Jerk Magnet

Violet

I set my shopping basket on the conveyer belt with a thump, looking at the contents with new interest. Mom was right. I should have written a list. All the way from San Diego to Oceanside, I continued to remember things I had forgotten to pack. By the time we got here, I knew we had to make a quick swing through Target before checking into the hotel.

Mr. Methodical has organized every item by size and color to fit perfectly in the bottom of the small shopping basket. Who does that? And in two seconds, the same amount of time it would have taken me to toss them all in there randomly. But no, he has systematically arranged them to look like a basket in a Target commercial . . . better, actually.

The longer I look, the more interesting this becomes. I’m a software programmer. I naturally look for patterns and similarities when I’m working on a project, and there is more than one trend going on here.

Vitamins and Ibuprofen are in one corner, body wash and deodorant in another—yeah, I forgot my damn deodorant. Contact solution and Band-Aids are nestled in next to shaving cream and razors, and most amusing is the placement of the tampons next to a box of condoms. I can’t help but chuckle at that one.

This week is going to be the perfect opportunity for a much needed one-night- stand.

I suck at relationships. I notoriously choose the worst guys possible. I’m a jerk magnet, pure and simple. My last boyfriend, Luke, had a serious case of wandering eye. The piece of shit would blatantly check out other women and even flirt with them when we were together. One year later, I got fed up and ended it. He admitted he was a cheater—yeah, big surprise—and he told me I was too laid back. So when did not being an uptight nag become a deal breaker? Before that, I was in several short relationships, never longer than six months, which was just long enough for me to become bored and unchallenged.

“What are you staring at, Vie?” Mom asks.

“Look at this, Mom. That guy has my stuff organized by color, package size and category. It’s interesting but . . . weird.”

She looks into the basket and tilts her head. “What made you notice that?”

“I just do,” I say and shrug.

“He’s probably a Marine. Did you see how well dressed he was? He was dressed like he gives a damn. Your father used to be organized like that, and a snappy dresser too.”

I look at her with one brow lifted high. “He may be a Marine, but daddy wasn’t this anal. He liked things in their place, but this . . . this is strange.”

“Oh, I’m not so sure. He was a very tidy man.”

My basket rolls away, and the cashier dismantles the work of art my crash buddy created for me.

“He was an ass,” I say.

“Your father? He was most certainly not an ass,” she says, defending my dad.

“No, Mother, the guy who crashed into me and got all OCD with my stuff.”

“Oh, well yes, I guess maybe a little. He was really hot though,” she says, fanning herself with the copy of Glamour magazine that she’s been thumbing through since we got in line.

“Oh my God, Mother, he was at least fifteen years younger than you.”

“So?”

I huff and ignore her. I don’t want to hear any more about my mother’s new interest in younger men. Her cougarism is so uncharacteristic of her, sometimes I wonder if she’s really my mom. She’s a very attractive fifty-year-old woman. Sometimes, people mistake her for my sister, but I can’t see her with anyone but my father.

Dad was twenty years older than Mom, and he’s been gone for three years, but no man will ever compare to Major General Lamar Washington. Ever. He was honorable, strong, courageous, and above all, loyal to his country and his family. He was a true Marine. Semper Fidelis.

“Oh Vie, I was kidding—well, kind of. He was gorgeous, but you know I’d never steal from your pool of potential suitors. I had the love of my life for twenty-five years. I’ll never find another like him, and I want nothing more than for you to have that kind of love too, honey.”

I’m not worried about her thinning the fish in the sea. Like I said, I’m not interested. I just want to find someone to have meaningless sex with this week—simple as that.

A gust of warm wind hits me in the face when we walk through the automatic doors. I squint into the sun when we step into the parking lot.

“Mom, if you date somebody that young, please don’t bring him home for Thanksgiving, okay?”

She shoves my shoulder with the palm of her hand as we load my bags into the car together and chuckle.

When we arrive at the hotel, we check in at the front desk and dump our bags in our room. We have ten minutes to get to the Marine Memorial golf course, where we are meeting the wedding party for nine holes of golf followed by dinner and, God willing, a lot of drinks.

In the lobby, we bump into my brother’s good friend, Kimber West. Kimber, my brother, Taye, his friend, Mattie, and I used to hang out in high school. I haven’t talked to her in a long time. She’s married to a Marine, and I heard she’s part of the wedding party, but she’s alone this afternoon.

“Hey, Kimber, how are you? My gosh, it’s been so long,” I say, side hugging the brunette bombshell.

“Oh hi! Gosh, I know. We need to do a better job of staying in touch.”

“I keep an eye on you through Facebook, you know,” I say, swinging two fingers from my eyes to hers in an ‘I’m watching you’ gesture.

“Ah, that’s right. I heard you got your dream job. Congratulations.” Her genuine smile reaches all the way to her eyes, and she turns to greet my mother, “Hi, Mrs. Washington, how have you been?”

“Oh great, honey. It’s good to see you. Call me Lilly, though. Mrs. Washington sounds so old,” Mom whispers.

“Where’s Caleb? You guys must have gotten here early,” I say.

Kimber’s face falls when I mention her handsome Marine husband, Caleb.

“We’re divorced,” she says. Her eyes fill with tears, and I step in to hug her, muffling an apology into her thick hair.

“I’m so sorry, Kimber. I didn’t know.”

She hugs me tight and steps away sniffling. Mom hands her a tissue, and that’s when I notice the bump. It’s small but noticeable on Kimber’s slight frame. She’s pregnant. Her hands flutter to her tummy after she dabs at her eyes.

“It’s been a big change, but I’ll be okay. I’m just . . .” She tips her head back, trying hard to hold back the tears, but they start to flow, and I feel like I’ve torn a scab off a healing wound. I never saw anything on Facebook about her and Caleb getting a divorce, but then again, I don’t make it a habit to troll through my friends’ pages regularly.

Mom gathers her up into a comforting hug. She looks at me over Kimber’s shoulder with a question in her eyes and I shrug. I don’t know what to do. I have no idea what’s going on. I can’t imagine Caleb leaving his wife, let alone leaving her when she’s pregnant. Maybe the baby is the reason for the divorce. Maybe Kimber cheated on him and she’s having another man’s baby. Maybe Caleb didn’t want to have kids. Maybe there’s something wrong with the baby.

About three hundred scenarios flash through my head before my mom and Kimber break their embrace.

“I’m so sorry. I thought I was past all this damn crying, but being here and seeing him again is harder than I thought it would be.” She wraps her arms around her waist above her pregnant belly, attempting to pull herself together.

I’ve had my heart stomped on and I’ve been humiliated by men, but all of my shitty experiences rolled up in one probably don’t equal the pain Kimber must be suffering.

“Don’t be sorry for crying. Come, we can go sit and talk for a while. It might do you some good,” I say, motioning toward the lobby.

“Oh no, no. I know you’re on your way to the golf outing. I don’t want to keep you. This weekend is about Mattie and Belle. I was going to try and play a hole or two, but I think I’d better go lay down for a bit instead.”

“For heaven’s sakes, Kim, we don’t mind missing golf to catch up with a friend,” Mom says.

“No, I insist. You’ll make me feel worse if you don’t go. I remember how much you love golf, Vie. Go have fun, and tell everyone hello for me, will you?”

“Of course I will, but are you sure? We could go sit in the restaurant and get something to eat.”

“I’m sure. Thank you though.”

Mom and I hug Kimber and watch her step into the elevator that will take her back to her room, where I imagine she will spend the afternoon crying. When the doors slide shut, I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding.

“My God, Mom, he left her and she’s pregnant.”

“We don’t know the whole story, honey. Let’s go. Maybe Caleb will be there and we can ask him what in the Sam Hill is going on,” she says.

“Okay, yeah. I think he’s a groomsman. I still can’t believe he’d do this. I can’t be held responsible if I kick him in the nuts, Mom.”

“Easy now, firecracker. Let’s hear him out before you do any nut kicking.”

On the way to the golf course, I keep trying to imagine how Kimber must be feeling. She’s alone and pregnant and sad, but one thought plays on repeat in my mind.

I’d rather start out knowing that I’m doing it alone with no expectations. If I’m relying on myself, then only I can let me down, and I know I wouldn’t do that. Relationships are poisonous. They’re wolves in sheep’s clothing. Everything starts out all sparkly and full of hope, and just when you think you’ve finally got it figured out, BAM! Somebody cheats, or they’re bored with you, or worse, both. And then there are the commitment issues and the baggage. It never ends. There are a million excuses to leave a relationship, and only one good reason to stay: true love. Since I don’t believe in it anymore, I’m sticking with myself.