her head. The relationship couldn’t have been more than a month old, so it was extra endearing to see Uncle Al acting like this with someone.

But before I could ask them how they met (after all, I apparently had something to do with it), my father demanded everyone sit down. The birthday boy was starving and thirsty. A deadly combination.

I took my place next to Ada and the twins, with the “adults” on the other side of the table. I gave Ada a quick smile but she was staring dreamily into her glass of water. My sister was still the top of the pops when it came to her fashion blog and an occasion like this was a prime excuse for her to dress like someone who had just fallen ass backwards off the catwalk. My black knee-length dress (the only dress I really had) looked fine on me, I guess, but it wasn’t a backless cashmere dress with embroidered details like Ada was wearing. I was actually surprised she hadn’t asked me to take a picture of her like she did every other day when she was wearing an outfit “for the blog.” But Ada wasn’t herself these days, anyway.

While I pondered that over, the conversation around the table turned to pleasantries and news stories. The twins told me about this ATV they bought and I pretended to listen while I picked at my pseudo-healthy chicken Marsala. I was watching Marda and Al with interest. They were sharing bites of their food between each other, pouring each other wine. A bottle of red. A bottle of white. And I was instantly reminded of Billy Joel’s “Scenes from an Italian Restaurant.” The memory poked at my insides a little bit until I winced it away.

There was no denying it though; there was a lot of love at this table tonight. It didn’t take long for my mother to pick up on it and say, “Would you look at this! You won’t find dopier, more love struck people than my two daughters and their uncle.”

“
Me?!” Ada and I both protested at the same time, then consequently glared at each other in that, “yeah, you” look that we did so well.

“
Caught red-handed,” Al said, squeezing Marda’s hand. “And it’s all thanks to Perry.”

“
Yeah, what’s the deal with that?” I asked, happy to have the conversation turn over to him.