I KNEW THE DRIVE TO the airport would be awkward. Chas went out of his way to make it even worse than it had to be.
After we’d loaded our suitcases in the back of his SUV, Chas informed me that I would ride shotgun—front passenger seat. And, as Chas explained, that meant the gay guys could sit up front so Chas could be in the backseat with what he called “the two hotties.”
Chas Becker was such a tool.
Not that I wouldn’t have called them that, much less given just about anything to sit between them. I even tried to argue that it would be more comfortable for Annie and Megan if I did, because I was smaller than Chas, but Chas just looked at Megan one time, then gave me a look like he was about to punch me and said, “Shut the fuck up, Winger.”
And, when we were on the road, I turned back and saw that Chas was sitting in the middle with his arms stretched over the seat backs, pretending he was holding on to both girls, just looking at me like he was the king of the world or something, which, for whatever reason, made me think about that bottle of piss I still hadn’t gotten rid of.
“What are your plans for the weekend, Ryan Dean?” Joey asked, paying attention to the road but flickering his eyes to the mirror once in a while to watch Chas and the girls. Normally, they would have been in Kevin’s car, which was bigger than Chas’s SUV; Joey’s car was out of the question, since it only carried two people.
“Nothing boring,” I said. “No TV watching. Me and Annie are going to do some running on the beach, I guess. I don’t know. Maybe go fishing if it’s not too rainy.”
“Sounds thrilling,” Chas said. “When are you two going to actually start fooling around? Or are Annie’s parents going to play watchdog all weekend?”
“Shut up, Chas,” I said. “Annie’s not like that.”
I looked at Annie, and she smiled at me. And then I saw Chas scoot himself closer to her.
“I bet she could be like that,” he said.
“Maybe I should sit up front,” Annie said.
Then Megan tried to change the subject but chose the worst imaginable direction to steer the conversation: “I bet Ryan Dean’s a real good kisser, Annie. Is he?”
As soon as she said it, all kinds of things happened at once:
1. I felt my balls actually retract up inside my body cavity. I don’t know if I turned white or red, but I definitely felt something turning.
2. Megan got this testy and challenging look on her face—definitely the very, very bad policewoman look.
3. Joey coughed like he was choking on something, then fired me the get-your-shit-together-Ryan-Dean look.
4. Chas took his arms away from both girls and folded his hands on his lap, pouting, with a look on his face that said he wanted to snap my skinny-bitch-ass neck. He had to know what was going on with me and Megan. I was convinced.
5. And Annie said, “Oh, yeah. He’s a great kisser. And he has puppy breath.”
Then Chas said, “Do you guys want to pull over and play Spin the Bottle, or should we just get to the airport in time to catch our flights?”
Megan straightened up and winked at me. I didn’t even want to look at Annie to see if she’d caught it. This could easily ruin what I was convinced would be the best weekend of my life.
I cleared my throat and said, “Annie’s just messing around. We’ve never kissed. Not even close.” And I looked directly at her and said, “Even though I’ve asked her to hundreds of times.”
So I let her off the hook. For now.
I knew she’d think about that. I knew Annie. She wasn’t going to let a statement like that go unresponded to all weekend long, so I turned back around, faced the road, and tried to will my nuts back down from behind my belly button, smiling, confident that I’d get Annie Altman to cave in to her weakness before too long.
Chapter Forty-Nine
GOD! WAS I GLAD TO see our group split up once we got to the airport.
We all agreed on a meeting time and place in the terminal after our return flights Sunday evening, then we headed off to our gates.
Annie and I checked our bags and took off our shoes to pass through the security line. And, of course, as these things happen to losers such as myself, when I was walking through the metal detector, an alarm sounded because I’d left my belt on. And just when the Transportation Security officer was waving me to stop, my Band-Aid conveniently came unglued after its two-day vacation on my balls. It fell out the bottom of my dorky, too-short school pants.
This, of course, made the guard think that I was some kind of black-tar-heroin-cakes-or-whatever-the-fuck- you-call-them-Band-Aided-to-my-ballsack-smuggler, and he and another very unhappy-looking man in a white shirt escorted me behind a thin screen, the kind you’d see in a run-down clinic.
That was where they told me to strip down to my underwear.
Nice.
Annie laughed at me.
Well, I think she was laughing at me. I couldn’t tell, because I couldn’t see her since I was standing in my boxers behind a goddamned hospital-cloth screen while one of the TSA guys turned my socks inside out and shook them.
At the same time, the other agent actually grabbed my now Band-Aid-free balls (and it was probably not in good judgment for me to ask him if he wanted me to turn my head and cough, because he just kind of nodded and said something about me being a “smart ass,” and then he pulled out the waistband on my underwear and gave my actual-not-so-smart-skinny-white-ass a glimpse of airport-terminal fluorescent light).
Annie was doing her best, I am sure, to pretend she didn’t know heroin-ballsack-boy.
Yeah.
I’m a loser.
Not just a loser, a loser who was still standing behind a screen, barefoot and in his boxers, when he heard the final boarding announcement for his flight to Seattle. The TSA guy just placed my boarding pass on top of my thoroughly ransacked and inside-out school clothes and said, “Sorry, Mr. West. You’re free to go.”
I quickly pulled on my now-beltless pants and slid into my shirt. I grabbed my shoes and the rest of my clothes and boarding pass in a bundle under one arm and walked out from behind the screen.
Annie stood there, laughing, her eyes all wet.
“Why do these things always happen to you?” she asked.
“Because I’m a fucking loser,” I answered.
Yeah, well . . . I didn’t say “fucking,” of course, because you know I never cuss, especially not in front of Annie, but to say that I
“Here,” she said, “let me help you,” and she grabbed my shoes and belt as I hopped along to the gate, my unbuttoned and untucked shirt fluttering behind me as I tried to pull on one sock and my pants slipped down toward my knees. I dropped my tie and had to stop to pick it up.
I gave up.
I followed Annie to the boarding gate half-undressed and barefoot, with one hand holding up the waist of my pants.
And the attendant at the gate, who, I will say, was pretty damn hot in a paramilitary-Andrews-Sisters kind of way, raised her very disciplined-looking eyebrow as I pinched my boarding pass to her with the same hand I was using to try and keep my pants up.
“Oh, yeah,” I said, dropping my tie and one of my inside-out socks at her feet, “I plan on being completely naked by the time we get to our seats.”
