Part 1: Rocky Horror Halloween
When I woke up Saturday morning, the memory of the previous night's booty call was slipping away like a dream.
Had I actually driven over to his fancy, suburban robot-house in the middle of the night and let an inebriated Trevor MacIntyre “make love” to me?
As I climbed out of my bed, I pulled an inch-long, curly, dark chest hair off my breast. It wasn't attached (thank goodness for that), but I was surprised by the tenacity of the little bugger. I'd had a shower at Trevor's house and thought I'd gotten all of him off me.
Holding the hair, I hesitated before tossing it in my bathroom garbage can.
I gave myself a funny look in my mirror and said, “Smarten up, girl. You're the rebound. The transition.” I was too smart to get into someone who wasn't out of his ex-wife.
When I parted my fingers, the hair wouldn't drop. It was stuck to my finger. How fitting. I rolled my eyes, flicked it off, and climbed into the shower.
As I washed myself, I remembered Trevor's touch. His large hands, roaming and pillaging my body. His thick fingers caressing my br**sts as he sucked on my earlobes. His firm you-know-what nudging politely between my legs. How eager he made me.
Damn.
I wanted him again. More seriously, though, I was concerned about him. What had driven him to get so drunk by himself on Friday night? He needed a good friend, someone to talk to.
I decided to phone him, and was so keen to do so, I nearly got out of the shower without washing out my shampoo.
The call rang and rang, then went to voice mail. Twice.
I recorded a message saying, “Hey, Trev … Trevs. Trevor. Hey, is there a short version of Trevor? Tre? Uhhhhh.”
Deleted.
“Hi. It's me. Naomi. Just wondering … how's your head?” Pause. “I mean, how's your head feeling, not how's your … oh crap.”
Deleted.
“Trevor. Naomi calling. What was the deal with last night? You don't return my text message, and then … what, you have to get drunk just to talk to me?”
Too angry. Deleted.
“Hi. I had fun last night.” Nervous giggle. “Oh, for f**k's sake.”
Deleted.
No wonder people mostly text each other; voice mail is the worst. Unfortunately, I wasn't able to figure out what to text him, either. Here's a tip: If you have to put a smiley face after something to soften it, maybe you just shouldn't say the thing that requires the smiley face.
My mother came into my bedroom while I was yelling at my cell phone.
She handed me a big mug of coffee and said, “Drink this, then come with us to the Farmer's Market.”
“Not in the mood.”
She raised her eyebrows and gave me her concerned-yet-stern motherly look. “Drink your coffee and get in the mood. We'll go in about half an hour.”
I sipped the coffee. The smell alone improved my perception of the world by just a fraction. “Mom, I don't understand men.”
“If they're hungry, feed them. If they're angry, feed them.”
“What if they won't talk about their feelings?”
She leaned against the door frame of my bedroom, the way she had a thousand times over the years of talking to me about my problems. “Does a man really need to tell you about his feelings, or aren't you able to tell from how he acts?”
“Mom! Are you from the past or something?”
She came in and sat on my bed next to me. “Trevor likes you. He wouldn't have taken you for that second date if he didn't.”
“I think I screwed up, though. I yelled at him because he didn't tell me he had his ex-wife staying at his house.”
“Are you mad because he didn't tell you, or because she's there?”
I sipped my coffee and thought hard. “Because she's there.”
“So, your problem's not actually with Trevor, is it?”
“You're just saying that because you love him.”
She brushed her hand through my damp hair. “I want what's best for my beautiful girls.”
“That's so weird.” I held my free hand to my stomach. “I just felt my emotions shift, like, physically. There was this sensation right here, and now I feel differently about the whole thing. You're right. I don't have a problem with him. My beef is with,” I breathed her name out with fire, “Roxie.”
My mother pursed her lips. “I don't even like her name.”
“Let's put a hit out on her.”
My mother got up and smoothed out her jeans. “Farmer's Market. Twenty-five minutes.”
I mumbled that I'd be ready, and as soon as she left my room, I composed the perfect text message for Trevor:
Got plans for Halloween? I need a date. Don't wear suede.
I sent the message, and then stared at the phone, awaiting a response.
Trevor finally sent me a text message back while I was at the Market with my parents. I squealed and jumped up and down, then I showed my mother, who nodded with approval.
She asked, “Will you go to a costume party?”
“I've got Rocky Horror, same as every year.”
She wrinkled her face. “Oh, sweetie. You're not going to subject him to all of that are you? People throwing food at each other. So many people in corsets. Nipples everywhere.”
My father interrupted her, saying, “Au contraire, my dear wife. Let him run the gauntlet. If he survives Rocky Horror with Naomi and all of her theater friends, then we know he has what it takes.”
We were standing in line for pomegranates, and I hugged him and said, “Thanks, Dad!”
Just to be bratty, I stuck my tongue out at my mother.
The person at the fruit-seller's booth, a girl about my age, said, “Who's next!” and gave me side-eye for sticking my tongue out at my mother. I felt stupid and embarrassed about the tongue, excited about my date with Trevor, and scared about his reaction to the midnight show. My emotions bubbled up and rained down around me.
Thunder rumbled through the sky and it began to hail.
My father quickly paid for a dozen pomegranates and we ran for the gate to the parking lot. My pulse pounded in my head and the three of us ran wildly, as though yeti were after us, even though the hailstones weren't that big.
On Halloween, I helped my mother hand out candy to the little trick-or-treaters, though we didn't get that many kids, as the house isn't in a very family-oriented neighborhood. My parents bought the place long before all the new condo developments went in, before the real estate developers (like Trevor) changed the demographics of the area. My parents grumble about the changes, but I wouldn't say it's any better or worse now, with all the fancy coffee shops and French restaurants. Actually, I like the coffee shops.