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We banded together over our shared mutual misery, our love for Sex and the City, and a healthy dislike of anything sports related. Two outliers whose only sin was not being pretty enough or thin enough or unique enough to fit in with the jocks, or the cool kids, or the computer nuts.
Gina had a quick tongue and a happy-go-lucky-attitude so most of the kids didn’t mess with her the way they did me. I attached myself to her like a barnacle. Unfortunately for Gina, allowing me to attach myself meant she was ostracized too.
The next day, with great trepidation, Nan lends me her 1972 baby blue Mercedes and I take a trip into town. Time to rip off the Band-Aid. The more I postpone facing the people who still live here, the worse it’ll feel.
My first stop, the supermarket to pick up a few essentials.
I’m pushing the cart down the cereal aisle, lazily browsing, when Jackie calls.
“What the actual fuck,” she says as soon as I answer.
“No kidding.” Because we both know she already got the story out of my father.
“Tell me everything.”
“Everything? That would require four hours and three cocktails.”
“Okay, the highlights then. What were you thinking driving through a nor’easter?”
In my line of sight, I spot a women leaving the store and freeze, questioning my eyes. Tall, thin, chin length brown hair…
“Hello?” she adds when I don’t answer fast enough.
“Sorry. I just saw a woman that looks a lot like you-know-who.”
“Nah. She’s in New York,” my sister assures me. “She just did the View…” It sure as hell looked like her. “Carrie? You didn’t answer my question. Were you high driving in those conditions?”
That snaps me out of my musings.
“I was thinking that my credit cards are maxed out and my sister didn’t let me move in with her.”
“Carrie––”
“Whatever. I got my revenge. Your pink cashmere sweater is trashed, bitch.”
She snorts and it makes me smile. I miss her already. “How the baby?”
“Fine.” She doesn’t elaborate and I don’t push. “Dad said some guy named Jake saved you? Sounds exciting. What happened?”
A storyboard of images from the past few days comes to mind, and I almost giggle. How can I possibly explain? So I strip it down to the bare bones. “Basically, I crashed the rental in his driveway out on 73, he pulled me out of the car, and I was stuck at his place for two day.”
A moment of silence follows.
“I can barely get you to shut up most of the time and you choose now to be cryptic? What’s he like?”
I think of the turkey sandwich Turner made me. “He’s got a mean streak a mile wide.”
“Yikes. That doesn’t sound like any fun. Is he hot?”
“Jackie…”
“What? I’m a hormonal mess. Can a girl indulge in a fantasy or two?
“Jesus Christ Superstar, you have a husband. What do you need a fantasy for?”
“Oh, baby sister, thou art so naive. I need new material for my spank bank and poor Charlie’s worn out from satisfying my needs. I think I broke his dick the other day.”
I nearly throw up in my mouth. “TMI. TMI times ten.”
“So?”
Sighing, I stop pushing the cart and picture Turner sleeping in the recliner, the corded forearms, the groves next to his hips. No debating whether he’s hot. I mean, fair is fair.
“He’s hot if you like the Neaderthalish type. He’s a goon. I’m convinced he’s only half human. I would never be interested in him––even if he was straight. Oh, and he’s gay, by the way. So if that’s your kink, you can haaa…” My voice fades as I turn to grab a box of Cheerios I passed along the way.
And nearly run right into Turner, a basket full of fresh fruits and vegetables hanging from his hand, an expression of pure contempt on his face. Dressed in black running pants and a black thermal for maximum intimidating effect no doubt.
“Jackie, I gotta go.” I hang up on my sister without waiting for a response, my voice cracking as a lump of regret fills my throat. There’s no speculating whether he heard me––the look on his face says it all.
All the blood in my body rushes to my face. “Turner…”
He breaks eye contact for a moment, long enough to glance around to see if we’re alone. “I’m not gay––not that it’s any of your business.”
“Turner…” I want to apologize, but the words won’t come out. They stop halfway up my throat. I’m so embarrassed I lose the power of speech.
He steps closer and his chin comes down. Close enough that I can smell soap and Moroccan Oil shampoo from a recent shower. Close enough that I have to tip my head back to look at him, and as much as I want to hide, as much as I want the floor beneath my feet to crack open and swallow me whole, I force myself to look up at him.
