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She slapped his shoulder. “Two separate observations, you moron!”
He looked at me. “I’m really happy for the first time in my life. That’s all.”
“Huh,” Dannika said. “Well, it doesn’t suit you.”
He shot her a look.
“It doesn’t! What can I say? You look underfed or something.”
I tried not to gloat, but I doubt I pulled it off. “I think he looks great.”
“Huh,” Dannika said again, and the irritation packed inside that one syllable only added to my joy.
Right. So that’s pretty much the good part of the day, in a nutshell. What followed was an arsenic cocktail with a ground glass chaser.
Where to begin?
Well, I doubt it escaped your attention: I’m in the backseat.
Which was okay, at first. I mean you know, Dannika was driving and I was hardly going to ride shotgun anymore with her behind the wheel—the view from up there was just too terrifying. The passenger seat isn’t nicknamed “the death seat” for nothing. I was just about to volunteer when Coop beat me to it.
“I’ll ride in back,” he said, tossing his duffel bag in the trunk and scooting in next to the surfboard. “Sweet!” he said. “You brought your board.”
“Where’s yours?” Dannika asked.
He hesitated. “You think there’s room?”
“Well, Gwen did bring four suitcases.” She said it sort of jokingly, sort of not. It was like she was tattling but pretending not to tattle, which really ended up being more annoying than if she’d just tattled outright.
I stared at her, unsmiling. “A hatbox is hardly a suitcase.”
Coop laughed and slung his arm around me. “Gwen’s a good Girl Scout—always prepared.”
Dannika flipped her hair over one shoulder. “Go get your board and suit—we’ll just shove it in somewhere. We haven’t surfed together in a million years! That’s half the reason I even agreed to come.”
Coop, being amiable and, really, so in love with surfing I could see he was salivating at the very thought, did what he was told. In a few minutes, he returned with his board under one arm and his wet suit under the other.
“I don’t know,” he said. “I grabbed my shortest board, but it’s going to make the backseat sort of cramped.”
“Gwen’s got short legs,” Dannika said, eyeing me.
Considering that she had long, lithe, slender legs, it seemed like a pointedly bitchy comment. When I looked her in the eye, though, she winked, like getting Coop to bring his board was this really fun mutual goal of ours—a sisterly effort—and her making me feel like a midget was all part of our coy, girlie plot.
“Gwen?” Coop said. “You going to back me on this?” He nodded at his board. “It’ll be in the way, don’t you think?”
I shrugged. “If you guys want to surf, bring it.” I’d be a sport. What was the big deal? I brought a trunk of shoes; he could bring his board if he wanted. “I don’t mind the back. That way you two can catch up.” There! I’d be generous. He’d think I was incredibly confident, not threatened in the least by the demonic blonde.
“Great!” Dannika’s eyes gleamed with victory. “Thanks so much, Gwen. We haven’t seen each other since…that night in Malibu?”
I felt my throat seize up. It was like a giant hand just reached over and closed my esophagus.
“Uh-huh.” Coop looked at me. “Dannika’s mom lives there,” he said, sensing my discomfort. Maybe sensing my imminent death due to lack of oxygen would be more accurate.
“That was so long ago,” Dannika continued, oblivious to my silent horror.
Why do the words night in Malibu sound so ominous when placed side by side in this context? Why couldn’t Coop have a horrible, pockmarked, male, alcoholic best friend who wears vomit-stained corduroys and refers to women only in anatomical terms? Why, why, why, why, why?
Coop let me into the backseat and took special care in arranging the boards in order to provide me with the maximum amount of legroom. Not that I needed any, according to Dannika. Yeah, don’t mind the Oompa-Loompa in the back; she’s just along for the ride.
Look, I know what you would say. Relax, Gwen. Breathe. You remember—in and out. There you go.
But do you realize I’ve been in the backseat for hours now and no one is paying any attention to me? Sure, every twenty minutes or so Coop glances back with one of his vaguely apologetic, sickeningly adorable grins. Once he asked me, “What are you writing?” to which I replied, “Just catching up on some correspondence.” That satisfied his curiosity a bit too readily. How does he know I’m not penning love letters to my six-foot-seven husband who currently resides in San Quentin? What does Coop care about that—he just listens to Dannika going on and on about the great times they’ve shared, careening wildly in and out of traffic. I can’t hear much of what they’re saying; random phrases drift back at me every now and then like bits of confetti, but I find little comfort in them. I hear Dannika calling out crazy night and that time in Seville and thought I’d die. I see her turning to him, her bright white teeth shining as she laughs, her profile so perfect and well-shaped it’s sculptural. They’re happily reminiscing, reliving their years of chummy intimacy, and I’m the recent acquisition, the girl-come-lately.
Okay, we’re stopping. I’ve got to snap out of this. I’m working myself into a fuming little wad of rage back here. Smoke’s coming out of my ears. If I don’t regain control, Coop is going to see I’m a possessive, pint-sized freak with no sense of humor.
More later…
Hugs and kisses from the Furious Midget,
Gwen
Thursday, September 18
10:23 a.m.
Dear Marla,
Since when is breakfast an organic banana, seven ounces of soy yogurt and a double shot of wheatgrass? This chick doesn’t eat enough to sustain a sparrow. God, I hope she develops a thyroid problem soon and becomes obscenely obese. Maybe then she’d know how the rest of us feel.
Okay, that’s not nice of me. I should exercise a little compassion. But do Nordic supermodels who live on nondairy yogurt and wheatgrass really deserve my compassion?
Here’s the thing: she hates me. I can tell.
And she’s after Coop.
Look, I know you said if they’ve been friends this long and they haven’t gotten together they obviously don’t have any chemistry. I knew at the time there was a gaping hole in your argument, but it took me this long to put my finger on it. You see, Coop’s never denied or confirmed the nature of their relationship history—he’s only referred to her as his “best friend.” He never sat me down and said, “Gwen, in case you’re wondering, Dannika and I never had sex.” Actually, come to think of it, I’ve barely heard any mention of Dannika at all in the three months we’ve been dating, except as an occasional character in the stories from his college days. I thought of her as a distant historical footnote, not as a rival worth considering. I was way more concerned about the cute blond barista with the crew cut who flirts with him at Café Europa.
But now it’s clear to me: they’ve definitely had sex. Maybe not recently, maybe not on a regular basis, but they’ve slept together.
I can’t decide what’s worse—knowing they’ve been intimate, or worrying that they’re dying to get intimate.
Whatever. The point is, they’ve done the deed and now I’ll have to live with it. Every time he gets me naked, I’ll have to wonder how my hideous little pygmy body measures up to her smooth airbrushed curves. Okay, yes, so I have more curves than she does, actually, but my curves aren’t the miles-of-flawless-skin kind; my curves have dimples and…you know…texture issues.
Is this productive in any way?
God, how am I going to get through this weekend?
Maybe if I just focus on the actual events, I’ll avoid a full-on panic attack.
We’re back on the road now, headed along the coast. No I-5 for this crowd—way too sterile, according to Dannika. She’s all about the scenic route, even if it means extending our estimated time of arrival by at least three hours.
The brief stop in Malibu was very enlightening. Satan was kind enough to yell over her shoulder that we’d be stopping soon for “breakfast.” I guess she was feeling guilty about shoving me back there like an ill-behaved pet and monopolizing my man’s attention. A few minutes later I found myself standing at the counter of a chichi little juice bar, staring at several cases of bright green wheatgrass behind glass. When I’d heard the word breakfast I had visions of greasy potatoes, syrup-drenched pancakes, a mocha piled high with whipped cream. I was ravenous and hunger always makes me a little edgy—you know how I get. It was easy to see as soon as we pulled up that this place wasn’t exactly the greasy spoon of my dreams. The menu was primarily liquid-based; there were smoothies with exotic names like Tahitian Sunrise and Arab Blue. In addition to wheatgrass, they were juicing things I never imagined you could drink, like beets and ginger, parsley and yams. In the solid-foods department there was soy yogurt, homemade granola, flaxseed protein bars and fruit salad. My stomach growled and I felt a surge of hunger-induced homicidal hysteria coming on.
“Dannika’s a raw food junkie,” Coop said when he noticed me staring in disbelief at the menu.
“So I gathered.” My voice sounded tight and strained.
“We could—you know—go somewhere else. What are you in the mood for? Doughnuts? Waffles? Hostess snack cakes?” He squeezed my shoulder affectionately.
Coop knows I have an insane sweet tooth. Can I help it if my body demands a sugar and caffeine rush every morning? Possibly I’m an undiagnosed diabetic—well, I could be. I was about to tell him a chocolate croissant from the bakery next door would be dreamy when I saw Dannika glance over at us with a smug, vegan smirk. God, I hate raw food freaks. They’re so righteous and clean looking, it makes you want to force-feed them Rice Crispies Treats until they puke.
Suddenly I was overcome with the desire to beat Dannika at her own game. Looking into her clear blue eyes, I could see my own short brunette self reflected there and I knew exactly what she was thinking; she saw me as a mere blip—a passing fancy of Coop’s, nothing more. She seemed almost disappointed in the lack of challenge I presented. Whether or not she wanted Coop for herself, it was clear she didn’t consider me worthy of him. In her mind, that was all that mattered. She’d already written me off. She would tolerate me for the duration of the weekend, but by Monday, I would be toast.
Well, she was wrong; I had to show her that I was a force to be reckoned with. I would demonstrate—forcibly, if I had to—that her approval wasn’t required.
If there is only room in Coop’s life for one of us, I’ll be damned if it’s me who’s getting ousted. He’s the first man I’ve ever met worth fighting for and if I have to sharpen my claws to keep him, so be it.
“You know what? I think the root juice sounds amazing,” I said.
Coop looked at the menu. “Carrot, beet, yam and ginger?” He eyed me skeptically. “You sure?”
“Mmm, hmm,” I said. “It sounds…cleansing.”
“Okay,” he said. “If you say so. I think I saw a bakery next door, though. Little mocha, chocolate croissant…” His offer was tempting and I was touched at how accurately he’d assessed my cravings, but I was determined to out-vegan the vegan, even if it killed me.
“No, really,” I said, “this is perfect.”
Dannika pretended not to be listening. She did some pretentious, show-offy upper body stretches as we waited for the anemic-looking woman in front of us to finish ordering. “The protein bar doesn’t contain any wheat, does it?” the lady asked, dabbing at her nose with a crumpled Kleenex. The bronzed surf God behind the counter assured her for the third time that everything they served was wheat and gluten-free.
When it was our turn, Dannika stepped forward gracefully, leaned one hip against the counter and said airily, “I’ll take a double shot of wheatgrass, one banana and a small soy yogurt, please.”
The guy’s face went from bored to astonished so quickly, it was like watching a flower bloom using time-lapse photography. “Are you—?” He blushed under his tan. “I’m sorry, but aren’t you Dannika Winters?”
Her smile was radiant. “That’s me.”
“Wow, this is so cool. My roommate has all your DVDs. God, she’s going to die when I tell her I met you. Would you mind—” he fumbled behind the counter and produced a napkin, then a pen “—signing this? It would mean a lot to her.”
“No problem.” Dannika bent over and the surf God eyed the cleavage revealed artfully beneath her tank top. “What’s her name?”
“Huh?” He looked dazed.
“Your roommate’s name?”
“Oh. Kyra,” he said, “K-Y-R-A.”
She wrote something on the napkin and signed it with a flourish, then pushed it across the counter.
He picked it up reverently. “She’s really going to lose her shit. I mean—sorry—you just made my day, is all.”
“You’re too sweet.” Dannika graced him with another celebrity smile.
Coop stepped forward. “Mind if we order?”
The kid folded the napkin carefully and put it in his pocket. He managed to concentrate long enough to jot down Coop’s request for an extra-large granola with vanilla yogurt and a protein smoothie. When it was my turn, I ordered my disgusting root concoction and tried smiling at the bronzed groupie with my own brand of electric charisma. He didn’t even notice. He just looked over my shoulder at Dannika, who was by the window, now, performing some kind of elaborate leg stretch against one of the stools.
You’ll be proud to hear that I managed to choke down my root juice without gagging. It tasted like something you’d scrape off the bottom of a lawn mower. Delish.
So now I’m in the backseat again, wedged between the surfboards and my trunk of shoes, with my self-esteem ankle-high. Plus, I’m starving. Apparently, this is where she wants me. I’m the backseat spectator, forced to watch as my nemesis undermines my relationship a little more with each mile.
All I can say is, she’d better watch her back. I may have lost the first couple rounds, but I’m not going down without a fight.
Thursday, September 18
11:20 a.m.
Dear Marla,
Warning: we’ve entered the epicenter of Coop-and-Dannikaland. This is ground zero for college memories, which most likely include the pornographic trysts of their late teens and early twenties, when their flesh was no doubt even more supple and alluring than it is now.
Oh God, I think I’m going to be sick.
Our stop? Santa Barbara, where even the meter maids look like Pilates instructors.
Thursday, September 18
12:45 p.m.
Dear, dear Marla,
Psychotic jealousy, be gone. Coop’s just filled me in on the Tragic Tale of Dannika’s Past, which makes it completely unnecessary to continue fantasizing about gouging her eyes out with my kitten heels. Seriously. Our entire trip (not to mention our relationship) has been saved!
Here’s how it went down.
We stopped at the beach in Santa Barbara. It was this secret little tucked-away point break they used to surf all the time in college. I always wondered if anyone at UCSB actually studied; from the sound of it, the answer is not much. I still couldn’t hear more than a few random exchanges from the backseat, but once we got off the freeway, I could tell they were reliving a long string of surfing memories from the good ole days.
I thought we were just stopping to stretch our legs and take in the vista. I really wasn’t dressed for a romp on the beach—you know how I hate getting sand in my shoes. The engine hadn’t even sputtered into silence, though, before Dannika was leaping out of the car and shaking out the golden flag of her hair in the cool ocean breeze.
“God, it’s so beautiful! I’m not even going to wear a wet suit. I want to feel the water.” Her eyes were shining as she watched a big wave curve in on itself, crash explosively, then unfurl a long carpet of foam.
For a second, the three of us stared out at the water. Coop turned to smile at me. “How you doing back there, kitten?”
It was nice hearing him use my pet name. His hand reached back and squeezed my knee and the warmth of his fingers on my skin sent cool shivers up my thigh.
“I’m okay.” At that very moment, it wasn’t a lie. “You?”
Before he could answer, Dannika surprised us both by yanking her shirt up over her head and conversation became suddenly impossible. There she was, standing not three feet from us, pulling her tank top off like it was the most natural thing in the world. Her pale breasts, once freed from the tight-fitting tank, were fuller and more buoyant than I would have thought possible on such a skinny girl. Her brown belly was shockingly flat—a stretch of smooth interrupted only by the subtle indentations of her six-pack abs. It was one thing to be a size two, but to be that well-defined was something else—the mark of the physically elite.
My root juice threatened to resurface. I swallowed hard and fought it back down.
