Ginny Blue's Boyfriends (13 page)

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Authors: Nancy Kelly

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“Nineteen? Twenty?”
“And he started seeing her while you and he were still roommates?”
“They worked together, I guess. Things ... were falling apart between us anyway.”
Dr. Dick considered. Without pulling out my file, which sometimes he does just to remind me of the tale I told the last time I was in his office—since I like to “hyberbole” a lot—he said, “You mentioned feeling suffocated and trapped in the relationship.”
“Did I?” That gave me pause. “Sometimes I really piss myself off.”
“In what way?”
“It would be nice if just once I could keep things to myself.”
Dr. Dick managed a faint smile. “That’s not exactly the point of therapy, is it?”
“Do you talk to all your patients this way?”
“No.” He gazed at me, clearly calculating how forthright he should be. He took the Dr. Phil ‘no holds barred’ approach and said, “Some people need to be gently introduced to the truth or they can’t assimilate it. But you want it bold and unvarnished and right between the eyes.”
I blinked, feeling he might have actually hit me in that spot. “Who says?”
“You do. Every time I talk to you.”
“All right. I woke up one morning wanting to lock Nate out of my life. I did manage to lock him out of the bathroom. Then that night he showed up with Tara. He said he knew how I felt about him and was moving out. It—surprised me. And I didn’t like it.”
“So, now you’re living alone?”
I nodded. “Well, no. My friend Kristl, who’s been married three times, is temporarily living with me. She just got engaged again, though, so having a roommate will be short-lived. I should bring her to see you. There’s something really wrong with her.”
He paused for a very long time. I had the feeling I’d touched on something in his own life, but I knew he’d been married only once. The divorce had been civil and discreet, and I’d only heard about it after the fact. Dr. Dick had been single for over a year, which had only increased my fantasies where he was concerned.
“Have you thought about how you feel about Nate? Since he moved out?”
“Sure. Lots.” I snorted. “I’m not that sorry, actually. It
is
what I wanted,” I admitted. “It’s just that having it taken out of my hands kind of ... deflated me, I guess.”
“You’ve moved on.”
I nodded. I looked around the office and resisted the urge to play with my cuticles, an old habit I can’t quite break. “I’ve been thinking a lot about my Ex-Files lately. All the members. I even called Charlie. Ex-file Number One,” I clarified. “Hearing his voice was like fingernails on a blackboard. He said he might stop by and see me when he’s in LA. It scared the liver out of me.”
“Charlie was your first real boyfriend.”
“My first sexual encounter, if you can call it that,” I said. “He wasn’t really a boyfriend. Then after Charlie I thought about Ex-File
Numero Dos
—Kane Reynolds. You know him? The motivational speaker?”
Dr. Dick looked interested. “Sure do. He’s going to be in LA next month.”
I stopped short, not sure how I felt about this news. “You’re into that stuff?”
“More like I saw his name listed in the paper,” he said with a smile.
I love it when Dr. Dick smiles. It’s just so ... cool. The curve of his lips briefly derailed me from my trip through the Hall of Exes, which is how I envision all those in my past. Like they’re standing behind the doors in a long hallway. If I could get past them all to the end of the hallway and step outside, I might learn something valuable. But it’s a long, long way ... .
“Then I skipped ahead to Ex-File Number Four,” I said. “I don’t usually count him, but I’ve been warned by my friends that I can’t just skip over him. I haven’t told you this before, but number four is John Langdon, the actor.”
Dr. Dick hesitated momentarily, then blew my mind when he said, “He came to see me once.”
“Who?
Lang?
” I sat bolt upright.
“He came to ask me about psychology. He was researching a role.”
“Oh.” I should have known Dr. Dick wouldn’t spill any of his real patients’ names, especially famous patients. “
Las Vegas Blues?
”
“I think that was it.”
“I knew him after that,” I said.
“Why are you thinking about your past relationships?”
I shrugged. “Because of Nate, I guess. It’s like giving myself a history lesson. If we don’t examine the mistakes of the past, we’re doomed to make them again. There’s a quote like that, isn’t there?”
“Has examining the past helped?”
“Not so far. The way I look at it ... it’s their fault, not mine.”
He fought another smile.
I left Dr. Dick’s office feeling better. Feeling surprised, in fact, that I’d spent less time actually fantasizing about him and more time in serious conversation. Well, pseudoserious, anyway. It’s hard for me to equate my failed romances with anything of true value.
That night I met Daphne and Leo at the Standard. Leo has wild, curly hair and a full beard, and when people ask about the beard he pretends it’s for a role. This gets the conversation centered squarely on himself for a while, which I suspect is his game plan, but at least it gave me a chance to talk to Daphne. It was a tad nauseating how thrilled she was to be seen with him.
“Be honest, Blue,” she said. “He’s cute, isn’t he? People just respond to him.”
Because I was trying to be nice, and because Leo wasn’t terrible, I said, “He’s definitely cute.” I bit back the urge to ask about the so-called “role” and instead ordered my usual Ketel One vodka martini. No more stingers. I wanted familiarity and stability.
Leo was trying harder than he had been the first time I’d met him. To be fair, he’d been working the Starbucks counter during that introduction and hadn’t given me more than a passing glance. He’d also been disinterested in Daphne, however; the only time he’d been able to brighten was when a young, heavily tattooed pal entered the place. I’d labeled Leo a Huge Waste of Time without really getting to know him. Maybe there was more to him than met the eye.
“Leo,” I said. “What’s the role?”
He slid me a look out of the corners of his eyes, his lips tightening a bit. “It’s for Spielberg.”
“Steven Spielberg?”
“Blue ...” Daphne’s eyes warned me.
“A film?” I asked, shrugging.
“Yes, a film,” Leo stated flatly, then moved across the room to seat himself deliberately in one of the clear, swinging plastic chairs.
Daphne shot me a hurt look. “The part’s down to Leo and four other guys. It’s very stressful for him. I can’t believe you said that.”
She scurried toward him, taking the only other plastic chair. I found myself sitting alone on one of the leather couches until a young couple sat down beside me. So much for trying to get to know Leo.
Not long afterwards they decided to take a cab home rather than ride with me, the designated driver. I drove home lonely and annoyed with myself. Though I’m no fan of Leo’s, I envied their relationship—in the early days as it was—and wished I had someone to hug and kiss and make love to.
I didn’t realize my prayers were going to be answered until I unlocked my front door and a shadow emerged from behind the jasmine bush that separated my small stoop from the condo facing toward the alley.
I screamed bloody murder.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” a slightly familiar voice declared, sounding as shaken as I felt.
“Charlie?” I asked, peering into the darkness.
“You could wake the dead. Jesus. My heart’s pounding.”
“You scared me.”
“No shit.”
My neighbor’s porch light came on. I unlocked my door and practically yanked Charlie inside. That particular neighbor is what a few generations back they called a “nosey parker.” We get along fine, but I absolutely hate having to explain anything.
 
 
I sat on one of my rickety bar stools at the kitchen counter. The stools are usually tucked beneath the breakfast bar, which is part of the piece of counter that also houses my sink. No one ever sits on either of the stools because they’re uncomfortable and dangerous. Since Nate took his chair, and then later his lamps and coffee table and a few other things, now my living room consists of, well ... a couch. A few end tables. The television, inside my only expensive piece of furniture—a Pottery Barn armoire that I’m still paying off. One nice table lamp and a convoluted sculptured piece of plastic and metal that Daphne gave me for my birthday a few years back. Art, she’d called it. I’m pretty sure it’s a bong.
The reason I was sitting on a stool was that Charlie had draped himself over the sofa. He had that aging hippie, well used look. His hair was long and suspect; it may have seen soap and water in the last decade but a hair brush was something else again. His clothes were wrinkled and all in shades of cream—or what once was cream—and army green. He wore sandals; the strap was broken on his right one. I had a picture of him in Eugene, at the University of Oregon, fitting in with a kind of bohemian lifestyle, but I don’t think he ever really made it to college.
He still had a boyish look, but it was spoiled somewhat when he smiled and revealed a space about three teeth back on the left side of his jaw. His blue eyes were innocent and joyful, however. I kept my gaze on them and tried hard not to think about the hair. One of my true inner fears is lice. I can hear a whole news story about death, disease, and despair and feel bad, but mention lice and my skin crawls and I instantly have to do an intense check of my own scalp. Phobias. What can you say. They’re not rational.
Kristl appeared from upstairs, surprising me, as she’d been missing in action for an untold number of days. She regarded Charlie curiously after I introduced him as someone from Carriage Hill High. I was so glad to have her with me that I forgot to finish the introductions. I never mentioned her name to him. She ended up doing that herself, leaning forward and shaking Charlie’s hand. I watched surreptitiously and noticed that she frowned a bit and stealthily examined her palm when she thought Charlie wouldn’t notice. He didn’t. I did, however, and I wondered what she thought she’d picked up from him. Another frisson down my back.
“How’d you find my place?” I asked, belatedly, having initially been too bemused to pop out with the most important question. He had my number, yes, but the address?
“Your mom,” he said. “After you called, I checked in with her. She said she’s gonna come down this way sometime, too. I always liked her. She’s cool.”
Charlie had never known my mother except by sight, as Mom was a sometime real estate agent whose picture smiled from the card she handed out to my friends right and left. As if any of them could buy property. Mom had carefully woven the white streak into a purposely bleached, more blondish mane before the photographer got hold of her.
“Why do I feel like I know you?” Kristl mused to Charlie, turning to give me a puzzled look.
Ex-File Number One,
I silently telegraphed, but she didn’t pick up the message.
Charlie said, “Me and a buddy are heading down to Tijuana. I just wanted to stop in.”
“Where’s your buddy, now?” I asked.
“At the Sav-On. Buying some beer. Good thing it’s open 24/7. Roadies, y’know.” He winked at us both.
I damn near opened my mouth to give him the old “don’t drink and drive” caution, but I managed to contain myself at the last moment. If he didn’t know it by now, my blathering wasn’t going to help.
Kristl, however, had no such compunction. “I hope you don’t really mean that you’d drink and drive.”
He looked offended. “Hell, no. I’m the passenger!”
That was it for Kristl. She gave me a hard look, made some excuse and headed for the stairs. Panicked, I said, “Where’re you going?”
“I’m meeting Brandon,” she said, and I thought I detected a whiff of true relief in the fact that she had an excuse for departure. Charlie had clearly not made the best impression. Given that she got married every time someone said “boo,” I didn’t see that she had anything to feel so superior about.
I was also extremely annoyed with my mother for being such a blabbermouth. Note to self: Call Mom and lie to her about where I live.
The phone rang and I snatched it up like a lifeline. It was Holly. I’ve never been so delighted to talk business in my life.
She said flatly, “We got a bill here. That Liam Engleston person. Charged us twenty-five percent of his catering fee for canceling with him.”
“
What?
” I screamed.
“He can go fuck himself,” Holly said. “Take care of it.”
She hung up.
“Bad news?” Charlie asked.
The guy was quick.
Before I could react, Charlie’s buddy—someone Charlie introduced as Hog for obvious reasons—returned, carrying two sacks from Sav-On. Hog must have weighed three-fifty and he had short, stubby hair covering his pink scalp. I thought I saw screw-tops on the wine.

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