Summer of Love (8 page)

6) JBR — the jealousy backrub is the massage equivalent of slow-dancing with someone hot for the sole reason of making your ex (or crush) jealous. Involving intense moans to up the ante helps (e.g. “Oh, __, that feels great — you have such strong arms!)

7) The “My parents gave me a gift certificate at a spa and the masseuse taught me this great backrub technique. Can I try it out on you?” Of course, you use the opportunity to try to perfect it (e.g., “Wait — let me try to remember. Is it clockwise and then counter-clockwise or counter-clockwise and then clockwise?” and such like “lapses of memory” all of which just give you more excuses for letting your hands roam around) Big Plus: you can improvise, moving down to the upper thigh — “How does it feel here?”

8) The “I’m sitting behind you in the team van/bus, your shoulders are right there…so, why not just start giving you a rub?”

9) Make up an Asian sounding back-rub technique and claim that you learned it on a summer exchange program. “When we were on the night train traveling from Jing-zhu to Bei-zhu, we were bartering with the train conductor in our carriage. In exchange for two cartons of Marlboro Reds, he taught me the ancient technique known as Chi-tse-zhang-bo-ku” (upon the utterance of the technique name, you close your eyes and make a reverential bow.) Then, you take total control of the situation, saying — as you lead the person to a bed or something, “Here — now you try it.”

10) The disclaimer: “I kind of suck at this, but a bad backrub is better than no backrub, right?” The Answer: Unlike a chocolate chip cookie, which is always better than not having one, a backrub that sucks just plain sucks. And if you get one that is really lame, you can’t help but wonder — is this person kind of lame? The guy who struts across campus but is all drippy when it comes to backrubs — well, that’s telling you that he’s just got a façade. And the girl who seems all sultry but rather than massaging you just digs her nails into your skin and kind of presses? She’s not as sensual as she seems.

So while getting a good backrub rocks, a back one is enough to dissuade me from a crush — maybe. Henry kneads his way down my back, stopping just shy of my ass, and then retreats to the safety of my shoulders. So he’s a game player. At least, that’s what Arabella would decide upon seeing this. But then again, maybe she’s gotten a Henry Handling herself.

I turn my face away from Henry so I can see the ocean and go back to thinking about backrubs. Arabella and I discussed, decoded, and deciphered all the techniques — you’ve got your strong but gentle, your playful, your finger-poking, your touchy-feeling hemp-clad sandal-wearing Grateful Dead String Cheese Incident listening flat palmed rub, and then — the most common, most egregious backrub bonanza — the subtle side into front rub. While this is a great prelude to rule #2, when you’re just friends with someone, having them try to sneak a feel is not allowed.

And it’s this common front rub that I’m expecting Henry to try but instead he is stuck at a solid rule #4, jabbering away — either out of nerves or lack of anyone else to talk to since his friends are either surfing or asleep on their elaborate beach chairs.

“How’s that?” Henry asks while his thumbs sink into my back.

“Good,” I say but blush. It’s too sexual — too revealing — well, it’s not really, but it feels that way because I’m in my bathing suit which — when you consider the area covered by the bikini, is really like underwear and there’s no way in hell I’d lie in my bra and underwear and ask Henry to rub me. So. So I’m about to object when he turns the tables, sliding from rule #4 into rule #3.

“I hear you give killer massages,” Henry says like massage is something involving nakedness and oil.

“Oh yeah?” It comes out flirty but really I just want to know from whom he garnered this info.

“Lila Lawrence told someone or something — I don’t know. It came up at a party this winter while you were abroad.”

“While I was in London people were discussing my backrub prowess? Gee, I feel famous.”

Henry stops rubbing my back and I sit up, pulling the striped beach towel around me both to fend off the wind and to cover up my rather revealed self.

“It was a passing comment,” Henry says. “Just one of those party things.”

“Where was this party, anyway? I feel like I missed out,” I say it so he knows I’m joking but he answers me.

“Lila’s beach house in Newport.”

“Ah, the off-season extravaganza.” I remember visiting Lila’s house (house=one of the old Newport mansions circa Great Gatsby with a gilded ballroom and an indoor pool complete with heated floors lest the wealthy feet get a tad cold). She’s big into off-season parties because her mother is all about the in-season parties. “Must’ve been fun.”

Henry smirks, remembering something. “It was.” I raise one eyebrow at him so he knows I’m watching his face, looking for signs of lascivious thoughts. “No, not like that.” Henry laughs and commands me to rub his shoulders, which I do, and find myself intrigued by his physique (I mean, he plays college soccer and rows — read: hot body) and annoyed that I’m so shallow as to be swayed by a guy’s shoulders. “A bunch of us proved a point…” His voice trails off.

“What happened exactly?” I ask and rub his arms, working down to his hands which are warm and smooth. When I start to massage his palm, he squeezes my hand which makes me nervous.

“It’s kind of a long story — one for another time. But the text message version is that this guy we’re friends with — or used to be friends with — was working at….” He looks at me. “Let’s just say we taught a friend a lesson and the party went on from there.”

I shake my head. “Sounds complicated.” Henry looks me. Then he keeps looking at me. With that look right that can only mean one thing — he’s about to lean in and, “Oh my god!” I say it way too loudly, especially considering Henry’s about five inches form my face.

“I’m sorry,” Henry says and backs away, embarrassed.

“No, no,” I say trying to reassure him that I wasn’t shoving off his attempt at a kiss (though I’m not sure if maybe my psyche was speaking for me).

“I thought you…”

“No — it wasn’t that,” I say and touch his shoulder so he doesn’t think I’m totally blowing him off. “I just remembered something.” I point to the striped beach towel. “This is the same exact pattern as…” He’ll think I’m nuts if I talk about the mug handles at Tink’s, but I do it anyway. “Henry…do you have a cup?”

Cue the
you’re crazy
look. “What?”

“A mug — a coffee cup. Do you have one you’re supposed to give me?”

Henry pulls me to my feet, the swim, the salty massage, the breeze, the interrupted kiss — all in the past as he walks me to my car and I explain the mug handle situation.

“So you’re trying to find your missing piece?” he asks, with the emphasis on piece as in ass.

“Not that kind of piece,” I say, “But glad to know your puerile humor can transcend any conversation.”

“I wish I did have a mug handle for you — it’s kind of a cool thing…” Henry helps me inside the car and then closes the driver’s side door. I lean out, for once enjoying the fact that because the car is black it has absorbed the sun and warms my freezing arms.

“It is a cool thing, but it’s frustrating not being able to find out what the next clue is…”

“Don’t you think that was part of her point? Like, just live and enjoy it and see when it appears in front of you?” Henry looks at me, maybe thinking about the almost-kiss, and his words are meaningful — he’s correct and compassionate and there’s no real reason not to kiss him, but that small moment has passed.

“Thanks for the swim,” I say. “I have to deliver some donuts to Arabella.” I point to the white paper bag on the seta next to me.

Henry gives that reverse guy nod, tipping his head back, like he’s trying to flip a light switch with his chin. “I’m having a dinner party — would you like to come?”

“A dinner party? How civil. Are you sure it’s not a bonfire or catered drunken barbeque?”

Henry laughs and waves to some stunning girl on the beach. Then I realize the stunning girl is Hippie Chick AKA Mike, Charlie’s sister. I want to badly to ask how he knows her — but maybe he doesn’t — maybe he’s just one of those guys who waves to hot girls in suits. “I decided this summer needs a little glamour.”

“Sounds fun — when is it?”

“Summer Solstice.”

I nod. “The shortest night.”

Henry takes a couple of steps backwards as I put the key in and start the car. “I figured with all that daylight, people’d want to use the night hours wisely…to…” he pauses and shrugs. “To whatever.”

“Sounds like a good toast.” I cheer him with my Nalgene water bottle (it’s a yellow one which I bought only because it was on sale and then once I filled it I realized it will always look as though it contains pee. Note to self: next time splurge on the color that doesn’t resemble bodily fluids.). “To whatever!”

Henry’s up on the dune, right near where Mike is lying down (I can spot her raspberry halter top and her sun hat on the sand) and yells down to me, “Love!”

“Now what?” I smile and yell back. He really is so cute standing there in his bathing suit and tan.

“The Midnight Hour!” he shouts like that makes any sense beyond being a song that, while good, is way overplayed by every high school band that thinks they’re the next white-boy blue-influenced group. Then, because he knows his words didn’t make sense he adds, “The dress code — it’s ‘in the midnight hour’. Interpret that as you will!”

I don’t ask him who else will be there — I figure it’ll be the usual group, the same sunny faces from the beach and café, but who knows. I drive away, with the windows down with the warm air breezing in, wondering what kind of dress that really means — basically, it sounds like a full-on excuse to wear lingerie. I f I had to guess, I’d expect Jay Daventree and Henry to wear a Hugh Hefner getup, and maybe Jason Landry (whom I believe Arabella has already “backrubbed”) will don some cheesy boxers.

I envision a bevy of beauties wearing nothing but babydoll nighties, garters (like that’s such a common thing to wear at midnight), bustiers, and silk robes sans undergarments. Not for me. I don’t see Halloween as a reason to dress as a slut — if I want to wear a catsuit I’ll do it when I want — and I don’t want to be the breast-centerpiece at a party (with rather sizeable breasts, a little cleavage tends to go a long way on me). So no matter what the suggested dress code is, I decide I’ll bypass the French Maid’s uniform, the bra and panties set as dinner wear, and do for something else. What exactly that is — I have no idea. But I know someone who will.

Correction: two someones.

“Arabella!” I shout as I come up the stair to the flat and nudge the sticky door open with my knee. “Rise and shine. And start thinking about what I can wear to a dinner party. I’ll trust your advice.”

“What about mine?” comes a voice — a male voice — from her room.

With some trepidation I slide my feet along the floor and pause outside her doorway, averting my eyes in case some random guy is in there and I have to choose between saying something lame like “have fun last night?” or a quiet lecture about the risks of the random hook up.

But of course the face in front of me is not random, yet it’s certainly a surprise.

“Well if it isn’t the lovable Love!”

“You know I hate that,” I say and do a dramatic run, leap, and hug to Chris, who responds with an equally ardent embrace. “What are you doing here? Why didn’t you call? And how come you slept in here and didn’t tell me you were here? Wait — was that redundant?”

Chris gives a
heh
as a laugh and responds. “Sit down, share the baked goods you brought back, and all will be explained.”

Arabella whisks off to the café to check on the state of things and to get us all mud slides while Chris and I lounge in the surfer’s nook — the small area off to the side of the living room that’s covered in plush faux-lambskin and decorated with tiny glowing surfboards even during the day. If I meditated, I could do it in here. But since I don’t, it’s more of a reading space or — once I get a new one — a journal-writing place.

“So it’s off with Alistair?” I ask and make a sad face to Chris. “I thought he was your first big love.”

“Me, too,” Chris says. “But — maybe we just put too much into it — it’s one thing to have an intense couple of days of being together on vacation…but it’s something else when you try to move that sort of idealist romp into reality.”

I nod and tuck my knees to my chest. “Yeah — I bet that’s what would have happened with me and Asher, if he’d ever managed to make an appearance.”

Chris taps me on the knee. “Um, we’re talking about me? Focus.”

“Right. Sorry for the brief self-sidetracking…you were explaining.”

Chris lies down, looking like he could make a snow angel in the plush white wool rug. “I got to California and it was awesome — just what I expected. We hung out, made out, dined out — but after a couple of days it felt like…” he sighs. “Like it was fine.”

“Fine?”

“Fine.”

“You don’t like fine,” I say.

“Nope — and neither do you. Fine is boring. Fine’s like, I could be doing other things — other, better things. Fine’s sort of why bother, you know?”

“So you didn’t stay there?” I ask.

“I probably would have to be honest. I mean, Alistair’s smart and funny and gorgeous and likes me. I seriously doubt I’m going to do better — even if it only felt fine. Or okay. But then — I got a phone call…”

“This is all very dramatic,” I say. “I wish Arabella would hurry up with our slides so I’d have entertainment snacks while you spill.”

Just as I say this, Arabella comes back in managing to carry three oversized plastic cups filled with mud slide chocolate and red straws. I rescue her from imminent spillage and the three of us fake surf in the living room while Chris goes on.

“Apologies to Arabella for the repetition,” Chris says.

Arabella flings her hair back from her shoulders and shrugs. “It’s fine by me — I’m not sure what kind of recall I have after last night.” Only when she says this do I notice the row of empty Matchbox car shot glasses lined up by the sink. Apparently I missed a late-night session last night.