Beware of Love in Technicolor (17 page)

When John stopped by with a dozen red roses and a surprise invitation to lunch in town, I would not let him turn on a light or open the shades. I could not have him seeing me in anything but dim lighting, wearing my most ratty t-shirt and my brother’s old sweat pants. My head looked like a family of snakes had made themselves at home among my dark locks, and my eyes had their bags packed and were ready to hit the road. Molly had finally fallen asleep, and was snoring faintly underneath a pile of blankets on the other side of the room.

“I’m so sorry about our plans tonight,” I said weakly.

He sat down at my desk, and smiled at me. He had finally gotten a haircut, and I could see his eyes.

“Don’t worry about tonight. Just get better,” he said.

“You probably shouldn’t stay,” I said slowly. My tongue felt like fuzz. “You don’t want to catch this. It’s miserable.”

He stood and looked uncomfortable.

“It’s ok,” I reassured him.

I fell asleep quickly, and slept the afternoon away. When I awoke, Molly was sitting up in her bed, hair pulled into a ponytail, slurping from a styrofoam bowl of soup. My mouth started to water as soon as I processed the warm, salty, homey aroma of chicken noodle. I sat up and rubbed my sleepy eyes. I actually felt better. I looked past Molly to her desk, where Topher sat, playing Tetris at her computer.

“Mornin’ Sunshine,” Molly drawled between slurps. She sucked the noodles in like a five year old, and licked her chin with a satisfied smile.  “Wasn’t he so nice to bring us soup? On Valentine’s and everything.”

“What?” I asked. I was still foggy.

“Topher heard we were sick, and brought us soup!” Again, I imagined little cartoon hearts floating around her head like Sally from the
Peanuts
whenever Linus was near.

At that, Topher stood up from his game, grabbed another styrofoam bowl from the top of my desk, and brought it to me. He also brought me three black balloons on curly black ribbon that I had not even noticed floating in the corner. He sat on the edge of my bed.

“Happy Black Thursday,” he said with a grin. Topher claimed to hate Valentine’s Day, and dubbed it “Black Whatever-Day-It-Falls-On-This-Year” for as long as I knew him.

“My God, thank you,”I said eagerly, ripping the lid off and attacking the soup enthusiastically. I dipped the plastic spoon in and brought a warm bite of noodles to my mouth. After twenty-four hours of keeping nothing down, it was the most delicious thing I could imagine. 

“John told me it was pretty grim over here,” he said.

“What’s he up to tonight?” I asked in between bites of noodle. “I had to cancel our dinner.”

Topher just shrugged, and then stood up and went back to his game at Molly’s desk. I finished my soup quickly.

“Do you need anything else?” he asked when his game came to an end. He stood to leave.

“No, thank you, the soup was awesome,” I said appreciatively. He was a good friend.

“A ginger-ale!” Molly cried out, as if he hadn’t done enough already.

He was a great friend, because he went down the hall, bought two ginger-ales from the soda machine in the lobby, and brought them to each of our bedside.

“Happy Black Thursday,” I called out to him as he was walking out our door. He turned back with a smile and wave and left us to ourselves to finish feeling better.

It kind of pains me, now. Thinking about that Valentine’s Day.

***

Eventually, the flu hit the bricks for more vulnerable pastures in the dark, dank Pit of the all-boys dorm next door. Molly and I Lysoled the room, opened the windows despite the below-freezing mid-February temperatures, and bid good riddance to the virus.

             
Winter dragged its heavy feet through the rest of our shortest month. John and I found our stride, and made it to spring break without much drama. I had to actually put some effort into my studies, to avoid a replay of last semester’s dismal performance. On weekends we often saw live bands at the SUB, or rented movies to watch on his old beat up VCR and computer monitor. Our favorites were
Harold & Maude
and
Blue Velvet
.

             
Occasionally we would trek through the biting cold over to Harrison Hall, to party in Ben’s room, but mostly we kept to ourselves during those few, freezing weeks of my second semester. Spring Break came up quickly, which was unfortunate, because I was dreading it, and what absence would do to my better half’s heart.

Chapter Eight

             
Growing up, my family was not the type to own a lot of toys. No boats, or sports cars, or dirt bikes. No big, high-tech televisions, stereos, or any of the other things men use to compare penis size in polite society. The Bennetts took vacations.

             
That year, my parents decided it had been too long since they had last carted Cooper and me to their own little piece of paradise, a quarter-acre parcel of near-the-beach Florida property they never actually built anything on. They sold it just before The Great Recession hit. Sun Coast was an up and coming suburban dream just north of Daytona. My parents owned a small lot on a cul-de-sac, just up the street from the community fitness center and pool. Since all that sat on my parents’ parcel was some scrub brush and an old, discarded sofa, we were to stay at a resort nearby, right along an otherwise undisturbed stretch of oceanfront.

             
Though the sandy beach and warm sun sounded wonderful in this dead spot of winter we were stuck in, I dreaded the thought of an entire week away from John, where he would be at home and free to see Abby without any way of me finding out. I trusted him completely at school, all bets were off once we stepped off campus.

             
“I’ll be working for my dad all week,” he reassured me when I expressed my reluctance to go to Florida. “Besides, shouldn’t I be the one worrying about you, out there on the beach in some skimpy bathing suit,” he said, swiftly turning the focus back to me.

             
“Yeah, me and all the other eighty year old blue-hairs,” I retorted.

             
We were at the dining hall, eating dinner a few nights before the break. I slid my last mozzarella stick onto his stack of five plates, and finished my Diet Coke. He shoved the entire piece of fried cheese in his mouth and grinned at me. His hair was finally starting to grow back over his forehead, which I preferred. I made a mock-disgusted face at his childish behavior.

             
“Say hello to the Mouse for me,” he finally said after swallowing hard.

             
“There’s more to Florida than Disney, you know.”

             
“I’m sure you and your family will have a lovely time. Just be sure not to run away with any tanned beach bums with flowing blond hair and a cheesy pickup line.” He piled my tray on his and stood to leave. I pulled on my black wool coat and followed him.

             
“You’re the only cheesy blond I’m interested in,” I told him as I walked past him to the doors. He disposed of the trays and chased me down the ramps into the cold March evening outside. I didn’t spend a single night in The Pit that week.

***

              The flight from Boston to Orlando was uneventful. I spent the three hours reading every sex article in the various women’s magazines I had purchased at the airport. Though the reading may have helped with technique, I was still looking for someone to explain to me what, exactly, an orgasm felt like. How would I know when it was happening? What if I had just missed it, and didn’t have a problem at all?

             
I missed a day’s worth of anthropology and poly-sci classes so that we could pull up to the palm tree-lined resort hotel just before dinner time. I already missed John, and it had been less than twenty-fours since I had been with him. I sulked through check-in. It wasn’t until I pulled open the curtains in our suite to reveal a long stretch of white sand and gentle waves lapping at the shore just out in front of us that I relaxed a little. There were a handful of people jogging on the beach, all men. All fit. Maybe the week wouldn’t be so bad.

             
I could go into a lot of detail about our trip, but I would prefer not to. Not much happened. The sun shone. The ocean waved. My parents went to many, many open houses, looking for that perfect model home on which to base plans for their own retirement heaven. My brother and I usually declined to tag along, preferring instead to hang out on the beach or by the pool for the afternoon until our parents came back and took us out for dinner.

             
I only kissed that one guy. But he doesn’t count as anything, because as soon as he mentioned his wife, I slapped him and walked away.

             
Cliff Note’s version was this:

             
I guess we had been flirting for a couple of days. Smiles and eye contact.  As we passed in the lobby, or when our parties were seated near each other at the hotel’s restaurant. I’d see him by the pool at around three in the afternoon, usually with a group of other, jock-looking guys, some good looking, some not. Guys’ guys. Definity not boys, but maybe not quite so much men yet, either. And this guy, my guy, the one with the perfect hair and perfect smile, and perfect golf shirt with the perfect shorts and the perfect laugh, and I’m sure the most perfect hands when he’s got you up against the wall.

             
Knowing that I was alone to watch him when I wanted, that my brother was not going to notice, as he was busily fixated on the fifteen year old on vacation with her family from North Dakota, I indulged in ogling this guy from behind my dark sunglasses for three days before we finally spoke to one another. Up until that point, it had been innocent.

By the time he showed up that Friday afternoon, the day before I was set to fly back to Boston, back to real life, back to my boyfriend, I was a bit mopey over John. He was never home when I called in the evenings, sometime after dinner, but before I would take a walk on the beach under the stars. I wondered where he was spending his nights, far from my eyes. I couldn’t sleep. I tried to read, but thoughts of John sneaking around with Abby pervaded my brain until I was convinced she must be the reason he was so unreachable.

Cooper had joined a deep sea fishing excursion, still excruciatingly smitten, and invited by the North Dakota family to join their trip. My parents had model homes to see. I was alone at the hotel for the whole afternoon.

At the gift shop in the lobby, I had purchased a new armful of women’s magazines, and one slightly more tell-it-like-it-is men’s magazine. I  was pouring over these new articles of how to dress for your man, how to tease your man, and how to please your man, as I reclined in my favorite chaise. Fixating on sex, pondering positions, contemplating role playing and getting busy in public places. I was heads down in an article entitled “
A Letter to My Lover: Confessions from a Not-So Good Girl”
when suddenly my guy, my perfect guy, was sitting down next to me. I quickly flipped the magazine over, which revealed an ad for tampons. I groaned and flipped it back over to reveal the cover, with its perfect, glossy-lipped model and headlines meant to grab women’s attention as they paid for bread and milk at the supermarket.

“You looked thirsty,” he said, placing a bottle of Bud Light on the small table near my chair.

“Thank you,” I smiled, my stomach fluttering as I fumbled for something to say. My mind, primed and ready, jumped to sex with him in public or any position he wanted. Blushing like wildfire. “That is very sweet of you.”

Oh. God. I had never had a stranger hit on me, not a grown-up stranger with a gold card and an expensive watch. Again, if I could yank that naive, silly girl to the side and whisper in her ear, “No, that is not sweet. That is a play. By a player.”

But again, I wouldn’t have listened to my older self.

We chit chatted. He was at the resort with a group of buddies on a golf trip. He bought me another drink. He was from Chicago. He thought I was pretty and had noticed me earlier in the week. He invited me inside to the bar for some food and more drinks. I looked around. The pool was deserted. And I accepted.

Mr. Perfect. I’ve forgotten his name, or blocked it out, or perhaps never got a name at all. Perfect smile, perfect teeth. Perfectly smooth as he opened the door for me, followed me inside, put his perfect hands on the small of my back to guide me to a table in the darkened bar. I had slipped a short sundress on over my swimsuit, the straps of which could not be convinced to stay put on my shoulders.

I was in over my head, and I knew that when he twirled his finger into one of my fallen straps, and tugged on it a little. But I liked it, this feeling of someone just deciding that he wanted to be with me, and not making excuses for it. I liked how the waitress was seemingly at his beck and call, as he motioned for more drinks with a flick of his empty glass in the air. She smiled and flirted, even with me sitting there, and I liked how his hand was on my knee as it all happened. I liked being the center of his attention, his eyes intense as he listened to me tell him I was heading home the next day. He leaned in and kissed me and I felt myself kiss him back.