Best Friends & Other Liars Page 3

  “Can’t and won’t are two different things,” I point out. “You won’t, which is different than can’t. And if you won’t do me my favor, I won’t do yours.”

  Yes, I’m aware I sound like a petty five-year-old, but sometimes you have to play dirty to get your way.

  Vi is silent and I am convinced she is trying to figure out how to beg her mother to take Jeremy to practice and owe her instead of me, when she says, “Okay. I’ll go. Email me the details.”

  Stunned, I squeak out, “What? Really? You will?”

  “Yup. You’re right. I need a vacation big time, and the kids are old enough to feed themselves and take care of themselves. And they don’t even have school then. Richard practically won’t have to do anything.”

  “That’s the wrong attitude. Richard should have to do everything. You should actually schedule extra stuff to make him go crazy.”

  “Leah…” Vi’s voice has a warning tone to it and I realize I’m on the verge of pushing my luck.

  “Just kidding! It’ll be fine. Everything will be great!”

  “Oh God, I can’t believe I’m agreeing to this. I’m the worst mother ever,” she moans. “I’ve gotta go. I’ve gotta go make arrangements for...everything.” She abruptly ends the call. In my mind, I can practically see her head in her hands, stressing about leaving the kids and being a bad mommy.

  I smile to myself. She needs to get over this perfect mommy persona and have some damn fun for once. I toss the phone onto the couch and do a triumphant dance around the living room. Grabbing Ernie from the back of the sofa, I spin in a circle and swing him in my arms. He yeowls in protest.

  “I know, I know. You’re a cranky old man.”

  He meows at me again as I lower him down on the back of his precious sofa, the place he spends a good ninety-seven percent of his life. The other three percent he spends cleaning his butt on my kitchen counter and scarfing up hairballs in my shoes.

  “I should have taken Bert.” I stick my tongue out at him as he curls himself into a ball to ignore me. “At least she would dance with me. Bert’s a lot more fun than you are.”

  I settle down at the computer and click the link for the cruise that my friend Troy sent me earlier in the week.

  Troy and I dated briefly a few years ago until we simultaneously came to the same conclusion. That is, we both liked to date people with penises and I did not have a penis. It was okay, no hard feelings though (obviously, since I didn’t have a penis). Besides, he is a much better dresser than I am and I can’t be in a romantic relationship with a man who has more shoes than I do. (That probably should have clued me in earlier in our relationship, but…)

  I am thrilled that Vi has agreed to go on this cruise with me. This is the perfect getaway for us. Vi has never taken a vacation alone or with me (since she’s been married, that is). She is in a constant state of mothering and thinks having any time away from her children makes her a criminal worthy of the electric chair. The last time we even had a girls’ night out was three years ago, and that ended after an hour, because she rushed home when Richard called her to tell her one of the kids was throwing up and he doesn’t “do” throw up.

  She definitely needs a break from all of them. She needs to remember how to have fun, and who better to show her than me, the queen of fun? Okay, maybe I’m not exactly the queen, but I do enjoy my life a whole lot more than Vi does. And she deserves to enjoy her life.

  And that is why I don’t feel the least bit guilty about omitting a tiny detail about the cruise. I smile to myself as the imposing picture of the cruise ship fills up my computer screen. A photo montage begins—pictures of men and women relaxing in hot tubs with drinks in their hands, mouths open mid-laugh. Couples swimming and rock climbing and kayaking, although I have no idea how they’re kayaking on a boat. Then the scene changes and there are photos of people at dinner, drinks in their hands, steaming piles of crab legs filling their plates. Soft music begins to play as the image morphs into a man and woman lying face down, stones on their backs, a massage therapist caressing their shoulders. Then, the same couple dancing in a nightclub. And finally, that couple wrapped in each other’s arms, admiring a sunset.

  Broken-hearted and alone? Lonely and looking for love? Then join us for our New Year’s Cruise on our brand new ship The Princess. This is our very first Divorcees Only Cruise and cabins won’t last long at these prices! Book now!

  Okay, Okay. So…I’m not divorced. Neither is Vi. Obviously. But the prices really are a steal. And with Troy’s discount—he works as a travel agent—we are practically getting the cruise for nothing. Or I am at least.

  Besides, how else could I take Vi on a kid-free vacation? (Other than booking a week in Cancun with a bunch of drunk twenty-somethings with rocking bodies? No thanks!) Vi needs a vacation without kids. Because honestly, who wants to go on vacation from your own kids and deal with other people’s kids splashing you in the hot tub where they specifically do not belong? I mean, seriously, the signs around the hot tubs explicitly state that children under sixteen are not permitted, yet all the damn time there are kids in the hot tub, and their mothers ignore them while sipping their gin and tonics and reading their trashy romance novels. Even those mothers want time away from their kids.

  Not that Vi would ever admit she wants time away from her children. Since the moment Jeremy was conceived, her every waking (and probably sleeping) thought has been of, or for, those kids. And most of the time, they’re ungrateful little monsters to boot. No one in her house ever appreciates all she does, especially not Richard.

  Her husband is actually unbearable. No joke, I want to punch him in the mouth practically every time I see him. Either the mouth or the testicles.

  He treats Vi like dirt and never helps out with the kids. And she just takes it without saying a word. I knew he was a bad choice for a husband the day they got married. Up until that point in time, he had been pretty attentive. But once they said “I do”, it went out the window. He didn’t even talk to her at the wedding reception because there was a playoff game on. He spent the entire time at the bar of the hotel watching the game. Yup, basketball trumped his wife.

  And, get this—they didn’t even have sex on their wedding night! That’s right! What red-blooded American male doesn’t want to jump his new bride’s bones on their wedding night? Hell, my friend Lisa’s husband tried to get her to have sex with him in the limo.

  You wanna know what Richard’s excuse was? (Besides being a giant dick?) They had to get up too early the next day and he was tired. God, he needs to grow a pair because he obviously doesn’t have any balls. If he did, they would have been throbbing because Vi is one hot chick.

  One hot chick who deserves better than that schmuck of a husband. I can’t tell you how often I’ve told her she needs to leave his ass at the curb and file for divorce. I think she really wants to, but Vi doesn’t like to rock the boat. Her parents never got divorced (although they should have...her mother was unbearable to live with and her father drank himself into an early grave to get away from her—just my theory). She needs something to send her completely over the edge. Maybe, just maybe, taking this cruise will convince her that divorce isn’t so bad. It is, after all, a Divorce Cruise.

  LEAH

  The taxi pulls up in front of Vi’s house on the morning of the cruise. Surprisingly, she is waiting out front, standing on the sidewalk with her bags. When she sees the taxi pull up, she starts trudging toward it, dragging the suitcase on one wheel, and struggling to keep the carry-on bag looped over her shoulder—it’s tangled in her purse. Her face is blotchy, and her nose is red and swollen like she either has been stung by a swarm of bees or has been crying. Hers is the face of a person who needs to go on a cruise to someplace warm in the middle of winter for their fortieth birthday. I’m almost 100% positive, without even talking to her, that Richard is responsible for her current state.

  “What happened to the wheel on the suitcase?” I ask as I climb out of the ca
b to help her. She narrows her bleary eyes at me. Her expression tells me whatever happened to the wheel is a sore subject. Probably Richard’s fault, too.

  “Need help?” I ask while reaching to take the bag off of her shoulder. She shrugs off my help.

  “I’ve got it,” she barks at me. “Do I look like I need your help? Do I look like I need anyone’s help?”

  My eyes widen as I back off. This attitude is quite unlike my mild-mannered friend’s normal behavior. She seems...feisty. And not in a good way.

  “Um, no. Of course not,” I mumble as she staggers toward the waiting taxi. The taxi driver has gotten out and opened the trunk. Vi shoots a death ray stare in his direction as he attempts to take the bag from her hand.

  “I’ve got it,” she repeats, while swinging the suitcase in the air and tossing it in the general direction of the open trunk. Fortunately it lands close enough that the taxi driver only needs to shove it in with his hand before Vi heaves the carry-on bag in on top of it. The driver quickly pulls his hand away before it gets crushed, and shoots me a weary look that says, Why did we have to pick up this deranged lunatic? I better be getting a huge tip, that’s all I have to say.

  I shrug at him and slip into the backseat of the cab. Vi follows behind, slamming the door once her feet are planted firmly inside. Feet that are clad in weather inappropriate flip-flops. Those makeshift ones you get from the nail salon when you forget yours at home. With only half her toenails painted, I might add.

  I briefly ponder whether I should ask about it. Chances are, the reason she has knock-off flip-flops on in December and only half a pedicure, and the reason she is seriously pissed off, are one and the same. Or at least in the same ballpark.

  Considering that I’m going to be in close quarters on a boat with this woman for the next seven and a half days, I stupidly take my chances and ask.

  “What happened to your toes?” I jerk my head toward the nail disaster.

  She frowns at me and narrows her eyes. “I don’t want to talk about it. It’s not important.”

  I nod. Okay, let’s go with the positive pep talk, Leah!

  “You’re right. Nothing is important now except our vacation.” I grab her arm and give it an enthusiastic squeeze. She, in return, gives me a dirty look.

  Geez, what the hell happened to her? She’s usually not this pissy about anything. Maybe she’s really upset about her pedicure? Well, I can fix that.

  “There’s a spa on the ship. I’m sure we can get you an appointment if we call right—”

  “I don’t want an appointment,” she snarls, turning her head away from me and gazing out the window, chewing on her bottom lip. I hear sniffles—she’s starting to cry.

  Crap! What the hell? We’re going on a fun vacation! Without kids! Without Richard! Why is she crying? There’s no way she could miss them already! Can she?

  This is certainly awkward. Not that I have never seen Vi cry before. Quite the contrary. In the past twenty-eight years I have witnessed her sobbing about anything as ridiculous as a Kodak commercial, to the ending of Titanic (which she dragged me to see ten times), to the death of her beloved grandmother.

  But all those times, I at least knew why she was crying. This time, not so much. And if she isn’t interested in sharing, how am I going to find out how much it’s going to affect our trip? Seriously, she could be crying because she spilled coffee on her favorite shirt, or she could be crying because the cat died. Wait...the cat?

  “Hey, is Bert okay?” I ask, touching her arm lightly.

  It takes her a full minute, but she turns to face me. Her eyes are even more bloodshot than before and there are tears shining on her cheeks.

  “My marriage is falling apart and you’re worried about a cat?”

  Her marriage is falling apart? Okay, that’s good. Well, not that the marriage is falling apart, but now I know why she’s crying now. Or I have some idea, at least. I can play along to piece together the rest of this puzzle.

  “I’m sorry,” I say with complete sincerity. “I didn’t know why you were upset. And Bert is almost twenty.”

  “Well, I’m not upset about a stupid cat,” she snorts. “Unlike you, I have more important things in my life than a cat.”

  I recoil and bump the back of my head on the window. Wow! Those are mighty harsh words! Especially coming from Violet, Queen of ‘I don’t want to ever hurt anyone’s feelings on purpose’.

  “That’s crappy of you, Vi,” I say, trying to disguise how much she’s actually hurt me. I can see the cab driver nervously glancing in the rearview mirror. He has one earbud in his left ear and the other dangles mid-air—it’s obvious that he’s eavesdropping. I bet the last thing this guy wants is two hysterical females in the back of his cab.

  Vi crosses her arms over her chest. Even with her coat on and buttoned, her boobs reach her neck when uplifted. Vi has always been well endowed (and ridiculously so when she was breastfeeding the kids), and I have always been flat chested. It’s a little unfair that she has such big boobs considering she told me once that Richard isn’t even a boob man. He’s a butt man, and Vi is certainly lacking in that department. Her butt resembles a flattened out bean bag chair that has lost half its packing peanuts.

  “It’s crappy of you to drag me on this cruise and ruin my marriage,” Vi mutters.

  Huh? What the hell is she talking about? How does an all-expenses paid vacation from your best friend for your birthday qualify as crappy???? What the hell is wrong with her? Is she feverish? She must be kidding.

  I reach over and place the back of my hand on her forehead. She jerks her head away from me.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m sorry, but I think you must be sick,” I say in a jovial tone. But I feel anything but like joking. I feel annoyed and pissed off and hurt.

  “I’m not sick. I’m devastated,” she says, her eyes glistening with tears.

  “But I don’t understand. I thought this would be great. Normal people don’t get devastated at the prospect of going on a seven day cruise with their best friend. Most people would be thrilled to death.”

  “Well, I’m not most people,” she shoots back, lip quivering.

  Oh crap...we’re going into full on hysterical mood here. This is exactly what happened every single time Leonardo DiCaprio died in the damn movie. You would think after the first time she would have seen it coming…

  “Most people wouldn’t have their husband threatening to leave them for taking a vacation with their best friend. Most people wouldn’t have their husband refusing to take care of their kids if their wife—who has never gone anywhere for more than three hours without the kids in fifteen years—goes on vacation. Most people wouldn’t have to hope that their husband doesn’t divorce them while they’re on vacation!”

  She falls face first into my shoulder and her body is rocking like she’s sobbing. Oh yeah, she’s sobbing. I can feel the tears soaking through my lightweight jacket.

  “He threatened divorce if you went on this cruise?” I stare at the top of her head with amazement—she needs a cut and color in the worst way. I knew Richard was literally a dick, but I didn’t think even he would stoop low enough to threaten to leave his wife. Especially for taking much needed time for herself.

  Vi lifts her head and stares at me like a sad sack of potatoes, snot running down her face. She doesn’t say anything, but moves her head up and down indicating that yes indeed, that’s the scenario. I practically feel my blood boiling in my veins—this is what Richard has reduced her to? A sniveling crybaby?

  I lean over and tap the partition, attempting to get the cab driver’s attention. He doesn’t seem to hear me as he suddenly has both earbuds stuffed in his ears, attached to an iPhone that appears to be turned up to full volume. I tap on the plastic bullet-proof glass again—this time much louder.

  “What, lady? What you want?” he asks, obviously annoyed that I have interrupted his enjoyment of whatever crap he’s listening to.

>   “You need to stop and turn around,” I tell him.

  He stomps on the breaks, nearly causing the car that has been tailgating us to slam into the bumper of the cab.

  “What? What you talking about lady?” he asks in a clipped accent. He turns around and I notice that one of his eyes seems like it might be fake—it’s cloudy and looks like a marble. “I thought we need to go to boat.”

  “Did you forget something?” Vi asks through her sniffles. She swipes at her nose with her sleeve and I shudder.

  “No, I didn’t forget anything,” I announce over the sound of the cars behind us honking.

  “Then why would we go back? Didn’t you say we would be late if we left a minute after eleven?”

  I shrug and wave my hand in front of my face. “I only said that because I knew you’d be late otherwise.” I tap my watch. “See? It’s eleven fifteen. But it’s okay. We don’t have to be there to check in till one.”

  Vi frowns. “Real nice, Leah. I love that you think you have to lie to me like I’m a child. I was ready on time. Why are we going back?”

  “So I can punch your asshole of a husband dead in the face like I’ve wanted to for the past two decades,” I tell her matter-of-factly.

  “What? What is wrong with you?” Vi’s face is panic stricken.

  “Nothing is wrong with me,” I say, leaning back in the seat as our driver attempts to navigate the winding narrow roads to take a back route to Vi’s house. “Just wanna make sure he gets what he deserves.”

  “Absolutely not,” she says through gritted teeth. Inching up as far as her seatbelt will allow her go (she’s a big “rule follower”), Vi taps on the partition. “Driver, take us to the boat.”

  The driver slams on his breaks once more, except there’s no honking this time because there’s nobody behind us. The driver pulls over to the side of the road, leans his arm over the back of the seat, and glares at us, his one opaque eye gazing off into space. It’s actually quite distracting. I look away because I’m afraid I’m staring at it.