Milkrun (3 page)

With Jeremy everything was suddenly…different. He would run his hand along my lower back and I would lose all ability to focus on anything but his fingers. He had perfect guy hands. About twice the size of mine, they never got sweaty and they smelled like burning leaves. In a good way. He wasn't into holding hands, but he always had his arm around my shoulder, or on my back, or on my knee.

Enough of that. Change the channel in my head.

JulieAndrewsJulieAndrewsJulieAndrews.

Chocolate Easter bunnies.

Look at me, I'm Sandra Dee.

Well, not quite Sandra Dee. I'm waiting in full slut-attire for Natalie, when I hear Sam and Marc approaching the front door. Giggling. They're always giggling. They're also one of those couples who are always touching each other, making everyone around them uncomfortable.

I didn't realize when I signed the lease that I would have two roommates instead of one.

Okay fine, the truth is that I hardly ever see Marc. Sam has a TV and a bathroom in her room, and they hardly ever come out. They just have sex. A lot. And they watch
Law and Order,
which for some reason seems to be on about six times a day.

What really bugs me about Sam is her why-can't-you-cleanup-cuz-your-mess-is-really-annoying look. Like when she finds my socks on the coffee table. Or when she asks why I always leave the remnants of things in the fridge, like a milk container, a pizza box of only crusts, the pitcher of iced tea that has a rim of brown gel on the bottom but no tea. Once, she told me as she tossed my moldy half-leftover cheese sandwich in the trash can, that next time I didn't have to save her any. No, no sarcasm there.

Here's the thing: finishing something usually involves cleaning up or throwing something out, which probably also involves replacing an already full garbage bag with an empty one and then having to bring the filled one to the garbage chute—which all together spells too much work.

I have the same issues with filtered water. I never finish the pitcher. I hate having to fill it up.

I guess I haven't as yet discovered the joys of closure.

Sam gets annoyed that I make everything her responsibility. Like collecting the rent, paying the bills, watering the plants, feeding the cat…I always assume she'll take care of it because I take care of the other stuff, right? Don't ask me to define the other stuff; right now, I'm into the intangible (Jer, Jer, Jer). Luckily, Sam always ends up doing everything, because otherwise we'd have an eviction notice, brown plants, and a dead kitty.

I'm kidding about the cat. I'd remember to feed a cat. We don't even have a cat, I swear.

Sam opens the door. She and her attachment are each holding a bag of groceries.

“Look at you! Sexy stuff! What are you up to tonight?”

“I'm going to Orgasm.”

Marc laughs. “Lucky you.”

Sam giggles again, drops her bag of groceries, and grabs Marc around the waist. “The bar Orgasm, silly.”

“I know. I was just teasing, Sessy Bear.”

Marc calls Sam “Sessy Bear.” I don't know why. I don't even know what it means.

“I know, Biggy Bear.”

Sam calls Marc “Biggy Bear.” I don't know why. I don't want to know why.

“Who are you going with?” Sam asks.

“Nat. We're going to get very drunk and meet men. You two wanna come?” Please say no.

“Sounds like fun,” Marc says. “But we're going to watch ‘L and O.'”

Thank God.

Sam giggles. “Is that the new name? Like SNL and KFC?”

“It's all about acronyms now, you know,” Marc says. “If you're nice, Sessy Bear, maybe afterwards we'll get an ice cream from DQ.”

“Is it normal that someone could be such a geek?” Sam asks me, playfully patting Biggy Bear on his behind.

“You're the geek,” says her attachment.

For the second time today, I think I'm going to throw up.

After they disappear behind a thankfully closed door, I decide to prepare the instruments of our intoxication while I wait for Nat.

I take out the vodka and two shot glasses. She'll be here any second. I might as well pour while I wait.

Yay! I'm going out tonight! Although I've never been to Orgasm, I've heard many detailed descriptions from Natalie. “It's
the
place to be seen,” she once explained after I had lied about having too much work to do to go. As if I ever brought work home. They certainly aren't paying me enough for that. Paying me enough, period.

“Anyone who's anyone goes there,” she said. I was slightly surprised that people besides the prom queen on TV movies actually used that expression.

Whatever. Tonight I'll be seen. If Natalie ever gets to my house, that is. Nat, where are you?

Jeremy, where are you? Long, Dutch legs come to mind.

I might as well get started and have mine. Drink, that is. Not long legs. All fantasy should be based on some degree of truth; what's the use of yearning for something that can absolutely never happen?

Ouch. That burns. The drink, that is, not the truth (although that, too, can jolt a girl if she lets it).

Damn slut and her damn Dutch navel ring.

Now Nat's shot is just sitting there, all alone, like the last lonely chocolate chip cookie in the box.

So I down it just as the downstairs buzzer rings. “I found something to wear,” Nat's voice flows up through the intercom. “Come downstairs.”

See? If I hadn't had those shots, they would have gone to waste.

“H
I
,
HON
! S
HALL WE WALK
?”
Natalie asks, slinging her arm through mine.

“Of course we should. It'll only take us eight minutes.”

“Which way is it?”

Silly Natalie. It's not that I'm a walking compass or anything, but I pass the bar at least twice a day. So does Natalie. True, Boston's not the easiest city to navigate; streets tend to inexplicably change names from Court to State, from Winter to Summer, and then disappear altogether. I'm no stranger to getting lost-induced panic attacks (I will never find my way home, I will end up in a bad neighborhood, I will get robbed and killed and no one will notice until months later when they find my decomposed body still strapped to my ten-year-old Toyota in the river—for the love of God, why don't I have a cell phone like everyone else?), but Back Bay is pretty much a grid.

“Tonight I can have three shots,” she says.

Sobriety is not Nat's concern. She is a self-admitted obsessive calorie counter. She carries a yellow spiral notebook with a picture of grapes on the cover, a purple felt pen, and a highlighter everywhere she goes. She writes down everything she eats. She even highlights her “boo-boos” (her word choice, not mine).

“You know,” she continues, “one shot of vodka has sixty-two calories.”

No, I don't know. Or care. This week, anyway. One hundred and twenty-four calories down. Six zillion to go.

Today, Natalie does not in fact look fat. She looks exactly the same as she always does—very, very skinny and very, very tall. Well, not very,
very
tall, but tall compared to me (everyone is tall compared to me, since I measure about three inches over five feet). Natalie is probably only five foot six, but standing next to me I tend to think of Michael Jordan.

Actually, she looks more like Buffy the Vampire Slayer, except that Nat has brown hair. Though she'd never admit it, according to Sam, Natalie paid a visit to Dr. Harvey Gold, one of Boston's top nose-job specialists, as a combined high school graduation/birthday present from her parents (Nat, that is, not Buffy). The first time I was at her house in Beacon Hill, I examined every photograph, searching for a before-picture. Of the thirty-five frames prominently featured throughout the huge house, not one featured her before the age of eighteen. Suspicious?

And she dresses just like Buffy (sort of). Her Dolce and Gabbana black tube top and tight red pants must have cost more than my month's rent. Luckily, she's the type of person who can pull that outfit off—financially
and
aesthetically. As for myself, I tend to camouflage instead of highlight.

Nat volunteers at various mental-health clinics. One day she plans on doing her master's degree in psych. One day mentally disturbed people might go to her for help. Scary. Even the remote possibility that she actually gets in to one of these programs terrifies me.

Eight minutes later, as promised, we arrive to find twenty fidgeting people lined up by the door, huddled under the metallic silhouette of a woman's head thrown back in complete orgasmic abandon.

Natalie walks to the front. “George!” she squeals to the intimidating six-foot, very bald bouncer whose wraparound sunglasses remind me of the Terminator.

“Hey, sexy,” he says. Kiss, kiss. Kiss, kiss.

“George, I want you to meet Jackie. She's one of my best friends.”

“Hi,” I say meekly, and into the bar we walk.

 

“How's the sky?” Natalie says, raising her head. That's her code phrase for “Do I have snot in my nose?”

“Clear,” I answer.

“And the street?” That's the code for “Do I have anything in my teeth?” What could possibly be in her teeth escapes me, considering I'm pretty sure she doesn't eat. Her smile gleams the way I'm sure capped teeth should.

“Clean. Me?” I ask just in case. I go for the two-in-one: I smile and tilt my head simultaneously.

On our left is the coat check. I'm thankful that this late September weather has allowed me to get away without wearing any kind of overclothes. (I need to expose as much as I can get away with right from the start; Nat, on the other hand, could wear a burlap sack and still leave 'em panting.) On our right is the dance floor. Some scantily clad women—good God, do I look like
that?
—are gyrating to a thumping song I am having difficulty deciphering:
boom, boom, boom slut, boom, boom, boom, go down on me.
Lovely.

“Let's go.” Straight ahead is the bar. I motion in front of me, maneuvering my way through the crowd. A waitress with way too much breast exposure asks me what I'd like.

I'd like to have your cleavage, I think but don't say. She'd think I was some sort of pervert if I did. But I really, really would like to have her cleavage. It's true I fill out a solid Victoria's Secret B-cup, and Jeremy certainly seemed happy enough (“More than a handful…” he'd say), and this waitress can't possibly be wearing more than I am, but let's face it, I'd need a serious WonderBra to achieve
that
look. But here's the thing: what happens when you take a guy home and the bra comes off? How does one explain that exactly?

I order two Lemon Drops and try to keep my eyes leveled on the busty waitress's face. I love this shot—first you lick a sugar-covered lemon, then you shoot the vodka, and finally you suck the lemon. Very fun. It's like buying a bingo lottery ticket; it not only serves its purpose, but doubles as an activity. “Ready?” I ask.

“Cheers,” says Natalie.

Yay! I'm going to get drunk! I'm going to have fun! I'm already having fun. I'm having so much fun, I've practically forgotten about the jerk.

Natalie reaches into her bag and takes out her calorie notebook. I'm surprised she didn't ask for Sweet'N Low for her lemon. “Look, there's Andrew Mackenzie!” she says, pointing across the room and waving.

Please, please tell me, how am I supposed to forget about Jeremy when his Penn buddies are all over the place? Particularly the one who practically fixed us up.

Andrew waves back and pushes his way toward us.

“I was hoping to run into you, hon,” Natalie says. “I heard you were in town. We were just talking about you.”

We were?

“What were you saying?” he says, kissing her lightly on the cheek.

What
were
we saying?

“Just how sexy you are,” she says, wrapping her arms around his neck.

Natalie is a terrific flirt. She may not know which way is north, but she can certainly find her way around the male species. She's not exactly the queen of originality, though. Who uses a line like “just how sexy you are”? But usually these guys just lap up anything good ol' Nat has to offer. And at this moment I'm not sure what her sudden interest in Andrew is all about, because I tried to set her up with him about a gazillion times so that Jer and I would have someone to double with. Correction:
could have had
someone to double with. Anyway, Andrew had been all for it, not that this was much of a surprise—what guy wouldn't be interested in Nat? But she claimed he wasn't her type. Too nice, she said.

“Jackie!” he says, untangling himself from Natalie's arms. “I didn't know you were in Boston.”

Oh, God, oh, God. That means that Jer doesn't talk about me to his friends! Apparently I'm so insignificant in his life that I don't even merit being mentioned. Jackass.

Or maybe Andrew and Jer aren't even talking anymore. Yes. I like that possibility better. They are
so
not talking anymore.

Andrew even kind of looks like Jer. Well, not really. They're both pretty tall (I know, I know, everyone is tall next to me). Yeah, that's pretty much it. Jer is more Ethan-Hawke-hot, scruffy-sexy (he even had that goatee thing going for a bit) whereas Andrew is more clean-cut, boy-next-door cute. Jeremy's hair is light brown and Andrew is a redhead. Not redred, but blond with red highlights. Real ones though, not chemical dirty blond streaks like mine. And Andrew's eyes are brown. They're a nice brown, though, like dark chocolate, but they're not Jeremy's big baby blues. Okay fine, Andrew looks nothing like Jer, but they used to hang out, so he reminds me of him, okay?

“I got a job here,” I answer.

“Where? When did you move?”

“Cupid's. A few months ago.”

“Really? Are you writing?”

“No. Editing.”

“Good for you. Have you met Fabio?”

I'm not sure why everyone asks me this question whenever I mention I work for Cupid.

“No, I haven't met Fabio. I don't deal with the covers that much. What have you been up to?”

“I was working in New York the past couple of years and now I'm doing my MBA.”

“Really? Where?”

“Harvard,” he says, trying to hide his smile in a I-love-beingable-to-say-I-go-to-Harvard-but-I-don't-want-to-sound-like-a-show-off kind of way.

Aha. This explains Natalie's sudden interest.

“That's fantastic,” I tell him.

“It's quite incredible, Andy,” Natalie coos, placing her hand on his shoulder. Andy? Since when is he Andy?

“Thanks,” he says. “Do you girls want a drink?”

Natalie's attention is already distracted. Some tall guy in an Armani suit is beckoning from across the bar. “I'll be back in a minute, 'kay?” And off she goes.

“Sounds like a plan,” I say. We push our way back to the bar. I wonder if I should ask him about Jeremy. No, bad plan. Even though I'm absolutely convinced the two aren't talking to each other anymore, what if he tells Jer I asked about him, and I look completely pathetic?

Ms. Cleavage asks Andrew what we want. His eyes flick to her exposed flesh and then back to me. “What's your drink of choice?”

I will not ask about Jeremy. I will not ask about Jeremy. I will not even mention Jeremy's name. “How about Lemon Drops?”

“The lady has decided,” he says, placing his plastic on the counter.

Lady? “How much?” I ask.

“My treat.”

“Thanks.” Sounds good to me.

“Ready?”

“But of course.”

Sugar…vodka…lemon…mmm.

“Ready?” he asks again.

“Yup.”

Sugar…vodka…lemon…mmm.

He motions to two empty seats along the bar.

I will not ask if he's heard from Jeremy. I will not ask if he's heard from Jeremy. I will not ask if he's heard from Jeremy.

We sit down.

“So what's new with you?” he says.

“Not much,” I answer. “Have you heard from Jeremy?” Damn.

“No, not since he left for Thailand. You guys still together?”

Uh-oh. Suddenly tears are dripping into my mouth and I'm tasting a weird lemon/sugar/vodka/salt concoction. I will never mention Jeremy's name again. If I absolutely have to think about him, I will use an abstract symbol, like Prince did. From now on he is “
.”

I cover my eyes with my hand so that maybe Andrew won't realize I'm crying. I feel like that kid in the second grade who used to cover his nose with one hand while he picked it with the other. Except we all knew what was going on.

Andrew, of course, knows what's going on. He puts his arm around me and I start to cry right into his chest. I'm probably making a huge wet stain on his gray shirt, and my mascara is going to be all over my face, making me look like as if I'm in the middle of exams and haven't slept in weeks, only periodic naps at the library between several cups of black coffee—

His chest is awfully hard.

Okay, so he's no Ethan Hawke, but he's certainly cute, and an MBA from Harvard will make him even cuter. I can seduce him tonight and we could have wild, passionate animal sex and then we'll wake up smiling in each others arms and go for breakfast, strolling hand in hand along the river—