I smile and snicker. Selia practices Morgan’s theories, but I missed a lecture—putting myself as the one. I see another message from my mother. “Brandon is going to rehab. He’ll miss your graduation, but Daphne will be with us.”
My brother. Alcoholic. Player. Trouble.
I have an honest moment where the words change. Brandon is a depressed, lost soul. And then, it hits. He isn’t alone.
We were the alphabet siblings.
I inherited sadness from my mother.
My psyche was the sole reason for my studies in psychology. My eldest brother, Alan, died at three when he fell into a neighbor’s pool and drowned. Brandon was one, but instead of my parents going onto C with the next baby, they put me back at A—Abigail Renata Maines. Renata, meaning born again, and also my mother’s maiden name.
No one calls me Abigail, except for my mother. It’s a curse.
And myself—Abs—when I am scared shitless.
My father nicknamed me Echo after his Korean grandmother, who I never knew. My father was ethnically blended with a Korean mother and an American father. My mother was Scandinavian. When I told Selia I was part Korean, she didn’t believe me until I introduced her to my parents.
“Your father looks Korean!” she shouted as soon as we arrived home.
I laughed, “Yeah, no shit.”
“And you look like a white girl!”
“Good thing you didn’t study genetics. Bottle blonde goes a long way.”
My sister, Caroline, would be born next, but my mom miscarried.
My parents went on to D with Daphne.
I carried the burden of Alan’s death for my entire life, and my mother’s grief led to my attempting to earn her attention by being the super-achiever—straight-A student, book worm, head cheerleader, and soccer star. I was popular but quiet…until he came along.
He slipped into the perfect snow globe I had created.
I fell in love.
And then, he shattered it.
I meet José at my favorite Korean restaurant, and we end up talking for hours. During our conversation, I accept the date will not result in the expulsion of seminal fluid in my mouth but cups of tea in my apartment where I confide my sinful study of the male mentality.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” he chuckles after I reveal my tactical strategy. “No guy in his right mind will respond to a rape ad.”
“I think you’re wrong,” I argue, curling my knees under my bottom. “If women have the fantasy, so do men.”
“Yeah, but you’re talking about a guy as rare as you,” he points out. “Most women won’t admit it, and neither will men. You’ll either find a real creeper or hit the lottery but not both. That said…” He runs his finger beneath my chin. “Keep up the innocent look.”
“… Does it work?”
“I don’t know. I’m not a rapist, but purity looks good on you.”
In short, we become friends as my one meager attempt at dating ends up going nowhere. I’m put off, full of despair, and frankly, done with romance. I’m not getting anywhere.
I know it is one date. But better to pull out (no pun intended) now before I have a dozen, leading to a downward spiral of my unworthiness. It isn’t confidence or even a self-esteem thing. The lack of men I find attractive on multiple levels is a real problem.
Take José.
He’s good looking, friendly, and employed, but after speaking with him for several hours, he is way too metrosexual for my tastes. Almost gender fluid. A better fit for Spencer than me.
And that is the problem.
Everyone knows exactly who they are and what they are looking for these days. Subsequently, it’s like looking for a needle in the manure stack. Hay is way too kind of a word for what we’re dealing with. It isn’t just the missing puzzle piece; the piece was never made.
Dorky guys ignite my mind; buff guys bring on the waterfall between my thighs. Having that—in one package—together? Near impossible. Needle. Shit pile.
Unmanufactured puzzle piece.
Something is always missing.
José is absent of the masculine bravado I desire to sweep me off my feet. His lack of understanding old school courting techniques is a no-go, which means I may as well return to soliciting for a monster.
His attraction to me was about as fleeting as mine for him. He thought I was pretty but real chemistry? We didn’t have it. He managed to compliment my physique by telling me I had a nice rack and ass. I told him he had a nice smile. He’s a pretty boy who would do well in a gay disco with tight pants and a g-string.
But that’s the thing.
I can assess what everyone else needs, but knowing what I need?
Fuck it.
After washing our cups, he departs with a hug and words that would haunt my mind for hours. “Save your dick sucking for someone who earned it.”
Would my rapist earn it?
It doesn’t matter. At least, not in my mind.
Spencer and his flavor of the month (the one on the landing) are heading for dinner and a show. I note the twinkle in Spencer’s eyes; he is checking out José.
Great.
A love connection.
Just not my own.
The three chat for a minute. Flavor’s name is Rod. I think I’ll stick with Flavor. Or maybe expand it to Flavored Rod. I have no doubt there will be a lot of banging going on next door.
Gay ménage, anyone?
I’ll get the rundown from Spencer in a few days. The odd thing is in the cluster of Spencer, Flavored Rod, and José—José proves to be quite the man. Dare I say, gentleman? It’s weird. He’ll extend his arm for them but refuse to open a door for me.
Interpersonal gender dynamics are fascinating.
One girl’s trash is another man’s prince charming, or something like that.
I can break it down even further.
My baby sister, Daphne, is the apple of my mother’s eye. They’re best friends—lunch dates, hair appointments, trips to the spa, and vacations for the two of them.
Mom and me?
We barely know each other’s names. She’d never go on a luxurious European train trip with me or have our nails done together while we gossiped over the latest headlines on the trashy magazines.
Sadly, I’ll sit with Brandon and analyze the hell out of our existence over a whiskey bottle because that is who I am. Bran is my person. I didn’t know about rehab, but I knew he was considering it when I brought up the ad.
He knows.
And he thinks I am crazy.
I think he is crazy for following our Dad’s genetic trait—both of them—booze and philandering. We grew up with the knowledge of our Dad’s affairs. They started after Alan passed when my mother essentially died. Brandon has a few memories, those precious moments, where he remembers her happy and whole.
Alan’s death broke my family.
I should have healed her, but fate wasn’t so friendly, and it would be five years later before the presence of Daphne would cauterize the wound.
I seek refuge in a hot bubble bath with my favorite explicit piece of fiction. It was written by (presumably) some girl online and always brought waves of pleasure to my aching core.
Not tonight.
Tonight, I want the real thing.
Tonight, I want dick.
But not just any dick.