Shadows and Lies Page 3

  “I don’t know how much more dutiful they want you to be. I mean, just last week you went over there to help your dad install insulation under the floorboards of their house. It’s not your fault Nancy didn’t come out while you were there, so how much more dutiful can you be? What do they expect from you?” Genny ranted. She took a deep calming breath. “So what did you do?”

  “I slid down the wall next to my bed and sat on the floor and cried like a baby for about a half an hour,” I said, shaking my head in disgust at the memory, though I understood why I had melted down. I was the one feeling betrayed then, and I’d cried till my stomach ached, then slept the sleep of the dead.

  “God, that man should get hit by a car,” Genny said ruthlessly as the microwave beeped and she took out a plate of hor’dourves. “Well, now I know why your fingers are looking worse than usual. Jesus, he makes me want to slap him upside the head.”

  I nodded, glancing at my hands quickly and then curling them into fists. I had the bad habit of biting my nails and the skin around them till they were raw and bleeding. I told everyone who asked about them that it was just a nervous habit, but I had come to notice, since moving out, that my fingers tended to look worse right after I’d gone a round with my parents. Conversely, they began to look slightly better when I was away from them.

  But only slightly. It seemed, no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t stop biting my nails.

  The condition of my fingers embarrassed me. I usually tried to hide my fingers from people’s sight, sitting with them tucked under my thighs, or with my arms crossed and my hands tucked into fists as my side. Normally people who knew me well didn’t say anything, but Genny was different. She tried to get me to stop in gentle ways, printing out articles from online on how to break habits or suggesting to me that I should perhaps see a therapist. I ignored her attempts to help me though. I guess a part of me, no matter how embarrassed by my hands, didn’t want to stop. It was like, in some twisted way, I enjoyed biting my nails and fingers. I needed to do it.

  I also needed to change the subject, so I asked, “Want to hear something weird?”

  “What’s that?” Genny asked, looking at me curiously.

  “When I went outside this morning to leave for work, there was a little bouquet of white daisies on my doormat. No name, though. I have no idea who left them there, or why.”

  Genny’s eyebrows shot up in excitement. “Somebody likes you,” she said in a singsong voice.

  I shrugged and blushed. “I don’t know who it could have been. No one I know looks at me like they’re secretly in love with me.”

  “Oh, what do you know?” Genny said, waving her hand as she placed the hor’dourves on the kitchen buffet counter, which opened up into the living room. “You hardly even notice the opposite sex.”

  “It’s more like the opposite sex hardly notices me,” I grumbled. When I looked in the mirror, I saw someone that was marginally pretty when my hair was done and my makeup on. I’d never in a million years call myself a head turner. I had eyes in my head though, and I could appreciate a good looking man. I’d just never bothered to try to take that attraction to the next level, like dating.

  The flowers that had been left for me had been very pretty, though. Tulips were my favorite flower, but daisies came in at a close second. I believe Meg Ryan put it perfectly in that movie, You’ve Got Mail, when she said, “Daisies are such happy flowers.” And they really are. They turned my depressed mood upside down. I put them in a vase and displayed them prominently on the end of my kitchen counter, where I could see them from any angle in my apartment, and I’d been thinking about them and their giver, and not my crazy parents, all day.

  “You need a makeover,” Genny declared as though she’d been reading my mind. I looked at her in horror, but was saved from saying anything by the doorbell, which suddenly chimed.

  Grabbing onto the distraction, I grinned at Genny. “That’s probably Isaac and his friends,” I said.

  Though Genny was forty, she hadn’t managed to find Mister Right, even though some of the guys she’d dated in the past had been fine upstanding citizens. Then Isaac had come along, the last person in the world that I’d thought she’d pick to be her husband forever. Isaac was from Ethiopia, and was a thin man who likely weighed half of what Genny did, though he was inch taller than her. He was also extremely quiet. In fact, Isaac was so quiet that sometimes when he spoke to you he actually mumbled under his breath. During half the conversations I had with him I had to lean in and ask him to repeat himself, which he did quite readily. He was really an easygoing sort of fellow exactly the same age as Genny, who’d come to America in his twenties to escape a really nasty political situation back in his home country.

  Isaac was a US citizen, and had managed to win Genny’s heart. He doted on Genny, treating her like the high-maintenance queen that she was. He’d asked her to marry him after dating for six months, and he’d presented her with a modest diamond ring, a mumbled proposal, and a heart full of love. Genny had given him an ecstatic yes. She had called me that night to tell me the good news, and to say that they’d already picked a date six months down the road: October 30, a Saturday.

  Well, they had one month more to go in their engagement till the big day arrived, and that night was the night of her bridal shower, which Genny and her mom Diana, another tall, wrinkle-free, bossy and beautiful woman, were hosting at Genny’s house because it was big and decorated like she lived in a magazine. It was also a co-ed party, so Isaac would be coming along with all of his male friends, some of whom would be in the wedding party.

  I turned back to my own task, chopping fresh garlic, basil, rosemary and oregano for the pizzas I was making as Genny left to answer the door. Isaac had a key, but he was a polite man, and even though they planned on living in her house after the wedding, he was also a man of high morals. He took Genny’s virtue very seriously, and, Genny had told me, they hadn’t even had sex yet. Isaac had said that it was better to wait till after they were married, because sex was sacred, and it needed the sanctification of marriage.

  Some people might think that Isaac was backward and old-school, but I thought he was gentlemanly and sweet, and it told me a lot about his character that he was willing to wait and treat Genny like a real lady. Isaac gave me hope that maybe, someday, I’d meet a guy who really loved me and treated me like a lady too.

  I heard Genny squeal with delight as I scraped the contents of my cutting board into a big bowl of tomato sauce. It was definitely Isaac at the door for her to react like that; Genny didn’t squeal for just anybody. I heard other male voices, Isaac’s friends, none of whom I’d ever had the chance to meet, and then the kitchen was suddenly filled with bodies, Genny leading the way.

  “I want you guys to meet my maid of honor, Carrie Vitagliano,” Genny said, always the perfect hostess.

  And yes, that really is my maiden name, and yes, I am Italian. I turned to face them with a smile on my face, wiping my garlic hands on a damp towel as Genny introduced Isaac’s friends to me, since I had met and approved of Isaac long ago. “This is Quinn Wang and Paul Martin, the groomsmen, and this is Sean Whalen, Isaac’s best man.”

  I gaped in surprise at Isaac’s friend Sean. He was none other than my scary looking neighbor Baldy, wearing a long-sleeved button up shirt that completely hid his tattoos. I hadn’t spoken to him since the Great Tampon Incident, and I blushed furiously at seeing him again. God, I just wanted to melt into the floor.

  I recovered myself quickly though. I may have felt like a fool staring up at him, but I didn’t want to look like one, at least, not for long. “I know you,” I said boldly, holding my hand out to Sean and flashing him what I hoped was a charming smile. “2009?”

  Genny gave me a puzzled look, and I said by way of explanation, “That’s his apartment number. We live right next to each other.”

  “What a small world,” Genny said as she looked back and forth at the two of us speculatively.

  S
ean looked about as surprised as I felt on seeing me stand before him, but he gave himself a little shake and took my hand into his and shook it. His hand was big and callused and stained from working with motor oil, but it was clean, relatively speaking, and it made my own hand, which was wide and strong from years of hard work at home, look dainty and small. His grip was light and his skin was warm, and all in all, the experience was quite pleasant.

  “Pleased to officially meet you,” he said politely, his voice deep and a little gravelly.

  I looked up into his eyes, which I noticed were the darkest of browns. He had kind, warm eyes, I admitted to myself, and he looked quite different than usual. He had on dressy black pants with a crease running down the legs and black dress shoes, along with that white button down shirt. He wasn’t wearing a tie, but then no one was, and he even had on a splash of cologne or aftershave. He smelled…really good, and despite his tattoos and bald head and plugged ear lobes, he looked… civilized. And actually handsome. I let my guard down a little and relaxed. If he was Isaac’s best man, I figured he probably wasn’t a practicing criminal, and therefore safe to be around.

  “Pleased to officially meet you too,” I said, smiling warmly.

  I then turned to Isaac’s other two friends, Quinn Wang, who was half white and half Chinese, and Paul Martin, who was a Greek if I was any judge of ethnicity. It was a good thing no one in my family was invited to Genny’s wedding, I thought. My grandmother would take one look at him and start screaming bloody murder. A long time ago apparently the Greeks and the Italians were enemies, and she felt the need to keep the war going. My dad and his older sister would back her up in a heartbeat and then the cops would have to be called.

  Yeah, my family’s pretty crazy.

  I shook hands with Paul, and I noticed a ring on his other hand. He noticed me notice. “I came straight from work - I run a carpet cleaning business - but my wife, Debbie, will be coming later with the kids. I’ve got identical twin girls, and one baby boy.” He pulled out his wallet to show me a whole album of plastic swathed pictures. He had baby pictures, toddler pictures, and the always awkward elementary school pictures. “Katie, Kaylee and Kyle,” he said proudly. Kaylee and Katie were missing their front teeth. “And this is one of Debbie,” he said lastly.

  I oohed and awed over his pictures, which weren’t half bad. His kids were cute and his wife was pretty. I was glad to see him so happily domestic, but I also felt a twinge of regret, and maybe some jealousy too. My dad had never in his life carried pictures of me or my sisters in his wallet. He barely acknowledged our existence, and if he did deign to, it was usually because he needed us to help him do some sort of physical labor either around the house or with his business.

  Stop it, I told myself. Now is not the time for a pity party. I turned and looked over Quinn as I shook his hand too, which looked manicured. Was he gay or just metro-sexual?

  “You cooking?” he asked me bluntly.

  I ignored his abrupt tone and turned and showed him the counter-top. “Yup. I’m making pizza from scratch. I guarantee that they’ll be the best you’ve ever tasted.”

  “It’s good that you’re cooking,” Quinn said, his face so serious. “A woman’s place is in the kitchen. Are you married?”

  I stared at him for a moment. Had he really just said that to me? “No,” I said, half in indignation, half in shock. “I’m not married. Are you married?” I pity the fool who married him.

  Quinn shook his head vehemently. “I wouldn’t be caught dead with a wife. All they do is complain. Do you think it’s genetic? The complaining, I mean.”

  I shook my head and looked behind him at Isaac, seeking help. “Is this guy for real?”

  He nodded and mumbled a yes, but it was Sean who spoke up to explain. “He’s something of a misogynistic bastard,” he said, looking very amused at my reaction. “Most people either love him or hate him. Most women hate him.”

  “I assume you love him?” I asked hotly.

  Sean shrugged. “He’s entertaining, if a bit high-maintenance.”

  I laughed and looked at Quinn, who was glowering at the both of us. “Just like a woman,” I teased. “Maybe that’s why you can’t stand my sex.”

  Quinn was about to open his mouth when Sean interrupted, “Especially since he doesn’t get any.”

  “Just for that,” Quinn said haughtily as we all laughed, “I’m withholding my red velvet cheesecake from all of you.” I noticed then that he was holding a box from The Cheesecake Factory. “And I’m not helping to bring in the chairs. You can do that all on your own.”

  Isaac guffawed at Quinn’s childish behavior as Genny slapped him playfully on the arm and took the cheesecake away from him, putting it in the refrigerator. “I don’t think so, Romeo,” she said. “You can’t come to my party and withhold cheesecake from me. Now you get out and help with the chairs, and quit whining when you get dished some of what you serve.” She began to shoo the men out of the kitchen.

  Isaac slapped Quinn on the back as he and Sean turned to leave the kitchen. Isaac was in charge of bringing party chairs, and they were all loaded in the back of Sean’s truck. “Nah, don worr abou i’ Quinny,” he said. I later learned that Quinn hates, with a capital H, being called Quinny. “Lea da wor for da men,” Isaac continued, mumbling as usual. “You jus si’n res yousel, m’ del’ca frien’.”

  Quinn was not about to be left alone in the kitchen with the women, so he followed his friends out to help bring in the chairs, grumbling under his breath about mutiny and the bane of womankind.

  Genny and I laughed and laughed. “That is seriously one of Isaac’s best friends?” I asked.

  She nodded. “Oh, yes. Quinn really isn’t that bad of a guy. I honestly don’t think he believes everything he says, I just think that he enjoys torturing women and watching them get all riled up and indignant at him. It’s a game to him. He’s actually a good friend and very giving. He’s a whiz with computers too.”

  “Giving or not, he’s still a royal pain.” I looked at the fridge. “I may be able to forgive him though. Did he say that that was a red velvet cheesecake?”

  “With white chocolate and almond shavings to garnish it. Yes he did,” Genny nodded, eying the fridge hungrily. “It is the most delightful thing you’ll ever taste, Carrie, and it will make you gain at least five pounds.”

  “Oh, yay,” I hoorayed unenthusiastically.

  We could hear the men come in and begin to open up folding chairs in the living room. “So, how well do you know Sean?” Genny asked me as she continued to set out food for the coming guests.

  “I don’t know him at all,” I said, lifting the cover I’d set over my pizza dough to see how it had risen. Perfect. I took a pizza stone out of the top of Genny’s double-decker oven and began to work my dough into a circle on the hot stone. “I see him sometimes, but we don’t talk. He sort of gives me the willies, what with all his tattoos and his plugged ears.”

  “He’s a nice guy,” Genny said. “You shouldn’t judge him by what he looks like. So he’s got some tattoos. I’ll bet you a hundred bucks he regrets every one of them. I know I regret mine.”

  I gaped at her in surprise. “You have a tattoo?”

  “Tattoos,” Genny corrected. “Yes. From a more wild part of my life. I’d get them removed, but it’s painful and expensive. Fortunately, mine are all in places that can be easily covered by underwear.”

  “Wow,” I said. “You actually have tattoos on your butt?”

  “Yes,” Genny said primly. “And in other places which I am not going to tell you about. So don’t go judging that book by its cover. Sean is a good man and an honest one too. Kind of quiet mostly, but he has a good sense of humor, as you saw. And he’s single too,” she added slyly.

  “I threw a box of Tampons at him,” I said blithely, spreading sauce over my dough.

  “What?” Genny exclaimed, almost dropping the plate of raw veggies she was holding. She giggled. “What did you do?”
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  I told her and she sighed. “Carrie, you have the worst luck with men. How many dates have you been out on since you moved out of the war zone?” That’s what she called the house of my childhood: the war zone.

  “None,” I said sullenly. “I’ve been busy.”

  “And how many dates did you go out on when you lived with your parents?”

  “Um, a couple.”

  “Wrong. Those weren’t real dates. Those were group dates with guys who maybe liked you and that you maybe liked, but you were all just testing the waters and nothing came from any of it. Carrie, you’ve never been on a real date with a guy all by yourself.”

  I bristled, turning to look at her. “So what? I have a good, fulfilling life. I even have hobbies. Please don’t turn into one of those meddlesome married women who feel the need to lecture me on my unfortunate single status. I don’t need a lecture. I’m very happy as I am.”

  “I’m not trying to be meddlesome,” Genny said. “And I know you’re happy with your current existence, but I’m just pointing out that you need to make time for relationships in your life too, and Sean would be a good choice. He’s kind, good-looking and employed. Plus, he lives next door.” She grinned impishly. “It wouldn’t be hard for him to pick you up for a date.”

  “We seriously need to stop talking about this,” I hissed in embarrassment, hearing the men come back into the house with another load of chairs. “If any of them, especially Sean, hears us, I will bite you.”

  Genny laughed and waved me away. “You’re so violent, Carrie, but okay. I’ll stop. For now.”

  Sean came into the kitchen just then and announced, “The chairs are set up.” He looked at Genny apologetically. “You may want to double check on their placement though.”

  Genny rolled her eyes and left the kitchen. Both Sean and I waited for her exclamation of dismay – Genny being a stickler for the My Way Is the Right Way methodology – and we did indeed hear her say, “Oh come on guys. We’re having a party here, not a conference. Chairs should be set in conversational groupings, not rows.”