Read Ginny Blue's Boyfriends Online
Authors: Nancy Kelly
Ginny Blue's Boyfriends (8 page)
“My relationships may have ultimately failed, but I had some good times,” I defended.
“Me, too,” Daphne chimed in staunchly.
“Just because you and Ian are fighting is no reason to make it out like all men are useless bastards,” I added.
Jill lapsed into injured silence. To be honest, that was about the extent of our evening fun. Jill wouldn’t cough up what had transpired between her and Ian, and frankly, Daphne and I were pretty sick of asking. On the way home, KULA’s DJ rhapsodized about some weird, new group whose music, which he played for our listening enjoyment, was produced using guitar and something concocted with Pringles cans. I said, “I heard somewhere that Pringles cans are the perfect conduit for catching wireless electronic information. Like your cell phone numbers and your bank accounts. All kinds of stuff. And just about anyone on the street can use one and maybe get your computer password, empty out your accounts or something.”
“I like this group. That’s what their music’s about,” Daphne said. “That’s why they use Pringles cans. To protest our lack of privacy through technology.”
I thought about Charlie picking up my number from caller ID.
Jill, who’d been silent for the entire ride, said flatly, “Ian loves Pringles.”
Neither Daphne nor I felt like going there—or trying to go there—so I just drove them both home.
Sunday was a bust. Nobody was around. None of my friends. By Sunday night I’d once again done a 180 on the breakup idea. I was sorely missing Nate. Or at least the “idea” of Nate. My brief moment of emancipation and epiphany at Pink Elephant was superseded by an ugly female neediness. Once or twice I almost called his cell phone, but reason prevailed. Also, I feared Tara might be with him. She looked like the type who would move in to stay.
I was heading to bed Sunday night, looking desperately forward to work the next day, when Kristl appeared in my bedroom doorway looking flushed and kind of pent-up, as if she had a secret just bursting to come out.
“What?” I asked.
With a little shudder of delight, she held out a tremulous left hand. A diamond ring sparkled.
“Oh ... God.” My heart sank.
“I—I didn’t know how to say no.” If she’d been a little girl she would have clapped her hands and giggled. Instead, she just drew me close to her for an intense “Please don’t be mad at me” hug. Her whole body was quaking.
As well it should be,
I decided. I made appropriate noises to show how happy I was for her, but I couldn’t believe she’d done it again. I’d joked about it; I just hadn’t truly believed it would happen.
I decided. I made appropriate noises to show how happy I was for her, but I couldn’t believe she’d done it again. I’d joked about it; I just hadn’t truly believed it would happen.
Though I sometimes like to lie, sometimes the truth just needs to be told. I said, with real sincerity, “I’m worried about you. Really. Nobody gets married like you do. It’s like you’re trying to fill up some inner void. It’s not going to work.”
For a moment she held my gaze, then she looked away, her mouth trembling. “I really hoped you’d understand, Blue. You of all people.”
“Why me of all people?”
“Because I need you to,” she said in a small voice, and then she walked toward the stairs, totally beaten down. I called after her, but she ignored me and a few moments later I heard her bedroom door close, sounding oddly final.
Way to put the period to one stellar weekend,
I thought miserably. I looked at myself in the hallway mirror and really resented that I seemed so normal. I was evil incarnate. Which reminded me of Ex-File Number Four, Don the Devout, who believed in his own goodness and rightness in a way that defied description.
I thought miserably. I looked at myself in the hallway mirror and really resented that I seemed so normal. I was evil incarnate. Which reminded me of Ex-File Number Four, Don the Devout, who believed in his own goodness and rightness in a way that defied description.
But I get ahead of myself. Before I can think of Don, I really should consider Kane Reynolds, Ex-File Number 2, then Larry Stoddard, Ex-File Number Three, and probably Mr. Famous Actor, although I still resist counting him. However, thinking of my exes all at one time made my head hurt. Delving into my own problems isn’t my strong suit.
For now I would just have to accept that I was evil. Eeee-ville.
I’m not sure I like me without a boyfriend.
At work Monday afternoon I walked into the men’s room by mistake. “Oops, sorry,” I said as soon as I saw the telltale urinal hanging on the wall. Men’s rooms make me close my nose. An automatic reaction brought on by experience: they always smell bad. But before my nostrils could retract I sniffed an aroma that I usually don’t associate with bathrooms, and as I hesitated, Sean appeared from one of the stalls, grinning like an idiot. Pinched between his thumb and index finger was, as my mother would say, “one of those funny cigarettes.” He inhaled deeply, said, tightly, “Wanna hit?” and offered the joint to me. I shook my head as he held his breath to ensure every pneumatic sac absorbed the smoke. Alas, this is another reason I can’t smoke. I just visualize my lungs dragging in all kinds of noxious gases, irritants, and chemicals and I can’t do it. LA smog is bad enough.
“I’m not good with marijuana,” I said.
He cocked his head and lifted his brows, still unwilling to release the smoke.
“Smoking dope makes me salivate,” I explained. He expelled with a rush and a gasp, his starved lungs sucking in the wonderful bathroom air.
“Salivate?” he questioned. “Haven’t heard that one before. It’s s’posed to make your mouth dry.”
“I hope you’re going to tell me you’re through working for the day,” I said. I could just picture him driving around under the influence and having it somehow be the production company’s fault.
“Yeah, totally!” he assured me emphatically. “I’m done here. Just on my way out.” Seeing my look, he said, “Well ... not
immediately
. Wouldn’t want to get a DUI or anything. It really makes you salivate?”
immediately
. Wouldn’t want to get a DUI or anything. It really makes you salivate?”
“Yep.”
I didn’t feel like going through my brief attempt at smoking dope. It had been another of those decisions made for popularity and acceptance during high school. Not long after the Charlie Carruthers episode, I briefly turned my attention to my grades and caught the fever of needing those last semester GPAs to get into the “right” school. Well, it was way too late for that. I mean, you wanna impress some college you gotta start freshman year. But I was suddenly convinced I could do it, and I started hanging out with the nerds. That’s where I met Kane. He was the nerdiest of the nerdy, pocket protector and all, but he had this fantastic baritone speaking voice, and he sounded so incredibly smart that I went into some kind of fugue state, I swear, and my last high school semester I followed him around and listened to him like an acolyte.
It was during the Kane phase that I had my one excursion into dope smoking. A group of the nerds hung out at Kane’s. He lived in this tract house that was surprisingly nicely done. His mother had flirted with interior design, more as a hobby than a career, but her decorating sense made the place seem like a Better Homes and Gardens article: “How to make your dwelling sparkle on a limited budget.”
I was mildly shocked to learn the nerds were deep into dope smoking. When they passed the joint around, I attempted a quick puff, was told I needed to inhale, did, then coughed until my stomach hurt. Embarrassed, I tried again, and finally managed to take that terrible, smelly smoke into my lungs. Immediately my salivary glands went on overload. I was flooded with saliva, struggling to swallow, wipe my mouth, not cough, and be cool all at one time. Nobody else seemed to suffer this malady, I noticed, as I looked around the room. Kane smiled at me. I was never sure later if it was the dope, or just a sincere need to reestablish that I was cool, but I smiled back and actually went over and sat next to him. “Cool,” he said, and that pretty much won my heart.
Just before I graduated from Carriage Hill High, Kane and I engaged in some sexual gymnastics that helped a lot after the disappointing Charlie Carruthers episode. Kane was one of those talkers, whispering all kinds of things in my ear that honestly, I found very distracting. Between that and worrying I might get caught screwing Kane in his parents’ basement—or that one time in my parents’ powder room—I could never get to the Zen mode his voice promised that might allow me an actual orgasm. Still, it was exciting and his voice was one deep purr.
Kane Reynolds became Ex-File Number Two. I’ve heard he’s a motivational speaker these days. Garnering national attention, no less.
“I gotta get to the right restroom,” I said to Sean.
“Hey, maybe later ... you and I could do that Bud thing on the beach?”
“Sure,” I said lightly.
Later
was unspecific enough to mean
never
in my book, if I so decreed. Sean was cute, but twenty-three. There was no getting around the age difference. And I really wasn’t into dope smokers. Or wannabe actors.
Later
was unspecific enough to mean
never
in my book, if I so decreed. Sean was cute, but twenty-three. There was no getting around the age difference. And I really wasn’t into dope smokers. Or wannabe actors.
I left him to his joint, wondering what it says about my character that I wasn’t having a shit-fit that he was smoking dope at the office. I’m pathologically nonjudgmental, which isn’t necessarily a good thing, but since the rest of the world seems to run on passing judgment as if it were fossil fuel, I figure somebody has to take another tack. If it had been Holly who’d discovered Sean’s extracurricular activities, his ass would be on the street.
My conscience chose to recall my conversation with Kristl the night before and I realized I might be wrong about myself about the judgment thing. But honestly, the words I spoke to her came right from my heart:
she was worrying me sick.
she was worrying me sick.
Jill called and asked if I could take time out for a long lunch at the Farm of Beverly Hills. Much as I love In-N-OUT burgers, the Farm has this fantastic apple and brie sandwich on wheat bread that could drop you to your knees. It’s as close to health food as I dare, but at the mere mention of the Farm my mouth started salivating as if I’d taken Sean up on his earlier offer.
“I’m there,” I said, and headed out to meet her with some vague excuse to the Holy Terror who eyed me with intense suspicion. When you’re working with Holly she feels she owns your time. Production can be one of those slave-labor-type-jobs—hour upon hour, sometimes sixteen hour days, but it pays well. Still, I figured I deserved a lunch hour ... or two.
Jill was already seated when I arrived, which was just as well because the place was packed. People were standing around the bar waiting for tables that hadn’t cleared yet. She was at an outside table in front, under the awning, a great spot for watching the world pass by.
The Farm is on Beverly Boulevard and it’s chic/country. Inside, the pitched ceiling is supported by exposed, stained rafters; the entire place reminiscent of a really clean barn. The tables are cute and clustered, but the prices on the menu are not for the faint-hearted. I squeezed by the other diners to join Jill who had ordered a bottle of wine. I eyed it with some reluctance. “I don’t think I can drink,” I said. “It’s Monday and I’ve got tons of pre-pro before next week’s shoot.”
“That’s okay. I’ll drink. You listen.” She’d also ordered a salad, which had arrived before I did and she stirred the lettuce leaves around with her fork. None of them made it to her mouth.
“You’re going to finally spill about Ian?”
“Sit down. It’s long.”
I groaned as I took my chair. “Then you’re going to have to buy me lunch.”
“Done,” she said flatly, topping off her glass with more Chardonnay. The waiter came by and I ordered my sandwich before she could launch into her tale of woe. I was pretty sure I was going to need sustenance. As soon as he left Jill drew a breath and said, “I’m breaking up with Ian.”
Jill-Ian? Turning to just
Jill
and just
Ian
? Unheard of.
Jill
and just
Ian
? Unheard of.
“You know what he did, the
fucking
asshole? He started putting restrictions on the marriage offer.”’
fucking
asshole? He started putting restrictions on the marriage offer.”’
“What kind of restrictions?”
“Dos and Don’ts or no nuptials. Those kind of restrictions.”
“I thought that happened after the wedding.”
“I’m not marrying him.”
“I know. You said so.”
She gave me an assessing look, as if deciding how much to tell. I wasn’t really certain what my role was here. Did she want me to probe and pry? I gave it one try. “Was there a particular do or don’t that pissed you off?”
Her eyes were directly to the barely touched salad, but she muttered, “He said if I wasn’t keen on getting married, then the offer was off the table. Asked for the ring back, for God’s sake.”
“I thought you didn’t take the ring.”
“I didn’t
wear
the ring. But I took it. Now he wants it back.” She swirled her glass of Chardonnay, frowning down at it. “I should have said yes.” She fell into a morose silence and I wondered if I’d been too hasty about turning down the wine. I saw our waiter heading our way with my sandwich and my mouth watered. He put it in front of me and I grabbed it with gusto. Melted brie dripped over the edges of the crust. I stuck out my tongue and caught some.
wear
the ring. But I took it. Now he wants it back.” She swirled her glass of Chardonnay, frowning down at it. “I should have said yes.” She fell into a morose silence and I wondered if I’d been too hasty about turning down the wine. I saw our waiter heading our way with my sandwich and my mouth watered. He put it in front of me and I grabbed it with gusto. Melted brie dripped over the edges of the crust. I stuck out my tongue and caught some.
Jill swirled her wine and frowned. “Did I make a mistake?”
I shook my head. “Kristl just got engaged ... again ... and there’s something almost pathological about her need to be married.”
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