Dunkin and Donuts (12 page)

Chapter Thirty-Six

Crash! I hear the screeching of tires, the impact of metal upon metal, and the sound of a car peeling away as it careens down the road. A curious soul, I look out the window, hoping to catch a glimpse of whatever is happening just outside my door.

I see a car speeding away—fast. There must be an accident. I stare after the vehicle then scan the street. I am about to walk away from the window when I notice that something is wrong. What is it? I look closer. What happened doesn’t register until the car is gone, leaving my own back bumper horribly disfigured. The rear of my Honda is crumpled. Omigod! Someone hit my car and then fled the scene. I hurry outside, cell phone in hand, ready for action. But, whoever hit me is so far away by now that I’ll never be able to get their license plate number. I survey my rear bumper.

The back side of my blue Civic is dented pretty badly and one of my taillights is shattered. I dial 9-1-1.

“Hello. What is your emergency?”

“My car was involved in a hit and run. Someone hit me.”

“Okay. Are you safe?”

“Yes. I’m safe. My car’s safe. But, the driver got away.”

“We’ll send an officer out to meet you. Where are you now?”

I give the dispatcher my address and ask her if it’s okay for me to wait inside the house, instead of with my vehicle, until the officers arrive. She tells me that it is so I trudge back inside feeling frustrated and helpless. They’re never gonna find the driver of the other car. What am I supposed to do? Will I have to pay a big deductible to have my car fixed? Will my insurance go up?

I’ve never been in an accident before.

The phone rings.

“Hey, Brice.”

“Hey, hot stuff. What’s wrong?”

“What do you mean?”

“Something’s wrong. I can hear it in your voice.”

“It’s just that I didn’t expect to be so shaken up by this.”

“By what?”

“I’ve heard about other people getting rear ended, but it’s never happened to me.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. This morning. What a jerk!”

“Wait, you did it this morning?”

“Yeah.”

“Is he still there? As you’re talking to me about it…?”

“No. He left. Hit it and quit it. The asshole. The cops are on their way.”

“You called the police?”

“Of course.”

“For rough sex?” Brice is as incredulous as I am confused. “Does Dunkin know you called the cops on him?”

“I didn’t call the cops on Dunkin. I called them on the guy who hit me.”

“It wasn’t Dunkin?”

“No. Why would Dunkin do that to me?” I ask, stupefied.

“Do
what
to you?” Brice asks.

“Bump me in the rear.”

“It wasn’t Dunkin?”

“No! Some other guy bumped me in the rear,” I say, “Now, stop being dense. I’m really shaken up.”

“Shayla,” Brice says, his voice heavy with concern. “If you’ve been anally raped, you need to get to the hospital. I’m coming over.”

“What?” Anally raped? What is he talking about? But, my doorbell is ringing. “I can’t talk right now,” I say. “I’m fine, but the cops are here and I have to go.”

The dial tone is my only answer. Brice can be strange, but this is unprecedented. I shake my head, confused, as I make my way toward the front door to let the officers in.

Officer Logue is a burly forty-something man who looks like he should be a butcher rather than a cop and Officer Heddy is a real muscle head with a total God complex. They look me over appraisingly.

“Ms. Ross? I’m Officer Heddy and this is Officer Logue. We’re here to file a police report. Can you show us your car and explain what happened?”

I slip on my sneakers and walk the two out to my car which is parked across the street from my house in front of the nosiest neighbor on the block, Ms. Peg. Officers Heddy and Logue listen to my account of hearing my car being rammed into and running out into the street.

“Did you see the other vehicle?” Officer Heddy asks.

“It was a gray car,” I say. “Or maybe green.”

Ms. Peg comes out onto her front stoop. “Nasty accident,” she remarks. “Whoever was driving that silver Audi ought to be arrested. He was driving so fast I almost didn’t get his license plate number.”

“You got his license number?” Officer Logue scratches the top of his bald head incredulously.

“Yes. He was a bearded fellow—reddish-brown hair, driving a silver Audi with the license plate 276TWH. They were New Jersey plates. He just plowed into the back of Shayla’s Civic then took off down the road. I saw everything and I’d be happy to testify.”

“I doubt it’ll come to that,” Officer Heddy says. “But, we’ll take down your information and we appreciate all your help.”

Officer Heddy is on Ms. Peg’s front stoop interviewing her more thoroughly when Brice pulls up in front of my house, jumps out of his car (as if a 300 pound man could jump out of anything) and comes running toward us. He arrives breathless and panting.

“Shayla! Are you okay?”

“Yeah. Of course, I’m okay.”

“That son of a bitch! I’ll kill him!”

“You may not want to say that in front of a police officer,” I point out.

“How dare he? What did he do, sneak into your house? How are you ever going to feel safe again?”

“Brice, it’s not that serious,” I say. “I just got rear ended.”

“Shayla, this is the kind of thing that changes a person’s life. You don’t have to put on a brave face for me. I’m a social worker, remember? You didn’t shower did you? They’ll be able to get the evidence, I hope. Did Ms. Peg see anything?”

“She witnessed the whole thing,” I tell him. “Now, please let me answer the officer’s questions so we can all just put this behind us.”

Brice hugs me. “I love you. You’re so brave. I’m here for you and you’ll get through this. I’ll wait at your place, okay?”

I nod. He’s coming unglued. Maybe, it’s his dating diet. As he turns toward my place, Brice notices my rear bumper.

“Hey, what happened to your car?” he asks me.

“Duh,” I roll my eyes. “I got rear ended. That’s why the cops are here.”

He starts vibrating with laughter. “
That’s
why the cops are here,” he repeats, shaking his head.

“Yeah,” I say. “Some idiot hit me with his car then drove away.”

Brice is doubled over, heaving with hilarity.

“
What
is so funny?” I demand.

“I thought you were raped,” he says. “This whole time, I thought you were talking about being hit in your rear, not the rear of your car.”

I look at Officer Logue whose lower lip is starting to quiver. Then I start chuckling too. Suddenly, my minor vehicular mishap seems incredibly amusing. What a colossal, and comical, misunderstanding! By the time I head inside with Brice, getting bumped in the rear has become a laugh and a half.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

“He’s getting married! That asshole is getting married and he didn’t even tell me.
And
we slept together that night. He was engaged even then—the jerk.”

“What?” I take a French fry off of Brice’s plate and sit down across from him in the booth.

When he’d texted me to meet him at McDonalds for lunch, I’d known it was bad, but this is unprecedented.

“Robin is engaged?” I am stupefied. “Since when?”

“I don’t know, but a friend of a friend saw him and his boyfriend out at dinner and, as it turns out, my ex has himself a fiancé.”

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m gonna get myself a Big Mac and some fries. Want anything?”

From the pile of wrappers in front of him, I can see that Brice has already polished off at least one filet o’ fish sandwich and a ten piece chicken nuggets, but I say nothing when he tells me he wants what I’m having—a Big Mac, fries, and a chocolate shake. Some things call for comfort food and finding out that your ex-boyfriend is getting married to somebody else is one of those things.

I return to the table refortified to find Brice, ketchup in the corner of his mouth, an odd mixture of sorrowful and angry.

“That son of a bitch. I miss him. Can you believe that bastard? Do you think I was a fool to let him go? That could’ve been me if I’d said yes to his proposal. That cheating son of a bitch! I frigging hate him.” Brice alternates between lambasting Robin and longing for him.

He inserts the milkshake straw between his lips and sucks ice cream furiously into his mouth. I sit and nibble, offering my own indignation and support, letting him know I’m here for him as he’s been for me through all of my own heartbreaks.

“You know the worst part of all of this?” Brice asks me, his eyes wet with tears.

“What?” I respond.

“The idea that he’s over me, that he’s moved on because, as much as I hate him, I’m still in love with him.”

I don’t have anything to say that’ll take away my best friend’s pain so, instead of replying, I hand him one of my fries.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Desiree couldn’t make it because she’s supposedly working. I am skeptical about her because, in the wake of Brice’s recent heartbreak, I have grown skeptical of all of my friend’s lovers, wanting them to prove themselves worthy of trust. Since I’ve never met Marlene’s girlfriend, I wonder why she isn’t joining us today and am convinced that no good can come of Marlene’s mysterious new girlfriend. I suddenly feel infinitely protective, much like her brother—my boyfriend. But, Marlene is happy and what do I know so I refrain from interjecting my thoughts.

Brice, on the other hand, has no such qualms. Only, his disdain seems to be directed at members of his own sex leaving the still as-yet unmet Desiree immune to his vitriol.

“Men are utter assholes,” Brice declares.

“I agree,” Marlene says. “Present company excluded. Why do you think I prefer women?”

“You prefer women because you’re a gold star lesbian.”

She laughs. “I dated a handful of guys back before I knew who and what I was.”

“And what did you conclude from all that?” Brice smiles at her.

“That they think with their wrong heads.”

It takes me a moment to get what she means. “But women can be just as promiscuous and untrustworthy,” I point out.

Never let it be said that Shayla Ross isn’t an equalitarian at heart. I can be skeptical of women and men alike. Susan B. Anthony would be proud.

“Well, that’s true. I’m lucky though. I found a good one,” Marlene smiles. “Dunkin too. He found a good woman in you.”

“What about me?” Brice whines.

We are on South Street in Center City doing some window shopping and people gazing, hanging out and trying to get Brice’s mind off of Robin.

“Well, you met that guy at the art show. Did you ever call him?”

“I chickened out.”

“Shame on you,” Marlene says. “Give me your phone.”

Brice obliges, handing it to her.

“Did you put his number in your phone?”

“Yeah. It’s under Malcolm Art Guy.”

“Okay, well, I’m going to text this Malcolm Art Guy.”

“Don’t you dare,” Brice lunges at her and tries to take the phone from her grasp.

“Okay, okay. I’ll give you back your phone if, and only if, you promise to text the guy.”

“Okay,” Brice laughingly relents. “I’ll text him.”

“Um… Brice?” What made you want to come down here today? To South Street?” I ask.

“I dunno. I heard from a friend that they were having a special street fair today. I wasn’t really interested in that, but I got to thinking about how I haven’t been down here since I can’t even remember when.”

“Who was the friend who mentioned the street fair?”

“Oh, you wouldn’t know Ephraim. He’s more of an acquaintance.”

“Was it by any chance the same guy who knows Robin?”

“Yeah. So what? Why?”

I point. Across the street from us, standing arm-and-arm with a slightly bookish looking, clearly gay gentleman is Robin. I assume the guy with him is the aforementioned fiancé.

“Oh no he didn’t!” Marlene exclaims. “Is that Robin?”

She’s never met Brice’s ex but hates him on site for his mistreatment of our beloved Brice.

Before either Brice or I can make a move, Marlene sprints across the street, shouting “Hey asshole! I’m gonna kick your ass!”

Understandably, Robin and his man-friend react with surprise and begin running down South Street away from her. They don’t know who this crazy lesbian purple-haired chick is who’s chasing them and, wisely, aren’t going to stay and find out.

I’m not sure why, but I take off after them as well. I’m not much of a runner, but I am propelled by the same inner force that allows little old ladies to lift cars off of babies. My protective adrenaline propels me forward after Robin, the bookish stranger, and Marlene.

“Stop! Robin, stop!” I shout as I hurl my body through the air and tackle him right here on this South Street sidewalk. Only, now that we’re both on the ground, I have no clue what I’m supposed to do.

“Shayla!” Robin is surprised to find me on top of him. I am too actually.

“Oh, hi Robin,” I say dusting myself off as I stand up.

“Do you two know each other?” Robin’s fiancé is incredulous. I don’t blame him.

“Yeah. Hi. My name’s Shayla. Robin and I know each other from…”

I am saved from having to explain because, in the time it took me to chase and tackle his ex, Brice has caught up with us.

“She knows him from back when he and I were dating, when he was proposing to me.”

Now, it’s officially a scene. All 300 pounds of Brice is towering over the helpless Robin. But, instead of kicking him like he deserves, Brice reaches down and offers him a hand.

Robin looks incredibly uncomfortable, and not just from the fall. This has become the quintessential awkward situation. Still, he reaches up, takes hold of Brice’s hand, and accepts the proffered help.

Once on his feet, Robin says “Thanks.”

“Oh no. Thank you.” Brice is calm, his voice eerily devoid of feeling. He turns to Robin’s fiancé and sticks out his hand. “I’m sorry about my friends. How rude. You must think we’re insane. I’m Brice. I’m Robin’s ex. And you must be…”

“I’m Clyde,” the khaki-clad man sticks out his hand and smiles at Brice.

“I hear the two of you are engaged. How long have you been together?”

“Oh I guess it must’ve been… ten or eleven months since we’ve been dating seriously and we’ve been engaged what, love?” Clyde turns to Robin who looks like a deer-in-headlights “A couple weeks, I guess.”

Robin nods dumbly.

“Oh,” Brice scratches his head. “Well, since Robin and I were living together up until seven or eight months ago and he asked me to marry him and since he and I had sex less than a month ago, that comes as a real shock to me. Anyway, congratulations. I am extremely happy for you. But, Clyde, you’ll want to make sure to be careful and wear rubbers. Robin couldn’t keep it in his pants when he and I were together any more than he can with you. You seem like a nice guy and I’d hate for you to have to walk in on him in flagrante, like I did.”

With that, we walk away and don’t look back. I send Brice a telepathic high five.

He turns to me and says in his best approximation of Rachel’s voice in her
Friends
message to Ross: “And that my friend is what they call closure.”