The Kiss Test (27 page)

In slow motion, I halted him with an upheld hand, while pushing away from the table with the other. “I have to go.”

“Margo!”

I ignored him and did the only thing I could do.

I ran.

I ran all the way through the restaurant, oblivious to the startled looks of other diners, ignoring the maitre d’ when he asked if I was alright.

I didn’t stop until I reached the sidewalk. “Taxi!”

I nearly dove into the back of the cab. At least I think it was a cab. It was hard to tell through the blur of tears.

Only this time, it was someone I’d never have suspected.

The only thing I hadn’t figured out in those hours in which I retrieved my suitcase from Quinn’s house, left a note for my brother and Sam, and took a cab to LAX for the nonstop flight home, was whether Chris planned to leave me all along…or if he only decided to stay in California after we slept together.

I locked the apartment door behind me and tossed my keys on the hall table. The apartment was just as we left it, except closed up and stuffy. The only sound came from the soft hum of the refrigerator keeping the condiments cold. I crossed the living room, dragged open the blinds and pushed up the window to let in fresh air. Not that it made any difference to me.

I was numb.

No, numb was the wrong word because numbness implies a lack of pain. And I definitely felt pain.

The texture of the hallway walls was rough against my fingers. Opening the bedroom window, I squeezed through and out onto the fire escape. The dusty metal had rusted away in spots, pushing flakes of paint from the surface. Maybe back at my own apartment, I’d plant some flowers and put them on my fire escape. After all, I’d probably spend a lot of time there as years passed…rocking in the rocker I’d pick up at the flea market on Twenty-Sixth.

From inside the apartment, the phone rang. I started to climb back in the window, but then remembered it wasn’t my home and I wasn’t responsible for answering it. Chris’s voice, instructing the caller to leave a message, forced me away from the window, not wanting to hear him.

I figured I had a week at minimum. He’d have business to wrap up, a hotel to check out of, a Jeep to drive home. Back, I mean. New York wouldn’t be home for him anymore. Maybe, while I packed up my stuff, I should pack his. That way, when he was ready to go to California, he wouldn’t have as much to do.

I don’t know why it hurt so much. This was the age of cell phones, email and instant messaging. It wasn’t like we’d be out of touch.

But it wouldn’t be the same. There would be no more Friday nights at the bar. I’d lose my favorite person to laugh with. My favorite person to share my secrets with. The one who really knew me and loved me still.

Liked
me still.

It had been so easy before. When Chris was like a brother to me, there were no problems, no worries, no pain. We’d never
needed
each other before. I supposed it was really a moot point, because Chris didn’t need me at all. And, after a while, I wouldn’t need him either. He’d fade like my dad, my mom, every stepfather that had waltzed into—and out of—my life. And every boyfriend. Thank God I hadn’t spilled my guts
before
his little announcement.

I finally crawled back in the window. Chris’s bedroom was neat. Masculine. I hadn’t ventured into it often. Now, there was no one to notice I was in Chris’s space. No one to notice when I sat down on the bed. No one to notice when I curled up on the comforter and laid my head on Chris’s pillow that still, after all this time away, smelled like him.

For just a few moments, I felt a little less alone.

My cell was off and I’d unplugged Chris’s phone. His girlfriends were going to have to learn to live without him, so they might as well get used to it now. I had to.

By Wednesday afternoon, I’d gone through almost all the boxes, made a pick-up appointment with the Salvation Army and subsisted on nothing but coffee and Captain Crunch. I’d had very little sleep and, other than the first day, I steered clear of Chris’s bedroom. It was safer that way.

I shoved another box of clothing for the Salvation Army toward the front door. They were due this afternoon to clear out everything Manuel & Brothers weren’t moving tomorrow morning. Turning, I spotted my Paint by Number Elvis leaning against the wall, looking a tad faded by a coat of dust.

“I’ll clean you up when we get home,” I promised. “Since I left your bobblehead brother in L.A., you’ll have to stand in as my lucky charm. Hopefully, you’ll do a better job than your predecessor.”

Turning away from the King, I opened the next carton. I’d not been in this one yet. It had Margo-Personal written across it in black, in Katya’s flowery scrawl. I felt a pang about being in town three days without having contacted her or Adair, but I wasn’t up for questions. The only person I’d talked to was James Friend at WOLD. I’d report to the studio Monday morning to begin my new career. My new life. I wished I felt more enthusiasm.

Inside the box was my life in memories. A couple of diaries, a scrapbook with so many track meet and marathon ribbons in it that they were falling out all over the place, and a photo album my mom gave me when I left for college. I thumbed through the pages, smiling at the photos she’d chosen. It was a pictorial tour of my life, from birth until the day I left for school. I was surprised to notice in how many photos I was smiling, at my brother, at my mom, at Chris, even at the stepfather of the hour. Strangely, I didn’t recall having so much to smile at.

There was a picture of Chris and me on the way to the junior prom—the one when he’d rescued me from sure humiliation. His mullet hairstyle hung past the collar of his sky-blue tux with white lapel ruffles. My hair hung halfway down my back. We looked geeky. And happy.

I set aside the scrapbook, closing the page on that particular picture. I retrieved the diary, which was yellowing, the lock firmly holding and no key in sight. I twisted and pulled on the flimsy strap that held it shut, to no avail. My curiosity piqued, I pushed off the floor, retrieved a sharp knife from the kitchen and slit the diary open. The open window added some light, and I flipped the diary to a random page.

April 20, 1990.

I’d been a sophomore in high school.

“Today was the worst day of my life,” I read aloud, chuckling at my teenage dramatics. “I can’t believe I was so stupid.” Gee, just the beginning of a long line of stupidity.

Chris is such a jerk,
I’d written.
I saw him kiss Jennifer Springer today. The ass!
The heated words were written in angry scribble. I remembered that—seeing Chris kissing Jennifer had totally pissed me off, not because I was jealous but because it meant I didn’t get a ride to school. I went back to reading.

It was funny how ticked off I’d been about it. Thinking back, I think I felt…replaced. Chris’s fling with Jennifer only lasted a couple of weeks, and then I was back in the passenger seat of the Mustang as usual. Over the next two years of high school, I was an on-again/off-again bus rider, depending on whether Chris had a girlfriend or not. I didn’t make a big deal about it. If I didn’t get attached to the ride—to Chris—it didn’t matter when I was replaced.

Shaking myself, I pushed off the floor and headed back for the boxes. I’d read the rest of the diary later. Maybe after I moved into my own apartment and Chris was in California. After all, my Friday nights would be free from then on.

At the bottom of the box, I dug out the last items. There was a silver-framed picture of Chris and I that I hadn’t seen for years. Best Friends, it said. I dropped it quickly back in the box, knowing looking at it would bring the tears I was trying to avoid.

There was also a sheet of paper, riddled with faded, pen-written words in Chris’s handwriting. It was dated
July 25, 1991,
written from his grandmother’s home in Montana, where he’d spent summer vacation.

Remind me never to move to Montana. I’ve never seen any place so flat and brown in my life. My grandmother says it’s not like that in the winter, but I have hard time believing the flatness changes with the seasons. Mailboxes here are at least three miles apart, I swear. Must take the mailman all day to deliver mail to twenty families. And forget about borrowing sugar from your next door neighbor. It’d take less time to grow your own sugar cane. Trips to the grocery store are an all-day production, done once a month. If you run out of Jolly Ranchers midmonth, forget about having any more for at least two more weeks. Nothing is spontaneous around here. My grandma insisted I meet some “young people.” God. Kids here are as exciting as cardboard. They gather at the local “grange,” a wooden building with one room, a kitchen and an outhouse. They have spaghetti feeds every so often so they don’t forget there are other people on the planet. There are no pizza parlors, skating rinks or arcades. Grandma gets exactly three stations on TV—news, weather and religion. “Everything a body could want in life,” she says. I beg to differ.

Again, remind me never to move to Montana. In fact, remind me never to move anywhere you’re not. I miss talking to you, and not just because all anyone here talks about is horses, cows or chickens. I miss hanging out with you. I miss skating and goofing around. I miss going for pepperoni pizza at Shakey’s. I miss cruising the loop. “Young people” never see anyone often enough to have friendships like we have. Makes me realize how lucky I am.

Oh, by the way, I broke up with Heather before I came out here. I didn’t have time to tell you before we left. I guess I’ve been thinking a lot about what I like in a girl. It’s more than good looks. And putting out doesn’t make very good conversation. What I’m saying is that I need more. I need someone I can talk to, spend time with and don’t get tired of. You know what I mean? I’m not saying this very well, I guess. And, I don’t really know how to write it. I really want to talk about it with you, but it’s hard to communicate in a letter. Hey, wait…

I just talked to my grandma. She says you can call collect. So, call me. I really want to talk (and I promise I won’t talk about 4H or crop rotations, ha!). Call me as soon as you get this letter. I really, really need to talk to you and I don’t want to wait until next month. Call 406-555-2653. Hurry.

I hadn’t called him. A few hours later, Will Barlow had asked me out. By the time Chris returned from Montana, Will and I had been dating for a month and I was no longer a virgin. Chris had been pissed—not about my loss of virginity—but because Will played water polo and “only geeks play water polo.” Obviously, Chris had an ongoing issue with my dating geeks. I attributed his out-of-proportion anger at my “sin” of dating a member of an “unmanly” sport, to not getting laid in a while. He didn’t replace Heather for a long time after he got home. Eventually my theory proved right, when Chris started dating again and seemed to get back to his normal self. Things between us grew comfortable again, although for a while we didn’t have much time for each other until we were both dumped before the prom.

I tossed the uninteresting letter on the coffee table and stretched out on the couch. I never found out why Chris wanted me to call Montana collect. Nothing important, I imagined, since he hadn’t said anything profound to me when he returned, except, “What the fuck are you thinking dating an asshole like Will Barlow?”

As I fell into a restless sleep, I thought about the request in Chris’s letter to remind him never to move somewhere I wasn’t. In all these years, Chris hadn’t needed reminding not to move away from me. And now that he did, I knew I wouldn’t ask him to stay. Because it was pathetic to run after someone who obviously didn’t feel as strongly about you as you did about them.