Bang Theory Page 2

  Theo rests a hand on mine, drawing my attention to the fact that I’ve started shredding my napkin into tiny, sweat-damp pieces.

  “Of course it’s not wrong to want those things,” Theo says, her brown eyes soft with compassion. “You’re the best person I know, Bridge. You deserve all that and a happily-ever-after cherry on top. You deserve the entire dream, girl.”

  “I hate it when people say that,” Willa says with a long-suffering sigh. “I mean, we don’t get what we deserve, you know? Life isn’t fair. If it were, I wouldn’t be banished to the chair at the back of the shop while Veronica, the worst hairdresser known to woman kind, gets prime real estate at the front just because she’s old and her hip is made of plastic or whatever.”

  “Or, you know, children wouldn’t starve or people get forced from their homes by war and stuff,” Abby says. I don’t know her as well as the others, but that makes me think I’d like to be closer friends. Maybe I’ll invite her to the next recipe review night at my place. Theo does the main course, I do dessert, and my big sister Kirby brings salad.

  Abby could do side dishes or just take over salads, since Kirby is such a hopeless cook that she somehow manages to botch the act of cleaning raw vegetables and putting them in a bowl.

  “But just because life isn’t fair,” Abby continues, “That doesn’t mean every human being doesn’t deserve a chance at making their dreams come true. You know, as long as their dream isn’t to become an axe-murderer or something. And yeah, we may not find what we’re looking for, and that sucks, but we were absolutely born to be happy and loved.”

  “I think you’re all right,” Colette says diplomatically as her gaze homes in on me. “But I have a more pressing question—who is this person who reminded you how nice it is to kiss, Miss Bridget? I need details, woman. The steamier the better. You know I live for romantic gossip!”

  My cheeks, which have only recently returned to room temperature, catch fire all over again. “I can’t talk about it.”

  The second the words are out of my mouth, the energy in the room goes desert-watering-hole-after-a-rain electric. Every woman leans forward, muscles tense and claws bared, ready to pounce and rip the secret from my gossip-withholding throat.

  “Oh my God,” Theo says, her jaw dropping. “Who is it?! I can’t believe you didn’t tell me you’ve been making out with someone, Bridget! Spill it right now.”

  “Not making out. It was just one time. One kiss,” I mumble, wishing I could turn back time and stuff my words back in my stupid mouth.

  “But one kiss with who?” Theo demands, now bouncing on the couch beside me. “Oh my God! It’s Jake! The gardener at the B&B, right? Oh, he’s so cute! And in incredible shape. I could look at his calves all day. There’s nothing like a strong, sexy calf with a little bit of mud smeared on it.” She sighs, lashes fluttering. “And a guy who can keep your leafy greens from getting moldy in the spring? So. Hot.”

  “Gardening is hot,” Nancy agrees with a knowing nod.

  “It’s not Jake,” I say, breaking out in a sweat beneath my short-sleeved sweater.

  “Oh, I know! It’s T.J. the bartender!” Colette sings, fluttering her fingers an extra foot above her blond head. “The really tall one, right? He’s such a doll, and he was totally checking you out at happy hour last week! You two would be darling together, Bridget. Double the freckles!”

  “I want to go to happy hour,” Willa says, pushing her lips into a pout at being excluded, while Nancy chirps, “I love happy hour, too!”

  “No, you’re all wrong. It’s someone else.” Abby’s eyes narrow as she taps the egg toy to her pursed lips, making me uncomfortable even though I’m sure these are perfectly sanitary display models straight out of the package. “With unexpected hookups, it’s almost always someone who’s been flying under the radar. Like a friend or coworker who makes a sudden play for more.”

  “Um, I d-don’t think that’s true,” I stammer, floundering. I’m not equipped for this! They are gossip lions and I’m a socially inept gazelle who’s wandered into a sex-toy party thinking I could hang with the big dildos.

  But I can’t.

  I have never so much as touched a dildo. Until today, I’d never even seen one up close. And it’s been nearly two years since I’ve had a close encounter with a real-life penis. And I guess a real-life penis should be more intimidating than a fake penis, but all this humming, buzzing, too-soft plastic gives me the creeps.

  I don’t belong here.

  And if I stay, one of these savvy women is going to guess the truth, and I can’t let that happen.

  Shep isn’t just one of my best and oldest friends. He’s like family. I swore to him that I would never tell anyone about that night.

  About our slipup.

  About that kiss and the way he pushed me against the wall and devoured my mouth like it was the most delicious pastry ever baked, making my brain explode and my body feel things I’ve never felt before.

  Until Shep’s lips met mine, I didn’t know a kiss could turn my bones to jelly, make my head spin, make previously undiscovered carnal instincts rise inside me like a starving animal, ready to claw a man’s clothing to shreds.

  I do have some lion in me, I guess, but only with Shep.

  Shep, who is off-limits.

  Shep, who doesn’t want anyone to know we’re anything but good friends.

  Shep, who made it clear when he moved out of my spare room to rent an apartment of his own for the rest of his brief stay in town that he regrets kissing me as much as I regret coming to this party.

  Pulse racing, I grab my purse and surge to my feet. “Too much coffee—gotta hit the ladies’ again. Anyone want me to go for you?”

  “Ha. What a funny joke,” Willa says dryly before turning to catch Colette’s gaze across the table. “So, while Little Miss Tight-Lips tinkles, I want to talk about anal. Are we still doing anal? Or is that like, so two years ago?”

  I flee to the bathroom, silently thanking the universe for Willa.

  She’s an unexpected savior, but I’ll take mercy where I can get it.

  Skipping the bathroom, I pad down the hall to the window at the end and flip the latch. Thankfully, the pane slides up without a sound, and I’m able to slip out onto the fire escape.

  Five minutes later, I’ve shimmied down the ladder, hopped off onto the concrete in the alley behind Colette’s place, and scurried back to where I parked my bicycle.

  I tug my phone out of my bag, shooting a quick text to Theo—Guest drama at the B&B, have to head back and put out a few fires. Tell Colette thank you so much for the invite and apologize for my quick exit, pretty please?

  Almost instantly, Theo shoots back the longest text stream ever, proving her fingers are as fast as her lips—You ran away!!! I can’t believe you ran away! But you’re going to tell ME who you’re making out with, right? I’m your best friend! You have to tell me. It’s, like, the rules of Friend Club. And the curiosity might literally kill me if you don’t. Dead, Bridge. I could die from not knowing these juicy details!

  Pulse picking up again, I reply—Talk later. Gotta go. Love you!

  Then I swing a leg over my bike, jam my helmet on my head, and pedal away.

  I do not, however, take time to click the buckle under my chin into place.

  If I had, my afternoon—indeed my whole life—might have ended very differently…

  Chapter Two

  Bridget

  I know it’s impossible, but I swear I see it all go down like I’m a bird coasting by on the breeze.

  I have vivid memories of it later—the tabby cat swishing by the potted plant, knocking it off the ledge of a second-story balcony just as a gust of wind blows my helmet from my head. I can see the pot falling, falling, hurtling end over end until it lands with a sick crack on my undefended skull, sending bits of terra cotta, dirt, and shriveled, dead fern exploding all over the sidewalk.

  That’s the part that really gets to me—that the fern was dead.
It had no reason to be in the pot on the edge of the ledge. That fern was beyond the help of sunlight or rain. The cat was right to put the poor thing out of its misery.

  I just wish it had done so after I was safely out of range.

  I fall to the ground, amazed by how fast the concrete rushes up to meet me, and then everything goes dark.

  But not dark like the grave or the center of a black hole. Dark like the inside of a theater, right before the curtain goes up. It’s darkness filled with possibility, a held breath before a voice breaks into song.

  So I’m not surprised when a light flickers on in the distance.

  “Hello?” I ask, squinting into the glare. It’s a window, I realize, as I move tentatively closer. A window overlooking an apple orchard where a fabulous woman in an old-fashioned gown lounges beside a man dressed like the White Rabbit from Alice in Wonderland.

  Except this man is wearing pants along with his waistcoat and oversized watch.

  “Hello?” I call again, leaning through the now open pane, though I can’t remember turning the latch or lifting it up. I glance back over my shoulder, worried that there’s something I’ve forgotten, some other place I’m supposed to be, but I can’t remember what or where at the moment.

  And now the woman is beckoning me closer, “Oh, do come take a seat on the blanket, dear. We’ve been waiting for you and we have so much to share.”

  “Really?” I climb through the window, amazed at how easy it is to pop out into the sunshine-filled world on the other side and how soft the grass feels beneath my bare feet. I look down, wiggling my toes as my pink slip dress flutters in the gentle breeze. It’s a sexy scrap of a thing, revealing far more cleavage than anything I own, but it feels right, somehow, to be nearly naked as I make my way through the field of yellow and purple wildflowers.

  “Indeed,” the man says, turning his face my way, making me choke on my next breath. He looks exactly like the woman, right down to the pinched slope of their foreheads and double-dimpled chins.

  Or maybe she looks like him, I amend, as I get close enough to see the dusting of black hair on her upper lip.

  “Are you all right, darling?” the woman asks in concern.

  “Fine,” I say with a smile. “I didn’t realize you were twins, that’s all.”

  “Oh, we aren’t, dear,” she says. “That’s Sir Isaac Newton.”

  “And that’s Sir Isaac Newton in drag,” the man says, as if that makes complete sense.

  “So you’re…”

  “The same person,” the woman says. “Exactly right.”

  “Oh. Right.” I tip my head back to look up at the sky, hoping to play my frown off as sunshine-related squinting. I sense something isn’t right here, but before I can get much further than that, the Sir Isaac Newton in pants speaks up.

  “We all contain multitudes, Bridget. The possibilities are endless. You simply have to decide which version of yourself you’d like to be.”

  “To be or not to be,” Drag Newton agrees. “But that’s not the only question.”

  They both chuckle at this while my gaze tracks down the tree’s branches, all of which are laden with apples so plump they could tumble free at any moment.

  “You might want to move,” I warn the Newtons, pointing to the heavy fruit. “Those apples are pretty big.”

  “But if I move, I’ll never discover gravity,” Sir Isaac says.

  “And I’ll never discover how lovely my legs look in hose and garters.” Drag Newton reaches down, drawing up the hem of her dress to reveal what is indeed a delightfully delicate ankle and shapely thigh.

  “And what will you discover, Bridget?” Sir Isaac pins me with a hard look. “Are you ready to see what lies around the next corner? To take hold of destiny with both hands and wring out every last delicious drop?”

  “Or will you stay as you are?” Drag’s pink lips turn down hard at the edges as she casts a mournful glance at my feet. “Stay…stuck.”

  “I’m not…” I trail off, words failing me as I realize I can’t feel the grass beneath my toes anymore.

  I can’t feel anything in my general foot-region, in fact.

  Looking down, I suck in a horrified breath, my hand flying to cover my mouth as I see what’s happened to my legs. From the knees down, I’ve begun to petrify, turning to cold, hard stone. And the condition seems to be spreading, the hard grayness creeping up over my thighs as the flowers surrounding me shrivel and die.

  “Poor things,” Drag tuts. “They can’t live without love, either.”

  I whip my attention back to the Newtons, the loose strands of my hair stinging against my bare shoulders. “Please, help me. How do I stop it?”

  “Oh, there’s no stopping it, sadly,” Newton says. “It’s almost entirely irreversible. Failure leads to loneliness, you see, which leads to isolation, interrupted by the occasional desperate attempt at some sort of connection by way of the One-night Stand. But those rarely end well.”

  “You’re lucky to get out alive in some of those situations,” Drag agrees with a roll of her eyes. “And forget about orgasms. One-night stands are bad at delivering orgasms. And occasionally bad at kissing, as well. Have you ever had a man kiss you so badly that he shattered your front tooth?” She barrels on, clearly not expecting an answer. “Well, I have, and I tell you it’s no picnic beneath an apple tree. Not a picnic of any kind, in fact.”

  Newton nods sagely. “Indeed. And before you know it, you’ll be too lonely to attract a higher quality, non-tooth-shattering romantic prospect. Loneliness has a scent, you see. A repellent scent that sends men running like supermodels fleeing a rogue kangaroo. That’s all but been proven by science.”

  My lips part to beg them to help me across the grass to their blanket—maybe the situation will reverse itself if I can put some sort of barrier between me and the earth. But Drag is already cheerfully proclaiming, “But all isn’t lost, dear one! You have friends and family who love you. They’ll help you put these romantic fantasies of yours in the past.” She claps her hands. “Oh! And maybe you could get a dog to keep you company! Or a cat!”

  “I think she should get an aardvark,” Newton says. “Talk about a creature who needs love. It isn’t easy being an aardvark, I imagine. Or a kangaroo, when it comes down to it. They’ve got a reputation for violence.”

  “Indeed. If I were a supermodel, I would run from kangaroos, too,” Drag says. “As swiftly as my long, supple legs would carry me.”

  “Please, I need your help,” I beg, my heart racing. “I can’t feel my legs at all anymore. You have to help me. Please.”

  “A dildo!” Drag claps her hands again, faster this time, frantic little pats as she bounces on the blanket. “That’s what you need!”

  “Hear, hear!” Newton enthuses.

  Drag beams. “Yes. That’s the ticket. Take two dildos and call Auntie Newton in the morning. A couple of no-man-required orgasms and a good night’s sleep, my pretty pet, and you’ll be right as rain.”

  “But I don’t want a dildo,” I say in that about-to-cry voice I thought I’d left behind in childhood. “I want someone to love. I want to be held and kissed and seen. I just want someone to see me, really see me, and still want to kiss me again after he knows who I am. Is that so much to ask?”

  Newton blinks round eyes. “Well, of course not. But we don’t always get what we want, girl. You think I want to discover gravity today? I have lunch plans. My cook’s making grilled mutton.”

  “And I have an appointment with my wig maker,” Drag says, fluffing her powdered curls. “And don’t knock the dildo, darling. True love or no true love, there are times when a girl wants eight hard inches that won’t talk back or make a mess on the sheets. A solid relationship with a dependable dildo can be very liberating.”

  “But I—”

  “Very liberating,” Drag repeats, hitting the words with a meaningful inflection and a wiggle of her painted-on brows. “Answer the call, dumpling. And order the Goliath with t
he double penetration attachment option. It’ll give you wings.”

  My backside begins to vibrate, a sensation I can just barely feel rippling across the skin of my now mostly stone bottom. Glancing over my shoulder, I see that my dress has a back pocket, with a tiny flip phone tucked inside.

  I snatch it free, planning to call 911, but when I flip it open there’s already an operator on the end of the line. “Ma’am? Hello? Can you speak up, please? I’m having trouble hearing you.”

  Drag makes a shooing motion with her hands. “Yes, yes, hurry dear. You don’t have much time left. Place your order.”

  “I want to, um…” I swallow, but the fear of what will happen when the marble reaches my heart is enough to convince me to say, “I’ll have the Goliath, please.”

  “A great choice,” the tinny voice on the other end of the line says. “You’re going to love it. It’s one of our most popular new models.”

  I give her my credit card number, grateful I have it memorized, and my billing address, and end the call. I snap the phone closed only to pop it open again, jabbing 911 into the keypad with a trembling hand.

  “You won’t need them, poppet,” Drag says. “Help is already on the way. Look up, darling!”

  I look up to see a giant shadow passing in front of the sun. A shadow with wings and a body shaped like a massive sausage.

  Or...

  “A dildo,” I murmur, so shocked I can do nothing but gape as the dildo swoops down from the sky to hover over my head, extending a smaller, hot-dog-shaped appendage my way.

  “There you are! Reach for it, sweetness, be free!” Drag shouts, “Be free!”

  I reach for the dildo’s arm, or whatever that smaller part is, and hold on tight. The moment my fingers close around the soft, spongy plastic, my legs turn back to flesh and bone, and the flowers spring to life beneath my feet. The dildo surges into the air with a whinny of triumph, carrying me up, up, and away.