Crazygirl Falls in Love (20 page)

“No one bullies my little sister but me, it’s my birthright,
so I suggest you back the fuck off.”

“You back off, this is none of your business. Your sister is a
cheating bitch.”

I’m *this* close to right hooking this jerk. Ten years of
horrible break ups, unfulfilled promises, He Who Shall Not Be
Named, Choda Boy, Crazy, Nick the Dick, Blue, tears, fights, broken
hearts, broken promises, all those things that I had dreamed of and
had never been, all of it comes up in a violent surge of rage
directed at the asshole standing in front of me, and I start
screaming,

“Who the hell do you think you are?! You,
who are cheating on your
wife
? You have the fucking gall to
judge someone for cheating on you? You deserve to be cheated on,
you disgusting married cunt!”

Our eyes are locked. Everyone watching, including Emma,
Dublin, the Stranger, dishy David, Juan and Arianna, are standing
with their mouths open. I experience a short moment of fearful
regret before I feel the punch land on the side of my face. It
feels like a whiskey bottle has pounded my eye and the force pushes
me to the floor.

Suddenly everything is happening at once. Men are yelling,
women are screaming, Dublin and the Stranger are launching
themselves at Rusty, who quick as a flash is out the front door.
Arianna and Emma are hovering above, asking if I’m okay. I’m dazed.
When I meet Emma’s worried and tear-filled eyes, I say the first
thing that comes to mind,

“I cannot believe you slept with that yob.”

With Emma and Arianna on either side, I get
lifted to my feet. The side of my face is throbbing. I touch my eye
and feel it swelling already.
Wonderful.
Just wonderful
.

“Oh Penny, I’m so sorry,” Emma says between sobs.

“Stop crying, it’s for the weak. Oh, and remember that time we
were kids, when I lured you under the trampoline, jumped on your
head and gave you a concussion?” I ask.

She nods.

“Well, as of now, we’re even.”

***

Half an hour later I’m sitting on the kitchen counter,
pressing a bag of frozen peas to my face. I think back to that
brief moment of happiness when the Stranger arrived tonight,
smiling shyly in his red t-shirt. Seems that whenever I get some
good-guy karma the universe punishes me with a punch in the face,
literal or metaphoric. Engagement ring, devastating break up. The
Stranger at Loft, the Stranger at the fundraiser. Red t-shirt,
getting decked in the eye.

And how the hell am I going to go to the
wedding tomorrow? I have a black eye. I will be going to my boss’s
wedding, with a
black
eye
. What kind of respected professional
gets herself in a situation where she gets punched in the face?
Actually, scratch that last sentence. I bet there are plenty of
lawyers who get punched in the face on a daily basis. In fact, it
might be something I can spin to my advantage...
(
Yeah, I was in court defending a bunch of
Nicaraguan orphans from a crazy ginger slave trader who wanted to
put them on the black market for organ donation. I was like, one of
those lawyer ninjas, if ninjas carried briefcases instead of
expandable spears, and I was so good I got punched by the
defendant.
That’s
how good I was
).

The only good thing that has come out of this mess is the
Stranger. Instead of running for the hills on discovering the girl
he wore red for is a loose cannon, he’s done the opposite. He
carried me to the kitchen and propped me up on the counter like I
weighed nothing (I’ve changed my mind about gyms by the way. Gyms
good. Gyms give man strong arms to lift Penny with). Then he’d gone
to fetch an ice pack from the freezer. On discovering none he had
returned with the next best thing – a bag of peas.

“Is all they have,” he had smiled as he placed the bag gently
over my eye.

He and I have been sitting / standing in silence for a while
now. I’m perched on the counter top, he is in front of me, standing
between my green-clad legs. I can only see him out of one eye but
damn he looks fine. His short dark hair can’t disguise the rich
curls of a Spaniard. His dark blue eyes are perfectly sized and
positioned around the strong, even bones of his face. He smells
good too. Like cinnamon and earth and sunshine (yeah, I know,
another lame thing to say, but I can’t help myself. This guy is the
tits!).

“Do you think I went too far?” I ask him.

“No, I no think so. He deserve it. You are sexy, Penelope,
like a firecracker!”

My swollen eye doesn’t seem to have deterred
his passion. He puts both hands under my thighs and pulls me into
him. He smiles that gorgeous smile, cocking his head to the side to
kiss me underneath the pea bag, which is rapidly melting and
dripping down the side of my face and shoulder.
Just wonderful
. But the Stranger
doesn’t seem to mind, so neither do I. I take his face in my free
hand, and we share our first ‘sweet’ kiss. You know that
couple-crossroads where you go from lustful shallowness to dare I
say it, love?

Oh who am I kidding, I love him already.
I’ve loved him since… Well let’s have a think. Definitely since
last Friday, but probably since Emma’s birthday when we shared our
first
J
ä
ger
(romantic, huh?). I love him I love him I love him! I want to
tattoo his name on my butt and cover his body in whipped cream and
buy a house together and have lots of little olive-skinned
babies.

[Another side note: this is a very confusing
time for my body. My uterus is screaming ‘get married and have
kids!’ while both left
and
right sides of my brain are responding with ‘are
you insane’? And it’s rare indeed for Left and Right to work
together these days].

Anyway, despite what I think of love and what I want for the
future, despite the throbbing skin on my face and the utter
humiliation of the night, I’m flying.

He pulls me in for another kiss then says,

“I must go now.”

But but but… you can’t go!

“Oh no, why?”

“I wake at 4:00 a.m. today to catch flight.
I very tired. I see you soon,
florecita
.”

He gently pulls the hand holding the bag of peas away from my
eye. And to my utter shock and delight, he gently kisses my now
slightly-less red eye (furious icing has decreased the swelling a
little). His kiss is as delicate as a butterfly’s. It’s such a
tender gesture that I start to truly believe he might feel
something for me.

Emboldened, in love and not wanting this feeling to end, I go
where no Jones girls has gone before. Taking a deep breath, I ask
the Stranger out,

“I have a wedding I’m going to tomorrow. Would you like to
come with me?”

He thinks for a moment,

“What time it start?”

“It’s in Brighton, so I’ve booked a car to pick me up at
10:00. If you’re at my place at 9:30 that could work?”

“Okay. I see you tomorrow morning.”

Yeeeeeeeeeeeeehaaaaaaaaaaaaa!!!
I’m doing those Rocky Balboa celebration jumps
again but this time in my head. The most beautiful man in the world
is coming to the wedding with me! It’s the best thing I could have
hoped for. Could it be? Could Penelope Jones be set for a fairytale
ending after all?

He kisses me goodbye and leaves. And just as I begin to swim
in dreams of many a long night snuggled into the sofa with
him…

“Hey Captain Strangerpants!”

You couldn’t mistake that stalker-ish voice for any other.
Stalker Sam and Mags amble into the kitchen, hand in hand, huge
smiles plastered on their faces. They see me with my bag of melted
peas and their smiles disappear.

“Oh gee. Hey guys,” I press the watery bag to my face a little
harder.

“Hi lovely, hope you don’t mind, Emma let us in,” Mags gives
me a quick hug then pulls back, “what happened to your
face?”

I tell them the story. I probably shouldn’t, seeing as Stalker
and I work together, but hell, it’s not exactly like I can hide it.
I’m thinking the Nicaraguan orphans won’t cut the
mustard.

“Oh my goodness, what a meanie!” Mags gasps at the end of my
tale of punch-in-the-eye woe.

“You look like you could use a hug,” Stalker adds, lifting his
arms up, large sweat patches underneath the pits.

“Uh, no thanks,” I shuffle to the side of the counter, “what I
could use is a drink. There’s a cooler box in the lounge room,
could you grab us something?”

“No problemo,” he winks and walks out, just as Emma walks
in.

“There you are,” she says to Mags, “thanks for coming, it’s
been way too long since I’ve seen you.”

“I know, I am so sorry, I hear you and Chloe made up the other
night?”

“Yeah, it was a stupid fight. Who’s the guy?” Emma
asks.

“He works with Penny,” Mags nods at me, “we’ve been on two
dates. I wasn’t sure what to make of him after the first night but
he seemed to relax today. On our first date he kept saying, ‘damn
girl’ every few sentences, which was a little odd I thought? But
tonight he explained that he thinks I’m way out of his league and
couldn’t relax, which is why he was acting strange.”

“So you’re no longer a brother from another mother?” I ask
her.

“What’s that?” Mags asks innocently.

“Never mind,” I open my bag of peas and start eating
them.

“So have you had The Talk with him yet?” Emma asks
Mags.

As they chat I pick up my phone to text Chloe. I notice that
she hasn’t been in touch all night. That’s weird, she normally
would have dropped me a line about how shit a time she was having
with Antonio, or how good the soft shell crab was. Instead there’s
a message I’m completely unprepared for. It’s He Who Shall Not Be
Named.

Hey Dumpling. Missing me?

Well I never. He hasn’t been in touch since we met up six
months ago. When I did the Terrible Thing. I text back,

Like I’d miss a venereal disease. How could you have said
those things about me to the Lloyds guys?

My phone pings a few moments later,

Was just saying you’re a demon in the sack, you should be
flattered. Wanna come over tonight?

What?!
My god I
can’t believe I was about to marry this mouthbreather, although I’m
surprisingly pleased at his suggestion of my sexual prowess. Yeah
bitches, I knew I was good, it’s just that no one had gotten ‘round
to telling me yet. I don’t consider the consequences as I type
back,

I’d rather swallow glass, and not just because of your teeny
tiny useless excuse for a penis. Later, loser

Then I type a message to Chloe,

Hi pet, how was your time with Antonio, did you kids have
fun? You won’t believe this but the Stranger rocked up tonight
wearing a red t-shirt. Red, Chlo! It’s the grand declaration of
monogamy! Anyway, I know it’s super late notice but I kinda asked
him if he’d go with me tomorrow and he said yes. I’m so sorry, I
know I’ve dashed your dreams of wedding cake and slow dancing with
me, it’s just that I knew you really didn’t want to go, then he was
here in all his red glory, and I just sort of asked him… Is that
okay?

I’m all too aware of my text-rambling, but I feel rather
guilty. I hate it when people change plans on me last minute, my
patience imploding like a popped balloon if someone gives me less
than 24 hours notice. Yet here I am giving Chloe substantially less
than that. Did someone say hypocrite? But I press the ‘send’ key
anyway.

Stalker walks back into the room with a four-pack of Magners.
He hands them around and I lift mine up to my eye. The more icing
is done the less black it will become (I saw it once on an episode
of House).

“Is it still hurting?” Emma asks.

“It’ll be fine, I’m more embarrassed than anything. I mean,
getting punched by a psycho is one thing. Getting punched by a
ginger psycho is quite another.”

“Why?” Mags asks.

“Because male gingers are mutants.”

“That’s racism!” Emma exclaims.

“I’m kidding! You know how I feel about Prince Harry. Anyway,
where’s Dublin?”

Emma hops up on the counter to sit beside me.

“He left, I guess it’s for the best. But seriously Penny that
was incredible what you did in there, thank you.”

She gives my leg a squeeze.

“Don’t thank me, thank the Satan voice I sometimes hear in my
head. I know it’s him because he’s the only one who speaks with an
English accent.”

“I love it when you hear that voice!” Mags squeals, “remember
the time that guy pinched me on the butt and you started calling
him an anti-feminist and threw your kebab in his face?”

“Okay, that’s not quite how it went down.
First of all, he
vagina grabbed
you, which is very different to a bum pinch.
Second, it was a lump of foil which had
previously contained
a
kebab.”