Ginny Blue's Boyfriends Read online

  Around three P.M. I let myself into my condo, suffering a slight headache, the kind that feels like it could work its way into a full-blown clanger if not properly taken care of. It’s sad to say, but I’m not as good at drinking into the night then getting up in the morning as I used to be.

  Noticing the deep silence I thought of Nate and that bad feeling stole over me once more. Grinding my teeth, I refused to go down the “poor me” road. Instead I kicked off my shoes and threw myself into Nate’s chair—was that a ripping sound from the leather?—when my doorbell rang. Swearing softly beneath my breath, I pulled myself back out of the chair and silently asked the gods why they couldn’t make sure everyone left me the hell alone until I felt better. Peering through the peephole I viewed Daphne standing dejectedly on the porch. Shit. That’s right. She wanted to stop by and talk.

  “Could this day get any better?” I muttered to myself as I threw open the door. “Hi,” I greeted her with a lot more enthusiasm than I felt.

  “Hi,” she answered dully as she entered. Uh oh, I thought as I closed the door behind her. This looked like real depression. The most frightening thing of all was that Daphne’s arms were flat to her sides, the fingers of one hand lackadaisically holding an open bottle of Chardonnay by the neck. It didn’t appear she remembered the bottle. Before I could remind her, she hiccupped twice and stumbled into the kitchen, throwing open one of my cupboard doors until it banged hard against its neighbor. I cringed. She stared inside as if the interior held all life’s mysteries. I actually craned my neck to peer past her but all I could see was a box of Honey Nut Cheerios. I wondered about the pull date. Might’ve been before this millennium.

  “Doesn’t appear that things improved at work,” I noted gingerly, checking my watch. Theoretically I was done for the day, but production work can be round the clock when a job gets going. I could certainly pretend I had somewhere to go.

  “I can’t STAND it one more MINUTE! God DAMN it, Blue! Don’t you have any wine glasses?”

  I reached across her and flipped open a different cupboard door than the one she’d opened and slammed shut five times. “Are you drunk?” I asked.

  “Not near enough. I left work early because Leo just ignored me! Ignored me! I mean, scream and yell at me, okay. I can deal. And if you look my way a time or two, well, howdy-doody, I might be looking back. But ignoring ... !” She seemed to collapse on herself as she grabbed a fluted wine glass. One of my favorites. My hand fluttered forward protectively as she slammed it onto the counter so hard the fragile stem snapped off. She looked at me and burst into tears.

  “Hey, hey,” I said, taking the wine bottle and remains of the glass from her unresisting fingers. “It’s okay. Leo’s not worth all this. You know that.”

  “I’m sorry. Oh, God, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’ll pay for it. Don’t tell Nate, if it’s his. I’ll get another one.”

  “Forget about it. They’re mine and therefore cheap. Sit down.” I steered her toward the couch, then returned to the cupboard for two fresh glasses and grabbed a bottle of white from the refrigerator as I put Daphne’s in to chill. Like my wine glasses, my bottle was cheap, but not too bad. I returned to Daphne (slumped on the sofa ... or some other descriptor) and handed her a glass. As I twisted the corkscrew I realized I was going to have to tell all my friends about Nate soon. I wasn’t trying to be deceptive, but sometimes it takes a while for the right time to admit you’ve maybe made a mistake. And I was really thinking I may have made one with Nate. I don’t know... .

  “Why do I pick such losers?” Daphne moaned. She lifted up her empty glass and I attempted to pour about an inch into its depths. Her wrist was limp as a noodle and the glass waved in front of me. Wine sloshed over the rim of her glass and onto her hand but she appeared not to notice.

  I was beginning to think I was the one who needed a drink. Might even cure my headache.

  “I’m not going to make it to my chewing gum audition at four,” she said on a desperate sigh.

  No shit, I thought, unless the commercial was hawking the benefits of wine-flavored gum. To Daphne, I said, “This is a new look for you. Part soused chic, part dewey-eyed desolation.”

  “Don’t make fun,” she said. “Could I have more wine?” she asked in a tear-choked voice, holding out her glass.

  I took a long, hard swallow from my glass. “We both will.”

  We spent about an hour finishing off my bottle and working our way through hers. Wonder of wonders, my headache disappeared. A little hair of the dog, I thought happily, then momentarily worried that maybe all I did was drink. A moment later I shrugged that off. At this point, I didn’t much care. Drinking comes in waves for me. My social drinking is rather sporadic, as I have a tendency to sometimes hole up and insist on being alone. Occasionally I’ll have a glass of wine by myself, though to me, it never tastes as good when you’re alone. But with Daphne dropping by in her current state of depression, this would qualify as commiseration drinking and, if you’re any kind of friend, commiseration drinking is a total must. I couldn’t let her down. Yes, I could have made the phone calls I’d been planning when I’d schlepped into the condo, but after enough Chardonnay I found I had no interest in doing much of anything. In a replete, half-drunken voice, I stated, “Why do today, what you can put off till tomorrow!”

  “I did Leo yesterday.” She hiccupped.

  I gave her a penetrating look. At least I thought it was penetrating. I sometimes fantasize that I’m more interesting than I am. “You must forget about Leo. He’s a Huge Waste of Time.”

  Daphne closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. I remembered, faintly, that drinking this early is generally a very bad thing. I had another moment of clarity: I was going to feel really rotten about eight o’clock this evening. More hangover. Hangover on top of hangover.

  Daphne said, “I want ... someone. It doesn’t have to be forever. But I want to be half of a couple, like Jill and Ian.”

  “Jill-Ian is—are—unworthy of envy.”

  “I just want a good guy.”

  “You’re going to have to get away from actors, then.”

  “They’re not all bad.”

  “No ...” I faded off. I didn’t want to argue with her. Daphne’s problem had always been men. We all had our Ex-Files, I guess. Mine were just more noted, for some reason. I tried to concentrate on this but my wine-addled mind couldn’t take the pressure. I started thinking about food.

  Daphne planted her face into a pillow on the couch, sprawling out. I was once again seated in Nate’s chair. In a muffled voice, Daphne said, “Tell me about Charlie.”

  “I’d rather have a root canal.”

  “Tell me, Blue.”

  “We had sex on the fifty-yard line after a high school football game.”

  For a moment nothing happened, then she started laughing. Her whole body shook. She looked up, flat out howling now. She couldn’t get her breath. Tears of hilarity ran down her cheeks.

  I started laughing, too. Why we both found this so hysterical was a mystery later on, but we totally cracked up for a good five minutes. When we ran down, we were both out of breath.

  “Anything else?” I asked, which sent her into renewed peals of mirth.

  “I think that about covers it,” she finally gasped. “Can I tell you about Leo, now?”

  I waved a languid hand. “Fire away.”

  By dinnertime I’d heard the entire story of the Huge Waste of Time several times over. I must confess that my mind wandered. I mean, what was so compelling about this guy, anyway? He was a sometime actor who worked at a coffee shop and constantly hit on all the female employees. Not my dream date by a long shot. He hurt Daphne over and over with his awe-inspiring self-interest. There wasn’t room for anyone but Leo in the room. Ever. I couldn’t understand what Daphne saw in him, but then, love is strange.

  That “really rotten” feeling I’d worried about began to set in about seven (I was an hour off), so we ordered in Chinese food to comba
t it. The order came on a wave of mouthwatering scents, tucked into a half a dozen little white boxes. What is it about those Chinese boxes that makes it feel like a surprise every time you open one? I scooped a heapin’ helpin’ of Szechuan chicken onto a plate and decided it was time for my standard anti-actor speech.

  “Y’see,” I mumbled over a mouthful, stabbing my chopsticks into the air for punctuation, “Actors are always a problem for one obvious reason, they’re always acting.”

  “The guy you dated was FAMOUS,” Daphne declared. “That’s totally different. Leo’s not—”

  “Doesn’t matter,” I cut her off. “They’re all the same. Successful, struggling, working, not working ... they’re actors. They act. That’s the common denominator. I’ve dated some struggling ones, too. You have to stay away from all of them.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “This is something I know, Daphne. They’re self-absorbed and always need to be the center of attention.”

  “I’m an actor,” she reminded.

  “You’re not a male actor,” I pointed out. “And besides, you’re not like that.”

  “Well, that kind of goes against your whole theory, doesn’t it? Wow, my head hurts. And this Chinese food isn’t making me feel good.”

  “Don’t puke. We’re not in college anymore.”

  “I’m not going to puke. I’m just going to feel bad.”

  I eyed her carefully. “You’re going to puke.”

  “Shit ...”

  She ran for the bathroom, barely made it. I cringed at the urping noises that followed. Made me a little queasy inside as well. I had a fleeting thought of teenage boys who find this kind of thing the height of hilarity and wondered if I was turning into an old stodge at age thirty-two.

  At that moment the key turned in the lock. Shocked, I raced to the door and called out, “Nate?” before I realized it was Kristl. I was disappointed, then felt terrible when I realized she looked like hell.

  I said, “You were with Brandon last night.”

  “And most of today,” she said on a long sigh. “What’s the matter with you?”

  “Me?”

  “You look like hell.”

  I was annoyed, vaguely, that I hadn’t got to be the one to say that to her first. And I was getting pretty damn tired of people telling me I looked awful. Nevertheless, I turned immediately to the hallway mirror to see. I would have shrieked if I trusted my eyes. Why hadn’t Daphne told me my makeup had run all over my face? “I was laughing,” I said lamely.

  “Looks like you’ve been crying.”

  “I was crying I was laughing so hard.”

  “About what?”

  When I didn’t immediately answer she stood there and stared at me, somewhat impatiently. There was no way I could relate the whole story and expect her to find it as amusing as Daphne and I had, so I just kind of shrugged. “Nothing, really.”

  Luckily, she’d already lost interest. “We had sex again, but don’t worry. We’re not engaged.”

  “Yet,” I said ominously as she headed for the stairs.

  “I’m trying really hard to break my bad habits, so don’t lecture me, okay.”

  “I wasn’t lecturing.”

  “I’ve got to take a shower and get to work.” At the sound of renewed vomiting, she froze, then glanced in the direction of the bathroom door. “Who’s bulimic?”

  I almost said, “Jill—sometimes,” but decided to answer the obvious question instead. “Daphne mixed Szechuan chicken with cheap Chardonnay and bad romance.”

  “Hmmm ...” Kristl was distracted. “I think I’m going to quit bartending.”

  “And do what?” I called after her as she disappeared around the upstairs landing. “Bartending jobs are hard to come by these days. One of the places on Wilshire put out an ad and got 400 applicants. You’re lucky to be at Pink Elephant.”

  “I have years of experience, Blue,” she called back.

  “This isn’t about Jackson Wright, is it?” I yelled. “Because he came into your bar and made you feel like there was something more out there?” My voice grew louder with each word but Kristl didn’t respond.

  Daphne stumbled from the downstairs bathroom looking green around the gills. I had just enough time to squeeze in and wash my face before the doorbell rang again.

  “Geez, Louise,” I muttered.

  Daphne, now on the couch, waved a limp hand at me, as she pressed a damp washcloth to her forehead with the other. I answered the door, acutely aware my face was scrubbed clean of all makeup and I was not looking my best. Of course, this time it was Nate.

  We stared at each other a moment. Finally, he shrugged, a bit awkwardly. For my part, I managed a crooked smile of welcome.

  “I came for ... my chair,” he said, glancing behind him toward the street where a truck sat tucked up to the curb, its engine idling. “I’ll get my table and lamps later.” He gestured around the room.

  “Good thing the bed’s mine,” I said lightly. “Guess this means you’re not sticking around for a goodbye chat.” I worried I sounded pathetic and cleared my throat.

  Another shrug.

  I watched him head into the room. Daphne gave him a desultory, “Hey, Nate,” to which he smiled quickly, sheepishly, and darted me a look. He hefted the chair and I noticed the strong muscles in his arms.

  “You don’t waste any time,” I said.

  “We wasted a lot already.” He looked me up and down. “Didn’t we?”

  I nodded, aware that Daphne’s head had swivelled my way in surprise. He carried the chair through the front door, then set it down on the cement walkway outside. We stood there for a few uncomfortable minutes longer. For one terrible second I thought he might actually kiss me good-bye, but he thought better of it and hefted the chair once again. I waved at his disappearing back and my headache returned with a crash.

  “What was that all about?” Daphne asked when I returned. This time I stretched out on the area rug in front of the couch. She turned her head and gazed down at me.

  “Nate and I broke up. I should’ve probably mentioned it last night.”

  “Oh, my God.” Daphne declared, surprised. “When did it happen?”

  “Yesterday,” I said, and suddenly, irresistibly, I wanted to cry. I struggled. Managed to hang on. Just barely.

  “Fucking bastards,” she said softly.

  “Yep.”

  That effectively ended our conversation for the night. We watched a little TV together, then Daphne pronounced herself well enough to go home. I didn’t try to stop her, and I didn’t have the energy to walk her to the door. It was several hours before I felt like I had enough strength to haul myself to my feet, lock the door, and head upstairs to my bedroom.

  I heard Kristl’s tread on the stairs as she left for work. Much later, somewhere around 3 A.M., I woke from a fitful sleep to the sound of her clattering around in the kitchen, which is directly below my bedroom. I wondered if she’d really put in her notice at work. I wondered also, despite her words to the contrary, whether she would keep to her pattern and marry Brandon, or if Jackson Wright had somehow derailed her.

  That sent my thoughts spinning toward Jackson and I actually pulled the pillow over my head and fought valiantly for a few hours of blessed sleep. It was over with Nate, and that was okay. It was going to have to be.

  Chapter 5

  I headed to work sporting another hangover; this one more emotional than the first. Luckily, we put in an uneventful day. Still, I felt weary by the time I was off work, and it took me a moment or two to recognize that it was Friday night, the beginning of the weekend. Two full days of leisure time stretching out in front of me. Normally this filled me with expectation, but tonight my first thought was a kind of panicked: what the hell am I going to do? Without Nate I had a lot of hours to fill.

  For most of Friday night I watched TV. Nameless, flickering programs crossing the screen that I couldn’t remember as soon as they ended. Saturday morning was be
tter. I got ready for our group’s usual Saturday morning get-together at Sammy’s. Jill had called and said she couldn’t make it; something to do with Ian, naturally, the fucking asshole.

  “Figures,” Daphne muttered as she slid into her seat and I relayed this information.

  “I asked Kristl to join us,” I said. “But she was sleeping in. Last night she threatened to quit her job,” I mentioned, remembering that Daphne had been in the bathroom during my discussion with Kristl. “But I don’t think she’s had time to go through with it.”

  “She’s planning to stick around LA permanently?” Daphne asked. “I thought it was just an extended visit.”

  “She took that job at Pink Elephant.” I shrugged. “But she could be engaged by tonight for all I know.”

  “Oh. Right.” A pause. “Ya think?”

  “She says not. But it’s early in the game.”

  “She really marries every guy she sleeps with?”

  “Damn close.”

  At that moment CeeCee strolled in, pink-tipped platinum hair more spiky than usual. She wore a pair of painter’s pants and had a bottle of Arrowhead water tucked into the loop at her left thigh. She sat on the chair next to Daphne’s, across from me. “California omelet,” she said to the waiter.

  I grunted an agreement. The California omelets were wonderful, full of avocado and tomato and goat cheese and delivered with a small bowl of salsa and another of black beans. CeeCee and I never varied our Saturday morning meal. Daphne, however, pored over the menu. I said, not trying to be bitchy, but for expedience, “You know you’re going to order granola with yogurt, so just do it.”

  “Don’t push me,” Daphne muttered.

  CeeCee pulled out a cigarette and played with it, turning it over and over again against the white formica tabletop. One of the waiters swooped by, opened his mouth to give the State of California no smoking rule, felt the power of CeeCee’s baleful look, and skittered away in silence.

  “You’d think they’d know us by now,” CeeCee complained, incensed. If she’d actually been allowed to smoke, disdainful twin streams of smoke would have issued from her nose at this.