“But you like girls,” he says. “You know that.”
I nod. “I do. But sexuality is just a part of who we are, it’s not everything. And just because you like girls, doesn’t mean your life is magically easier, either. Believe me.”
“I just don’t know what I like. Sometimes I like them. There’s a girl in my math class, Natalie, she’s so pretty. But I don’t want to kiss her or get with her or anything like that. I’d just paint her portrait…if I could paint.” He pauses and makes a groaning sound. “I can’t believe I’m talking to you about this…if Sarah or Dad knew…”
I don’t bother reminding him that we have talked about this before and I still haven’t told them and never will. Noah isn’t sure where he stands, whether he’s gay or bi or ace or queer and all I can do for him is be a sounding board. He has new friends now but I’m not sure if he’s confided in them or not. I wouldn’t blame him for not, the last thing you want when you’re in a hoighty-toighty high school is for rumors to start spreading, even if your friends seem like you. California is extremely open-minded but kids will be kids and kids are often cruel.
“You know I wouldn’t tell them anything,” I say. “It’s between you and them. And if you want to wait until you have it all figured out, I can’t blame you. Maybe this is just a confusing time for you…hell, maybe you already know what you want and you’re just catching up. But you know whenever you need to talk about it, you can talk to me.”
“It’s weird though,” he says.
“Look, mate, you’re my brother. I don’t care if it’s not through blood, but you are. And you’re also my friend. Believe me, I do anything for my friends, no matter how weird it gets.”
My mind floats back to last night.
He seems to think that over and we lapse into silence. I give him control of the radio and soon we’re cruising down toward Venice Beach, listening to an oldies station of all things.
“I just don’t know what he’d do,” he finally says while The Byrds sing on about every season, turn, turn, turn. “Honestly…I think I’m afraid of him. Like, not that I’ll just get yelled at or he’ll even disown me. That he’d hurt me.”
I give Noah a sharp look. “If your father ever touches you, you call me. I’m serious, Noah. You call me right away and I’ll deal with it. So help me god, I will give him back good what he’s given.”
He nods. “I don’t think your mother would do anything. No offense.”
I sigh. “None taken.” God, I hope she would do the bloody right thing. “But still. If at any moment you’re afraid for whatever reason, you call me and I’ll come get you. You can stay with me and Scooby for as long as you want.”
I’d like to think that Noah is exaggerating in his fears, I mean what son hasn’t imagined his father whooping his arse over something he did wrong. But in this case, Noah hasn’t done anything wrong and Daryl can be a violent son of a bitch. Not only does he have a bad reputation in the industry for berating and bullying colleagues and clients, but I’ve seen him lose his shit on pretty much everyone in the house, including Rosalie. I haven’t seen him hit anyone, but there have been times where I was sure everyone was seconds away from disaster.
Daryl also started out as a Marine in a longline of marines until a leg injury put him on a different path. Naturally his daughter ends up being a rocker who goes to the east coast with the first guy she fell in love with just to escape him and his teenage son is grappling with his sexuality and the apparent consequences of just being himself.
“As soon as I turn eighteen, I’m right out the door,” he says. “Jane went to the east coast when she could no longer stand it. You were here for what, a year, before you decided to go to Berlin for school.”
“Two years,” I tell him.
“Well as soon as I can, I’m gone. I might even drop out of school.”
“You are not dropping out of school,” I snap at him. “I don’t care how bad it gets, you are not doing that. That will fuck over your whole life. You keep going to school. If it gets bad, we’ll get you out of that house. I promise.”
He watches me for a moment, his green eyes narrowed into a squint, as if he’s trying to read the truth from my face. Then he sits back in his seat. “You better keep that promise.”
“I always do,” I tell him.
When we pull into the parking lot at the beach, Noah opens his backpack and takes out a mascara and a vial of lipstick, pulls down the visor’s mirror and starts running the lipstick’s wand over his lips, painting them a mauve shade.
“Where did you get those?” I ask.
“I didn’t steal them off your mother, if that’s what you’re wondering,” he says, eyes narrowed in concentration as he makes a precise line around his lips before smoothing it out. The kid is like a fucking pro.
“And where did you learn to do that?”
He gives me a close-lipped smirk. “It’s not hard to put on liquid lipstick, you know. Also, I follow a load of makeup artists on YouTube. I want to master contouring next but…we’ll see.”
I want to point out that with his angular face, he doesn’t need the contouring but I let it be. Clearly this makes him happy.
“And don’t worry,” he adds as he swipes on the mascara, “I’ll take all of this off before we go back home.”
I wish Noah lived in a house where he didn’t have to do that but at this point, it’s better to be safe than sorry.
“Ready to go?” I ask.
He nods, beaming at his appearance. It’s the first real smile I’ve seen on him all day. “Ready.”
We head out to the promenade and do the typical tourist thing that even locals will indulge in every now and then—people watching. Even though the weather in May can be volatile and it’s been fairly cold and gloomy as of late (which I love, reminds me of home), the beach is still packed.
There’s plenty to see. We pass people on rollerblades, break-dancers, people playing basketball, dogs pulling wagons filled with smaller dogs, fire-breathers, jugglers and several people on unicycles. I don’t see Scooby anywhere and I wonder if the unicyclists are stepping on his turf. They’d probably have a jousting match to settle it all. Now that would be entertaining.
Eventually we get ice cream like my mother had suggested and when that’s done, Noah goes over to talk to an artist who is painting sunsets on tiny canvases with pastels.
I finally text back Marina. I’m with Noah. He’s been having a hard time so I took him to Venice for ice cream. Want to come join?
She texts back right away. I would, even if I didn’t feel like driving allllll the way down there. But we’re not supposed to see each other outside of our dates, remember?
Oh right. So I guess that means you don’t want to come to our show tonight in Burbank.
Would if I could but I can’t. We’re still on for our date on Tuesday, right? The weather should hold up.
Why what are we doing?
The bees, remember?
Fuck.
Right. The bees.
You promised.
I did.
Three dots appear and then disappear and I feel my pulse quickening with it. Is she backing out? I mean, I’m not crazy about the idea of donning a bee suit and having them swarm around me, or god forbid, get trapped in my suit somehow, but I’ll do it for her.
She texts: We could do something else…
No, I want to do the bee thing. I imagine you like Candyman, in complete horrifying control of them.
I’ve never been compared to Candyman before. I like it.
“Your girlfriend again?” Noah says and I look up to see him nodding at my phone, watching me with a wary expression.
“I told you, I don’t have a bloody girlfriend.”
“Dude, you always have a girlfriend.”
“Not right now I don’t.”
“Then who do you keep texting and smiling like an idiot?”
I’m smiling like an idiot? I try and rein it in.
; “It’s just Marina.”
“The hot blonde?” I give him a look. “What?” he says. “I told you I think girls are hot. I just don’t want to stick my tongue down their throat.”
“Well I don’t want to stick my tongue down Marina’s throat either,” I tell him. “We’re just friends.”
But even though what I just said was completely juvenile, it feels like a total lie.
And now Noah is looking at me like he doesn’t believe a word of it either.
“We’re just friends,” I repeat. Friends who are dating each other for fun. But there’s no way I’m getting into that with Noah right now. Everything is already starting to feel complicated and we’ve only just begun.
Chapter Seven
Marina
“Easy Tiger”
“So what date is this?” Naomi asks with a sigh. “And yes, I’m doing air quotes when I say the word date.”
“Date number two,” I tell her. I wasn’t going to tell Naomi about what Laz and I were doing because she’d think the both of us were out of our minds and surprise, she thinks Laz and I are out of our minds.
“I just don’t understand any of it,” she says. “Why are you pretending to date each other? Why not just actually date each other?”
“Because we’re friends and only friends,” I remind her. “Laz doesn’t like me that way. I don’t like him that way.”
“Mmm hmmm,” she muses slowly. “You sound like you’re in grade school.”
“Because you seem to have a hard time understanding platonic relationships. It’s not getting physical. And we’re not, like falling in love with each other or anything.”
“Yet.”
I roll my eyes even though she can’t see me. “There is no yet. Laz and I are friends just as much as you and I are friends.”
“Right,” she says dryly.
“Naomi, you of all people, I expected to be supportive.”
“You really thought I would be supportive? Oh. Let me guess, you haven’t told Jane yet?”
“Hell no. She’d disapprove.”
“As do I.”
“Look, you know I have a problem so why not use Laz to solve that problem? I mean it makes perfect sense.”
Doesn’t it?
“Marina, your problem, and your only problem, is that you haven’t met the right guy yet. That’s it. There’s no magic fix to this. It’s the law of averages and the law of luck and the law of putting yourself out there that eventually you’re going to find the right guy.”
“I don’t think I like all these laws.”
“I know you think Laz is helping you, but honestly, as much as I like the guy, I wouldn’t take his advice seriously.”
“Why not?”
“Because…I know this is going to sound crude, but he fucks anything that walks.”
“He does not!” I cry out. “He has standards. He has girlfriends. He doesn’t sleep around.”
“Uh-uh. I don’t trust this whole serial monogamy thing. I think it’s bullshit. I think it’s a way for him to be a manwhore and a playboy and whatever else you want to call him without being slammed for it.”
“First of all, men don’t get slammed for being players. Girls do. And Laz isn’t the type of guy who would care what people think either way.”
“He’s an odd duck, I’ll give him that. But don’t kid yourself about him. He’s good as a friend but that’s about it. The guy can’t hold down a relationship to save his life. There’s a reason for that and one you don’t need to find out.”
“Naomi,” I whine, “we’re just friends and that’s it. This isn’t actually dating. We aren’t sleeping together. God, he hasn’t even kissed me yet.”
“Yet. See? Yet. Before you know it, you’ll be friends with benefits.”
“That only works if you just meet each other and decide to be fuckbuddies. We aren’t fuckbuddies. It’s too late for that. We’re just buddies. And I do want his advice because I think he knows what’s best for me.”
“Yeah, his dick.”
I groan. “I shouldn’t have told you.”
“You’re right, you probably shouldn’t have. But since you’re doing this anyway, let me know what his piercing looks like. Is it the Prince Albert or the Jacob’s Ladder or something else entirely...”
Back when Naomi and I first met Laz, we were intrigued by his supposed dick piercing, which led to many nights at our apartment drinking wine and googling all the possibilities.
Of course now, I’ve pretty much forgotten all about it.
Well, kind of. I know I shouldn’t think about his dick at all but the truth is I often do.
I think about how big it is.
What piercing he has.
What his balls look like.
If he hangs to the left or the right.
Actually, I know that last one. He hangs to the right. Hey, if he’s going to wear those tight, rock star jeans at his shows, then I’m going to notice his dick.
And, honestly, it hasn’t really been a problem for me. But now…I don’t know. Every single sexual thought I’ve ever had about Laz suddenly seems completely inappropriate now that we’re fake dating each other.
“Marina?” Naomi asks.
“Yeah, I’m here.”
“God, you’re thinking about his penis, aren’t you?”
“I’m going to go now.” I pause. “And please don’t use the word penis.”
She chuckles. “Okay. Well good luck on your date. Just remember, you’re lovely just the way you are.”
There’s no use telling Naomi that Laz pretty much said that exact same thing during our first date (except with Laz’s accent, when he says it, it comes out as “louvlay”). I can’t blame her for being cynical though. Even with her and Robert’s couples counseling session tomorrow, she still has an uphill battle when it comes to their relationship.
I glance out the window. The gloom we’ve had for the last while has lifted and it’s a brilliantly hot and sunny day. No breeze either, which is good for the bees. It tends to make them agitated and the last thing we need on this date is for them to get all hot and bothered. I know Laz hasn’t quite come out and said that he’s afraid of bees but it’s going to take a lot of convincing to get him in his bee suit.
I make myself a cup of tea with some raw honey, courtesy of the girls, then slip on my jeans and a T-shirt and head outside, the grass wonderfully soft on my feet. Barbara has been more than generous letting me turn the entire backyard beyond the pool area into my own oasis. It can get expensive with all the water bills but luckily she doesn’t care.
There’s a nice strip of lawn running up to the hives and the rest of the yard is sand and gravel, evenly split between drought-tolerant plants to keep things eco-friendly and flowers that attract bees. Since lavender hits both those targets, I’ve planted lavender absolutely everywhere.
I take in a deep breath, letting the sun warm me from above and the ground warm me from below. There’s something to be said for walking barefoot, especially on grass. It’s actually scientifically proven to help ground you.
I make a mental note of it to tell Laz later.
Then I stop myself. Today it’s not Laz coming over but his alter-ego, Carl McNaughty, back for date number two, and if I’ve learned something from our night at the comedy club, it’s that Marina can talk about bees and scientific facts about walking barefoot all she wants with Laz but she can’t with Carl or whatever Joe Blow I’ll be dating in the future. Marina should also refrain from talking about herself in the third person.
I sigh. This whole thing is both fun and frustrating. The entire date, I kept looking at Laz and wondering why the hell I was doing this with him? Meaning, why did he have to pretend to be someone else? Why did I have to pretend to be someone else? I mean, I may not have had a fake name (I do today, because why should he have all the fun), but I still couldn’t act like myself. Why couldn’t we just…
I don’t want to think about it. I keep wanting to t
hink about it. It keeps pressing at the back of my head, like it’s looking for a way inside, and I keep putting up the internal walls and barricades to stop it. I don’t want to indulge that part of me because it’s getting trickier and more dangerous by the minute.
All the years I’ve known Laz, I’ve put my feelings for him to the side until I convinced myself there were no feelings at all. I’ve told myself over and over again that whatever things I’ve felt, whether it be jealousy, attraction and lust, hell, even enough desire that I’ve brought out my vibrator more than once, that it wasn’t based in anything. I’ve actively worked hard to see Laz as a friend and just a friend, all the while it would have been so incredibly easy to just give in and just admit to myself that I want him.
Not just as a friend, though. Not even close.
That’s probably why I’m so all over the place. Part of me wants him to teach me how to seduce men, only just for the chance that I can actually seduce him or visa versa. The other part of me is terrified of the idea—like him kissing me, touching me—because I think, I know, the moment he does that, every single thing is going to change.
Everything.
Naomi was right. It doesn’t make sense for Laz to do this. We don’t have to pretend to date each other. He could just give me a few pointers. I mean, I learned enough about how I am on a date the first time that there’s really zero need for a second one.
I think he knows that too. He must. Why else would he be doing this?
Because he feels sorry for you, you spaz, I remind myself. Sure sometimes I think I catch this darkness in Laz’s eyes, like he’s looking at me with some sort of raw lust. But at this point, I’m pretty sure that’s just Laz and how he is. He’s brooding. He’s in his head a lot. I never know what that guy is thinking but I’m pretty sure he’s not thinking of me sexually whatsoever.
Yeah, sometimes he says really sweet things, even romantic at times. But he’s a poet, it’s pretty much his job. I’ve seen him charm the pants off the old ladies at the grocery store too.