The Opportunist
Page 22

“I’m in town and there is nothing I want more then to spend some quality time with my dream girl.”
“Dream girl! Last time I saw you, you called me a shrew and told me I had no talent.”
“Those are just words, baby girl. Besides, you had just rejected another confession of my love for you. Give a man his verbal abuse, huh? Now, when are you free for the taking?”
Jim. Jim. The same guy I used to make a statement about my sexuality. The one I dropped like a dirty sin the moment I stole Caleb. He remained faithful. I received a call every time his work swept him past my zip code and we would have a whirlwind night of dancing or eating or whatever other guilty pleasure suited us. Then, he would leave and I was fine with that.
“How long are you in my corner?”
“Two days—three at the most. I was thinking we could go down to the Wave, get drunk, grind around on the dance floor...”
“Hmmm…sounds romantic. When can you be here?”
“Fifteen, I have to stop for some smokes.”
“Fine,” I say. “I’ll be ready.”
I hang up and smear some lipstick on my mouth. I am still thinking about Caleb and I have force myself to stop.
Tonight was just going to be Jim and me and a good time. No obsessions. I slip on a pair of black pants and a green off-the-shoulder shirt, and pull my hair into a ponytail.
Jim picks me up outside of my apartment. I hop into his car, a restored 1969 Mustang painted green with yellow racing stripes, and smile at him across the seat.
“You’re like a Percocet on a bad day, Libby,” he says, surprising me and kissing me straight on the mouth. I pull back and shake my head.
“Mmmm, I love it when you compare me to prescription drugs.” I plug in my seat belt and begin messing with the radio. Jim likes Phish and that’s practically a sin in my books, since they’re just Grateful Dead wannabee’s.
Jim winks at me and perches a cigarette between his lips. Usually, I don’t tolerate smoking—it makes me feel gritty and it doesn’t help that my mom died of cancer. But, there is something about the way Jim smokes that makes me want to watch him. I look on in anticipation as the wick of his lighter spits out a tiny tongue of fire. He lowers his cigarette to the flame and inhales. I can almost hear the tip of his camel hiss in delight as it accepts the fire. This is my favorite part—he takes a long drag, his eyelids flutter like a junkie, then he pushes the grey smoke out of his nose and it curls into the sky, like a graceful, ashen, ghost. Beautiful.
I sit back satisfied. Jim is darkly handsome. He is wearing eyeliner and jeans that cling to his body like lizard skin. His hair is shaggy and dyed black, which makes his sharp blue eyes seem almost lavender. I always thought the British accent belonged more on him than on Caleb. I fan away smoke and hum along with the final bars of an oldie my mom used to love.
“Why are you so happy tonight?” he asks, tapping an inch of cigarette ash into an empty can of Red Bull.
“There is something devastatingly wrong with the universe when you are happy enough to hum.”
He scoots his car into traffic almost hitting the bumper of the truck in front of us.
“I dunno. I just am.”
Jim raises an eyebrow.
“Come on, Libby. I know when something is up.”
I pause. Then I say, “Caleb’s back.”
There was shocked silence. Gladys Knight was on the radio. Jim’s fingers are absently tapping the steering wheel to the beat of the song.
“He’s back.” This comes as a statement instead of a question. I can hear the distaste in his voice and I don’t blame him. Caleb had always been a thorn in Jim’s flesh, especially when I eventually chose Caleb over Jim.
“Olivia,” he turns the radio off and stubs out his cigarette, which means I’ll get to watch the whole lighting process again in a few minutes. “In what way is he back?”
I have no intention of telling him about the amnesia.
“I don’t know. He’s just back and I don’t really care why.”
Jim narrows his eyes and appears to be looking suspiciously at the road.
“I don’t know what it is with you and that ass**le. Four years and a bad breakup later and you’re still in a f**king chemical romance with basketball Ken.”
I don’t want to hear it. Not from Jim. Not from Cammie. In my wildest dreams I never imagined this twist to my story. A thousand girls could tell me that they would have done something different than what I did the day I pretended not to know Caleb, and I wouldn’t care. This was my re-do.
“It happened by accident. I didn’t go looking for him, so just shut the hell up about it.”
We pull up to the front of the club and I hop out before the valet can open the door. I wait for Jim as he unwinds his long body from the car and tosses his keys to the attendant. He is pissed. I can see it on his face. More than once he’s accused me of using him as a fall back when Caleb’s not around. I walk in front of him, ignoring the beating his eyes are giving me. I feel kind of badass tonight, so it’s not hard. It’s none of his damn business anyway—meddling, eyeliner wearing, punk. Jim hates weakness, and by God, Caleb is mine. But I have faith that by the time we start dancing, he will get over it.
The Wave is filled wall to wall with vibrating bodies. Jim grabs my hand and pulls me through the throng of dancers until we reach the bar. Most of the girls turn to look at us. What is a razor edged rocker doing with a softie like me? I bristle under their curious eyes, fanning out a couple of dirty looks.
Jim lays a fifty on the slimy bar and orders four shots of tequila. I ready our limes, and smile at him.
“Are you still mad?” I ask.
The bartender slides the shot glasses towards us and we both claim two. Jim shrugs.
“Does it matter?”
I pour the first one down my throat and suck on a lime to pull the flavor. Tequila is gross.
“I don’t want you to be mad. I hardly get to see you.”
Jim does this triple blink thing that makes him look really annoyed and then he kisses me on the cheek.
“Let’s just have fun.”
He orders two more shots and we clink our glasses together. We linger at the bar for a few minutes watching the dance floor. We are still too sober to let loose.
“Let’s go do some dance floor humping,” he says, tossing his lime peel into the trash. I follow him into the wiggling crowd as the tequila finds my head.