Ginny Blue's Boyfriends (2 page)
Read Ginny Blue's Boyfriends Online
Authors: Nancy Kelly
Still, he’s the guy I tend to use as a yardstick to rate other men. For instance, when I first kissed Eric Digby in seventh grade outside the mall behind one of the garbage bins, my mind was on Jackson Wright, the hottest guy in junior high. I wondered what his tongue was like. Was it as wet and wiggly as Eric’s? Impossible! At least I hoped not. And then Kevin McNally, with his wandering hands and moaning kisses. There was no way Jackson could ever be accused of the same kind of uncool moves, I was sure. And later I was proved right, for when Jackson and I had our own bed
tête-à-tête,
I learned his style was just about perfect. Ever after that night all the guys I’ve known have faced the Wright Standard Test. Not one has made it into the top ten percent, more’s the pity.
tête-à-tête,
I learned his style was just about perfect. Ever after that night all the guys I’ve known have faced the Wright Standard Test. Not one has made it into the top ten percent, more’s the pity.
Luckily, in high school I never let myself have any real
feelings
for Jackson. I knew better than that. Other girls fell for him but I always sensed he was unattainable and steered clear. It simply wasn’t worth the heartache. I made it my practice to keep my emotions under tight control, and I’ve managed fairly well all these years, thank you very much.
feelings
for Jackson. I knew better than that. Other girls fell for him but I always sensed he was unattainable and steered clear. It simply wasn’t worth the heartache. I made it my practice to keep my emotions under tight control, and I’ve managed fairly well all these years, thank you very much.
But, Jackson does infiltrate my life, even to this day. Did I mention that every single one of my friends has fallen for him on sight? And these aren’t high school girls. I’m talking about my college friends: Jill, CeeCee, and Daphne. I warned them. I truly did, but I guess you have to experience Jackson Wright personally to really appreciate and understand. Luckily, their easily won hearts are also fairly fickle, so Jackson simply moved through them like a wave, leaving only minor jetsam and flotsam damage, as near as I can tell. Of course we all hate him.
“Hey, Blue!” Nate the Nearly Normal hollered above the hissing spray of the shower. Yanking the towel off my head I scurried around, quickly sticking one leg through the pants of my jeans, hopping on one foot, then managing to thrust the other leg through before I fell back on the bed. I refused to answer him. Screaming at someone over running water never works and, let’s face it, I didn’t want to talk to him anyway. Dragging my black turtleneck sweater over my head, I caught sight of my black leather jacket but even though it was nearly Halloween, this is LA, my friend. Chances were I’d bake as it was.
Apparently Nate forgot whatever he wanted from me because moments later I could hear his off-key singing permeate the air. Heading downstairs I wandered into the tiny U-shaped kitchen of my two-bedroom rented condo and popped some bread in the toaster. Thinking about Nate depressed me, so instead I concentrated on Jackson Wright. Transference of anger is a good thing, I often think.
So ... yeah ... Jackson. As I’ve said, he’s an old classmate with whom I snuggled naked but didn’t actually consummate anything worth noting. Of course it consumed me at the time, though I hid my feelings, and once or twice I felt kind of melancholy over the whole damn thing, but I was a kid. It was really nothing. I moved to California and attended a junior college while Jackson headed to Eugene and the University of Oregon. When I was back in the Portland area for vacations and the like, and he was home, we would often run into each other. We have always been kind of on again/off again friends. Nothing earth-shattering.
But then Jackson moved to California and, through me, was introduced to my circle of friends. Jill was particularly smitten with Jackson until he paid her absolutely no attention and/or made some clever, albeit slightly cruel comment about an issue tender to her psyche, which pissed her off. I’ve never quite heard the full extent of it. He’s actually managed this with all my friends. Daphne can’t say his name without curling her lip. None of them got all that involved, as far as I can tell, although there was talk of actual thumping bedsprings with CeeCee before the disillusionment. It’s amazing how Jackson keeps cropping up like the proverbial bad penny. When my friends and I meet at Sammy’s on Saturday mornings—a loosely formed complaint club—someone invariably makes a comment on Jackson. Reliving the Jackson fallout every week would be excruciating, except that our Saturday morning meetings often have a tendency to be postponed. If someone can’t make the Saturday meeting, which is almost always, things fall apart. I made a silent vow to be better about seeing my friends. Jill, Daphne, and CeeCee were sometimes all that stood between me and despair over the male sex.
My roommate, bedmate, and what currently felt like cellmate, whose footsteps I’d heard on the stairs, suddenly joined me in the kitchen. Nate’s dark hair was damp and he was wrapped in a white terrycloth bathrobe.
“Hey,” he said, heading to the refrigerator as I buttered my toast.
“Hey,” I answered.
We’re known for our scintillating conversation.
“I’m heading to work,” he added.
“Me, too.”
“What are you doing today?”
I swallowed a piece of toast with difficulty and murmured, “Nothing much. Gotta check with the caterer for that Waterstone Iced Tea job.”
He grunted acknowledgment. Nate has about as much interest in my career as I have in his. I left without another word. I was in my Explorer and scooting east on the 10 freeway before he’d picked up—hopefully—his shorts and begun to dress.
It was an exceptionally brilliant late October morning in sunny southern California. You could actually see the Hollywood hills and almost make out the Hollywood sign. I was heading toward the downtown business district and suddenly remembered how Jackson had once said that he wouldn’t be able to stand Los Angeles if it weren’t for the rare, bright morning of clear air that surprised Angelinos and tourists alike. He was right on that one. He’s been right on a lot of things.
Probably why “Wright” is his last name,
I thought sourly. It’s infuriating how right he is and, because he’s a man, you just have to be careful how many times you point out this fact. I never would tell Jackson he’s right, but then, luckily, I hadn’t seen him in a long while so it was a moot point. I never told Nate he’s right either, although that’s because I wondered if he truly ever was.
Probably why “Wright” is his last name,
I thought sourly. It’s infuriating how right he is and, because he’s a man, you just have to be careful how many times you point out this fact. I never would tell Jackson he’s right, but then, luckily, I hadn’t seen him in a long while so it was a moot point. I never told Nate he’s right either, although that’s because I wondered if he truly ever was.
I nearly slapped both of my faces right there. Good grief. Nate was a good guy. A great guy. I was the one having the problem.
Better not to dwell on that and send my self-esteem into a tailspin. Instead I soaked in the pretty day. LA is something else. People either love it or hate it. Weather’s good, weather’s better, weather’s sometimes too smoggy. Big deal. I’ve spent the last ten years living in Santa Monica after my final anemic semester. Currently, I’m debating on signing up for a film editing class at USC. Don’t ask me why because I have no answer for that. I’m a production manager for film and television, which sounds a lot more glamorous than it is since I’m basically the person who keeps the job moving forward and who gets screamed at by the actual producer if something goes wrong. I am
not
the producer, therefore I am not the person in command. Nor am I the director, who is the person with attitude and therefore the real power behind the throne. I guess you’d say I’m midlevel management; top-level stress. This puts me about two levels above a PA, that is, a production assistant, which is synonymous with “the person everybody else shits on.” I’ve been that person. I know of what I speak.
not
the producer, therefore I am not the person in command. Nor am I the director, who is the person with attitude and therefore the real power behind the throne. I guess you’d say I’m midlevel management; top-level stress. This puts me about two levels above a PA, that is, a production assistant, which is synonymous with “the person everybody else shits on.” I’ve been that person. I know of what I speak.
The caterer I was meeting was one everyone raved about, but also one I’d never actually met. The meeting wasn’t all that important, but I’d wanted to escape from Nate and I figured I might as well get it over with.
Cars tore along on all sides of me. We were moving at a nice clip. The 10 can back up but it’s not as bad as the 405, which is a nightmare at damn near all hours and I avoid it like the plague. I’ve actually been stopped cold on the 405 more times than I’d like to count. Once, the only thing that kept me sane was watching the couple in the Nissan next to me screaming at each other in fury one moment, making out the next, and then having sex, she on his lap, her head thrown back and screaming in ecstacy while he bounced around beneath her. All before we moved forward. Afterwards I wished I’d had a cigarette. The hell of it is, I don’t smoke.
Maybe I should take it up,
I mused now, throwing a glance to the silver BMW convertible on my right. The girl behind the wheel wore sunglasses and that bored “you can’t impress me” look refined by southern Californians. A cigarette dangled from her lips. Very sexy, really. My eyes water from smoke, though, so I don’t think I could pull that one off. And let’s be honest, smoking is bound to take up too much time. When I think about all the smokers I’ve witnessed searching for lighters and matches, or cupping their hands around the ends of their cigarettes to keep the breeze from blowing them out, it actually raises my anxiety level. I
worry
for them. What if they don’t get it lit? What if they break out into some kind of nicotine-deprived fit? What if they turn their frustration on me? No, it’s really not worth it. And I’m basically cheap anyway, so I would never be able to stand the expense. Oh, and if I were called back to set, just as soon as I lit one and then had to stub out the end before I even took two drags ... That would just plain hurt.
I mused now, throwing a glance to the silver BMW convertible on my right. The girl behind the wheel wore sunglasses and that bored “you can’t impress me” look refined by southern Californians. A cigarette dangled from her lips. Very sexy, really. My eyes water from smoke, though, so I don’t think I could pull that one off. And let’s be honest, smoking is bound to take up too much time. When I think about all the smokers I’ve witnessed searching for lighters and matches, or cupping their hands around the ends of their cigarettes to keep the breeze from blowing them out, it actually raises my anxiety level. I
worry
for them. What if they don’t get it lit? What if they break out into some kind of nicotine-deprived fit? What if they turn their frustration on me? No, it’s really not worth it. And I’m basically cheap anyway, so I would never be able to stand the expense. Oh, and if I were called back to set, just as soon as I lit one and then had to stub out the end before I even took two drags ... That would just plain hurt.
I do so need a vice, however, and alcohol consumption is not cutting it. I’d love to indulge in wild, illicit sex, but I seem to be totally disinterested in nearly every man who crosses my path these days. This worries me slightly.
My cell phone chirped. I snatched it up in mid-tweet. “Talk to me,” I said.
Jill stated flatly, “Goddamn men.”
“Is it Ian?”
“The
fucking
asshole!”
fucking
asshole!”
The
fucking
asshole was Ian Cooper, Jill’s boyfriend. He used to be the man she cooed over while she walked six inches above the floor, stars in her eyes, little red hearts zinging rapturously from that beating, lovestruck muscle in her chest as she floated along in a haze of drunken joy. During this time they were inseparable, so we collectively named them “Jill-Ian,” which unfortunately may now be difficult to completely eradicate. But Ian had, as it turned out, made a grave error in the game of love. He had
lied
. Deliberately and with malice aforethought, at least according to Jill. He had taken another girl to Belize exactly one week before he started sleeping with Jill. Ian had patiently pointed out that this shady event had occurred while he and Jill were still technically friends, and he had also added that he and said girl had not actually had sex on that trip. It was, again according to Ian, one of those unforeseen disasters in the making: a vacation planned and prepaid while the romance was still hot and heavy, only to then loom over them like some Sword of Damocles as the relationship sped rapidly down, down, down. The two ex-lovebirds had, of course, gone on the trip anyway and had enjoyed a perfectly terrible time.
fucking
asshole was Ian Cooper, Jill’s boyfriend. He used to be the man she cooed over while she walked six inches above the floor, stars in her eyes, little red hearts zinging rapturously from that beating, lovestruck muscle in her chest as she floated along in a haze of drunken joy. During this time they were inseparable, so we collectively named them “Jill-Ian,” which unfortunately may now be difficult to completely eradicate. But Ian had, as it turned out, made a grave error in the game of love. He had
lied
. Deliberately and with malice aforethought, at least according to Jill. He had taken another girl to Belize exactly one week before he started sleeping with Jill. Ian had patiently pointed out that this shady event had occurred while he and Jill were still technically friends, and he had also added that he and said girl had not actually had sex on that trip. It was, again according to Ian, one of those unforeseen disasters in the making: a vacation planned and prepaid while the romance was still hot and heavy, only to then loom over them like some Sword of Damocles as the relationship sped rapidly down, down, down. The two ex-lovebirds had, of course, gone on the trip anyway and had enjoyed a perfectly terrible time.
Here’s the lie: Ian told Jill that he took this jaunt with a guy-friend named Worth rather than risking the fallout from Jill. Unfortunately, she learned of the lie six months later when Worth, who did not live in LA, came for a surprise visit and was not properly cued by Ian. When asked by Jill, “How was the trip to Belize?” Worth answered with a snotty, “I hate foreign countries. And I especially hate South American countries. I wouldn’t go there if I was flaccid as a cooked noodle and it was the only place on earth selling Viagra. If I’m going to leave the country I’m going to Hawaii!”
If I’d been there when this conversation took place, I would have pointed out that Hawaii wasn’t exactly leaving the country. Jill, however, was too incensed to pick up on this nuance, and from all accounts, Worth is a snobbish moron who, luckily for him, possesses enough money to make up for his horrifyingly midget pea brain—a harsh but true fact of social life in greater Los Angeles, which is undoubtedly where Worth is from. In my opinion he is simply Worth Less. I do not know his last name and do not plan to learn it. My mother would point out that I was nicknaming outside of the Ex-Files, but the name just begged to be used. Besides, I don’t strictly follow my own rules.
Jill, outraged by Ian’s deception, accused him of lying about the trip straightaway. Trapped, he shrugged his shoulders and admitted it. He’s been the
fucking
asshole ever since.
fucking
asshole ever since.
But they still sleep together.
I said, “What’s he done now?”
“He’s bought me a ring. A diamond ring,” she added significantly.
My jaw dropped. “An engagement ring?” The subject of marriage turns my palms clammy. I have this conviction that it will never, ever happen to me, and though I’m fairly certain I will never want it, one never knows... .
“I think so.” She inhaled and exhaled shakily. “I just—want to strangle him.”
“That doesn’t sound like a ‘yes.’ ”
“What the hell is he doing? I can’t marry anyone. He knows that. He’s just doing this because he wants to make a point.”
“Pretty dangerous point to make if you don’t mean it.”
“Stop being so sane. You know how I hate that.”
“Do I sound sane? I don’t feel sane. And everything you’re saying is insane.” I shook my head and tried to concentrate on traffic. The girl in the BMW lackadaisically stubbed out her cigarette in the ash tray as we hurtled merrily along at an easy 75 miles per hour. You had to love the 10 when there was no traffic. “What do you want to do?”
“Blue?”
“Yeah?”
“Blue, are you there? Blue?”
The phone went dead in my ear. There are mysterious blank zones on the 10 that cut off cell phones with a distinct click. It’s as if there’s this roguish god, watching, chuckling, touching a magic finger into cell-phone-space and breaking the connection. I glanced upward, expecting a grinning Cheshire cat face to emerge from the puffy clouds, high in the sky.
God, it’s a nice day,
I thought, and I’m sure my mind would have drifted to Jackson again if the cell phone hadn’t gone through a series of aborted half-rings. Jill was trying to call back and unable to get through.
God, it’s a nice day,
I thought, and I’m sure my mind would have drifted to Jackson again if the cell phone hadn’t gone through a series of aborted half-rings. Jill was trying to call back and unable to get through.
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