Always the Last to Know Read online

  “Sophomore year of college. Fall semester. With my boyfriend at the time.” Who broke up with me because he was a jealous bastard who couldn’t handle me having any guy friends. Granted, my only real guy friend was Riley. Still, the guy couldn’t handle having any ‘competition’, as he put it and we ended the relationship.

  I’m totally better off without him. Even if I did just read that he has created a social networking site that’s being called the next Facebook.

  “That was three years ago. My God, how do you manage to survive?”

  “You need air to survive, not sex.”

  Annie shakes her head, “You have so much to learn, dear.”

  ***

  “I would help you carry those paint cans in, but I’m morally opposed to all of this.” Riley says, not taking his eyes off the TV. I don’t miss him smile as I stub my toe against the door frame. He takes a sip of beer, “Besides, I’m pretty sure that Drew Barrymore shows her boobs in this movie.”

  I roll my eyes and head into the kitchen. Despite Riley’s disapproval, he had spent last night sanding and priming the walls in preparation of the paint job. His mom has owned a paint shop for the past fifteen years; I really don’t think he could have helped himself in at least part of the process.

  That, or he was trying to get the thought of his mom doing It with the Mystery Kisser out of his head.

  I smile as I begin mixing the paint in the can, “This color is going to look so great in here.”

  Riley snorts, but doesn’t say anything.

  I begin to silently count down from ten. Riley is in the kitchen before I make it to six.

  He stares into the paint can confused. I have to actually laugh when he cocks his head to one side.

  “That’s not yellow.”

  “You’re an observant one.” I grin, looking up at him.

  He squats down to get a better look at the color as I pour it into a brush pan. Our foreheads practically touch as he stares even harder at the paint, still confused.

  “But I thought you wanted yellow.” He says, looking at me. With his face so close to mine, it takes me longer than it should to think of words.

  I gulp, “And I knew that you didn’t want yellow. Plus, this color will look good in here. It’s rich and bold and your favorite.”

  Riley smiles, “Thanks, Jess.” He stands back up and I feel a moment of sadness now that I can’t smell his combination of cologne and soap.

  I pick up two rolling brushes, “So, now that you approve of the color, do you want to help?”

  He takes a brush from me, “Sure. Mostly because I don’t trust you not to fall and break your neck on that stepstool.”

  “Your confidence in me is truly overwhelming, Callahan.”

  After awhile, Riley realizes that I am fully capable of standing on a stepstool without falling… okay, so I fell off once but I managed to catch myself from hitting the floor. I may or may not have twisted my ankle a little bit in the process. And it may or may not be a little swollen right now. And hurting like an absolute son of a bitch.

  “Hey, what’s that on your nose?”

  I shake my head, “I’m not falling for that again, Callahan. This paint is going to be impossible to get off my face. Plus, you’re the reason I almost busted my ass while ago.”

  Riley laughs, “We both know that you would have fallen off the stepladder with or without me dabbing your face with paint.” He shrugs, “Besides, I know how to get this off your face.” He swipes my face with the paintbrush, causing me to quickly move and lose my balance.

  Riley grabs my arm and pulls me toward him before I fall backward off the stepladder. Instead, I fall forward, on top of Riley, and we hit the ground, my paintbrush landing directly on top of his face.

  “I am so sorry.” I try not to laugh as I remove the paintbrush off his now very, very red face. “But I would like to remind you that if you had bought the stepladder with the wider rungs, I wouldn’t have been as likely to lose my balance and crush your ribcage.”

  He mumbles something that sounds very similar to ‘bullshit’ without opening his mouth. I grab the wet dishcloth that’s conveniently at arm’s length and wipe the paint off of Riley’s lips.

  I stop wiping the paint away as I realize what this looks like.

  More importantly, I realize what this feels like.

  Here I am, lying on top of Riley, one of my closest friends and pseudo-landlord, slowly wiping his lips. I mean, yeah, it’s to get paint off but still. It’s making my insides do strange things.

  “Jess, I, um, need to. . .”

  “Get up? Yeah, sorry.” I slide off him quickly and stand up, ignoring the blinding pain coursing through my right ankle. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, I just,” he looks at me sadly and sighs, “yeah, I’m fine.”

  His face is not so promising. “Are you sure?” Good God, I have crushed Riley’s ribcage! I knew I shouldn’t have ordered the large fries at lunch.

  He nods as Jackson pads over to him. He woofs quietly as he looks down at his owner before turning a suspicious pair of big brown eyes at me.

  Even the dog knows that I crushed Riley’s ribcage! Why the large fries? I knew that I should have got the fruit cup at lunch instead of those damn fries.

  He sits up and rubs one of Jackson’s ears. I don’t say anything as he tries to hide the wince he makes when he attempts to support his weight on his right arm.

  “I’m fine, Reynolds. Stop giving me that look.”

  “Stop giving you what look?”

  “Stop giving me that look where you’re contemplating driving me to the hospital and wondering if I’ll need a blood transfusion and if we’re a match. A blood match, I mean.”

  “I wasn’t giving you that look.” Mostly because my blood type is O-negative – I’m the universal donor and give blood as often as I can – so I don’t even have to wonder about giving him some of my blood. Which I would do in a heartbeat.

  Now, if he said I was giving him a look where I was wondering if we were a bone marrow match, then, yeah, he would have been correct.

  “Yes, you were giving me that look. But I’m fine. Really.” He starts to get up but wavers a little and takes my hand tightly in his own to keep his balance. “You’re not driving me to the hospital; it takes a lot more to break me than you think.”

  He lets go of my hand as quickly as he had grabbed it. Is it because he felt that same weird bolt of electricity go through him like it did me whenever his hand went into mine?

  No, I’m going crazy. We probably should have opened more windows before starting this painting project; the fumes are definitely getting to me.

  “So, how are things going with you and Mark?” Riley asks, picking up the paintbrush with his left hand since his right wrist is probably throbbing like my right ankle is.

  “You mean Matt, and you know it.” I give him a pointed look as I start painting again. “And things aren’t going anywhere with us.”

  Although Matt did offer to help me pack last night, which was incredibly sweet of him. I declined his offer, but since Evan was busy comforting Carla over the fact that her mother is dating someone in secret, Matt stayed in my room and watched me pack. While I sorted through clothes for Goodwill, he went through my monstrous collection of DVDs and VHS tapes. We talked about music (he likes Tom Petty, and was excited to hear that Tom and the Heartbreakers hold a special place in mine and Riley’s hearts) and movies (he was also excited to see that I owned all the National Lampoon’s Vacations’ movies, and could quote the bulk of them) and our favorite drinks. He admitted to liking Sex on the Beach, which I thought was respectable for any guy to actually admit to liking. I mean, I don’t even like to say that I like that drink, and I’m a girl.

  “If you like him, you should date him.” Riley says, not looking at me.

  “Thanks for your permission, Callahan. I was waiting to get your approval.” I snap.

  “We’re living together, Reynolds. We’re
going to date people. I just wanted to let you know that it won’t be weird if you bring a guy here. And I assume that it won’t be weird for you if I bring a girl back here.”

  I snort, “Yeah, because you could get a date.”

  He takes another swipe at my face with his paint brush, this time hitting my right cheek. I manage to dab his forehead with my paintbrush without falling off the stepladder. Again

  “Oh, come on Callahan, we don’t date. We fail miserably at relationships. Hell, it’s amazing if we actually form relationships. I mean, you haven’t made it past a first date in months.”

  “That’s not my fault. It’s Carla’s for setting me up with an über-feminist from the news station. I just opened the door for her and – WHAM! – she smacked me with her wallet on a chain like it was a damned nunchuck or something. I had to give a presentation the next day at work with a black eye because of that crazy bitch.” He shakes his head, “I don’t open doors for girls anymore because of that so, now, all women think that I’m an inconsiderate asshole.”

  “Not all girls think that. I mean, I don’t think you’re an inconsiderate asshole. You’re not half bad, Callahan.”

  Riley raises an eyebrow at me, “Is. . . is that a compliment? Reynolds, I think you’re getting soft on me.”

  I smile, “Don’t get me wrong, you can be a monumental ass sometimes. But, mostly, you’re a pretty good guy. Besides, with us constantly tearing down each other’s self esteem, I think that a compliment is necessary from time to time. . .” I let the words fall, just to see if Riley will actually say something nice about me. I honestly have no idea why I so badly want to hear some sort of praise from him right now. Maybe it’s because that all the constant bickering, on my part anyway, is just me joking around and I think that I just need some confirmation that Riley doesn’t mean what he says when he’s fighting with me either.

  Or, maybe, the paint fumes really are getting to me now.

  Riley kind of shrugs, “You’re really pretty when you cry.”

  I stare at him in complete surprise. So much surprise that I actually drop my paintbrush. Thank God we laid down old sheets to protect the floo— did Riley just say that I’m pretty? When I cry?

  No person is ever pretty when they cry. Especially me, my entire face turns red and my mouth moves around like that talking horse’s, Mr. Ed.

  Seeing my confused face, he explains, “Your eyes just look really, really blue when you cry.”

  “When have you ever seen me cry?” I’m not a total tomboy or anything, but I don’t cry, at least not in front of people. I was raised to believe that crying is a sign of weakness and, because of that, I now have serious issues with properly expressing my emotions. You know, it really is a good thing my parents stopped having kids after me.

  “At my dad’s funeral. And when you got back from your senior prom.”

  Ah, the two memories that I’ve repressed.

  I don’t remember much from Mr. Callahan’s funeral. I really have blocked most of that from my memory. I’ve always believed that there’s no point in focusing on sadness when there are so many happy moments to remember. I guess that’s why Mr. Callahan’s funeral is just a blurry memory for me. I mostly remember staying close to Riley during all of it. I don’t know how or why but it seemed like we needed to be with each other then. I was with him when he went into the funeral home and when he left the funeral home. I spent the night before the actual funeral at his old college apartment. We stayed up all night on the couch talking about anything but his dad. We even talked about football.

  Riley never broke down into tears at the funeral but I found my breaking point at the cemetery. I was watching Ms. Callahan, who was on the other side of Riley, just staring at that closed casket and crying silently. To be strong for Riley, I hadn’t cried over Mr. Callahan’s death, but seeing Ms. Callahan so alone and afraid and heartbroken, made the tears fall. It was that quiet kind of crying, not the loud sobs, but Riley saw my tears. I remember him taking my hand in his and squeezing it tight and giving me a kiss on my forehead. I remember I looked up at him and saw that his green eyes, those bright green eyes that have always made my stomach do cartwheels, were red and watery, which just made me want to cry harder. I managed to swallow the rest of my tears and stood there next to him, holding onto his hand for the rest of the funeral.

  We haven’t talked about the funeral – any of it – since.

  And, as far as my senior prom goes, I try not to think about the events that unfolded that night, especially after I left the safe haven of the school gymnasium.

  I can’t think of anything to say to his statement so I pick up my paintbrush and start painting again. Riley, after realizing that I’m not capable of speech, paints also. It’s about the time we finish painting the last wall that my cell phone rings. Jackson, who had retired under the kitchen table to watch us paint, howls – even the dog disapproves of my ringtone, “Candy” by Mandy Moore. I check the caller ID to see that it’s my parents’ number. Which means that it’s my mother.

  Lord, give me strength.

  “Hello?” I say slowly, already preparing myself for the attack. Mom rarely calls just to chat.

  “Jessica Louise Reynolds!”

  It’s the full name, the horrible, no good full name. I am SO dead.

  “Hi, Mom. How are you?”

  “Oh, I’m just peachy. It’s not everyday that a mother can tell the world that her only daughter is moving in with a man out of wedlock.”

  Before I can even say a single word (which, by the way, my word of choice right now would be “fuck”), Riley’s phone rings. It’s his mom, I can tell by the ring tone – “That’s All Right Mama” by Elvis.

  At least I’m not going to be the only one getting verbally attacked tonight.

  “It’s not like that, Mom. You know that it’s not like that. It’s Riley. And it’s me. It’s me and Riley.”

  “Yeah, that’s just what I’m worried about.”

  “Huh?” My mother has lost her mind.

  “Nevermind that. I just worry about you, Jess. What will a boy say when you invite him over and he finds out that you already live with a boy?”

  I smile, “But Mom, I would never invite a boy over. Inviting boys over only leads to dirty things. And I would never do anything to disgrace my, or my family’s, reputation. Besides, weren’t you always the one who told me to leave the boy at the doorstep with just a kiss on the cheek, leaving him always wanting more? Really, Mom, inviting a boy inside? What do you think I am? A whore?”

  Seriously, I am SO dead.

  “Jessica, if I wanted to talk to a smartass, I would just hang up the phone and talk to your father.”

  Ouch. I hate when she compares me to Dad.

  I don’t respond (mostly because I can’t think of a clever reply to her zinger; damn these paint fumes!), she goes on, “I don’t see why you just can’t move back home until you find a better living situation.”

  Yeah, why don’t I go ahead and stab myself in the eye? I’m pretty sure that would be less painful than moving back home.

  “Mom, I’ll be fine here. Riley’s house is close to my job and the neighborhood’s good and my bedroom here is twice the size of my room in the apartment.”

  She sighs again, “I don’t know what I’m going to do with you, Jessica.”

  “Well, when I was a kid, you always threatened to take me back to the cabbage patch where you allegedly found me. You could try that threat again. It used to be really effective.”

  “Jessica. . .”

  “I’m kidding, Mom. Look, Riley and I aren’t doing anything that would make me blush during Confession. I really am staying in the spare bedroom and paying rent and splitting utilities with him. And, if those little old women at the church bake sales comment on it, tell them that you know all about their trips to Chippendale’s. That’s right, I’ve seen their bank statements. Lust is a sin, you know.”

  “One that I hope you don’t fall victim
too.”

  Seriously, what in the hell is up with all this cryptic language of hers? I’m the one who has been inhaling paint fumes for the past two hours, not her; I should be the one spouting off nonsense.

  “I’ll be fine, Mom. Really.”

  She continues to rattle off reasons why all of this is a horrible idea but I tune her out; it really is easier that way. She finally gives up and ends the phone call.

  I snap my phone shut and stare at Riley who is still in deep conversation with his own mother.

  “Mom, I’ll be fine.” … “I told Jess not to tell you.” … “Because I wanted free paint!” … “Yes, I’m immature.” … “Yes, I know what all this living situation means.” … “What dates?” … “You’ll have grandchildren. Carla’s getting married next week, bother her for grandkids…”

  I laugh quietly as he continues his conversation. To make it less noticeable that I’m eavesdropping, I start closing the paint cans and collecting the brushes and rollers to be cleaned. I stop quickly when Riley drops the ultimatum.

  “I’m keeping secrets, huh? What about your boyfriend?” … “We all know about him.” … “Jess saw you two making out at the paint store!”

  “Thanks for taking me down with you there, Callahan.” I growl at him. He gives me that half-smile of his and I fight the urge to smack it off his face.

  “How long have you two been dating behind my back?” … “Four months? Were you planning on telling me anytime soon?” … “Yes, I know you’re the mother and I’m the son and you’re a forty-eight year old woman who can do damn well whatever she pleases.” … “If you’re happy then I’m happy. But Carla and I didn’t even know about it.” … “Yes, I preferred hearing it from Jess than from you.” He is still looking at me and gives me a wink. “I just want you to be safe.” … “Not just about sex. . . you’re having sex with him?!”

  Riley moves his phone from his ear to stare at it in disbelief. I take it out of his hand.

  “Hey Ms. Callahan, it’s Jess.”

  “Did I just give Riley a stroke?” She asks, laughing lightly.

  I look at Riley carefully. He’s not clutching at his chest or hyperventilating, just staring at the phone at my ear in absolute fear.