99 Days Before the Trip, 6:07 p.m.
I think I’m emotionally attached to Courtney McSweeney. This is not a good plan for a few reasons. I make it a point to never get emotionally attached to anyone. Emotional attachments are messy. They end with broken hearts and stalking. Not that I’ve ever been on that end of it, i.e., been the one who was stalking or getting brokenhearted. But I’ve seen plenty of girls get emotionally attached to me, and it’s never a good situation. Emotional attachments are for really stupid people, or people who are much, much older and can deal with messy things like emotional attachments.
Also, Madison Allesio is now stalking me. When I say stalking, I mean it in relative terms. She’s dropped the hard-to-get act, and is now making it pretty clear she wants to hook up. She’s doing this by leaving me MySpace messages and texts that say “I want to hook up.” The weird thing is, this shouldn’t really be a problem. Because I don’t even really want to hook up with her anymore. Which is why I probably should. Because if I don’t, it means I’m emotionally attached to Courtney. And I can’t have that.
This is what I’m thinking about as I’m driving to Courtney’s house to do the math assignment. We usually do our math homework together in her room, which entails us doing a problem and then making out for a few minutes. Then she stops and says, “Jordan, we really have to do our work,” and then we do two more problems and make out again for a while. It takes a lot longer to do the assignment this way, and yet the time seems to go by much faster.
The other thing that worries me about the Courtney situation is that I’m obviously spending so much time over there in an effort to avoid what’s going on at my house. My strategy, as with most things, has been denial and avoidance. I just deny and avoid. The weird thing is, my parents don’t seem to notice.
“What’s up?” Courtney asks when I get to her house.
“Not much,” I say. She leans into me as I pass by her on the way into the house, and I inhale her scent. She smells so good. Like…I don’t know, exactly. Like Courtney.
Two hours later, we’re making out on her bed. Our math books are on the floor. My hands are in her hair, and on her face, and under her shirt on her back. Her tongue is in my mouth, and I want her so bad.
“Wait,” she says, pulling away. She pushes her hair away from her face and looks at me seriously. “I don’t know what’s going on here.” She sits up and smoothes down her shirt.
Uh-oh. This is not good. This sounds like it’s going to be a talk. Talks, as a rule, are not good. They usually mean something bad is going to happen. When bad things happen, I just like them to happen. Why waste time talking about them? Or about the possibility that they could happen? Again, denial and avoidance is really a great strategy, and saves everyone a lot of trouble.
“What do you mean?” I ask. I kiss her neck in an effort to distract her. “Your skin is so soft.”
“Jordan,” she says, pushing me away. “Stop. Seriously.” Whoa. Okay. I pull away from her and back up against the wall behind her bed.
“I just…” she trails off. “I don’t want to be a typical girl, but I need to know what’s going on.”
“Okay,” I say slowly, not sure what to say. Not because I’m being forced to confront the issue, but because I really don’t know what to tell her. I’ve been in this situation a lot before. Usually, girls aren’t so vocal about it. You can just kind of tell they’re getting to the point where they’re going to press you for an answer about what’s going on. They want you to be their boyfriend, not just a hookup. Which is fine, I can’t blame them. I’m kind of a catch. Usually, I tell them I’m just not up for it. Sometimes they hate me. Sometimes we keep hooking up (although it’s never the same). But this time, I realize I don’t want to tell Courtney that I don’t want to be her boyfriend. In fact, I do want to be her boyfriend. If that’s even what she’s saying.
“What are you saying?” I ask.
“I don’t know,” she says slowly. She looks down at the bed and traces her finger around a blue flower on her comforter. “It’s just, I mean, I don’t need you to be my boyfriend or anything.” Oh. “But I just…I mean, what exactly is going on here?”
“Well,” I say, running my hand through my hair. “I don’t know. I love spending time with you, and I love being around you.” I realize she’s two feet away from me, and that makes me nervous. I reach out and touch her hand, and start drawing little circles with my index finger against her palm. I try to pull her close to me, but she resists.
“It just feels kind of weird to be spending all this time together and doing all the stuff we’re doing without figuring out exactly what this is.” She bites her lip. I lean over and kiss her. “Jordan, seriously,” she says, pushing me away.
“Okay,” I say, backing away. “Sorry. So, what do you want? Let’s be together. Me and you.” I kiss her again. I can’t help it. “Be my girlfriend.”
“Jordan, I’m being serious,” she says. She rolls her eyes and pushes me away.
“So am I.” I pull her close and look into her eyes. “Let’s be together.”
She leans her head against mine. “Is that really what you want?” she asks. She tilts her head up toward mine.
“Yes,” I say.
“Because you shouldn’t say it unless, you know, you really mean it. I don’t want you to think you have to.”
“I don’t feel like I have to do anything,” I say. I inch my lips closer to hers.
“Okay,” she says. “So…”
I kiss her then, and she finally stops talking.
Three hours later, we’re finally done with our math assignment. It was ten problems. Ten problems took us three hours. It’s ten at night. I’m going to have no time to finish the rest of my homework. I hope having a girlfriend doesn’t mess with my ability to keep my grades up. Ha.
“I should go,” I say, trying to distangle myself from Courtney’s body. We’re laying in her bed, kissing, and I can’t stop. It’s like I’m physically unable to be away from her.
“Okay,” she says, not moving. She closes her eyes for a second, and I try to memorize the way she looks, her hair spread out around the pillow, her lips slightly parted. She sighs and pulls herself out of bed, then holds her hand out, and pulls me up. I pull her close to me and kiss her again.
“I’ll walk you to the door,” she says when she pulls away.
“’Kay.” I gather my stuff, shove it all into my black messenger bag, and walk with Courtney down the stairs.
As we’re walking into the kitchen, the back door opens.
“Dad?” Courtney asks. Shit. Courtney’s dad has been on a business trip for the past few weeks, so I haven’t had to meet him. I hate meeting dads. Dads, as a rule, don’t like me. They think I’m a punk who’s trying to deflower their precious daughter. Which is usually the case. But not in this instance. Although I wouldn’t mind deflowering Courtney, I’m content with the whole making-out thing. Maybe it wouldn’t even be a deflowering. We haven’t had the whole “Are you a virgin?” talk yet.
The back door opens and Courtney’s dad walks in.
“You’re home!” She flings herself at him and grabs him in a hug. This is going to be doubly disastrous, because Courtney and her dad are superclose. Which means getting his approval is key to our relationship. I use their reunion time to smooth my clothes and run my fingers through my hair. I hope I don’t look like I’ve just been making out with his daughter.
“Jordan,” Courtney says. “Come meet my dad.” She pulls back, still holding his hand.
“Nice to meet you, sir,” I say, holding out my hand. I get my first good look at him, and then stop. Because Courtney’s dad is the guy my mom was making out with on the couch.
“Let me get this straight,” B. J. says a couple hours later, leaning back in the booth. We’re in Denny’s, having a late-night snack, and I’ve just finished telling him the whole sordid tale. Everything. My mom. Courtney. Her dad. Everything. “Courtney is now your girlfriend.”
“Right.”
“And two hours after you two crazy kids came to the conclusion that you’re soul mates, you figured out your mom was fucking her dad.”
“Right.” I don’t even wince at B. J.’s crude language. I’m beyond that.
“Dude, that shit is FUCKED UP.” He takes a fry and drags it through some ketchup. “What are you doing to do?”
“I have to tell her,” I say. Silence. “Right?”
“Right,” B. J. says, sounding uncertain.
“Why do you sound uncertain?”
“I don’t,” he says, sounding even more uncertain than before.
“Yes, you do!”
“Well, it’s just one of those things that sounds good in theory, but might not really be necessary.” He takes the straw out of his drink and throws it on the table, then takes a long gulp of his soda right from the cup. On cue, the waitress comes over and replaces his old soda with a new one.
“Thanks,” B. J. says, grinning at her.
“You’re welcome,” she says, looking at me. “Do you need anything else?”
“No, I’m fine,” I say, slightly annoyed that she’s interrupting.
“You sure?” she persists. “Dessert? Coffee?”
“Nah, I’m good,” I say, looking away and hoping she’ll get the message.
“Oooh, you know what?” B. J. says, looking excited. “I’ll have a piece of that strawberry thing, the one with all the whipped cream?” I resist the urge to hurl myself across the table and strangle him.
“Okay,” she agrees. “Vanilla ice cream?”
“Sure,” B. J. says. He shrugs. “Do it up.”
“I’ll bring two spoons.” As soon as she clears the area, B. J. takes another gulp of his soda. He leans back in his chair and lets out a huge burp.
“Anyway,” I say, trying not to freak out. “Can you please tell me why I shouldn’t tell her?”
“Dude,” B. J. says. He pulls an ice cube into his mouth and starts crunching it.
“Dude what?”
“Hold on,” he says. “I’m trying to think of how to phrase this.” Great. We’ll be here all day.
“Don’t try to think about how to phrase it,” I say. “Just say it.”
“You sure?”
“Yes!”
“You probably won’t be with her for that long.” He shrugs. “So there’s really no point in telling her.”
“Geez, tell me how you really feel.”
“You said to just say it!”
“I know, I know,” I say. I lean over the table and rub my temples with my fingers. Maybe B. J.’s right. Maybe I don’t have to tell her. Maybe I can wait a little while until I figure out how I feel about her and then I can decide whether or not to tell her. I do like Courtney, I like her a lot, I don’t want to hang out with anyone else, but I am fickle. What if I tell her and it wrecks her life? What if she’s not supposed to know about this, and not only do I tell her, but otherwise, she never would have found out? It’s not like my mom is planning on marrying her dad. I don’t think, anyway.
“Dude, are you stressin’ about this?” B. J. asks. “Don’t freak me out.”
“Why would that freak you out?”
“Because you never stress.”
The waitress returns with a huge plate of strawberry pie, ice cream, and whipped cream. She sets down two spoons.
“I made a double portion,” she says, smiling. She licks her lips and smoothes her hands across her tight apron. Lovely. My world is falling apart, and some random waitress is making threesome jokes. She walks away, swinging her hips from side to side. If I wasn’t so fucked up right now, I’d probably be turned on.
“Dude,” B. J. whispers, leaning across the table. “Does she want to have a threesome with us?”
“Probably.”
“Whoa.” His eyes widen. “Not that I ever would. No offense, bro, but that would be way too fucked up.” He takes a bite of strawberry pie. “That is some good shit. Try it.”
“No, thanks,” I say. I’m suddenly not very hungry, and the cheeseburger and fries I just devoured feel heavy in my stomach.
“You need to chill,” B. J. says. He has whipped cream all over his mouth. I reach across the table and wordlessly hand him a napkin. He smiles sheepishly and wipes his mouth. “For now, you can’t worry about it. The last thing you want to do is get Courtney all freaked out for nothing. And if you do decide it’s going to turn into something serious, you can always tell her later.”
“What if she asks why I didn’t tell her before?”
“You can tell her the truth. That you wanted to make sure you knew what was going on between you guys, and between your parents, before you did anything psychotic.” I stare at B. J. in disbelief. How is it that someone who is so idiotic most of the time can somehow be able to give such good insight? Maybe it’s because he thinks on such a simple level most of the time that he doesn’t get bogged down by things like emotion and manipulation. He just figures out the best way to handle a situation, and then he does it.
“Good idea,” I say. “Thanks.”
“No problem.” He grins at me through a mouthful of strawberries.
“Anything else I can get you two?” the waitress says, appearing at our table.
“Just the check,” I say. “Thanks.”
She rips it off the pad slowly and places it down in front of me. “If you need anything else, I can always add it.” She smiles again, turns on her heel, and walks away.
“You could so do her,” B. J. says.
I pick up the check. $15.65. “Carrie,” it says on the bottom. “Call me, cutie! 555-0181.” Followed by a smiley face.
I throw a $20 down on the table and leave the check where it is.
