“You wouldn’t have to live in a box on the street. I wouldn’t let you. You could just move in with me.” As soon as I say it, I realize it’s true. He’s practically living with me already, so it wouldn’t be that big a deal. Except he’d have no place for his stuff. That would be an issue.
“Well, barring any disaster with Javi, we won’t have to think about it.” He smiles, but it doesn’t feel genuine.
“So I think we should fight tonight,” he says after I hand him a cannoli. Ugh, I was afraid of that. For some reason, Javier has hatched this plan that we should all go over to his and Jett’s apartment and have a big lovely non-family dinner.
I think this is just an excuse to grill me in front of Jett. Or maybe hit on Hazel. Or maybe get someone to make him a home-cooked meal, since I have “volunteered” to cook. I kind of have to since they’re hosting it at their house, so I feel obligated. Sigh.
It’s only going to be me, Jett, Javier and Hazel, but I am adamant that it is NOT a double date and Hazel agrees. She doesn’t date. Like, ever. Her feeling is that dating is serious, that you use it to get to know your future mate, and she’s not even close to doing that, so for right now she’s just “being young and having fun.” I do not judge.
I’ve decided to make lemon garlic tortellini with chicken, a Caesar salad and an éclair cake for desert. Javier better like it, because that’s the best that he’s getting. Jett has also agreed to help, even though he said he has never cooked tortellini in his life. At least he’s willing to try.
“That would probably be a good idea,” I say as my heart twinges in despair. “It will be broadcast to all my friends by the time we’re finished saying ‘Fine!’” If there is one thing you can count on Hazel for, it’s spreading relationship drama around to all our other friends, so they can discuss it and decide what to do about it and how to intervene and somehow make it better, while also making it worse. She means well. I think.
“So what should we fight about?” he says.
Okay, so despite not wanting to fight, I’ve actually made a list of topics we could fight about, and I bring it out of my bag. I work on it whenever I have in between time, or I’m insanely bored in class.
“You have a list?”
“Well, we did make a list when we started this. I thought we should end it with a list. Okay, first: you don’t like my hair.” Yeah, I know it’s lame.
“But I love your hair.”
“Two: we disagree on whether women belong in the kitchen.”
Jett puts his hands up as if I’ve held a gun to his head.
“Whoa. I am not touching that. There is no way I can say the right thing.”
“Three: you think I’m fat.” This one makes him burst out laughing. Not sure what’s so funny about it. I glare at him over the list.
“And that is funny because?”
“Because I would never, ever, call you, or any woman, fat. Not even if she was. That’s the first rule of dealing with any woman. Besides, it’s an a**hole thing to do. So no, what’s the next one?”
I grab another cannoli. Who knew we were going to disagree about what to fight about?
“Four: You don’t like it when I talk in my sleep.”
“But you don’t talk in your sleep.”
“I know that, but I might. And you could have a problem with it. And then I can freak out and then it can be one of those things that starts small and explodes into something else and we just start yelling random things and boom. Fight.”
It’s been my experience that fights almost always start with something small that is a symptom of something larger that we just don’t want to talk about.
“Okay, I think I can go with that one. What else did you have?” I hand over the list and we both laugh about it for a while as we finish the cannolis and then the rest of the stuff that I’d bought.
“You have too much time on your hands, Shan,” he says, handing the list back to me.
“Well, we can’t spend all our free time taking over the internet and making paper masterpieces.” I toss a balled-up napkin at him, and he ducks.
“Oh, I was also thinking about something else. If we fight then that means you don’t get to stay tonight.” Shit, I hadn’t thought about that. I can’t sleep alone! Not that I didn’t spend nearly twenty-one years of my life sleeping alone, but I didn’t know what I was missing.
“Or, maybe I can wait until Javi is asleep and then sneak over, and then out in the morning before Hazel gets up.” Oh, bless him.
“Oh, OR, you could come over and we could make up during the night. If you know what I mean.” I’m pretty sure he does.
“Yes. That works perfectly. Okay, it’s on. Listen, I have to get back to work, but I will see you in two hours? Are you sure you don’t need me to get anything?”
“No, no. I’ve got it. Hazel’s going shopping with me and then the both of us will be over. Fun times,” I say with both thumbs raised.
“Exactly,” he says as he gets up and gives me a kiss. “Thanks for the cannolis, princess.” Rule breaker. I kiss him back and say goodbye.
I don’t know if I’m going to make it through this Fake Fight, but at least I have Jett coming over to “make up” afterwards to think about. That’s the only okay part of it. Besides, this will prepare me for the actual thing. Only then I won’t be able to crawl into bed with Jett on the same night.
Yeah, not going to think about that.
Chapter 15
“Am I doing this right?” I move away from the steaming pot of water that I’m about to toss the tortellini in, but Jett is grating cheese for the salad, and acts like he’s never seen a grater before. Poor guy.
“You’re such an amateur,” Javier says from where he’s mincing garlic like a pro. I’m thrilled he agreed to do it, because I HATE chopping garlic. It always gets on your hands and then you smell like it for days. Disgusting.
“No, you are not doing it right,” I say, abandoning the pasta water and going to rescue Jett.
“Martha Stewart would totally take you behind the garden shed and beat you with a mezzaluna.” I take the cheese from him and reposition it to show him the proper way to grate it.
“What the hell is a mezzaluna?”
“It’s a kind of curved knife that you can use to chop things. It’s shaped like a half moon. Mezzaluna means half moon in Italian,” Javier says before I can get a word out. What the crap?
“What? Sometimes I watch cooking shows.” This is a HUGE shock because I’ve never seen him cook.
“Javier is a man of many talents,” Jett says, looking at the grater as if it’s going to bite him. Well, it isn’t called a knuckle-buster for nothing.
I shake my head and go back to the pasta. Hazel has run out to get parmesan cheese because I completely forgot about it.
A bang on the door announces her return. She comes in holding the cheese aloft like Rafiki with Simba in The Lion King. We all clap and bow to her greatness.
“Thanks, Haze.” I say, taking the container of cheese and setting it on the counter next to all the other stuff.
“What can I do?” Hazel comes and puts her chin on my shoulder and peers at the pots and pans, etc., I have going on the stove. I’m pretty sure the last time it was cleaned was circa WWII. Yeah, I’m going to take care of that later. Or someone will, because Jett and I are going to fight.
“Um, could you get the chicken going? Just throw some olive oil in that pan and make sure it doesn’t burn.” This is a task for Hazel. I used to think that people who couldn’t cook were just lazy, and wanted other people to do it for them, but then I met Hazel and realized cooking is a skill like anything else, some people are good at it and some people aren’t.
Somehow, with my help, Hazel manages to not burn the chicken and the pasta is perfect and has just the right amount of lemon and garlic, but not too much. The boys keep working, and sooner than I know it, the dinner is assembled and we’re sitting down to mismatched plates (including some that have beer logos on them) and everyone is eating.
Halfway through dinner, Jett nudges me under the table as Javier and Hazel flirt disgustingly back and forth.
“You were talking in your sleep last night,” Jett says casually, as if it’s a throwaway comment.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I say, as agreed on.
“You were going on and on. Haven’t you ever thought about going to see someone about it? It’s kind of a pain.” To my ears, I can tell he’s lying. God, I hope Javier can’t tell.
“Well, I’m so sorry that my uncontrollable sleep talking is disturbing you. Maybe you shouldn’t come over if you don’t like it.” I try to throw as much venom into my words as I can, and it’s almost like I swallow some of it myself. This sucks.
“Look, you don’t have to freak out about it, I was just pointing it out.” Hazel and Javier are silent, watching the verbal Ping-Pong match of words between Jett and me. I’m not sure who’s winning. Seems like no one does in this situation.
“Whatever. I’m just so sick of you criticizing me. If you don’t like the way I sleep, THEN DON’T SLEEP WITH ME.” I get up and throw my “napkin” (it’s really just a paper towel) down and storm to grab my purse.
“I’m sorry, I can’t deal with this right now,” I say, my voice cracking, which I don’t actually have to fake. The tears that are gathering and growing in my eyes are also very real. I cannot look at Jett as I grab my coat and slam the door. I hear Hazel running behind me, trying to catch up. I get to my car and take a shaky breath.
My GOD that was harder than I thought it would be, and it was minor. Fighting with your Fake Boyfriend is horrible, let me tell you. Even when the fight is Fake. All of it feels real. Very real. Breath-stealing, cry-makingly real.
“What the hell, Shan? What was that? Are you bipolar and I just never noticed? Or do you have the most severe case of PMS in the history of the world?”
I wish.
“I just can’t deal with him right now. He was being a jerk, and I didn’t want to put up with it.” I pull the door open and toss my purse in. Time for my acting skills to really kick in. It’s one thing to Fake Fight. It’s another to make your best friend and roommate believe it when she knows you so well.
“Well, I’m going to give it to you straight and tell you that you’re being an a**hole to him. He was just making a joke and you’re taking it completely wrong. By the way, why hasn’t he come after you?” She glances back at the apartment building, squinting at Jett’s door and windows.
“Whatever. Are you coming with me or not? I just want to go home.” I jingle my keys.
“Yeah, sure. We can go. Just, um, I’m just going to grab some of the leftovers, if that’s okay.” Well it does kind of suck leaving all that pasta and salad behind. And the cake. Dear God, the cake.