The Kissing Coach (6 page)

I shrugged. “Close enough.”

We finished the wine. We also danced in the middle of the living room to music played just loud enough to be enjoyable but not loud enough to upset my neighbors. I'd lived in the place for a year, and I was still meaning to have a housewarming party and invite some of the neighbors over, but it hadn't happened yet.

After the wine and the dancing, we were out of booze, but I had root beer and ice cream, so we made root beer floats.

The three of us sat on my sofa with Caleb in the middle.

I was not thinking at all about kissing Caleb. I was simply enjoying his company and letting my hair down. Caleb was taking some investment and securities classes, studying to be a financial consultant. The stocks and bonds weren't that relatable to me (like how walking around on Mars wouldn't be relatable to me), but I gave him a few tips about building up a client base and networking.

We were still working on our root beer floats when Steph said, in a tone that indicated a serious topic change, “Caleb, have you ever been afraid of kissing someone?”

“Of course. If you're not afraid of kissing someone, they're not worth kissing.”

My jaw literally dropped open. “That's such a great line.” I tapped my head and repeated it to myself in my mind.
If you're not afraid of kissing someone, they're not worth kissing.

Steph said, “Are you good at kissing?”

“I used to be terrible. Because I would let my lips get all soft and not do anything, but then I started looking closely at people in movies, and I think I improved.” He looked down at his root beer float. “Of course, I am a little rusty now.”

Steph said, “You should kiss both of us. For practice.”

He didn't say yes, but he didn't say no, either. I hadn't noticed if his cheeks had reddened before, but they were certainly flushed now.

I said, “You don't have to. Steph's being silly. We used to kiss boys at parties in high school, and I think she's trying to recapture that feeling.”

“Yes,” he said, and he turned to face me first. “Sure, let's kiss.”

“Careful,” I said. “The last guy I kissed was so horrified, he ran away screaming.”

“Now I'm really curious,” he said.

Steph jumped up and ran around turning off the lights. Now my loft was dark, lit only by the streetlamps outside.

Caleb reached up and stroked my cheek. He seemed relaxed and comfortable. I leaned in toward him, and he kissed me. I kissed him back, and he didn't pull away. His lips were firm, and when I parted my lips, he gave me a little tongue, still sweet from the root beer. His hand moved from his lap, over to my leg, where it sat on my thigh, heavy and warm.

The kissing was nice, but my mind wandered. I thought about what my other client, Justine, had said about kissing a girl, and how her lips had felt soft, like uncooked bread dough. I thought about kissing Devin, and my heart began to race. I imagined it was him I had my lips on, and I mashed my lips into Caleb's.

He pulled away, saying, “Wow.”

I stared into Caleb's emerald-green eyes. Cute as he was, he wasn't Devin. Not even close.

Steph licked her lips. “My turn,” she said.

Caleb turned to Steph and did the same thing to her, stroking her cheek first.

“I feel nervous,” he said to her.

“Me too,” she said.

“Good.” He leaned in for the kiss. His hand didn't stop at her knee, though. His hand reached up around her waist and behind her shoulder, pulling her into him on the couch.

From where I sat, I could actually hear them kissing, hear the lip-smacking sounds. A moment later, they had their hands in each other's hair and were having a full-on makeout session.

Yep.
So that was that.

Careful not to disturb them, I got up, gathered the root beer cups and the glasses from the wine, and brought them all quietly to the kitchen.

Caleb and Steph kept kissing, unaware of anyone else.
Good for them
, I thought. I also had some other dark thoughts, but I tried to squelch them by repeating to myself that Steph hadn't kissed anyone since her bad breakup, and that this was a good thing, and I was happy for her. I had wanted some attention, but I didn't want Caleb.

The question remained, though.
Why not me?

I had nowhere to go in the open-plan loft. If I went upstairs to the sleeping loft, that would simply afford me a bird's-eye view of the couple, and though I enjoy tasteful photos of couples embracing (don't we all), my best friend going to second base was not something I wanted to see. I glanced over and saw Caleb was indeed going for it, his hands up inside Steph's shirt. She threw her head back, eyes closed, a woman in ecstasy.

The root beer floated roiled and boiled in my stomach.

And so, I retreated to the other room—the only other room—the bathroom. I put the bath mat on top of the toilet lid to make it more comfortable and sat down to catch up on some of my magazine reading.

At one point, I started to worry Caleb and Steph might be porking each other on my sofa, getting nasty stains on my nicest piece of furniture, but I reminded myself that Steph wasn't
that kind of girl
. And I would know, because for many years, I had actually been
that kind of girl
.

I cleaned out my toothbrush cup and started drinking water to stave off the hangover. I leafed through my magazines and read the articles I'd skipped over before—articles that would only be interesting if you were stuck in a bathroom with nothing else but your dark thoughts about how you were unworthy of love and every guy could see that at a glance.

On Saturday, I went to my mother's place to help her paint her kitchen. Since I'd moved out on my own, she'd lived in a townhouse not far from the little house I grew up in. A month before, the upstairs neighbors at the townhouse had done some unauthorized repair work and nicked a sprinkler line, flooding a bunch of units. Mom got money from the insurance to fix things up, but decided to keep the money instead of doing the repairs, which was not atypical for her.

Growing up, I'd been shooed away from the nicer running shoes come back-to-school time, being told that the cheap pairs, at the store where people helped themselves and threw everything everywhere, were good enough for us Hilborns.

I'm sure you can imagine that, when I showed up at school wearing less-than-current clothing, the mean kids took pleasure in warping my last name into Hillbilly. Before that fateful day a boy named Odin called me Fartbag Hillbilly, I'd loved my last name, thinking it was classy, like Hilton. Unfortunately, Hillbilly was the better of the mean names. (Yes, a few clever gents actually called me Fartbag Stillborn, but at least the teachers put a stop to that, finding it too cruel, even for kids.)

I never told my mother about the bad names, because she hadn't been that sympathetic to my social problems when I was growing up. She'd typically shrug and say, “Whattaya want me to do about it?”

When asked that question as a ten-year-old, I had no answer. Now, I realize I hadn't been asking her to do anything but listen, but she's always been one of those problem-solving people, who sees no point in discussion of things that won't change.

I arrived at the townhouse in my painting clothes, with a scarf tied over my hair.

“Cute,” she said as she let me in. “I suppose you'll want to take photos of yourself for your blog or whatever?”

“Mom, I'm not doing that anymore.”

“Good,” she said. “It was a waste of your talents.”

I clenched my fist. Why did her compliments feel like backhanded insults?

She showed me the damage that had been done by the water.

The counter top was warped, but it was hardly noticeable. The up-side to the disaster was it destroyed the tomato-dotted wallpaper in the room. The pattern had always looked, to me, like a blood-splattered crime scene, but she didn't see it. “They're happy tomatoes,” she'd always say.

It took us an hour to pull off the wallpaper. Next, we washed the de-papered walls with TSP and started priming them in preparation for a neutral beige paint.

“I'm thinking about going back to school,” I said.

She grimaced the way someone would at a bug flying into their drink. “Why would you do that? Rack up all those student loans?”

“I'd like to take more classes on psychology. Maybe become a counselor. They do a lot of the same things I do now, only they probably know what they're doing.”

“You're in over your head, are you?” She refilled the paint tray with more tinted primer that looked like melted ice cream. “I don't know how you do it. Listen to people's problems when they don't have the sense to help themselves.”

Her words made my insides twist up in a way that only my mother could inspire. I clenched my teeth together to stop from responding, to avoid her trap. This was her method—she'd poke and poke until she found a soft spot, then I'd be on the defensive, defending myself verbally. Eventually, I'd get angry and have enough and say something that hit one of her tender areas, then she'd get a case of Why Is My Daughter So Ungrateful?

She continued, “You must enjoy the drama.”

Nope, not gonna bite.

She painted the wall with the roller for a moment, then stopped to admire her work.

Brightly, she said, “I wish I'd painted this wall ages ago!” She put more tinted primer on the roller. “That old tomato wallpaper had a funny look. Like an inkblot test or spattered blood or something.”

“Mm-hmm,” I said.

“If you'd wanted to study psychology, you shouldn't have dropped out of college,” she said. “What makes you think it would be different if you went back?”

“I'm older now.” I clamped my mouth shut again. I'd only said three words. If I kept it brief, she'd have less luck twisting my words.

“That you are,” she mused.

I moved the ladder over so I could continue with the edging work along the ceiling.

She didn't know why I'd dropped out of college, yet she hadn't exactly pressed me to tell her.

I could tell her now. The words were like dead birds in my mouth. I'd imagined telling her, imagined it a thousand times, and her stony face.

We should be sitting
, I thought.
I shouldn't be on a ladder when I tell her.

“I had a Miscarriage,” I said, the aluminum ladder creaking under the weight of the truth spilling out. “That was why I dropped out.”

Her roller slowed and then stopped.

I kept looking up, not making eye contact.

She said, “At Christmas?”

“Yes. I didn't have Mono. I went into the hospital to have a D and C, because it wouldn't stop bleeding.”

Her paint roller started to move again, making a sticky sound against the wall.

“You should have been using birth control.”

“Yeah, well guys who rape you when you're passed out don't ask a lot of questions.”

Her voice cold, she said, “I hope you went to the police.”

“I didn't even know what happened until I started to miscarry.”

“That's just awful. Why are you telling me this now?”

My entire body went numb. Of course she was turning this around to be all my fault. Of course. People don't change, not unless they want to.

I descended the ladder—slowly, because I couldn't feel my feet.

“I'm sorry,” I said.

She kept painting, her face in profile a stone mask.

I picked up my purse and headed toward the door. “It's not going to happen again.”

“I should hope not.”

“I'm on birth control pills, and I'm careful about who I drink with.”

Her face moved, just a tiny bit. We weren't even halfway done the primer, let alone the painting.

I grabbed my purse, opened the door, and let myself out.

One of those poster phrases popped into my head.
The truth will set you free.

As I walked down the stone path, away from the townhouse, I didn't feel free. I didn't feel anything.

FEATHER'S TOP STYLE TIPS