Read Arms Wide Open: a Novella Online
Authors: Juli Caldwell
Arms Wide Open: a Novella
Arms
Wide Open
By
Juli Caldwell
Text copyright 2013
©
Julianne Hiatt Caldwell
All rights reserved
http://julicaldwell.blogspot.com/
Facebook:
https://www.facebook.com/pages/Juli-Caldwell-YA-Author/195258437183393
Twitter
: https://twitter.com/ImJuliCaldwell
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form
whatsoever, whether by graphic, visual, electronic, film, microfilm, tape
recording, or any other means without prior written permission of the author,
except in brief passages embodied in critical reviews and articles.
Book cover design by Humble Nations
http://humblenations.com/
I’m lying on my couch, feet propped up
on a furry red pillow at the other end. I have officially zoned out, eyes
glazed over, while whatever show is on does its thing. I’m not really listening
and actually don’t care. Thinking too much about my life is exhausting and I’m
done with it.
My roomie is on one of her ‘do something
and grab life by the horns’ tangents again, and I’m ignoring her. Again. Yes, I
know...the gospel according to Harlow decrees that I need a life. Yeah verily,
even so, amen. Knowing it and having a desire to do something about it are two
entirely different things.
Don’t get me wrong—I adore Harlow. Best
roommate ever. She pays her rent on time, doesn’t steal food from my side of
the fridge, and she wipes down counters like a Zippy Maids employee of the
month. If I spill a little coke on the floor, she even mops up the sticky
splatters that dry everywhere and attract all the dirt I miss when I put any
effort into cleaning. She graciously ignores my dirty clothes all over the
bathroom floor, and she always has something fun planned. She’s the life of the
party, so to speak, and I kind of won the roommate lottery when we found each
other. She def drew the short stick in this living situation. Despite all the
magnificence that is Harlow James (c’mon, the girl even has a rock star name),
I have a sneaking suspicion that I have become her latest project. The lecture
I’m hearing at the moment is my proof.
Harlow flicks at an invisible speck of
something imperfect on her perfectly manicured nails while she avoids looking
at me. Ah, here we are at her
avoid eye contact
phase of the lecture.
“...but you know, Lauren, whatever. I’m done. It’s your life; I can’t make you
go out and live it. If you want to lay on the couch in your sweats, watching
reality show reruns and smelling like you’re in desperate need of a shower, go
for it. It doesn’t hurt me any. My nostrils aren’t a fan of your plan, but like
I said. Whatevs.”
Ouch! I watch her walk casually away,
like she just innocently asked me to turn off the hall light or something. She
always gets me at this last phase of the lecture:
walk away and make me
think
. That shower jab kind of hurt, but as usual, she’s right. I hate it
when she’s right. I realize she’s washing dishes piled up in the sink, and
that’s the kicker. I have to get up. Those are
my
dishes spilling out of
the sink and onto the surrounding counter. She’s going for the jugular, using
my guilt against me. Girl knows how to play dirty.
With a sigh, I shove myself up and don’t
look back, knowing I probably left a permanent impression of my lazy booty
imprinted on the couch. I’ve been spending a lot of time there lately, basking
in the glow of finally finishing grad school...and marinating in the misery
that comes with the realization that I’m now unemployed and staring down the
barrel of a shotgun labeled ‘student loan payments.’
“You don’t have to do my dishes,” I tell
her, grabbing a half-scrubbed pot from her soapy hands.
“It’s no biggie,” she says airily,
trying to take it back.
I swing it out of her reach and use my
hip to bump her out of the space by the sink. “Yes, it is, lying liar pants.” I
claim my spot in front of the sink full of greasy orange bubbles, the sad
remains of my spaghetti from three nights ago. “So tell me more about
this....this thing you want me to do.”
Harlow dries her hands on the dish cloth
hanging from the handle of our ancient oven. She turns to hop up so she’s
sitting on the counter, facing me as I start scouring the pot I stole from her.
“Okay, so this will take one hour, total, of your life,” she responds, sounding
more excited than I’ve heard her in awhile. “You know my friend from work,
Michaela?”
“Friday night happy hour Michaela?” I
ask, rinsing the pot and letting it drop to the dish drainer with a clatter. I
grab my bacon pan from the pile and pull a face. I hate scrubbing bacon grease.
“That’s the one,” Harlow nods. “She
started doing this a couple of months ago and she swears by it. She’s met tons
of great guys this way. She has a date every weekend and has ever since she
started. She took her cousin Piper, who seriously has a crooked nose and a
nasty snaggle tooth, and even
she’s
scoring the men these days. With a
face like that...can you imagine?”
“Less testimonial, more detail,” I say
with an eye roll. I blast the hot water and let it burn my flesh raw and red
while she talks and I rinse. Its exquisite pain soothes the anxiety I feel
building with every word she says.
She leans back and tilts her head up,
looking thoughtful. “So we go to the coffee shop down the street and do their
Friday night 5 in 5 Event. We sign up, fill out their questionnaire about stuff
we like, you know, general interests, education level, what we’re looking for
in a relationship, stuff like that. They match us up with five different guys
to spend five minutes with at the shop tonight. If we both say we like someone,
as in the guy you want to get to know likes you back, the shop gives us their
numbers and a coupon for half price coffee.”
“I see one small problem here,” I say,
turning my attention to the bowls and spoons laying at the bottom of the sink
now that my pans are out of the way. I frown at the mess, thinking it’s
entirely possible that I eat too much cereal. Then I decide a girl can never
eat too much cereal as I reach for the utensil pile and start the wipe down. “I
haven’t filled out the questionnaire. I can’t go tonight.”
Harlow grins. “I filled one out for you
earlier today.”
I drop a handful of spoons. The racket
they make as they hit the stainless steel sink, the irritating clink of metal
on metal, makes my head throb. “You what?”
“I filled it out for you earlier,”
Harlow repeats quickly. She knows I’ll yell at her if she gives me the chance
to speak, so she keeps going. “We’ve lived together long enough that I think I
know how to answer general stuff like that for you.”
I bite my lip to keep from saying what I
want to say, scowling a bit. I think for a few minutes and she hops down to
sweep the already immaculate floor. Anger and anxiety are battling for control
in my pounding head. My chest feels heavy and it’s hard to catch my breath to
speak. “Will I still get a coupon if no one wants me?” I ask, trying to sound
like I don’t care. “Pretty sure no one is gonna be asking for my number any
time soon, but I should totally get a discount for trying.” Like the real world
version of ‘A’ for effort.
“You don’t give yourself enough credit,
Lauren,” she says softly. My back is to her so I can’t see her look of
sympathy, but I can hear it in her voice. This makes me even madder at the
whole thing. I’ve been demoted from pet project to charity case.
I run my fingers through my short, dyed
platinum hair with a few purple streaks, currently flattened and matted against
the side of my head where I’ve been laying for the last few days. Then I
realize my hands are still greasy from pan scrubbing, and I groan before I wipe
them on the seat of my baggy sweat pants. I think vaguely that when I finally
get an interview I’ll celebrate with a root job, and then I think maybe I
should lose the purple so I look more professional...and then I get more
depressed that I have zero job prospects right now and therefore no potential
employers might be turned off by the purple in my hair anyway.
“You’re really cute,” Harlow was saying
when I decide to listen to her again.
“Cute,” I snap, grabbing more dishes and
shoving them into the dishwasher. “Not beautiful.”
“Eye of the beholder,” she returns.
Jeez, sometimes I love that girl. She’s
too nice—like the bubble gum flavor they add to liquid meds to make it go down
easier.
She takes a deep breath, as if she’s
deciding whether or not to say what’s on her mind. She bites her lower lip and
goes for it. “Look, Lauren, we’ve lived together for eons in roommate time, and
I’ve never pried. Not about that. I’ve seen a few guys come and go but they’re
never
him,
whoever
he
is
.
I don’t know who broke your
heart, or why he did it, or even if you broke his. I just know if you don’t put
yourself out there, you’ll never get over it. So it really is up to you. Are
you going to let yourself be held captive by all those bad memories you’ve got
locked away in there? Or should I invest in an air filtration system to mask
the stench of your life rotting away on my couch?”
Someone pass me the aloe. Pretty sure I
just got burned.
I throw the last of the dishes I just rinsed
into the prehistoric dishwasher and slam it shut. I turn to face her, folding
my arms. “You’re like a perfectly coifed pit bull, you know that?”
She smiles wide. “So you’re in?”
My disgruntled expression makes her
happy dance, because she knows she got me. She wins. “Great! Go shower, because
seriously, girl, you stink. Put on your little white sundress with your cropped
denim jacket, and those awesome gladiator sandals...oh! And that little flower
clip! I love that in your hair...after you wash it.”
“When do we leave?”
“We can walk down in about an hour.”
Harlow bustles into the living room and grabs my blankets off the couch. She
tosses them at me and grabs a can of air freshener, spraying every inch of the
room. How subtle. “And make sure you shave your legs, Lauren. I know you dig
the hippy dippy trippy look, and it works for you most of the time, but for the
love, girl. Shave your legs. Most guys aren’t looking for a girl with a pelt.”
“Why do I even like you?” I mutter as I
stalk out. I shuffle across the parquet floor to my room, dropping my pile of
blankets in front of her bedroom door. Her OCD will kick in and she’ll wash
them for me. Even a little revenge can be satisfying.
A half hour later, I’m showered and
shaved, with lotion on my legs and a towel turban sliding off my head as I
swipe on some deodorant. I rub on some tinted moisturizer, cream blush, and a
hint of clear lip gloss. A little liquid liner and my industrial strength
mascara work magic on my hazel eyes, making them pop. I may not be runway model
gorgeous like tall, slender Harlow, with those gorgeous auburn waves of hers
just begging to own a shampoo commercial, but my eyes are okay. Maybe even
pretty...ish.
I let the towel turban fall to the
ground, and I run my fingers through my hair. I rub a little bit of mousse into
it and spray it where it stands, letting the spikes form themselves and do
their own thing. I pin on that little flower clip just above my ear, a white
and yellow plumeria I got on a vacation to Hawaii. My first and last vacation
with...him. Before I lost it all.
I sigh. I hid out in grad school long
enough. Time to start over.
Turns out starting over isn’t so easy.