Look How You Turned Out Read online

  Look How You Turned Out

  Diane Munier

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Text copyright © 2016 Diane Munier

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Cover design: [email protected]

  Published by Diane Munier

  For my girls…

  Look How You Turned Out

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Scenes from a wedding part 1

  Chapter 48

  Scenes from a wedding part 2

  Chapter 49

  Scenes from a wedding part 3

  Chapter 50

  Scenes from a wedding part 4

  Chapter 51

  Scenes from a honeymoon part 1

  Chapter 52

  Scenes from a honeymoon part 2

  Chapter 53

  Scenes from a honeymoon part 3

  Chapter 54

  Scenes from a honeymoon part 4

  Chapter 55

  Scenes from a honeymoon part 5

  Chapter 56

  Scenes from a honeymoon part 6

  Chapter 57

  Scenes from a honeymoon part 7

  Chapter 58

  Home again, home again….

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Scenes from the holidays part 1

  Chapter 63

  Scenes from the holidays part 2

  Chapter 64

  Scenes from the holidays part 3

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  The big launch

  Chapter 67

  After the launch

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Chapter 1

  "Oh yeah," Artie is saying, "Bedilia can do anything she puts her mind to."

  "Where's she get that?" his old friend Marcus says all ho-ho-ho before he takes a big swig of his beer.

  My Dad…he's one long-running commercial…about me. It's like he sells me. It's like he gets a commission every time someone agrees with his bias.

  God, I love him so much…Dad. Mom was such a bitch to leave him. He's handsome, and kind, and steady as the Rock of Prudential. I mean Gibraltar.

  And there's the son he never had at age twelve…because he's only twelve years older than him…Marcus Stover. Also handsome. Kind. Steady. And also shredded by his ex-wife.

  Where's justice I ask you? I catch a tear just in time. It's not raining out.

  They don't see me spying on them, but I am anyway, looking down on them actually, from my bedroom window. Dad doesn't know I'm home. He's sitting on the patio with Marcus waiting for me to get here. This is the first break I've had since graduating and leaving for Chicago to take my big shot job at White Enterprises as office manager to none other than Myron White himself. And now I'm fired. Let go. Axed. Ka-putted. Oh, I can do anything I put my mind to alright. Right now I'm thinking how easy it would be to drop out of this window onto Marcus's lap. But I must maintain my asexual image in front of Artie, and I don't want to kill Marcus. Or myself. Least I don't think I want to kill myself.

  I've known Marcus since around junior high when he moved to town and got a job at the station where Artie is chief of police. Marcus was this young married guy with a baby on the way, and I was just starting to feel tingly about males. Well, he was right on time, the gas in the tank of my fantasies. What motivation! If I had a nickel for every time I imagined Marcus telling me to do bad things and professing undying love for me while I did them, I could lay those nickels end to end all the way to the moon…three times.

  I was in my first year of college when I heard he was going through a divorce. He had a little boy, five at the time. I tried to express my sincerest sympathy to him one night in our kitchen during my father's annual, have the guys and their wives over Christmas party. But Marcus had custody of his son, and at Dad's insistence brought him along. I don't even think Marcus had a beer, and as I remember he'd patted my head instead of…anything else, and thanked me for my kind words like I was Laura Ingalls and he was Mr. Edwards. I was thinking more along the lines of a less disgusting Lolita and HH.

  Okay, here I was looking down at the two of them. Dear old Dad. And his good friend and deputy, his Barney Fife. That didn't quite cover it. Granted I could only see Marcus's lean sprawled legs, and his lap and flat plain of his stomach and his broad shoulders and long arms and hands with limber fingers and the top of his head and the shiny, sexy hair and some of his profile. Beyond that, I couldn't see a thing. Did I include the chin? Jaw I should say. How could I forget to mention that…bulwark of…scruff?

  I ease my head back in my room and rehook the screen. Marcus is talking to Dad. The man pulverizes me. He's got this voice…it goes right to my baby-place like there's a little stereo speaker right there…resonating…a boom box if you will.

  Sex with him would be like eucalyptus oil on the chaffed, no--bloody scraped skin on my soul. Soul-skin. I want to be so entwined we can't even be separated by a chiropractor…or a fireman with the jaws of life.

  I don't want to hear about boundaries, and…what's healthy and prudent. I don't care. I've played by the rules, and I got my ovaries served to me on a plate with fire-breathing catsup.

  I'm mad.

  All my nice Ikea stuff. All sold off for the first fifty bucks someone could slap into my drunk hand. Someone who lived down the hall got a bargain. I can't for the life of me remember her name…but the God of wrath and vengeance knows.

  Okay, curtain call. I kick off my shoes, and my feet scream a size seven thank you. I change my blouse for a flannel shirt, roll the sleeves. I stick my hair up in a knot and put on my warm fuzzy socks and go downstairs. Asexual…remember?

  I push outside and pretend I don't feel Marcus's eyes on me. I look at Dad, and gush over him, and he can't hide how happy he is to hug me and welcome me home for some turkey. He assumes I'm going back to Chicago. And being a lying boomerang of a
loser I stand and give Marcus a quick wave like hi-ya.

  And there's interest in his face, I'll give him that. Like, a look-how-you-turned-out expression. Or not. I'm not getting my hopes up cause I already know I'm reading too much into it, trying to guess if his brows have ever been that high before.

  Let's face it, he still wants to pinch the wrong set of cheeks.

  Chapter 2

  Dad wants to hear everything…about Chicago.

  "Oh," I laugh, "Dad…I've pretty well kept you up." Well, I pretty well have…sort of.

  "I should go," Marcus says, his legs springing to life, his feet rising on the lounge chair even.

  Dad and I protest like in stereo, it's so embarrassing.

  So Marcus just as quickly lets his feet drop and grips the arms of the lounge and stays put.

  I ask about his son, Junior. The name is a mistake, but the ex-wife, the moron. She wanted Junior. The name, not the kid.

  Marcus warms right up. So like Artie. He goes on, like a TMI deal. But it's cute. He's cute. Cute? Tell it to the priest.

  He's gorgeous. Even in the poor light out here, he's got me doing spontaneous Kegels. I mean, I'm not doing them. They're just happening. Seizures between my legs. Epileptic labia. I kid you not.

  Chapter 3

  His mother is watching his son. Overnight. He says that, and I would not acquit him for it. He's telling nothing but the truth.

  So when he goes home, and he does pretty quickly, like he thinks I brought the flu home from the big city…or something…so when he leaves, and I finish hanging with Dad and can get upstairs to my crow's nest and survey his house across the street, and that dim light on in the living room where he's probably watching television, the news because he does keep up with current events. He's that old. So I look over there, and I think hey…I'm going to put my mind to it and go for it. I'm going to find my old Girl Scout uniform, squeeze into it and go on over there and ask him if he wants to buy…try my cookies…for free.

  I don't know. I'm not trying to seduce him or something…or hook-up or something…I'm just trying to get him to seduce me and then I'll go along.

  Chapter 4

  I wake up in the wrong room. I'd gone into the front bedroom, so I could look at Marcus's house and think about stuff.

  Thankfully I fell asleep before I could carry any of it out.

  I have enough shame on my plate as it is, I don't need to be staggering home after some booty call with my dad's best friend. Plus I never want Dad to get the idea I've got Mom's problem. Too much testosterone. Not talking about a beard but an insatiable appetite. Or the incessant practice of whoredom. I've already lost my job. One sin at a time.

  But no sooner do I think all that than Marcus's door opens and he's wearing these low-slung running shorts and no shirt at all, just his skin and nipples and muscles. Oh, my.

  I stumble onto my feet. I'm already ripping at the flannel shirt, and my pants are off before I cross the hall and rip through one of my suitcases and produce my tiny running shorts. I don these and a sports bra and a t-shirt. I stick my feet in my running shoes and don't even redo my hair which is already a freaking tornado. I want to grab a jacket, but he isn't even wearing a shirt, and I'm much cuter in this tee-shirt anyway.

  So I am out the door while he's still stretching, and everyone knows you don't stretch cold, but whoa if he wants to keep posing like that then who am I to question the gods.

  Chapter 5

  He is shocked to see me come out the door in the faint morning light. I'm shocked too. It's freaking cold as Polar Bear teats out here. But I don't show it, I just start moving my feet like I'm jogging as I softly shut the door and give Marcus a little wave and jog down the three little stoop stairs and the walkway to the street.

  I take off, and I am miserable, and everything is stiff and achy, and I am smiling as he comes up behind me. Naked, so naked, so naked. He says this good morning, breath puffing in front of his face and I swear my nipples rip through my bra, and I keep going, and my ankle hurts, but I refuse to limp until I have to.

  He asks if I'm alright, and I laugh, I laugh. I'm great, I say.

  "It's nice you've come home. He's missed you like crazy. All he's talked about," he says.

  Okay. He needs to stop. I'm like…guilty. I'm deceiving Artie right now, and I don't need to be reminded how much he believes in me. Tear his heart out just like Mom why don't I?

  But I smile. Or maybe it's a grimace. I'm dying here. He can't stand going so slow, and he takes off. Now I see the whole deal, all of him from the back and holy moly.

  Come back here Marcus Stover. I'm singing that old song Ruby only I'm replacing Ruby's name with Marcus's. "Oh Marcus…don't take your love to town. Oh, Marcus…for God sake turn around."

  Chapter 6

  Two blocks out I'm walking and holding my side, and he passes me again. So he had the last half block, at least, to stare at my booty, to come up behind me and be…dazzled? The sun is rising in his eyes. There's hope.

  But he is not so eager to leave me in his dust this time. He slows down now that he's established how much better shape he's in than me.

  I don't care. This isn't about athletics. Well…not really.

  "Slow and steady…," I pant, unable to finish the sentence.

  He is running before me, backward, and tsking. I didn't know mockery was one of his talents. I'm shocked. But he's so beautiful it's almost an honor to know his disdain. It beats say…being ignored.

  And his eyes go there. Yes, they do. He picks them right back up, his eyes, but I saw it. He's looking at those two bouncing handfuls this bra can't corral. Yee-hi.

  "How was the big city really?" he asks still mocking.

  I want to say big, but that's lame. Or orgasmic, but that's lamer. "Great," I say in a fit of inspiration.

  Then more inspired still I say, "Miss me?"

  He coughs some, his eyes shiny when he chokes out, "Of course."

  He coughs some more, hands on knees and I pass him.

  I jog around him, which is a waste of energy because I need to make every step count, but the view from every possible angle is…fantastic.

  He laughs a little because I've circled him, then he takes off again, goes about half a block and circles back just in case I thought I could keep up.

  "Bragger," I say.

  He just smiles and falls in beside me. "Bedilia…is everything okay for you?"

  "Why?" I ask, too loudly.

  His hands go up, like 'don't shoot.' "Just wondering. Sorry."

  I don't want him to apologize. I want him to keep going…drag it out of me.

  "I don't know if you heard," he said. "I ah…I'm leaving the department first of the year."

  I stop. He stops. This pain goes through me…for Artie.

  "Don't look at me like that," he says.

  I blink, but my face stays the same. Even my labia are slowing down.

  "He's okay with it," he says.

  How is that possible? Marcus is like…a son. A brother/son. How is this okay?

  Chapter 7

  "Jessica thinks…."

  "Who?" I ask.

  "Jessica. She's…she's really great. You'd…like…um…."

  I hate her. I don't even know her, just by sight. Yeah, I hate her.

  "Junior….," I say.

  "He likes her. He really does."

  "Dad said you were the only one he could imagine filling his shoes," I say.

  "I know. I know that. But he understands, he does. Bedilia I never meant to make police work my career…the lousy hours and pay…phone calls all hours of the day and night…anything from a possum in the trash cans…to a husband and wife married fifty years just another traffic fatality. The…I'm burned out. Hell, I'm ashes."

  "Bull," I say, and we immediately drop through the floor onto another level entirely. One we've never gotten to…like honesty maybe. I'm already running, and he doesn't catch up. He doesn't try.

  Chapter 8

  Jess
ica…hairdresser Jessica?

  Wait, I'm upset about him leaving Artie, not Jessica.

  Hairdresser Jessica? Isn't she like…forty?

  I round the block, a couple of them actually, and reach our door and creep inside. Upstairs I detour to the front room that used to be Mom and Artie's before she left and he moved downstairs. I look out the front window, and Marcus is just getting home, and his beauty hits me again, like always, a rock in a pillow. He makes my thighs twitch.

  Once he's in, I go to my room like the bad girl I am.

  He doesn't know I'm alive. Sure he glanced at my boobs, but it's not enough…they aren't enough…I can never be. I'm a perpetual kid in his eyes, daughter of his best friend, the babysitter, the little neighbor girl.

  After I shower and fall back into bed wearing underwear and one of Artie's big old soft t-shirts, I go into a coma, I dream. I'm in the GS uniform…but it's a big ugly uniform, and I'm trying to fix that, to cinch in the big dowdy waist so Marcus will see my hourglass figure, but he doesn't, he's with someone else, and I'm insisting she's me and Marcus says, "She's not you," and he goes ahead and makes out with her and I'm standing there watching reaching behind and feeling my big old cottage cheese behind I just grew for this dream, I hope, and I'm saying, "No, it's me." But he's looking at me shaking his head a little as he feeds this infinite tongue down her throat. There are cookies too, and tea cups…I'm eating the whole time trying to console myself, and I wake up, and it was so real I'm still whimpering, a total passive victim. But I'd kill for a Thin Mint.

  My God, Marcus Stover is calling me, his voice flying right up the stairs. I sit up and grab my forehead. I'm staring at my open door. Dad never comes up here. But Marcus is saying, "Rise and shine Clementine!" and Dad is laughing and I smell the pancakes.

  "Oh Lord," I whisper. I'm exhausted. I went running. Me? Yes, in the cold. I push back the covers. My thighs are chapped.