Help.

Brett had never been one to apologize or explain himself so when he didn’t call the next day or the next day or the next I didn’t bother getting upset, because for the first time I was beginning to realize that it wasn’t up to him to change, it was up to me. I was the one who had to stop living the life of a sixteen year old.

~

“That lantern is crooked.”

---And speaking of sixteen year olds…

For the sixth time in the span of two hours I found myself shooting Trace a “shut the hell up” look over my shoulder. He was hovering, the way Thora did sometimes, and he was really working my last nerve.

I chopped my celery with agitated fervor. For two hours I hadn’t spoke, only glared, and at any second word vomit was going to spew all over Amanda’s patio.

First, he’d insulted my decorations. “Lanterns and Christmas lights? Really?” Then, my menu. “Potato salad is fucking gross.” Then, my choice of music. “Damien Rice; Keane; Snow Patrol? Come on!” Then, the fact that I was going to even play music. “Look, I know my cousin gave you the okay but I’m staying here for the week, which means I’m living here for the week, which means you need to check with me about these kinds of things. If you use my cousin’s stereo while I’m watching the game you’d be disturbing my peace.” Then, my gift wrapping. “Hmm, someone should stick to gift bags.”

Now, this.

“You know, for you to be the host of a party, you’re not that personable.”

And with that, I lost it. In an abrupt halt my chopping came to an end and I found myself pointing my knife threateningly in his direction. “If you say one more word to me, one more word, I will not hesitate to hurt you, I will not think for two seconds whether it’s right or wrong, I will just cut your fucking dick off.”

And because birds of a feather flock together his response was a wide, amused grin reminiscent of one of Justin’s notorious smiles.

I cocked my right eyebrow and dared him to: “Test me.”

But because he wasn’t a complete idiot, he took that as a sign to back off and (finally) retreated back into the house.

I let out a sigh of pent up frustration and set the knife down.

It was the night before Charlotte’s party and I was seriously on the verge of losing my mind. Decorating, cooking everything that wasn’t the meat (which was to be freshly grilled the next day), and battling pre-menstrual cramps was more than I could handle. Of course I had known that spending time at Amanda’s house, with Trace no more than fifty feet away, was going to be unpleasant but I hadn’t expected it to be this tough. It was 8:30, I was only on the potato salad and still had the baked beans, macaroni and cheese, and cornbread to prepare. I mean, I’d known it was going to be hard but I never thought that I’d be standing in her backyard willing myself to just survive. It was absurd, and what was even more ridiculous was the fact that I was taking a step back and examining my work because of one of Trace’s criticisms.

None of the lanterns were crooked and I didn’t have to take a step back to know that; I had put them up perfectly two hours ago, obviously they were still going to be perfect; and they weren’t lame, they were illuminating the backyard, bouncing red and green and yellow lights off of the swimming pool in a fun, creative, and dare I say, festive kind of way, hanging from the wood frame of the cabana where there were couches and potted orchids, the white Christmas lights that I’d hung up along with them would make our guests feel like they were on a lovely getaway.

I was going to be serving margaritas and had also bought rum, whiskey, and vodka along with an assortment of juices and sodas to be mixers. Deviled eggs were going to be appetizers, followed by ribs and chicken, and the side dishes that I mentioned. Watermelon to rejuvenate everyone and then a two tiered double chocolate cake with hazelnut mousse filling.

I had brought alternative rock because I considered it to be somewhat like smooth jazz: easy listening and less likely to offend someone. Most of the guests would be Char’s coworkers, I had no idea what they were like; and no matter what Trace said, I was going to use that stereo, because cheesy music was better than no music.

As for my gift wrapping… she was just going to rip up the paper and throw it away; besides we were best friends, she knew I couldn’t wrap for shit, but she would appreciate me taking the time to do it anyway when I could have easily, mindlessly thrown her gift into a bag.

I realized, right when I was going to tackle the subject of how “personable” I was, that I shouldn’t have been defending myself. Especially not to myself. Everything was fine and Char was going to love it.

I just had to finish chopping the vegetables that I needed for the potato salad and relax.

I picked up the knife, inhaled, exhaled, closed my eyes and told myself, “Relax.”

But when I heard, “Goddamn! My boy! You always bring the best beer.”

I knew relaxation was impossible.

Justin had arrived.

~

With the potato salad in the refrigerator, the cornbread done and safely stored away, and the beans and mac and cheese both baking, I had nothing better to do than sit on one of the couches in the cabana and listen to the cicadas. The night was warm so I didn’t mind being outside; I was actually quite tired and the sounds of this summer night were making me drowsy. I decided to take a quick nap, resting my elbow on the arm of the couch and my head on the palm of my hand.

His voice came unmistakably clear and jolted me awake. “People tell me I make a mean mojito.”

And when he came into my line of vision, he was tall, lean, and resting against the frame of the cabana with casual, cool indifference. His voice was soft, friendly and for a second I almost forgot that what he was doing was rude and downright insulting: pretending to not know me one minute and then talking to me as if we were actually friends the next.

I stared at him, fierce and unblinking, and said with great sarcasm, “That’s nice.”

He kept talking, unfazed. “A little bit of ginger ale, coconut rum; it’s distinct, kind of fun and I think those office yuppies will love it.”

I couldn’t decide if I wanted to confront him, if that would make me look neurotic and pathetic, or if it’d give me a sense of control, let him know that out of all the women that he’d conned, I was not one to be disposed of so apathetically.

In my silence, his voice filled the space between us. “I make pretty good mai tais and margaritas too. On the patio there, I could set up a little table and make drinks.”

“You mean, attend the party.” I sounded eerily monotone, and even freaked myself out a little; I didn’t blame Justin for stuttering when he replied, “Um… yeah, I mean, not be a guest but… the bartender.”

And then I didn’t know if I wanted to scream or cry or bite his head off.

I think he could see my conflicted uncertainty because he quickly added, “You don’t have to pay me.”

He was doing it again, drawing me in and throwing my better sense of judgment out of whack.

I mean, if I was going to be completely honest a little help would’ve been nice; don’t get me wrong, I was willing to take on the responsibility of grilling, serving drinks, and playing both deejay and waitress at the party, but only because no one else had offered their assistance.

But now here he was---the moon throwing silver light onto his sun kissed flesh and dancing twinkles into his eyes---offering support. At what point did it stop being about me and start being about the success of Char’s party?

I opened my mouth, aware that one of three things was going to come out:

A melodramatic scream followed by a rant of how guys like him really need to go somewhere and die instead of playing off the insecurities of girls like me.

Or, a speech in which I compared him to Brett and confessed that no matter how hard I try I just can’t seem to transcend the cliché of the “good girl” attracted to the “bad boy,” spoken through sobs as I finally let go and wept uncontrollably.

Or, every curse word, every insult that I could think of.

I found myself surprisingly caught between the first two options, when suddenly, he beat me to the punch and said, “Virginia, I’m sorry.”

Without calling me Gin, without sounding insincere, without teasing, or me asking for an apology, he gave me no other choice but to admit that those were the words I’d been dying to hear ever since that day in the coffee shop.

“Please, let me help.”

And without hesitation, I said, “Okay.”

In return and with a smile, he said, “Okay.”