going to break lose between
me and my best friend Tess.
*
“Fifteen years Tess. Fifteen! ” I’m
yelling. Even after I’ve turned the volume on the stereo down to a
three.
“ Fifteen ,” I shout again, as I try to
sort through the secret she’s imprisoned inside of her for all
these years.
Of course she’s crying. Again. I’m pretty
sure this is going to be a winner of a night. I grab the bottle of
tequila on her dresser and slam back two shots. Then I hit a third
one for good measure…and luck.
“So let me get this straight.” I’m talking
very loudly, so she can hear every single word. My tongue is hot,
fast, and sharp. I’m mad, sad, outraged. She’s likely all of those,
too, along with a heap-load of other emotions that I can’t even
begin to dissect.
“It was okay for me to hold your hand while
you got an abortion… Yep, they let me—an eighteen-year-old kid
whose baby it was not—stay in the room to hold your hand. That’s
right, Tess.” I don’t want to make her feel small or insignificant
like I feel right now, but I do need to shake her a bit.
“It was okay for you to give me all the
dirty details about the night that Striker popped your cherry in
high school. Me, Tess.” I feel akin to a stick of dynamite. I think
it’s the only way we’re going to be able to move this amount of
earth, though.
“It’s okay that you tell me every goddamned
time you’ve got your period to the point where I can tell you the
exact day it’s coming. And I’m a guy, might I remind you.” I’m
actually chuckling now. It’s an evil, cold chuckle but at least I’m
finding a wisp of humor in the fact that I’m good for something to
my best friend.
“It’s okay that I know you have a waxy
build-up in your left ear but not in your right ear. What else do I
know about you, sweetheart? Well, I know where your mother is
buried and that you go there with violets every spring on the very
same day she died and place them on her grave. I know you like the
rainbow jimmies on your pancakes, but not the chocolate ones, and
that you take one lump of sugar in your tea, not two. You like
pickled Brussels sprouts in your martinis, not olives. You carry a
small peppermill in your purse with you everywhere you go. I know
that your tongue tastes beautiful, like mint tea and cloves. I know
that you have the greatest ass from New York to California. I know
that your singing voice is better than Liberty Storm’s, but you’re
too intimidated to use it because of my Grammy status.” Quite a
diatribe for a guy, huh? I’m just getting going.
“Now, on the flip side, what don’t I
know about you?” Apparently plenty.
“Well, I don’t know if you currently have a
Brazilian or a Hollywood wax because you haven’t shared that with
me in a while. I don’t know what it feels like to lie naked,
skin-against-skin, next to you, but I would imagine it’s lovely.
Though I’m guessing, I now know why you never did want that from
me, huh, Tess? I guess I know why we never got it on. Or got past
kissing. I don’t know if you’re marrying Creed because you love him
or because you’re too afraid to find out what could happen with us
if you did break it off. But somehow you must be okay with him
knowing your secret…but not me? Me, Tess! ”
I could give a flying fuck if you think I’m
being mean right now. We—me and Tess—we’re better than a lifetime
full of bullshit lying.
“Oh, yeah, and one more thing. I’ve known
you for fifteen fucking years, Tess. And never—not once—did
you ever tell me how the fuck your entire back got melted like a
fucking ice cream sundae as though someone took a blowtorch to
you.”
She slams the door. And locks it. And you
know the fuck what? This is bullshit. I have a bottomless pit full
of questions for her, and in the next few days I’m going to get all
the way down to that dark, locked-up pit. I go out to my truck and
grab my toolbox. Then I crowbar the trim off the door,
me and my best friend Tess.
*
“Fifteen years Tess. Fifteen! ” I’m
yelling. Even after I’ve turned the volume on the stereo down to a
three.
“ Fifteen ,” I shout again, as I try to
sort through the secret she’s imprisoned inside of her for all
these years.
Of course she’s crying. Again. I’m pretty
sure this is going to be a winner of a night. I grab the bottle of
tequila on her dresser and slam back two shots. Then I hit a third
one for good measure…and luck.
“So let me get this straight.” I’m talking
very loudly, so she can hear every single word. My tongue is hot,
fast, and sharp. I’m mad, sad, outraged. She’s likely all of those,
too, along with a heap-load of other emotions that I can’t even
begin to dissect.
“It was okay for me to hold your hand while
you got an abortion… Yep, they let me—an eighteen-year-old kid
whose baby it was not—stay in the room to hold your hand. That’s
right, Tess.” I don’t want to make her feel small or insignificant
like I feel right now, but I do need to shake her a bit.
“It was okay for you to give me all the
dirty details about the night that Striker popped your cherry in
high school. Me, Tess.” I feel akin to a stick of dynamite. I think
it’s the only way we’re going to be able to move this amount of
earth, though.
“It’s okay that you tell me every goddamned
time you’ve got your period to the point where I can tell you the
exact day it’s coming. And I’m a guy, might I remind you.” I’m
actually chuckling now. It’s an evil, cold chuckle but at least I’m
finding a wisp of humor in the fact that I’m good for something to
my best friend.
“It’s okay that I know you have a waxy
build-up in your left ear but not in your right ear. What else do I
know about you, sweetheart? Well, I know where your mother is
buried and that you go there with violets every spring on the very
same day she died and place them on her grave. I know you like the
rainbow jimmies on your pancakes, but not the chocolate ones, and
that you take one lump of sugar in your tea, not two. You like
pickled Brussels sprouts in your martinis, not olives. You carry a
small peppermill in your purse with you everywhere you go. I know
that your tongue tastes beautiful, like mint tea and cloves. I know
that you have the greatest ass from New York to California. I know
that your singing voice is better than Liberty Storm’s, but you’re
too intimidated to use it because of my Grammy status.” Quite a
diatribe for a guy, huh? I’m just getting going.
“Now, on the flip side, what don’t I
know about you?” Apparently plenty.
“Well, I don’t know if you currently have a
Brazilian or a Hollywood wax because you haven’t shared that with
me in a while. I don’t know what it feels like to lie naked,
skin-against-skin, next to you, but I would imagine it’s lovely.
Though I’m guessing, I now know why you never did want that from
me, huh, Tess? I guess I know why we never got it on. Or got past
kissing. I don’t know if you’re marrying Creed because you love him
or because you’re too afraid to find out what could happen with us
if you did break it off. But somehow you must be okay with him
knowing your secret…but not me? Me, Tess! ”
I could give a flying fuck if you think I’m
being mean right now. We—me and Tess—we’re better than a lifetime
full of bullshit lying.
“Oh, yeah, and one more thing. I’ve known
you for fifteen fucking years, Tess. And never—not once—did
you ever tell me how the fuck your entire back got melted like a
fucking ice cream sundae as though someone took a blowtorch to
you.”
She slams the door. And locks it. And you
know the fuck what? This is bullshit. I have a bottomless pit full
of questions for her, and in the next few days I’m going to get all
the way down to that dark, locked-up pit. I go out to my truck and
grab my toolbox. Then I crowbar the trim off the door,
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