Anti-Romance

  Me: Yeah, but you’re beef jerky. I’m turkey jerky. That’s way worse.

  Kade: I won’t argue with that.

  I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees as I stared at his last text. I had to make a smooth segue off this jerky topic to the real meat of the issue.

  Me: You wanted a chance to explain.

  Kade: I don’t think a text message is the right way to do this, but I’ll respect your wishes…

  I watched as the ellipses scrolled through the word bubble at the bottom of the screen, indicating that he was typing. This went on for a few minutes, long enough that I began to wonder if he was typing me an essay. But when the message finally popped up, it was just four words long. He must have been writing and rewriting the message over and over again. And this is what he settled on.

  Kade: I killed my parents.

  I stared at the words and shook my head. A married political aide gave me gonorrhea. My best friend confessed his love for me. A hot musician fucked my brains out then confessed to me that he killed his parents. All that was left was for Jesus Christ to walk through my door and say, “The world is ending today, Laney. And, by the way, do you have any more of those Maltesers?”

  I waited for a new text message to follow this, but it didn’t immediately come. I knew I had to say something or he would begin to suspect—rightfully so—that I was a bit frightened and more than a bit confused.

  Me: Accidentally…right?

  Kade: Yes, but it was my poor judgment that caused the accident.

  Me: What happened? If you don’t mind me asking.

  Kade: It was 9 yrs ago. Beginning of my senior year in high school. Our yearly trip to Colorado Bend to go camping for Labor Day. Dad sprained his knee the first day.

  He paused after this brief explanation. I wondered what he was doing at ten p.m. on a Friday night. Was he texting me from home? Was he out with friends? I hardly knew Kade, yet I felt this undeniable attraction to him.

  Me: You don’t have to talk about this if it’s making you uncomfortable.

  Kade: I’ll be fine. You need to know this. If you want to know me, you have to know what happened.

  There was another short pause, then he continued in a succession of five different text messages.

  Kade: We weren’t supposed to leave the campground until Sunday night, but by Friday night, my dad’s leg was really swollen. We were afraid it might be broken.

  Somewhere around midnight, we decided we had to head back to Austin to take him to the ER.

  I’d had my license a few weeks, so my mom sat in the back with my dad for the two-hour drive.

  Halfway between the campground and the ER, we hit a rainstorm. My dad said I could pull over if I didn’t feel safe driving in the rain, but I insisted I could keep going.

  20 min later, we hit a big puddle. Started hydroplaning. Car spun out and went rolling down an embankment. My parents were thrown from the vehicle and killed instantly.

  My sinuses stung as I tried to hold back tears for fear of waking up George with my sniffling.

  Me: I’m so sorry you had to go through that. I know I won’t be the first person to tell you this, but none of that was your fault.

  Kade: My dad told me to pull over. I made the decision to keep driving.

  Me: You don’t know what would have happened if you’d pulled over. Even if you waited until the rain stopped, that puddle would have still been there. There’s no way you could have known what was going to happen.

  Kade: I appreciate the pep talk, but I’ve accepted my responsibility.

  Me: Even if this was the result of bad judgment, it wasn’t intentional. You have to forgive yourself.

  The moment I sent this text message, visions of my tenth birthday party flashed in my mind: the Barbie Dream House I’d begged my dad for; the Animorphs birthday cake my mom bought me; the bouncing castle in the backyard; the horror on my mom’s face when my dad punched the neighbor, Jim, in the face after he caught him kissing my mom in the laundry room; my dad storming out of the house and driving away as my mother consoled Jim.

  My father vanished like fog dissolving after a sunrise. He didn’t contact me or my two brothers for more than six years. By then, I had shifted the blame for my father’s disappearance from my mother for her philandering to my father for his cowardice. A better man would have stuck around and had the decency to divorce his wife and take care of his children. My mother was no saint, but at least she was there for me when I needed her.

  Forgiveness is a gift you give yourself.

  As I urged Kade to forgive himself, I pondered this quote I’d once heard uttered by an acid-burn victim during an interview on CNN. I had tried to see the situation from my father’s perspective, but when he came back to us six years later, asking for forgiveness, I laughed in his face. And we never saw him again.

  I was a hypocrite.

  Kade: Forgiveness is easier said than done. It’s easier to take responsibility and move on.

  Me: And ignore your emotions? And hide away your precious memories? I’m sorry if I sound like a bitch, but that sounds like an excellent way to avoid dealing with it.

  As soon as I hit the send button, I regretted it. Could I be any more insensitive and hypocritical? Hadn’t I brushed my father off and moved on when he wanted to work things out?

  Kade: You don’t sound like a “bitch.” You sound like my sister.

  As sad as this statement was, in its implication that this was the cause of the fallout with his sister, I almost smiled at the thought that I might sound like someone Kade cared about. The hard truth was that I had to concede that if his sister hadn’t gotten through to him, I certainly wasn’t going to over a long-distance text conversation. But it wasn’t as if I could just hop on a plane and go comfort him. This very serious conversation would have to be put on hold until I returned to the States.

  Me: I’ll be back in Austin in three days. Can I see you when I get back?

  Kade: I’d like that. Maybe I’ll show you the scar I got in the accident. Actually, what’s your room number? I’ll fly over there right now. ;)

  Me: Room 619. So I guess I’ll be seeing you in about…ten hours?

  Kade: I wish. Guess I’ll just have to wait three long days.

  We exchanged a few more text messages. Kade wanted to know where I was staying in London. I told him I was staying at The Landmark London Hotel with a friend. He didn’t press me for details about who I was with, but I wondered if he assumed I was there with the male best friend I’d told him about. I confessed that I was not particularly looking forward to the wedding, but that sometimes we had to make sacrifices for the people we cared about.

  Kade: Is that something you do a lot? Sacrifice for the ones you love?

  I stared at the text message for a moment, dumbfounded by this question. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d sacrificed anything for someone I loved…except coming to London to support George. Did that mean I was in love with George?

  Me: Honestly, no. I guess I’m pretty selfish.

  Kade: Somehow, I highly doubt that.

  We said our good nights and I published my first blog post in the “Politics Gone Wild” series before I slithered back into bed with George shortly after five a.m.

  He turned over onto his side to face me and I could see the light from his phone’s screen where he’d left it on the nightstand. “I have a few errands to run for my mom this morning. I kind of ignored her while we were hanging out yesterday. I know you need to get some rest, so I set the alarm clock to wake you up in time to get ready for the wedding. We have to be at the church by four p.m. I’ll text you the address if I don’t make it back here in time to pick you up. Is that cool?”

  His eyebrow quivered oh so slightly as he awaited my response. I didn’t know if he was lying to me or if I was just being overly suspicious because of everything he’d neglected to tell me these past two years. Either way, something in my gut was telling me I still didn’t know the wh
ole story of George and Erika.

  “Of course,” I replied, keeping my tone chipper. “Go run your errands. I’m going to sleep. What time did you set the alarm for?”

  “Ten. That will give you six hours to get ready and even go shopping for a new dress, like you said you wanted to.” He brushed a piece of hair away from my face and kissed my forehead. “I’ll be back as soon as I can. Sleep tight, Lane.”

  He rolled out of bed and took a shower as I lay in bed wondering what kind of errands his mom would need him to run in London. If she was close with Erika’s mom, it had to be wedding-related errands. Or maybe it was something totally innocent. Then again, should I be concerned that his mom was invited to his ex-girlfriend’s wedding? It was one thing to invite George, but to invite his mother? Why did I suddenly feel as if I was being pacified, a child shoved in front of a television while the adults went off to talk about adult things?

  I contemplated George’s possible “errands” while he showered. As he got dressed in the dark, I pretended to be asleep. When he snuck out of the suite, pulling the door softly closed behind him, my eyelids snapped open.

  I was going shopping.

  I ordered room service for breakfast, which I paid for with my own credit card. Then, I took a long, hot shower and fussed over every aspect of my hair and makeup. I wanted to attack the London shops looking my very best. The moment I switched off the hair dryer, my phone chimed with a text notification. Butterflies fluttered in my belly at the possibility that it was Kade sending me another text professing his undying love for me. It wasn’t Kade.

  It was Rick.

  Rick: You think it’s funny to give me a nickname. Just wait till your brainwashed subscribers find out their messiah is an overweight halfwit with a diseased snatch. You want a war, I’ll give you a war.

  My lips curled into a smug grin as I swiped my finger across the message and tapped the red delete button without responding. I was not going to dignify his insults with a response, nor would I allow an empty threat from a filthy, philandering fuckup to ruin my London shopping spree. And I certainly wasn’t going to allow “Dick Little” to dictate what I could and couldn’t write about on my blog. He wanted to expose me about as much as he wanted me to expose him. We were at a stalemate, and nothing he said could make me believe otherwise.

  I arrived at the arched entrance to Carnaby Street an hour later wearing the sexiest pair of heels I owned. Unfortunately, the walk to and from the Tube station proved longer than I had anticipated. By the time I entered the Pepe Jeans store, my feet were just a couple of aching, throbbing bricks attached to my legs.

  I stepped inside and immediately grabbed the end of a display table to alleviate some of the weight on my feet. A salesgirl with shaggy blonde hair flashed me a tight smile as she approached.

  “Can I help you find something?” she said in her crisp London accent.

  I was about to reply when my phone began ringing. “Just a minute,” I said, digging the phone of the faux leather purse I bought at Target. “Hello?”

  “Laney, did you get my email?” It was Ivan, and he sounded a bit frantic.

  I checked the time on my phone and realized it was just after ten a.m., which meant it was just after four a.m. in Austin.

  “Ivan, why are you awake so late?”

  “You know I’m a night owl, but this project is keeping me up later than usual. I sent you some proofs. Can you look at them and tell me what you think before I send them to the client?”

  “Sure. I’m just doing a little shopping. I’ll check my email when I get back to the hotel.”

  “No, I need you to look at them now. I have to send her the proofs in four hours.”

  I would probably be better off finding some place to sit and rest my feet while I looked over Ivan’s proofs. “Of course I will. Just give me a few minutes to find a café with free wifi. International data rates are ridiculous. I’ll text you my opinion in a little bit.”

  “Thank you so much. I owe you big-time for this.”

  “You’re damn right you do,” I replied as I silently wondered if Ivan had known that George was in love with me for the past two years. He did give me a stern talking-to after we all had brunch together a few weeks ago.

  It only took a few minutes to find the Department of Coffee and Social Affairs on Lowndes Court, which looked like every hipster café in Austin. It felt bright and airy despite the overcast skies outside. The front of the counter was decorated with an eclectic black and white graffiti-type design. The large chalkboard on the wall behind the counter offered up such concoctions as a plain old latte and a Hindu Holiday tea.

  I ordered an Americano, which wasn’t on the menu. When I began to explain that an Americano is a double shot of espresso with some hot water, the guy behind the counter interrupted me and assured me he knew how to make an Americano. I took my drink to a table in the corner, sighing with relief as I hopped onto the barstool. When I opened up the email app on my phone, I found that Ivan had sent me four separate emails, each one containing an image over fifteen megabytes in size.

  I opened the first email and smiled. No matter how many times Ivan shared a new project with me, I was always surprised by his talent. Maybe it was because he was constantly growing and always pushing himself to be better. But one glance at this piece and I knew this project was going to bring me, and his client, lots of joy.

  His message said there were five hidden images in each drawing. He would add more once he got approval from the client.

  I was having loads of fun searching for Ivan’s hidden penises, when I got a call from my mom. I wasn’t surprised to get a call from her at almost five a.m. Austin time. She was the opposite of Ivan. She rose naturally between 4:30 and five a.m. every day. It was a habit she picked up as a college professor when she had to get up at four a.m. to be in her office by six a.m. to meet with students before her seven a.m. lecture.

  Despite keeping such ungodly work hours, my mom still managed to find the time to stay out late with any of the many suitors who pursued her before and after my father left. The woman was better at attracting men than I am. And, yes, I saw the parallels between my occupation and my mother’s proclivity for men. I just happened to think it wasn’t such a bad thing for a woman to wield a certain amount of power over her male counterparts. Lord knows they’d been doing it to us since the beginning of time.

  “Hi, Mom. Hold on a sec.” I shot off an email to Ivan telling him how much I loved the drawings, then I pressed the phone to my ear again. “I’m back.”

  “Good morning, sweetheart. How’s London?”

  My mother had a voice that would make any woman envious, a harmonious blend of 1940s Hollywood starlet and modern-day Ivy League professor, though she had never taught at an Ivy League university. My entire life, she had taught economics at the University of Texas at Austin. In fact, she was the only reason I was accepted to UT.

  “London’s good,” I replied, my pitch lifting a bit too much on the last word. “I’m just out shopping while George spends some time with his mom. How’s Hero?”

  “The cat is fine. You’re shopping alone?”

  “Yeah, it’s no big deal. George’s mom needed him, so he had to go hang out with her for a little while.”

  “I thought you got along fine with George’s mom. Why would they leave you behind?”

  I sighed as I realized she had sunk her teeth in and she wasn’t going to let go of this bone. “To be honest, I don’t know. George… George confessed to me last night that he’s been in love with me for two years.”

  “Really? That’s wonderful!”

  “Um…what?” I replied. “How is that wonderful? I don’t want this to ruin our friendship. George is my best friend. This is not wonderful. This is awful, with a capital aw.”

  As my mom began to speak, a girl with a single streak of purple running down the left side of her blonde hair walked up to me and asked if she could have my table. I was so taken aback that she thou
ght it was okay to interrupt me while I was on the phone, I didn’t know what to say.

  “I said, are you done with your coffee so I can sit here?” She raised her perfectly penciled eyebrows as if she was asking a question with an obvious answer, which I was evidently too stupid to know.

  “Um…no. I’m sitting here.”

  She cringed at my answer. “You’re American? Don’t you know you can’t loiter in here?”

  I was dumbfounded.

  The Asian girl at the next table turned around, shaking her head. “Don’t listen to her,” she assured me. “You have every right to sit there and enjoy your coffee.”

  I glanced at the empty cup, which had minutes ago contained one of the tastiest Americanos I’d ever had. If I didn’t have any coffee left, did that mean I didn’t have a right to sit in the café? Was I loitering? In Austin, it was often seen as rude to linger in a café, mooching off the free wifi, while others looked on enviously. I had no idea what the café etiquette was in London, so I stood from the chair and grabbed my purse as I held the phone to my ear.

  “Knock yourself out,” I said, sliding off the barstool and heading toward the exit.

  “Did you just give a bully your table?” my mom chided me as I pushed through the door and emerged onto the brick pavement.